Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (686 page)

‘This,’ said the matron, when they had passed up the stair, ‘used to be the drawing-room.  That’s their sofa.’

‘Not
the
sofa,’ said Frank.

‘Yes, sir, the sofa that is mentioned in the letters.’

‘She was so proud of it, Maude.  Gave eighteen shillings for it, and covered and stuffed it herself.  And that, I suppose, is
the
screen.  She was a great housekeeper - brought up a spoiled child, according to her own account, but a great housekeeper all the same.  What’s that writing in the case?’

‘It is the history that he was at work on when he died - something about the kings of Norway, sir.  Those are his corrections in blue.’

‘I can’t read them.’

‘No more could any one else, sir.  Perhaps that’s why the book has never been published.  Those are the portraits of the kings of Prussia, about whom he wrote a book.’

Frank looked with interest at the old engravings, one of the schoolmaster face of the great Frederick, the other of the frog-like features of Frederick William, the half-mad recruiter of the big Potsdam grenadiers.  When he had finished, the matron had gone down to open the door, and they were alone.  Maude’s hand grasped his.

‘Is it not strange, dear?’ she said.  ‘Here they lived, the most talented couple in the world, and yet with all their wisdom they missed what we have got - what perhaps that good woman who showed us round has got - the only thing, as it seems to me, that is really worth living for.  What are all the wit and all the learning and all the insight into things compared to love.’

‘By Jove, little woman, in all this house of wise sayings, no wiser or deeper saying has been said than that.  Well, thank God, we have that anyhow!’  And he kissed his wife, while six grand electors of Brandenburg and kings of Prussia looked fiercely out upon them from the wall.

They sat down together in two old chairs in the window, and they looked out into the dingy street, and Frank tried to recount all the great men - ‘the other great men, as Maude said, half chaffing and half earnest - who had looked through those panes.  Tennyson, Ruskin, Emerson, Mill, Froude, Mazzini, Leigh Hunt - he had got so far when the matron returned.

There was a case in the corner with some of the wreckage from those vanished vessels.  Notes from old Goethe in a singularly neat boyish writing inscribed upon little ornamented cards.  Here, too, were small inscriptions which had lain upon presents from Carlyle to his wife.  It was pleasant among all that jangling of the past to think of the love which had written them, and that other love which had so carefully preserved them.  On one was written: ‘All good attend my darling through this gulf of time and through the long ocean it is leading to.  Amen.  Amen.  T. C.’  On another, dated 1850, and attached evidently to some birthday present, was: ‘Many years to my poor little Jeannie, and may the worst of them be past.  No good that is in me to give her shall ever be wanting while I live.  May God bless her.’  How strange that this apostle of reticence should have such privacies as these laid open before the curious public within so few years of his death!

‘This is her bedroom,’ said the matron.

‘And here is the old red bed,’ cried Frank.  It looked bare and gaunt and dreary with its uncurtained posts.

‘The bed belonged to Mrs. Carlyle’s mother,’ the matron explained.  ‘It’s the same bed that Mrs. Carlyle talks about in her letters when she says how she pulled it to pieces.’

‘Why did she pull it to pieces?’ asked Maude.

‘Better not inquire, dear.’

‘Indeed you’re right, sir.  If you get them into these old houses, it is very hard to get them out.  A cleaner woman than Mrs. Carlyle never came out of Scotland.  This little room behind was his dressing-room.  There’s his stick in the corner.  Look what’s written upon the window!’

Decidedly it was a ghostly house.  Scratched upon one of the panes with a diamond was the following piece of information - ‘John Harbel Knowles cleaned all the windows in this house, and painted part, in the eighteenth year of age. 
March 7th,
1794.’

‘Who was
he
?’ asked Maude.

‘Nobody knows, miss!’  It was characteristic of Maude that she was so gentle in her bearing that every one always took it for granted that she was Miss.  Frank examined the writing carefully.

‘He was the son of the house and a young aristocrat who had never done a stroke of work before in his life,’ said he.

The matron was surprised.

‘What makes you say that, sir?’

‘What would a workman do with such a name as John Harbel Knowles, or with a diamond ring for that matter?  And who would dare to disfigure a window so, if he were not of the family?  And why should he be so proud of his work, unless work was a new and wondrous thing to him.  To paint
part
of the windows also sounds like the amateur and not the workman.  So I repeat that it was the first achievement of the son of the house.’

‘Well, indeed, I dare say you are right, though I never thought of it before,’ said the matron.  ‘Now this, up here, is Carlyle’s own room, in which he slept for forty-seven years.  In the case is a cast of his head taken after death.’

It was strange and rather ghastly to see a plaster head in this room where the head of flesh had so often lain.  Maude and Frank stood beside it, and gazed long and silently while the matron, half-bored and half-sympathetic, waited for them to move on.  It was an aquiline face, very different from any picture which they had seen, sunken cheeks, an old man’s toothless mouth, a hawk nose, a hollow eye - the gaunt timbers of what had once been a goodly house.  There was repose, and something of surprise also, in the features - also a very subtle serenity and dignity.

‘The distance from the ear to the forehead is said to be only equalled by Napoleon and by Gladstone.  That’s what they
say
,’ said the matron, with Scotch caution.

‘It’s the face of a noble man when all is said and done,’ said Frank.  ‘I believe that the true Thomas Carlyle without the dyspepsia, and the true Jane Welsh without the nerves, are knowing and loving each other in some further life.’

‘It is sweet to think so,’ cried Maude.  ‘Oh, I do hope that it is so!  How dear death would be if we could only be certain of that!’

The matron smiled complacently in the superior wisdom of the Shorter Catechism.  ‘There is neither marriage nor giving in marriage,’ said she, shaking her head.  ‘This is the spare bedroom, sir, where Mr. Emerson slept when he was here.  And now if you will step this way I will show you the study.’

It was the singular room which Carlyle had constructed in the hopes that he could shut out all the noises of the universe, the crowing of cocks, and the jingling of a young lady’s five-finger exercise in particular.  It had cost him a hundred odd pounds, and had ended in being unendurably hot in summer, impossibly cold in winter, and so constructed acoustically that it reverberated every sound in the neighbourhood.  For once even his wild and whirling words could hardly match the occasion - not all his
kraft sprachen
would be too much.  For the rest it was at least a roomy and lofty apartment, with space for many books, and for an irritable man to wander to and fro.  Prints there were of many historical notables, and slips of letters and of memoranda in a long glass case.

‘That is one of his clay pipes,’ said the matron.  ‘He had them all sent through to him from Glasgow.  And that is the pen with which he wrote
Frederick
.’

It was a worn, stubby old quill, much the worse for its monstrous task.  It at least of all quill pens might rest content with having done its work in the world.  Some charred paper beside it caught Frank’s eye.

‘Oh look, Maude,’ he cried.  ‘This is a little bit of the burned
French Revolution
.’

‘Oh, I remember.  He lent the only copy to a friend, and it was burned by mistake.’

‘What a blow!  What a frightful blow!  And to think that his first comment to his wife was, “Well, Mill, poor fellow, is very much cut up about this.”  There is Carlyle at his best.  And here is actually a shred of the old manuscript.  How beautifully he wrote in those days!’

‘Read this, sir,’ said the matron.

It was part of a letter from Carlyle to his publisher about his ruined work.  ‘Do not pity me,’ said he; ‘forward me rather as a runner that is tripped but will not lie there, but run and run again.’

‘See what positive misfortune can do for a man,’ said Frank.  ‘It raised him to a hero.  And yet he could not stand the test of a crowing cock.  How infinitely complex is the human soul - how illimitably great and how pitiably small!  Now, if ever I have a study of my own, this is what I want engraved upon the wall.  This alone is well worth our pilgrimage to Chelsea.’

It was a short exclamation which had caught his eye.

‘Rest!  Rest!  Shall I not have all eternity to rest in!’  That serene plaster face down yonder gave force to the brave words.  Frank copied them down onto the back of one of Maude’s cards.

And now they had finished the rooms, but the matron, catching a glow from these enthusiastic pilgrims, had yet other things to show them.  There was the back garden.  Here was the green pottery seat upon which the unphilosophic philosopher had smoked his pipe - a singularly cold and uncomfortable perch.  And here was where Mrs. Carlyle had tried to build a tent and to imagine herself in the country.  And here was the famous walnut tree - or at least the stumpy bole thereof.  And here was where the dog Nero was buried, best known of small white mongrels.

And last of all there was the subterranean and gloomy kitchen, in which there had lived that long succession of serving-maids of whom we gain shadowy glimpses in the
Letters
and in the
Journal
.  Poor souls, dwellers in the gloom, working so hard for others, so bitterly reviled when by chance some weakness of humanity comes to break, for an instant, the routine of their constant labour, so limited in their hopes and in their pleasures, they are of all folk upon this planet those for whom a man’s heart may most justly soften.  So said Frank as he gazed around him in the dark-cornered room.  ‘And never one word of sympathy for them, or of anything save scorn in all his letters.  His pen upholding human dignity, but where was the dignity of these poor girls for whom he has usually one bitter line of biography in his notes to his wife’s letters?  It’s the worst thing I have against him.’

‘Jemima wouldn’t have stood it,’ said Maude.

It was pleasant to be out in the open air once more, but they were in the pine groves of Woking before Maude had quite shaken off the gloom of that dark, ghost-haunted house.  ‘After all, you are only twenty-seven,’ she remarked as they walked up from the station.  She had a way of occasionally taking a subject by the middle in that way.

‘What then, dear?’

‘When Carlyle was only twenty-seven I don’t suppose he knew he was going to do all this.’

‘No, I don’t suppose so.’

‘And his wife - if he were married then - would feel as I do to you.’

‘No doubt.’

‘Then what guarantee have I that you won’t do it after all?’

‘Do what?’

‘Why, turn out a second Carlyle.’

‘Hear me swear!’ cried Frank, and they turned laughing into their own little gateway at the Lindens.

CHAPTER XXI - THE LAST NOTE OF THE DUE
T

Our young married couples may feel that two is company and three is none, but there comes a little noisy intruder to break into their sweet intimacy.  The coming of the third is the beginning of a new life for them as well as for it - a life which is more useful and more permanent, but never so concentrated as before.  That little pink thing with the blinking eyes will divert some of the love and some of the attention, and the very trouble which its coming has caused will set its mother’s heart yearning over it.  Not so the man.  Some vague resentment mixes with his pride of paternity, and his wife’s sufferings rankle in his memory when she has herself forgotten them.  His pity, his fears, his helplessness, and his discomfort, give him a share in the domestic tragedy.  It is not without cause that in some societies it is the man and not the woman who receives the condolence and the sympathy.

There came a time when Maude was bad, and there came months when she was better, and then there were indications that a day was approaching, the very thought of which was a shadow upon her husband’s life.  For her part, with the steadfast, gentle courage of a woman, she faced the future with a sweet serenity.  But to him it was a nightmare - an actual nightmare which brought him up damp and quivering in those gray hours of the dawn, when dark shadows fall upon the spirit of man.  He had a steady nerve for that which affected himself, a nerve which would keep him quiet and motionless in a dentist’s chair, but what philosophy or hardihood can steel one against the pain which those whom we love have to endure.  He fretted and chafed, and always with the absurd delusion that his fretting and chafing were successfully concealed.  A hundred failures never convince a man how impossible it is to deceive a woman who loves him.  Maude watched him demurely, and made her plans.

‘Do you know, dear,’ said she, one evening, ‘if you can get a week of your holidays now, I think it would be a very good thing for you to accept that invitation of Mr. Mildmay’s, and spend a few days in golfing at Norwich.’

Frank stared at her open-eyed.

‘What!  Now!’

‘Yes, dear, now - at once.’

‘But
now
of all times.’

Maude looked at him with that glance of absolute obvious candour which a woman never uses unless she has intent to deceive.

‘Yes, dear - but only next week.  I thought it would brace you up for - well, for the week afterwards.’

‘You think the week afterwards?’

‘Yes, dear.  It would help me so, if I knew that you were in your best form.’

‘
I
!  What can it matter what form
I
am in.  But in any case, it is out of the question.’

‘But you could get leave.’

‘Oh yes, easily enough.’

‘Then do go.’

‘And leave you at such a time!’

‘No, no, you would be back.’

‘You can’t be so sure of that.  No, Maude, I should never forgive myself.  Such an idea would never enter my head.’

‘But for my sake -!’

‘That’s enough, Maude.  It is settled.’

Master Frank had a heavy foot when he did bring it down, and his wife recognised a decisive thud this time.  With a curious double current of feeling, she was pleased and disappointed at the same time, but more pleased than disappointed, so she kissed the marrer of her plots.

‘What an obstinate old boy it is!  But of course you know best, and I should much rather have you at home.  As you say, one can never be certain.’

In a conflict of wits the woman may lose a battle, but the odds are that she will win the campaign.  The man dissipates over many things, while she concentrates upon the one.  Maude had made up her mind absolutely upon one point, and she meant to attain it.  She tried here, she tried there, through a friend, through her mother, but Frank was still immovable.  The ordeal coming upon herself never disturbed her for an instant.  But the thought that Frank would suffer was unendurable.  She put herself in his place, and realised what it would be to him if he were in the house at such a time.  With many cunning devices she tried to lure him off, but still, in his stubborn way, he refused to be misled.  And then suddenly she realised that it was too late.

It was early one morning that the conviction came home to her, but he, at her side, knew nothing of it.  He came up to her before he left for the City.

‘You have not eaten anything, dear.’

‘No, Frank, I am not hungry.’

‘Perhaps, after you get up - ‘

‘Well, dear, I thought of staying in bed.’

‘You are not -?’

‘What nonsense, dear!  I want to keep very quiet until next week, when I may need all my strength.’

‘Dear girl, I would gladly give ten years of my life to have next week past.’

‘Silly old boy!  But I do think it would be wiser if I were to keep in bed.’

‘Yes, yes, do.’

‘I have a little headache.  Nothing to speak of, but just a little.’

‘Don’t you think Dr. Jordan had better give you something for it.’

‘Do you think so?  Well, just as you like.  You might call as you pass, and tell him to step up.’

And so, upon a false mission, the doctor was summoned to her side, but found a very real mission waiting for him when he got there.  She had written a note for Frank the moment that he had left the house, and he found both it and a conspiracy of silence waiting for him when he returned in the late afternoon.  The note was upon the hall-table, and he eagerly tore it open.

‘My dear boy,’ said this mendacious epistle, ‘my head is still rather bad, and Dr. Jordan thought that it would be wiser if I were to have an undisturbed rest, but I will send down to you when I feel better.  Until then I had best, perhaps, remain alone.  Mr. Harrison sent round to say that he would come to help you to pot the bulbs, so that will give you something to do.  Don’t bother about me, for I only want a little rest. - MAUDE.’

It seemed very unnatural to him to come back and not to hear the swift rustle of the dress which followed always so quickly upon the creak of his latch-key that they might have been the same sound.  The hall and dining-room seemed unhomely without the bright welcoming face.  He wandered about in a discontented fashion upon his tiptoes, and then, looking through the window, he saw Harrison his neighbour coming up the path with a straw basket in his hand.  He opened the door for him with his finger upon his lips.

‘Don’t make a row, Harrison,’ said he, ‘my wife’s bad.’

Harrison whistled softly.

‘Not -?’

‘No, no, not that.  Only a headache, but she is not to be disturbed.  We expect
that
next week.  Come in here and smoke a pipe with me.  It was very kind of you to bring the bulbs.’

‘I am going back for some more.’

‘Wait a little.  You can go back presently.  Sit down and light your pipe.  There is some one moving about upstairs.  It must be that heavy-footed Jemima.  I hope she won’t wake Maude up.  I suppose one must expect such attacks at such a time.’

‘Yes, my wife was just the same.  No, thank you, I’ve just had some tea.  You look worried, Crosse.  Don’t take things too hard.’

‘I can’t get the thought of next week out of my head.  If anything goes wrong - well there, what can I do?  I never knew how a man’s nerves may be harrowed before.  And she is such a saint, Harrison - such an absolutely unselfish saint!  You’ll never guess what she tried to do.’

‘What, then?’

‘She knew what it would mean to me - what it will mean to me - to sit here in impotence while she goes through this horrible business.  She guessed in some extraordinary way what my secret feelings were about it.  And she actually tried to deceive me as to when it was to occur - tried to get me out of the house on one pretext or another until it was all over.  That was her plot, and, by Jove, she tried it so cleverly that she would have managed it if something had not put me on my guard.  She was a little too eager, unnaturally so, and I saw through her game.  But think of it, the absolute unselfishness of it.  To consider
me
at such a time, and to face her trouble alone and unsupported in order to make it easier for me.  She wanted me to go to Norwich and play golf.’

‘She must have thought you pretty guileless, Crosse, to be led away so easily.’

‘Yes, it was a hopeless attempt to deceive me on such a point, or to dream for an instant that my instincts would not tell me when she had need of me.  But none the less it was beautiful and characteristic.  You don’t mind my talking of these things, Harrison?’

‘My dear chap, it is just what you need.  You have been bottling things up too much.  Your health will break down under it.  After all, it is not so serious as all that.  The danger is very much exaggerated.’

‘You think so.’

‘I’ve had the experience twice now.  You’ll go to the City some fine morning, and when you come back the whole thing will be over.’

‘Indeed it won’t.  I have made arrangements at the office, and from the hour that she first seems bad I will never stir from the house.  For all she may say, I know very well that it gives her strength and courage to feel that I am there.’

‘You may not know that it is coming on?’

Frank laughed incredulously.

‘We’ll see about that,’ said he.  ‘And you think from your experience, Harrison, that it is not so very bad after all?’

‘Oh no.  It soon passes.’

‘Soon!  What do you mean by soon?’

‘Jordan was there six hours the first time.’

‘Good God!  Six hours!’  Frank wiped his forehead.  ‘They must have seemed six years.’

‘They
were
rather long.  I kept on working in the garden.  That’s the tip.  Keep on doing something and it helps you along wonderfully.’

‘That’s a good suggestion, Harrison.  What a curious smell there is in the air!  Do you notice a sort of low, sweetish, spirity kind of scent?  Well, perhaps it’s my imagination.  I dare say that my nerves are a bit strung up these days.  But that is a capital idea of yours about having some work to do.  I should like to work madly for those hours.  Have everything up out of the back garden and plant it all again in the front.’

Harrison laughed.

‘I’ll tell you something less heroic,’ said he; ‘you could keep all these bulbs, and pot them then.  By the way, I’ll go round and get the others.  Don’t bother about the door.  I shall leave it open, for I won’t be five minutes.’

‘And I’ll put these in the greenhouse,’ said Frank.  He took the basket of bulbs and he laid them all out on the wooden shelf of the tiny conservatory which leaned against the back of the house.  When he came out there was a kitten making a noise somewhere.  It was a low sound, but persistent, coming in burst after burst.  He took the rake and jabbed with the handle amongst the laurel bushes under their bedroom window.  The beast might waken Maude, and so it was worth some trouble to dislodge it.  He could not see it, but when he had poked among the bushes and cried ‘Skat!’ several times, the crying died away, and he carried his empty basket into the dining-room.  There he lit his pipe again, and waited for Harrison’s return.

There was that bothersome kitten again.  He could hear it mewing away somewhere.  It did not sound so loud as in the garden, so perhaps it would not matter.  He felt very much inclined to steal upstairs upon tiptoe and see if Maude were stirring yet.  After all, if Jemima, or whoever it was, could go clumping about in heavy boots over his head, there was no fear that he could do any harm.  And yet she had said that she would ring or send word the moment she could see him, and so perhaps he had better wait where he was.  He put his head out of the window and cried ‘Shoo!’ into the laurel bushes several times.  Then he sat in the armchair with his back to the door.  Steps came heavily along the hall, and he saw dimly with the back corner of his eye that some one was in the doorway carrying something.  He thought that really Harrison might have brought the bulbs in more quietly, and so he treated him with some coldness, and did not turn round to him.

‘Put it in the out-house,’ said he.

‘Why the out-house?’

‘We keep them there.  But you can put it under the sideboard, or in the coal-scuttle, or where you like as long as you don’t make any more noise.’

‘Why, surely, Crosse - ‘  But Frank suddenly sprang out of his chair.