The Vanishing Man | Page 6

I noted how perfectly she matched her strange
surroundings. Black-robed, black-haired, with black-grey eyes and a
grave, sad face of ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch's
portraits, a harmony in tones so low as to be but a step removed from
monochrome. Obviously a lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress,
and something in the poise of the head and the set of the straight brows
hinted at a spirit that adversity had hardened rather than broken.
"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; and
as she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouth
reminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.
I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever;
that I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginning
somewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the
voice from the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous
distinctness.
"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it's nothing
less than a conspiracy that you're proposing!"

Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across the
floor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached the door,
it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into the room.
"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And I
refuse to hold any further communication with him."
"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham
replied coldly.
"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken
generosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best for
you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my way.
Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the speaker
strode out of the room, banging the door after him.
"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception," said Miss
Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I will
introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as I
followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another visitor
for you, dear. Doctor--"
"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."
The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up
in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, which
I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.
"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard is
not ill."
"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean
on a currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled
him off before he had time to change his mind. Hence my rather
unceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive."
"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted to hear that you
sent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to

make your acquaintance, too."
"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as a
man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and having
thus exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,
I--proceeded to business.
"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing to
make too evident the fact that my principal had given me no
information respecting his case.
"A week to-day," he replied. "The fons et origo mali was a hansom-cab
which upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in the
middle of the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby said so,
and I suppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me."
"Were you much hurt?"
"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me a
deuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."
"Most people are," said I.
"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than at
fifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall see it
presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But that
isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's my confounded
nerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as a cat, and I can't
get a decent night's rest."
I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not look
like a drinker, but still--
"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.
He looked at me slyly and chuckled. "That's a very delicate way to
approach the subject, Doctor," he said. "No, I don't smoke much, and I
don't crook my