A Duel - Richard Marsh

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      He did as she requested, then pronounced a verdict.

      "Your foot is better--much better, as you say. There is no reason why you should not get up, though it may be some little time before you have the entire use of it again."

      "At any rate I'll get out of bed--at once."

      "And, then, what do you propose to do when you are up?"

      "I'm going to see my husband."

      "Your husband?"

      "Can't I? Why can't I?"

      "Mrs. Grahame!--if it is your wish that you should be Mrs. Grahame."

      "Aren't I Mrs. Grahame? If I am, what's the good of pretending that I'm not? I am Mrs. Grahame, so there's an end of it."

      "Mrs. Grahame, haven't you any friends?"

      "What do you mean by friends?"

      "Haven't you any relatives? Is there no one to whom you are near and dear? no one to whom you are in any sense responsible for your actions; with whom in a measure your happiness or unhappiness must be shared?"

      "No one in this world!"

      He smiled at her vehemence, observing her closely all the time.

      "Since I am, in a degree, responsible for the--we will call it situation--you are in, I am not unnaturally desirous of having my conscience as clear as I conveniently can. I would, therefore, beg you earnestly to let the first thing you do be this: If you have--we will say an acquaintance--on whose judgment you can rely, write to him; lay the facts before him clearly, and await his response before you take any further step whatever--certainly before you seek to have an interview with Mr. Grahame."

      "There is no such person."

      "It is unfortunate, since you are so young, and, therefore necessarily, so inexperienced, that you should be so entirely alone in the world. Will you allow me to offer you some advice?"

      "What's the use? I've had enough of your advice already--too much."

      "How do you make out your case? I am unconscious of having offered you any advice."

      "You advised me to marry that man."

      "I advised you!"

      "Of course you did. There are more ways than one of offering advice; you chose the roundabout way. You told me that if I married him he'd be dead inside two hours, then I'd be richer by twenty thousand pounds. This is what comes of acting on your tip! No thank you. I've had enough and to spare of your advice; now and henceforward I'm going to act upon my own."

      "None the less I'm going to give you a piece of advice--of very sincere advice. You have been subjected to some slight inconvenience--though, perhaps, inconvenience is hardly the proper word."

      "I should think not."

      "My advice to you is: When your foot permits leave this house--I assure you it is not a pleasant one to live in; accept a reasonable sum by way of compensation; then blot the whole episode from your memory."

      "What do you call a reasonable sum?"

      "Say a hundred pounds."

      "A hundred pounds?--the idea! when you talked of twenty thousand! None of your kid's talk for me! Look here, Dr. Twelves, you're an old fox. Don't you think I don't know it however hard you try to play the lamb? You've got some game of your own on. I don't know what it is, but I soon will. If you offer me a hundred pounds to go, I'm dead sure it'll be worth a good deal more than that to me to stay--and I'm going to stay! This is my house; I'm the mistress here; and all the more the mistress because my husband's a rich man who can't look after himself. I'll look after him! I'll show you who's who and what's what!--and every one else as well!--you can take that straight from me!"

      As he rubbed his chin, as if he found comfort in the feel of the bristles, the doctor's smile grew more pronounced.

      "Content, Mrs. Grahame, content! Only--still a further scrap of advice!--postpone your first call on your husband till you are able to move about as you please."

      This piece of advice the lady did act upon, for the simple reason that she was powerless to do otherwise. When she did get out of bed it was agony to hop even as far as the couch. Three more days passed before she was able to stand without flinching overmuch; another whole week had gone before she was able to hobble unaided to the door.

      During that time she perhaps suffered more than she had done while she was still in bed. To her restless nature the compulsory inaction was almost unendurable. Her desire to attack the problem which confronted her, to solve it if she could--at any rate to learn what really was the position in which she stood--possessed her like a consuming fever. Nothing could be got out of Nannie; she was impervious to questions of every sort and kind. Arguments, coaxing, threats, alike were unavailing. The old woman could scarcely have been more taciturn had she taken on herself a vow of silence. And after that one visit she saw no more of Dr. Twelves; she could even hear nothing of him from Nannie. That angered her almost more than anything, that he should seem to ignore her so completely! She swore to herself that he should smart for it before very long.

      During that week she laid up a fund of resentment against both the doctor and Nannie which she promised herself she would pour forth upon their heads at the earliest possible moment. Only let her be able to get about again as of old, and they should see!

      On the eighth day she decided that her time had come, or, at least, that it had begun to come. She said nothing to Nannie, but having proved by actual experiment that she could move about with comparative ease, she dressed herself, waited till the old woman had paid her her usual morning call, then set out on a voyage of exploration. Hobbling to the door, she opened it as quietly as possible, then stood and listened She could hear Nannie moving about downstairs. Then she moved towards the door which was on the opposite side of the landing. Had she had a stick on which to lean her progress might have been quicker. In spite of her reiterated requests Nannie had failed to provide her with one. Without support of any sort she moved very slowly. But she did get to her destination at last. She laid her hand upon the handle, paused a moment to learn if her movements had been observed, then turned it as quietly as she could.

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      She stood just inside the threshold of the room, with the handle of the open door between her fingers, and listened. She had moved so noiselessly that, quite possibly, to the ear alone her entry had been imperceptible. She looked about her, recalling the picture which it had presented to her mind on that first night. For some reason which she would have found it hard to explain a shiver passed all over her; a sudden chill seemed to penetrate to her very bones.

      The room looked different by daylight, the windows wide open, the sun sending wide, warm splashes of yellow light from wall to wall. One of them came right at her as she remained there motionless. As she lifted her face she was blinded by the glare. It was odd that she should shiver in that glow of sunshine. Everything was so neat and orderly; there was such an absence of any signs of occupation, such complete stillness prevailed, that her first impression was that she had in some way made a mistake; that the room was empty. It was only when her wandering glance reached the great bed, which stood in such a position that it was partially screened by the door which she still held open, that she understood.

      Its occupant was asleep, or--he was so motionless, so silent, her own heart seemed to cease beating--could he be dead? With unexpected ease she moved closer to the bed. No, he certainly was not dead; he merely slept, to all appearance, as peacefully

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