The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [3801]
"When she had her child in her arms."
I spoke in lowered tones as befitted the suggestion and the circumstances.
"No," he drawled, between thoughtful puffs of smoke; "when Mr. Ocumpaugh sat on the seat beside her. This, when I was driving the victoria. I often used to make excuse for turning my head about so as to catch a glimpse of her smile at some fine view and the way she looked up at him to see if he was enjoying it as much as she. I like women who love their husbands."
"And he?"
"Oh, she has nothing to complain of in him. He worships the ground she walks on; and he more than worshiped the child."
Here _his_ voice fell.
I brought the conversation back as quickly as I could to Mrs. Carew.
"You like pale women," said I. "Now I like a woman who looks plain one minute, and perfectly charming the next."
"That's what people say of Mrs. Carew. I know of lots who admire that kind. The little girl for one."
"Gwendolen? Was she attracted to Mrs. Carew?"
"Attracted? I've seen her go to her from her mother's lap like a bird to its nest. Many a time have I driven the carriage with Mrs. Ocumpaugh sitting up straight inside, and her child curled up in this other woman's arms with not a look or word for her mother."
"How did Mrs. Ocumpaugh seem to like that?" I asked between puffs of my cigar.
"Oh, she's one of the cold ones, you know! At least you say so; but I feel sure that for the last three years--that is, ever since this woman came into the neighborhood--her heart has been slowly breaking. This last blow will kill her."
I thought of the moaning cry of "Philo! Philo!" which at intervals I still seemed to hear issue from that upper window in the great house, and felt that there might be truth in his fears.
But it was of Mrs. Carew I had come to talk and not of Mrs. Ocumpaugh.
"Children's fancies are unaccountable," I sententiously remarked; "but perhaps there is some excuse for this one. Mrs. Carew has what you call magnetism--a personality which I should imagine would be very appealing to a child. I never saw such expression in a human face. Whatever her mood, she impresses each passing feeling upon you as the one reality of her life. I can not understand such changes, but they are very fascinating."
"Oh, they are easy enough to understand in her case. She was an actress once. I myself have seen her on the stage--in London. I used to admire her there."
"An actress!" I repeated, somewhat taken aback.
"Yes, I forget what name she played under. But she's a very great lady now; in with all the swells and rich enough to own a yacht if she wanted to."
"But a widow."
"Oh, yes, a widow."
I let a moment of silence pass, then nonchalantly remarked:
"Why is she going to Europe?"
But this was too much for my simple-hearted friend. He neither knew nor had any conjecture ready. But I saw that he did not deplore her resolve. His reason for this presently appeared.
"If the little one is found, the mother will want all her caresses. Let Mrs. Carew hug the boy that God in his mercy has thrown into her arms and leave other children to their mothers."
I rose to leave, when I bethought me and stopped to ask another question.
"Who is the gentleman I have seen about here--a man with a handsome face, but very pale and thin in his appearance, so much so that it is quite noticeable?"
"Do you mean Mr. Rathbone?"
"I do not know his name. A light complexioned man, who looks as if greatly afflicted by some disease or secret depression."
"Oh, that is Mr. Rathbone, sure. He is sickly-looking enough and not without his trouble, too. They say--but it's all gossip, of course--that he has set his heart on the widow."
"Mrs. Carew?"
"Of course, who else?"
"And she?"
"Why, she would be a fool to care for him, unless--"
"Unless what?"
Thomas laughed--a little uneasily, I could not help thinking.
"I'm afraid we're talking scandal," said he. "You know the relationship?"
"What relationship?"