“Well, say a quarter to, my dear, because that gives ample time to ring for the urn and make the tea, though nine is really a very nice hour. It is not right for a young lady to be racing downstairs before seven o’clock and dusting; and I do not really like for you to be going out for walks at such early hours.”

“London is at its best before breakfast, aunt; everything looks so fresh and bright.”

“What nonsense, my dear! Nothing of the kind. The steps are not cleaned, and there is nobody about but sweeps and dustmen, and milk carts.”

“Oh yes, aunt dear,” cried Laura, merrily. “London is very busy then, and I wish I could get you to come. Covent Garden is lovely quite early with the flowers and fruit.”

“My dear Laura, to hear you talk anyone would think your poor dear papa had been a greengrocer. Pray, do, my dear, try and give up the bad habit. I really don’t know what Isabel must think.”

But the habit only grew stronger, and on the morning after her brother’s sudden call, Laura slipped out while cook was cleaning the steps and went off to Covent Garden to return with a bunch of roses and a basket of strawberries which had been picked that morning nine miles down the western road.

The breakfast was ready, and she was giving the last touches to her arrangement of flowers and fruit upon the table when Isabel joined her, looking as fresh as the flowers in the little shallow bowl.

“Oh, Laury, I am so ashamed at being so late,” she cried, after an affectionate kiss had been exchanged. “I was afraid I was last.”

“Oh no, dear; auntie is not down,” said Laura, glancing at the clock. “She’ll be ten minutes yet.”

“Is she always so punctual?”

“Yes. She does not leave her room till the church clock begins to strike. She is very proud of being so exact.”

“Is – is – ”

“Fred down? No, dear. There! don’t blush, goosey. I expect he was kept late last night, and he loses so much rest, that we never disturb him. He has his breakfast at all sorts of times, but it will be at nine this morning.”

This was accompanied by an arch look.

“Oh, how sweet the flowers are!” cried Isabel, turning away to hide the heightened colour in her cheeks.

“Yes, dear,” said Laura, banteringly, “and life now is all roses and sweets, and the sky was never so blue, and the London sparrows’ ‘chiswick, chiswick’ sounds like the song of nightingales, doesn’t it? Heigho! I wish I were in love, and someone loved me, and put his arm round my waist and took me for walks along the primrose path of dalliance.”

There was a light step behind her, two arms were passed about her waist, a soft, white chin rested upon her shoulder, and a rounded cheek was pressed to hers.

“Don’t tease me, Laury darling,” was whispered. “I can’t help feeling all you say, and looking very weak and stupid now.”

“Tease you, my own sweet!” cried Laura, swinging round to embrace in turn. “No, of course I won’t. It’s only my nasty envy, hatred and malice, because I can’t be as happy as you. There – and there – and there!”

Three kisses, and Isabel started away.

“Fred’s coming!” she whispered.

“No. That’s auntie’s soft, pudgy step. Fred comes down thump, thump, like a wooden-legged man.”

“Laury!”

“Oh, well, he doesn’t notice where he’s going. He’s always thinking of operations and that sort of thing. Good-morning, aunt dear.”

“Good-morning, Isabel, my child – morning, Laura.”

“Aren’t you well, dear? You look so serious.”

“Yes, Laura, I look serious. It’s a sad world.”

The girls exchanged glances, and with melancholy mien the old lady rang the bell for breakfast, and then dropped into her seat with a weary sigh.

“No letters, Laura?”

“No, aunt dear. There’s a lovely rose instead.”

“Thank you, Laura. Dear, dear! no one writes to me now. I don’t know why one should go on living when one grows old.”

“Because Fred and I want you, dear,” cried Laura, merrily, “and Bel too. Put two more spoonfuls in the pot, aunt dear. A hot cup of tea will do you good.”

“Nothing will ever do me good again,” sighed the old lady, shaking her head mournfully.

“Oh yes, it will, dear; and Fred likes his tea strong.”

“Yes, yes, very strong, my dear; and always preaches at me if I take it only just coloured. I sometimes think it’s because he thinks I cost too much.”

“Now, auntie, how can you?” cried Laura. “Don’t you believe her, Bel.”

“I do not,” said the girl, smiling. “Poor aunt is not well this morning.”

“How can I be, my child, knowing as I do that my little bit of property is slowly wasting away, and – ”

“Here’s the urn, aunt,” cried Laura. “Shall I make the tea?”

“Certainly not, my dear. Let me, pray, enjoy the last few privileges of my age while I am here. I do not mean in this house, Isabel, my child, but living out my last weary span.”

“Auntie darling,” said Laura, tenderly, getting up as soon as the maid had placed tea-urn and covered dishes upon the table, “don’t be so miserable this morning now that dear Bel is here,” and she kissed the old lady lovingly.

“How can I help it, my child? It is her being here makes me feel so bad.”

“Oh, my dear Mrs Crane!” cried Isabel.

“Worse and worse!” sobbed the old lady, melting into tears. “I did think you were softening to me, and would end by loving me and always calling me aunt – Mrs Crane!”

“Aunt – auntie! There!” cried Isabel, running to her and kissing her. “But I think it is I who ought to complain.”

“Yes, my dear, you ought.”

“You shouldn’t say I make you bad.”

“But you do, my dear. It’s all on your account. It’s dreadful, and I lay awake nearly all the night pitying you.”

“Pitying me when I am so happy, auntie?” cried Isabel.

“Ah, my child! you don’t know. All men are full of evil, but doctors are the worst of all.”

“There, Bel; you are going to marry a horrid wretch,” cried Laura.

“Don’t scoff, my dear,” continued the old lady. “It is too serious. They are always away from home – called at the most unearthly hours.”

“Yes, to do good, auntie,” said Isabel, smiling.

“And auntie won’t do good when she might Aunt, Isabel and I are dying for some tea.”

“Yes, yes, my dear; I’ll pour it out directly.”

“Wait a moment, aunt,” cried Laura. “I’ll go and ask Fred if he is coming down.”

“Go and ask Fred, my dear? He is not at home.”

“What!” cried the two girls in a breath.

“He has not come back yet. I lay awake hour after hour listening, with my door a little way open – I can hear the latch-key then – but – he did not come.”

Laura glanced at her visitor, and saw trouble coming in her face like a cloud. “Oh, well, aunt, dear, it is not the first time.”

“No, my dear,” said the old lady, tightening her lips as she dropped a lump of sugar outside a cup; “it is not the first time by a long way, and I don’t like it.”

“Neither does Fred, I’m sure, poor fellow!” cried Laura, helping the ham and eggs. “It is some serious case, Bel dear, and he’ll come back tired out for you to comfort him up. You’ll often have it to do, for, poor boy, he is called out a great deal.”

At that moment Aunt Grace let the sugar-tongs fell with a clatter among the cups, and burst into a fit of sobbing.

“Aunt dear!” cried Laura, jumping up to go to her side again; “what is the matter?”

“I don’t like it, my dear. His being out like that.”

“Well, Fred doesn’t either.”

“Ah, but that’s it. He does, and it’s horrible; and I will not sit still and see him deceive this poor, dear lamb.”

“Mrs Crane!” cried Isabel, sitting up flushed with indignation.

“I can’t help it, my dear. I should be a wicked woman if I did not speak. I watched last night, and I saw her. One of those horridly handsome, fashionable-looking ladies, and she carried him off just as if she were leading him by a chain. I can’t help it! I had a presentiment then, and I’m obliged to speak. He hasn’t come back, and I felt he would not, and as sure as I’m alive he’ll never come back again.”

“Aunt!” cried Laura, passionately. “Shame – Bel dear, don’t take any notice of her.”

But her words had no effect. Isabel had risen with her face scarlet, then turning white as her lips parted to utter an indignant rebuke.

No words came, and covering her face with her hand she hurried out of the room.

“Auntie!” cried Laura, passionately. “See what you’ve done. You’re right. It’s quite time you made up your mind to die.”

Chapter Six.

In Danger

As Chester turned and gazed in his patient’s face, he felt that all was over: and at that moment Paddy, startled by Marion’s excited words, rushed across and caught his arm.

“Is he going?”

“Yes,” cried Marion, passionately, “and he has been murdered. Rob, Rob, my own darling, don’t, don’t leave me here to this! Rob! I cannot bear it! Dr Chester! for pity’s sake! Oh, do something! Help!”

“Hush! You are hindering me,” said Chester, sternly – himself once more. “The brandy! You – you – madam, use your fan rapidly. Is there no air to be got into this wretched prison? That’s right. Raise his head a little more. That’s better. Be calm, both of you. Everything depends upon that.”

“But he is dying – he is dying!” wailed Marion.

“Be silent, madam, and obey my orders,” whispered Chester, angrily, and the desperate fight went on. Desperate indeed it seemed to the doctor, and he fought as he had never fought before. But for some time every breath the poor fellow drew, feebly and painfully, seemed to her who watched him, with staring eyes, his very last.

They were alone with him for quite an hour, before the old housekeeper came in, to grasp at once what was wrong, and hurry to the couch.

“Oh, my child, why did you not ring for me?” she cried.

“Hush! Silence!” said the doctor, sternly. “The paroxysm has exhausted itself. With perfect quiet he may yet live.”

His hand was caught by Marion and passionately kissed, before she sank, half-fainting, in the old housekeeper’s arms.

Paddy went in and out on tip-toe, his action suggesting always that he was doing something in silence for a wager; and twice over his brother came in as the hours slipped past, but only to be sternly ordered to go by the doctor, who was then alone with Marion and the wounded man.

“But hang it all, sir!” he protested, “am I not to do what I like in my own house?”

“No, not while I am in charge of my patient.”

“But – ”

“Look here, sir, I will not be answerable for his life if you stay,” whispered Chester, sharply.

The intruder bit his lips and glanced at Marion, then at the doctor and back. There was a world of meaning in his eyes, but Chester was too dreamy then to interpret it, and the man went away, but only for the far door to be re-opened and Paddy to make his appearance.

Marion uttered a sign of annoyance, and hurried to meet him.

“You must not stay, Paddy,” she whispered. “It is so important that Robert should be kept quiet.”

“All right,” he said. “I didn’t want to come, but Jem sent me. He doesn’t like your being alone with the doctor.”

An angry frown darkened Marion’s face.

“Go,” she said firmly. “Paddy, I think he will live now.”

“Thank God!” cried the young fellow, fervently. “But, I say, if I go I’m pretty sure that Jem will come himself. He as good as said so.”

“Stop him, then, and tell him to go to his wife.”

Paddy shrugged his shoulders.

“You know what he is.”

“Yes,” said Marion, bitterly, “I know what he is,” and she pointed towards the couch. “We know what he is. Now go.”

“All right; but you want something. They’ve got some dinner or supper yonder; come and have a bit.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll have some sent in.”

“I don’t want anything. Tell them to send something for the doctor.”

But almost as she spoke the door was softly opened, and the old housekeeper appeared with a tray.

One long dream, in a strangely protracted night, as it appeared to Chester – a night in which the world seemed to be halting during a singular delirium. Time stood still apparently for both nurse and doctor, who hardly left the room, but were waited on by the housekeeper and the two ladies, who came in and out softly, each offering to take Marion’s place; but she invariably refused.

Nature grew stern at times towards the watchers at the wounded man’s side, and sometimes one, sometimes the other, sank suddenly into a deep sleep, during which, whether it were one hour or many, the other remained perfectly awake and watchful.

And day after day, night after night, the dual fight went on – the fight with death and that with honour. There were times when Fred Chester seemed to be winning in both encounters, but as often he felt that his patient was slowly slipping away from him, as he himself was lapsing from all that he ought to have held dear.

Everything was, in the latter case, against him. Forced into close contact with the woman who had so strangely influenced him from the first moment of their meeting, with her eyes constantly seeking his appealingly as the sufferer’s life rose and fell – flickering like the flame of an expiring candle, he felt that his position was too hard for man to bear. He owned himself weak, pitiful and contemptible, but as he struggled on he felt himself drifting hopelessly away, and that, come what might, he was to become this woman’s slave.

One day was like that which followed, in its wild delirium and strangeness. Chester had almost lost count of the time which had elapsed, and grew startled at last as the feeling was impressed upon him that the precautions taken by those around had grown unnecessary and that if the door had stood open he would not now have attempted to escape. A strange thrall held him more than locks and bars, and he was ready to sacrifice everything to stay there by Marion’s side and fight the grim Shade till it was defeated and he had won her gratitude and love.

The great trouble Chester had to fight was the succession of strange convulsive fits which attacked his patient, each of which seemed to have snapped the frail thread which held the wounded man to life; but as they passed off the flame flickered up again, and the struggle recommenced.

At last came the day when, hopeless and despondent, Chester bent over to dress the wound, feeling that the struggle had been all in vain, and that his skill was far less than he had believed.

The old housekeeper was waiting upon him, and Marion had, at his request, gone to the other end of the room.

“You unnerve me,” he whispered.

She looked at him reproachfully, and went away without a word, to seat herself with her arm on the side of a chair, her hand supporting her brow.

As a rule, the sufferer had made no sign during the opening and rebandaging, but this time he winced sharply at every touch, and the old housekeeper looked up questioningly.

“Is that a bad sign?” she whispered, with her face all drawn and ghastly with fear.

“No; a sign of greater vitality,” said Chester, quickly, and the next minute he uttered a curious sibilation, for in removing the inner bandage, his fingers came in contact with something angular and hard, which he held up to the light and examined carefully.

A quick, sharp breathing at his ear made him start round, to find that his every movement had been watched between the fingers of the hand which covered the watcher’s face, and she had hurried to his side.

“Worse?” she whispered faintly, too much exhausted now to display the intense agony and excitement of the earlier days of their intercourse.

“No,” he cried triumphantly. “Here is the cause – the enemy which has been fighting against us so long, and produced, I believe, those terrible convulsive attacks.”

Marion looked at him wonderingly, and her lips parted, but no words came. He read the question, though, in her eyes.

“I ought to have known, and found it out sooner,” Chester said bitterly, “and I feel that I am only a miserable pretender, after all. This piece of jagged lead, broken from the conical bullet by the explosion; it has remained behind causing all the trouble.”

“Ah! Then he will recover now?”

“Yes,” he said, as his eyes met hers; and if was some moments before they were withdrawn, both, in the pre-eminence of self at that moment, having taken no thought of the old housekeeper, who involuntarily made her presence known by uttering a deep sigh; and as Marion started and met her gaze, the old woman shook her head at her reproachfully.

“Oh, my dear! my dear!” she said softly; “pray, pray think.”

Marion’s brow contracted, and she walked slowly away, to take up her former position; while Chester winced and gave the old woman an angry look, as she now shook her head sadly at him.

“No, doctor, no,” she said softly; “that could never be. Please think only of your patient and your position of trust.”

“How dare you, woman!” he whispered angrily; for her words had gone home, and stung him more deeply than she could have realised.

“Because I am not like an ordinary servant, doctor,” she said, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. “I nursed her when she was a little child, and I have watched over her ever since. Yes, she is very beautiful, but that could never be.”

Chester bent over his patient with knitted brow and tightly-compressed lips, feeling the truth of the old woman’s words, and ready to repeat them again mentally – that could never be.

His hands were busy with his task, and his brain was more active than ever, as he felt now that he had won this victory, and that the effort to bring the poor fellow back to life and strength would now be an easy one; little more than good nursing would suffice. Why, then, could he not win in that other fight? She was right; that could never be; and he seemed now to be suffering a rude awakening from the strange, dreamy time through which he had passed – awakening to the fact that he had lapsed into a faithless scoundrel, he who had believed himself all that was manly and true.

An hour before, he had felt that nothing could drag him from Marion’s side. He loved her more than he could have believed possible, but it could never be. He was awake once more, and now that the peril was past he must go.

“Hah!” he said softly, as he finished his task and the old housekeeper rose to bear away sponge, basin and towel, “head cooler, more susceptible of touch. A hard fight, but I win. An error of judgment? No; I did all possible. The probe revealed nothing. I saw no bullet, or I might have known.”

Everything else had passed away for the moment in the pride of his satisfaction – the triumph of life over death – and he stood with one hand resting on the back of the couch, the other upon his left hip, as he bent over his patient, whose breath came softly, and there was a restful look in the thin white face.

Then he started round, for there was a light touch upon his arm, and he was face to face with Marion once more, her head bent forward, her wild eyes searching his.

“Is – is it true?” she whispered excitedly. “She told me as she went out – you did not speak.”

“Yes; quite true,” cried Chester. “No wonder, poor fellow, that he made no advance. But there, we have won, and a day or two’s nursing will be all he wants. Now you can feel at rest.”

“Feel – at rest?”

“Of course; there is no disease. Weakness is the only trouble now.”

“Weakness the only trouble now! Rob – Rob – my own dear boy!”

She sank upon her knees, and as he saw her action, Chester tried to check her. But she gave him a reproachful glance, and passed her soft white arms about the patient’s head, but without touching him; and the loving kiss she breathed, as it were, upon his lips. Then she rose, sobbing gently, with all the strength of her mind and force of action seeming to have passed away, as with outstretched hands she caught at the nearest object to save herself from falling.

That nearest object was Chester; and the next moment she was weeping in his arms.

“You have given him back to me,” she sobbed, her voice little above a whisper. “You have saved him. How can I ever repay you for what you have done?”

The minute before he had been strong; now as he felt the sobs rising from the labouring breast, and clasped her throbbing, palpitating form closer and – closer, – “Marion!”

Her name – nothing more; but he felt her tremble in his arms and hang more heavily as her head sank slowly back, bringing her lips nearer his; and the next moment she uttered a low sigh, breathed in their lengthened kiss.

“Out of what comedy is this, doctor?” said a harsh, familiar voice; and as they started angrily apart, Jem, as they called him, advanced quickly from the silently opened door, straight towards Marion, upon whom he fixed his fierce eyes, as he spoke to her companion. “French, I suppose – a translation. I congratulate you, doctor – both of you. It was so real – so passionately grand. And you,” he literally hissed now, “most loving sister! Pour passer le temps, of course. The ennui of long nursing. Curse you!” he whispered savagely, as he stopped before her, and with a quick movement caught her by the wrist.

The next moment he uttered a hoarse cry of rage, for, stung to madness by the brutal act, Chester sprang at him, forcing him back over the table before which he stood, while Marion was flung aside.

Chapter Seven.

A Black Cloud Behind

“Where am I?”

Head throbbing horribly, a nauseous taste in the mouth, throat constricted and painful upon an attempt to swallow, and a strange mental confusion which provoked the above question.

The answer came at once.

In a miserable, musty-smelling, four-wheeled cab, whose windows were drawn up, and so spattered with mud and the heavy rain which fell upon the roof that the gleam from the street lamps only produced a dim, hazy light within, as the vehicle jangled slowly along, with wheels and some loose piece of iron rattling loudly in concert with the beat of the horse’s feet.

“Whatever am I doing here?” was Fred Chester’s next question.

Lying back in the corner, in an awkward position, as if in a state of collapse, and only saved from subsiding into the bottom of the cab by his feet being propped up on the front cushion, the doctor kept perfectly still trying to think, but every retrogressive attempt gave the idea that he was gazing at a vast black cloud which completely shut out the past.

He uttered a faint groan, for he felt startled; but after lying back listening to the beating rain and the jarring of the ill-fitting glasses, he recovered somewhat.

“How absurd!” he muttered. “Where am I going? Ask the driver.”

He drew up his legs and let his feet drop into the cab, as he tried to sit up, but the effort gave him the sensation of molten lead running from one of his temples to the other, and he lay perfectly still while the agonising pain passed slowly away, trying hard to think what had happened, but in vain. There was the black cloud before him mentally, though he could see the gleaming of a lamp he passed through the blurred panes of glass.

At last, feeling more and more startled by his condition, he made a brave effort, raised himself upright, and reached out for the strap, so as to lower the front window; but at the first movement he was seized with a sickening giddiness, lurched forward, and thrust himself back to recline in the corner again till the molten lead had ceased to flow from side to side of his head.

At last, very slowly and cautiously, bit by bit, he edged himself forward till his knees rested against the front cushion, and then, thrusting one hand into the left corner, he reached out for the strap, raised the window, and let it glide sharply and loudly down.

“Hi! Cabby!” he cried hoarsely.

“Right, sir!” came back, and the cab was drawn up by the kerb beneath the next street lamp.

Then the driver got down and opened the door, to stand with the rain streaming off his waterproof hat and cape.

“Mornin’, sir,” he said in a husky voice, closely following a chuckle. “Feel better now?”

<1 2 3 4 >

На страницу:

Перейти

3 из 4