The mystery of Angelina Frood
possible that Frood had come to Rochester with the perfectly peaceable
intention of inducing his wife to return to him. But this was far from
certain, and I shuddered to think of what might follow a refusal on
her part. I did not like that knife. I have a sane man’s dislike of
lethal weapons of all kinds; but especially do I dislike them in the
hands of those whose self-control is liable to break down suddenly.
It was true that this man had not succeeded in finding his wife, and
even seemed to have given up the search. But I felt pretty certain
that he had not. Somehow, he had discovered that she was in the town,
and from the same source he might get further information; and, in any
case, I felt no doubt that he would renew the pursuit, and that, in
the end, he would find her. And then--but at this point I found myself
opposite the house and observed Mrs. Gillow standing on the doorstep,
fumbling in her pocket for the latch-key. She had just extracted it,
and was in the act of inserting it into the latch when I crossed the
road and made my presence known. She greeted me with a wan smile as I
ascended the steps, and, having by this time got the door open,
admitted me to the hall.
“I gave Mrs. Frood your message at lunch-time, sir,” said she, in a
depressed tone, “and I believe she has come in.” Here, having closed
the street door, she rapped softly with her knuckles at that of the
front room, whereupon the voice to which Bundy objected so much called
out: “Come in, Mrs. Gillow.”
The latter threw the door open. “It is the doctor, Madam,” said she;
and on this announcement, I walked in.
“I didn’t hear you knock,” said Mrs. Frood, rising, and holding out
her hand.
“I didn’t knock,” I replied. “I sneaked in under cover of Mrs.
Gillow.”
“That was very secret and cautious of you,” said she. “You make me
feel like a sort of feminine Prince Charlie, lying perdu in the
robbers’ cavern; whereas, I have actually been taking my walks abroad
and brazenly looking in the shop windows. But I have kept a sharp
lookout, all the same.”
“There really wasn’t any need,” said I. “The siege is raised.”
“You don’t mean that my husband has gone?” she exclaimed.
“I do, indeed,” I answered; and I gave her a brief account of the
events of the morning, suppressing my unofficial part in the
transaction.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that the matron paid his fare out of her
own pocket?”
“I am sure she didn’t,” I answered hastily. “She touched some local
altruist for the amount; it was only a few shillings, you know.”
“Still,” she said, “I feel that I ought to refund those few shillings.
They were really expended for my benefit.”
“Well, you can’t,” I said with some emphasis. “You couldn’t do it
without disclosing your identity, and then you would have some
philanthropist trying to effect a reconciliation. Your cue is to keep
yourself to yourself for the present.”
“For the present!” she echoed. “It seems to me that I have got to be a
fugitive for the rest of my natural life. It is a horrible position,
to have to live in a state of perpetual concealment, like a criminal,
and never dare to make an acquaintance.”
“Don’t you know anyone in Rochester?” I asked.
“Not a soul,” she replied, “excepting Mr. Japp, who is a relative by
marriage--he was my aunt’s brother-in-law--his partner, and Mrs.
Gillow and you. And you all know my position.”
“Does Mrs. Gillow know the state of affairs?” I asked in some
surprise.
“Yes,” she answered, “I thought it best to tell her, in confidence, so
that she should understand that I want to live a quiet life.”
“I suppose you haven’t cut yourself off completely from all your
friends?” said I.
“Very nearly. I haven’t many friends that I really care about much,
but I keep in touch with one or two of my old comrades. But I have had
to swear them to secrecy--though it looks as if the secret had leaked
out in some way. Of course they all know Nicholas--my husband.”
“And I suppose you have been able to learn from them how your husband
views the separation?”
“Yes. Of course he thinks I have treated him abominably, and he
evidently suspects that I have some motive for leaving him other than
mere dislike of his unpleasant habits. The usual motive, in fact.”
“What Sam Weller would call a ‘priory attachment’?” I suggested.
“Yes. He is a jealous and suspicious man by nature. I had quite a lot
of trouble with him in that way before that final outbreak, though I
have always been most circumspect in my relations with other men.
Still, a woman doesn’t complain of a little jealousy. Within reason,
it is a natural, masculine failing.”
“I should consider a tendency to use a knitted silk necktie for
purposes which I need not specify as going rather beyond ordinary
masculine failings,” I remarked drily; on which she laughed and
admitted that perhaps it was so. There was a short pause; then,
turning to a fresh subject, she asked:
“Do you think you will get any of Dr. Partridge’s practice?”
“I suspect not, or at any rate very little; and that reminds me that I
have not yet inquired as to my patient’s condition. Are you any
better?”
As I asked the question, I looked at her attentively, and noted that
she was still rather pale and haggard, so far as I could judge by the
subdued light of the shaded lamp, and that the darkness under the eyes
remained undiminished.
“I am afraid I am not doing you much credit,” she replied, with a
faint smile. “But you can’t expect any improvement while these
unsettled conditions exist. If you could induce my respected husband
to elope with another woman you would effect an immediate cure.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that is beyond my powers, to say nothing of
the inhumanity to the other woman. But we must persevere. You must let
me look in on you from time to time, just to keep an eye on you.”
“I hope you will,” she replied, energetically. “If it doesn’t weary
you to listen to my complaints and gossip a little, please keep me on
your visiting list. With the exception of Mr. Japp, you are the only
human creature that I hold converse with. Mrs. Gillow is a dear, good
creature, but instinct warns me not to get on conversational terms
with her. She’s rather lonely, too.”
“Yes; you might find it difficult to turn the tap off. I am always
very cautious with housekeepers and landladies.”
She darted a mischievous glance at me. “Even if your landlady happens
to be your patient?” she asked.
I chuckled as I remembered our dual relationship. “That,” said I, “is
an exceptional case. The landlady becomes merged in the patient, and
the patient tends to become a friend.”
“The doctor,” she retorted, “tends very strongly to become a friend,
and a very kind and helpful friend. I think you have been exceedingly
good to me--a mere waif who has drifted across your horizon.”
“Well,” I said, “if you think so, far be it from me to contradict you.
One may as well pick up gratefully a stray crumb of commendation that
one doesn’t deserve to set off against the deserved credit that one
doesn’t get. But I should like to think that all my good deeds in the
future will be as agreeable in the doing.”
She gave me a prim little smile. “We are getting monstrously polite,”
she remarked, upon which we both laughed.
“However,” said I, “the moral of it all is that you ought to have a
friendly medical eye kept on you, and, as mine is the eye that happens
to be available, and as you are kind enough to accept the optical
supervision, I shall give myself the pleasure of looking in on you
from time to time to see how you are and to hear how the world wags.
What is the best time to find you at home?”
“I am nearly always at home after seven o’clock, but perhaps that is
not very convenient for you. I don’t know how you manage your
practice.”
“The fact is,” said I, “that at present you are my practice, so I
shall adapt my visiting round to your circumstances, and make my call
at, or after, seven. I suppose you get some exercise?”
“Oh, yes. Quite a lot. I walk out in the country, and wander about
Chatham and Gillingham and out to Frindsbury. I have been along the
Watling Street as far as Cobham. Rochester itself I rather avoid for
fear of making acquaintances, though it is a pleasant old town in
spite of the improvements.”
As she spoke of these solitary rambles the idea floated into my mind
that, later on, I might perchance offer to diminish their solitude.
But I quickly dismissed it. Her position was, in any case, one of some
delicacy--that of a young woman living apart from her husband. It
would be an act the very reverse of friendly to compromise her in any
way; nor would it tend at all to my own professional credit. A
doctor’s reputation is nearly as tender as a woman’s.
Our conversation had occupied nearly three quarters of an hour, and,
although I would willingly have lingered, it appeared to me that I had
made as long a visit as was permissible. I accordingly rose, and,
having given a few words of somewhat perfunctory professional advice,
shook hands with my patient and let myself out.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SHADOWS DEEPEN
The coming events, whose premonitory shadows had been falling upon
me unnoted since I came to Rochester, were daily drawing nearer.
Perhaps it may have been that the deepening shadows began dimly to
make themselves felt; that some indistinct sense of instability and
insecurity had begun to steal into my consciousness. It may have been
so. But, nevertheless, looking back, I can see that when the
catastrophe burst upon me it found me all unsuspicious and unprepared.
Nearly a fortnight had passed since my meeting with my two friends in
the Cathedral, and I was looking forward with some eagerness to their
impending visit. During that fortnight little seemed to have happened,
though the trivial daily occurrences were beginning to acquire a
cumulative significance not entirely unperceived by me. My promise to
Mrs. Frood had been carried out very thoroughly: for at least every
alternate evening had found me seated by the little table with the
red-shaded lamp, making the best pretence I could of being there in a
professional capacity.
It was unquestionably indiscreet. The instant liking that I had taken
to this woman should have warned me that here was one of those
unaccountable “affinities” that are charged with such immense
potentialities of blessing or disaster. The first impression should
have made it clear to me that I could not safely spend much time in
her society. But unfortunately the very circumstance that should have
warned me to keep away was the magnet that drew me to her side.
However, there was one consoling fact: if the indiscretion was mine,
so by me alone were the consequences supported. Our relations were of
the most unexceptionable kind; indeed, she was not the sort of woman
with whom any man would have taken a liberty. As to my feelings
towards her, I could not pretend to deceive myself, but similarly, I
had no delusions as to her feelings towards me. She welcomed my visits
with that frank simplicity that is delightful to a friend and hopeless
to a lover. It was plain to me that the bare possibility of anything
beyond straightforward, honest friendship never entered her head. But
this very innocence and purity, while at once a rebuke and a
reassurance, but riveted my fetters the more firmly.
Such as our friendship was (and disregarding the secret reservation on
my side), it grew apace; indeed, it sprang into existence at our first
meeting. There was between us that ease and absence of reserve that
distinguishes the intercourse of those who like and understand one
another. I never had any fear of unwittingly giving offence. In our
long talks and discussions, we had no need of choosing our words or