"He wrote me," said Mamie, "that he had a touch of influenza. It seems extraordinary that influenza should prove so serious? He was strong, he was in good health——"
The other's air implied that she did not find it necessary to discuss this either.
"People die of influenza, or the results of it, every year," she said. "The doctor will give you any information you may desire, no doubt. You must excuse me—I may be wanted."
While Field lingered she never left his side, after Mamie's arrival. Men committed preposterous actions on their death-beds, and though he was not expected to recover consciousness, there was the possibility that he might do so. If an opportunity occurred, his mistress would doubtless produce a solicitor and a provision for herself with the rapidity of a conjuring trick. As it was, Mrs. Porteous had small misgivings but what he would die intestate. There might not be much, but at any rate, what he had should not swell the coffers of guilty wives!
Events proved that her summons had not been precipitate, however. Field spoke at the last a few coherent words, and took Mamie's hand. But that was all. Then he never spoke any more. Even as she stood gazing at the unfamiliar face on the pillow, the swiftness of the catastrophe made it difficult for the girl to realise that all was over. The calamity had fallen on her like a thunderbolt—it seemed strange, inexplicable, untrue. The last time but one that he had talked to her he had been full of vigour, packing a portmanteau, humming a tune, alluding to fees, some details of the theatre, the prospect of a smooth crossing. And now he was dead. There had been little or no transition; he was well—he was dead! The curtain had tumbled in the middle of the play—and it would never go up any more.
It was not till after the funeral that she was capable of meditating on the change that Lucas Field's death had wrought in her life. She did not ask herself whether he had left her anything, or not. The idea that he might have done so never occurred to her, nor would she have felt that she could accept his bequest if he had made one. She perceived that she had nobody to turn to but her father, and to him she cabled.
Cheriton replied by two questions: What was Field's will? And would she like to return to Duluth? To the second she made a definite answer. "Impossible; pray don't ask me." And then there was an interval of correspondence.
While Mrs. Porteous rejoiced to find that her confidence was justified and that her nephew had died intestate, Mamie was contemplating the choice of swallowing her repugnance to going back to America, or of living with Mrs. Baines. Cheriton had written to them both, and that one course or the other should be adopted he was insistent. Mamie need not live in Lavender Street; Mrs. Baines might make her home in another neighbourhood, where they would be strangers. But that the girl should remain alone in England was out of the question. Which line of conduct did she prefer?
She could not decide immediately. Both proposals distressed her. On the whole, perhaps, the lesser evil was to resign herself to her Aunt Lydia if, as her father declared, her aunt was willing to receive her. Mrs. Baines, at any rate, was but one, while in Duluth half the population would be acquainted with her story.
But was her Aunt Lydia willing?—was she expected to write to her and inquire? She was not entitled to possess dignity, of course; but it was not easy to eat dust because the right to self-respect was forfeited.