A Change of Air

The Prince was due in three days, and already flags and triumphal arches were beginning to appear. It is to be hoped that the demand for drugs was small, for Mr. Hedger was to be found everywhere but behind his own counter, and Alderman Johnstone, having once taken the plunge, was hardly less active in superintending the preparations. The men who had carried those obnoxious boards were now more worthily earning their bread by driving in posts and nailing up banners, and Dale saw that Denborough was in earnest, and meant to make the reception a notable testimony to its loyalty. He loitered to watch the stir for a little while, for it was early afternoon, and he must not arrive at the Grange too soon. Not even the ode itself, which he carried in his pocket, could excuse an intrusion on the Squire's midday repose. As he stood looking on he was accosted by Dr. Spink.

"I have just been to see Roberts," he said.

"Is he ill?"

"Yes. His wife sent for me. As you may suppose, she would not have done so for nothing."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't like his state at all. He took no notice of me, but lay on his bed, muttering to himself. I think he's a little touched here;" and the doctor put a finger just under the brim of his well-brushed hat.

"Poor chap!" said Dale. "I should like to go and see him."

Spink discouraged any such idea.

"You're the very last person he ought to see. I want him to go away."

"Has he got any money?"

"Yes, I think so. His wife told me he had now."

"And won't he go?"

"He says he must stay till after the 15th" – the 15th was the great day – "and then he will go. That's the only word I could get out of him. I told his wife to let me know at once if there was any change for the worse."

"It's hard on her, poor little woman," said Dale, passing on his way.

He found Tora Smith and Sir Harry at the Grange. Rather to his surprise, Tora greeted him with friendly cordiality, accepting his congratulations very pleasantly. He had expected her to show some resentment at his refusal to write a song for her, but in Tora's mind songs and poets, Liberal meetings, and even royal visits, had been, for the time at least, relegated to a distant background of entire unimportance. Captain Ripley was there also, with the ill-used air that he could not conceal, although he was conscious that it only aggravated his bad fortune. He took his leave a very few minutes after Dale arrived; for what pleasure was there in looking on while everybody purred over Dale, and told him his ode was the most magnificent tribute ever paid to a youthful Prince? Dale, in his heart, thought the same, – so does a man love what he creates, – but he bore his compliments with a graceful outward modesty.

The afternoon was so unseasonably fine – such was the reason given – that Janet and he found themselves walking in the garden, she talking merrily of their preparations, he watching her fine, clear-cut profile, and, as she turned to him in talk, the gay dancing of her eyes.

"Your doing it," she said, "just makes the whole thing perfect. How can we thank you enough, Mr. Bannister?"

"The Captain did not seem to care about my verses," Dale remarked, with a smile.

Janet blushed a little, and gave him a sudden glance – a glance that was a whole book of confidences, telling what she never could have told in words, what she never would have told at all, did not the eyes sometimes outrun their mandate and speak unbidden of the brain.

Dale smiled again – this time in triumph.

"You like them?" he asked softly, caressing the little words with his musical, lingering tones.

"Oh, yes, yes," she said, looking at him once more for a moment, and then hastily away.

"I'll write you a volume twice as good, if – I may."

"Twice as good?" she echoed, with a laugh. "Now, honestly, don't you think these perfect yourself?"

"They are good – better than any I wrote before" – he paused to watch her face, and went on in a lower voice: "I knew you; but I shall do better the more I know you and the better."

Janet had no light answer ready now. Her heart was beating, and she had much ado not to bid him end her sweet, unbearable excitement.

They had reached the end of the terrace and passed into the wood that skirted it to the west. Suddenly she made a movement as if to turn and go back.

"No, no," he whispered in her ear; and, as she wavered, he caught her by the arm, and, without words of asking or of doubt, drew her to him and kissed her.

"My beauty, my queen, my love!" he whispered. "You love me, you love me!"

She drew back her head, straightening the white column of her neck, while her hands held his shoulders. "Ah, I would die for you!" she said.

Mrs. Delane was a woman of penetration. Though Janet told her nothing of what had occurred, – for she and Dale agreed to let the matter remain a secret till the impending festivities were over, – yet Mrs. Delane saw something in her daughter's air which made her, that same evening, express to the Squire her doleful conviction that the worst had happened.

"I shall say nothing to Janet," she said, "till she speaks to me. I can trust her absolutely. But I am afraid of it, George. Poor Gerard Ripley!"

"My dear, I'm not going to break my heart about Gerard Ripley. I think more of Jan."

"Well, of course, so do I. And I don't at all like it. He's not – well, not our sort, as the young people say."

"Mary, you're talking slang. What's the matter with him? The match will make Jan famous."

"Well, well, I don't like it, but you must have your way."

"It's not my way. It's Jan's way. Is she fond of him?"

"Terribly, I'm afraid, poor child!"

The Squire became a little irritated at this persistently sorrowful point of view.

"Really, my dear, why shouldn't she be fond of him? It's not a bad thing when people are going to marry."

"I wish I'd seen it in time to stop it."

"On the whole, Mary, I'm rather glad you didn't. I like the young fellow."

In this state of things – with the lady eagerly consenting, and a father all but ready to urge her on – well might Captain Ripley ride recklessly home from Dirkham Grange, cursing the ways of women and the folly of men, and promising himself to go to India and there be killed, to the end that his tragic fate might bring a pang to Janet's heart in future days. Well might he discover a sudden recall, and return to his regiment, escaping the Denborough celebrations, and risking offense in exalted quarters. So he went; and nobody at Denborough thought any more about him – not even Janet, for joy swallows up pity, and the best of humanity are allowed, without reproach, to be selfish once or twice in life.

That same night, at dinner at Littlehill, Nellie Fane thought Dale had never been so bright, so brilliant, or so merry. Under his leadership, the fun and mirth waxed fast and furious, till it carried away her doubts and fears, and Angell's sore wonderings why she looked always at Dale and never at him, and Philip's troubled forebodings of sorrows no friendly hand could avert. Dale's high spirits bore no check and suffered no resistance, and there was a tumult in Littlehill, such as had not been heard since its early indecorous days.

Suddenly, into this scene, followed hastily by Wilson, there broke, hatless and cloakless, Ethel Roberts, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear. Running to Philip Hume, she cried:

"My husband! He has gone, he has gone! We cannot find him. He has gone, and taken the pistol with him. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"

CHAPTER XX.

An Evening's End

The next morning, Roberts' friends held an anxious conference. The Doctor, being left alone while his wife went out on household affairs, had, it seemed, risen from bed, dressed himself, and left the house. He had taken a few pounds, part of what Johnstone had returned to him, but no luggage. Nothing was gone except his revolver, which had lain on the mantelpiece, his wife having feared to take it away. In the absence of other explanation, it seemed most probable that he had suddenly determined to return to London, and Dr. Spink thought London the best place to look for him. Accordingly, Philip Hume at once started in pursuit; for all felt, though none of them liked to express the feeling, that Roberts was not in a state in which he could safely be trusted to look after himself. His wife was helpless with grief and bewilderment, and kindly Mrs. Hodge determined to spend the day with her, and return to Littlehill only late in the evening; thus at least proper attention would be secured to the helpless child and its hardly less helpless mother.

Not even these troubles could keep Dale from the Grange, and after dinner, with an apology to Nellie and Arthur, he announced his intention of strolling over to ask the Squire at what point in the proceedings his ode was to come. Nellie had a letter to write, or said she had, and Arthur Angell offered to bear Dale company part of the way, with a cigar.

The two men set out together, and Arthur did not leave his friend till they were at the Grange drive. Then he sauntered back, humming snatches of song between his puffs of smoke, and rejoicing in the glory of a full moon. He had almost reached the gate of Littlehill, when, to his surprise, he saw, a few yards from him, a figure that seemed familiar. He caught sight of it only for a moment, for the trees then came between; and yet he felt almost sure that the stealthily moving form was that of James Roberts. He stood watching to see him again, but he did not; and, going into the house, he told Nellie what he thought he had seen.

"Dr. Roberts going toward the Grange!" she exclaimed. "You must be mistaken."

"I don't think so. It looked like him."

Nellie was not inclined to think he could be right, but she agreed that Arthur had better go and tell Dr. Spink of his suspicions. Arthur went off on his errand, and she sat by the fire alone.

Abandoning herself to reverie, she idly and sadly reviewed the events of the days since her return. How joyfully she had come! But it had hardly been as good as she hoped. Dale was very kind, when he was there. But why did he leave her so much – leave her to Arthur Angell? And ah, why did he go so much to the Grange? It was all far pleasanter before he came to Denborough, before he knew these great people – yes, and before this Dr. Roberts was there to worry them. The thought of Roberts carried her mind in a new direction. What a strange man he was! And his poor wife! She could not think why he had become so odd and so unfriendly. Yet it was so. He seemed absolutely to hate Dale; she had seen him look at him so fiercely. Dale had not ruined him; he had ruined himself. He was mad to blame Dale. Ah, wasn't he mad? – She sat up suddenly in her chair. What if Arthur were right? What if it were he? Why was he going to the Grange! Dale was there. What was that they said about a pistol? Ah – if —

Without another thought she rose, and as she was, in her evening dress and thin shoes, she ran out of the house and along the wooded road toward the Grange. A terrible idea was goading her on. He was mad; he hated Dale; he had a revolver with him. Oh, could she be in time? They would wonder at her. What did that matter? Her love, her lord was – or might be – in danger. She pressed on, till she panted and had to pause; then, with breath but half recovered, over rough and smooth ground, knowing no difference, she sped on her way.

Dale's talk with the Squire was not long; but the Squire's daughter came to the door to bid him good-night, and was easily persuaded to walk a little way down the drive with him. She went farther than she meant, as was natural enough; for she was leaning on his arm, and he was telling her, in that caressing voice of his, that all his life and heart and brain and power were hers, and lavishing sweet words on her.

"I must go back, Dale," she said. "They will wonder what has become of me."

"Not yet."

"Yes, I must."

"Ah, my darling, how soon will it be when we need never part? How soon? I mean how long, till then! Do you love me?"

"You know, Dale."

"What was it you said the other day – was it only yesterday? – that you would die for me?"

"Yes."

"Ah, Jan, my sweetest Jan, that you should say that to me!"

They said no more, but did not part yet. At last he suffered her to tear herself away.

"I shall run back through the shrubbery," she whispered.

"I shall wait."

"Yes, wait. When I get in, I will show you a light from my window. A good-night light, Dale."

She sped away down a side-path, and Dale leaned against a tree, in the moonlight, fixing his lovelorn eyes on the window.

As Janet turned down her path, she rushed, in her rapid flight, against a man who stood there in lurking.

Dale's side was to him, but he was watching Dale, with a sneering smile on his lips. When she saw him, she started back. In a moment he seized her shoulder with one hand, and pressed a pistol to her head.

"If you make a sound, I'll kill you," he hissed. "Don't stir – don't scream."

She was paralyzed with surprise and fright. It was Roberts, and – what did he mean?

He pushed her slowly before him, the revolver still at her head, till they reached the drive. Dale's eyes were set on his mistress' window, and their feet made no noise on the grass-edges of the drive. Roberts gave a low laugh, and whispered in her ear.

"He came to see you, did he? The traitor! Not a sound! Wait till he turns! wait till he turns! I want him to see me. When he turns, I shall shoot him."

At last she understood. The madman meant to kill Dale.

He would kill him, before Dale could defend himself. She must warn him – at any cost, she must warn him. If it cost her —

"Not a sound," hissed Roberts. "A sound and you are dead; your head blown to bits – blown to bits!" And again he laughed, but noiselessly.

It was her life against his. Ah, she must warn him – she must cry out! But the cold barrel pressed against her temple, and the madman's voice hissed in her ear:

"Blown to bits – blown to bits!"

She couldn't die, she couldn't die! not like that – not blown to bits! Perhaps he would miss; Dale might escape. She couldn't die!

He advanced a little nearer, keeping on the grass-edge and pushing her before him, still whispering to her death and its horrors, if she made a sound. It was too horrible; she could not bear it. Ah! he was measuring the distance. She must cry out! She opened her lips. Quick as thought, he pressed the barrel to her head. She could not, could not do it; and, with a groan, she sank, a senseless heap, on the ground at his feet.

Suddenly a shot rang out, and a woman's cry. Dale started from his reverie, to see a woman a step or two from him; a woman, tottering, swaying, falling forward on her face, as he rushed to support her in his arms.

There was a shout of men's voices, and, following on it, another report, and James Roberts fell beside Janet Delane, his head, as he had said, blown to bits; and two panting men, who had run all the way from Denborough, were raising Janet and looking if she were dead, and then laying her down again and turning to where Nellie Fane lay in lifeless quiet in Dale's arms.

"A minute sooner and we should have been in time," said Arthur Angell to Dr. Spink, as the Doctor pushed Dale aside and knelt over Nellie.

And Dale, relieved, ran at all his speed to where Janet lay and threw himself on his knees beside her.

"My love, open your eyes," he cried.

CHAPTER XXI.

"The Other Girl Did."

On the afternoon of the morrow, Philip Hume, who, summoned by a telegram from Dr. Spink, had come down to Denborough by the first train he could catch, put on his hat, and, lighting his pipe, took a turn up and down the road that ran by Littlehill. Since his coming he had been in the house, and the house had seemed almost to stifle him. He had a man's feeling of uselessness in the face of a sick room; he could do nothing to help Nellie Fane in her struggle for life; he only hindered the people who could do something. Nor did he succeed much better with those whose ailments were of the mind. Arthur Angell sat in one room, suspecting now that, whether Nellie lived or died, his dearest hopes were dead. Dale, in another room, strode unrestingly to and fro, waiting for Wilson to come back from the messages he kept sending him on, now upstairs to Nellie's door, now down the town to Ethel Roberts', now, and most often, to the Grange; and always Wilson, his forehead wet and his legs weary, came back and said:

"Please, sir, there is no change."

Once Nellie had been conscious, had asked "Is he safe?" and, receiving her answer, had closed her eyes again. Ethel Roberts was in no danger; the shock would pass. Of Janet there came no news, save that she was alone with her mother, and cried to be alone even from her mother. James Roberts, in his frenzy, had indeed wrought havoc, and Philip, as he walked and smoked, vehemently, though silently, cursed the ways of this world.

Presently Mrs. Hodge came out in her bonnet.

"Nellie is well looked after," she said. "I am going down to see how that poor little Roberts is."

Philip did not offer to go with the good woman. He watched her heavy figure hastening down the hill, wondering that she seemed almost happy in her busy services of kindness. He could do nothing but fret, and smoke, and try to keep out of the way.

A smart brougham drove up. It stopped by him, and Tora Smith jumped out.

"How is she?" she cried.

"Spink thinks she will pull through," answered Philip; "but of course she's in great danger still."

"May I go to her?" asked Tora.

"She sees no one," he replied in surprise.

"Oh, I don't mean to see her. I mean to stay and help – to nurse her, you know."

"It is very kind of you: she has her mother and a nurse."

"Oh, won't you let me?"

"It does not rest with me. But why should you?"

"I – I once thought such horrid things of her. And – wasn't it splendid?"

Philip looked kindly at her.

"That will please her," he said, "and her friends."

"Mayn't I help?"

"I tell you what: poor Mrs. Roberts has no one but a hired nurse. Mrs. Hodge has run down for a minute, but of course she can't leave her daughter long."

"You mean I ought to go to her?"

"One can't even be kind in the way one likes best," said Philip.

"Well, I will. But I should have loved to be with Miss Fane. I can't tell you how I feel about her. I think people who think evil things of other people ought to be beaten, Mr. Hume."

"Doubtless, but justice flags. You can't expect me to beat you, Miss Smith."

Tora smiled for a minute; then she wiped her eyes again, and asked gravely:

"Are you never serious?"

"Yes; I am serious now. Go to that poor woman; consider doing that in the light of a beating."

"You'll let Miss Fane know I – I – "

"Yes; and Dale. What a terrible facer for our celebrations, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes. Harry has ridden over to see Lord Cransford about it. Mr. Delane wants the thing put off, if possible."

"Can you put off a Prince? But I suppose he'll be only too glad not to be bored with it."

"You know Janet is in a dreadful state? Poor girl! It must have been awful for her. The man had hold of her! Well, I shall go. Good-by. I shall run up here again to-morrow."

The putting off of the Prince, in spite of Philip's doubt of its constitutional possibility, was managed: for the ceremony could hardly take place without Mr. Delane's presence, as he had been the inspiring force of the whole movement which had resulted in the Institute; and Mr. Delane felt it utterly out of the question for him to take any part in such festivities, in view of the dreadful occurrence in his grounds and of his daughter's serious condition. The doctors, indeed, told him that she had stood the shock remarkably well; they would not have been surprised to find her much worse. Her reason was unshaken, and, after the first night anyhow, the horror of the madman's grip and voice had left her. She did not, waking or sleeping, for she slept sometimes, dream that she was again in his hands, face to face with death; and Dr. Spink congratulated the Squire and Mrs. Delane on a good prospect of a total recovery. Yet Mrs. Delane and the Squire were not altogether comforted. For Janet lay from morning to evening on her bed, almost motionless and very quiet, whenever anyone was in the room. She asked once or twice after her fellow-sufferers, but, except for that, and answering questions, she never spoke but to say:

"I think I could sleep if I were alone."

Then Mrs. Delane would go away, trying to believe the excuse.

There are not many of us who would feel warranted in being very hard on a man who had failed in such a trial as had befallen Janet Delane: in a woman, failure would seem little other than a necessary consequence of her sex. Death, sudden, violent, and horrible, searches the heart too closely for anyone to feel sure that his would be found sound to the core – not risk of death, for that most men will, on good cause and, even more cheerfully, in good company, meet and face. It is certainty that appalls; and it had been certain death that had awaited Janet's first cry. And yet she would not be comforted. She had stopped to think how certain it was; then she failed. The mistake was in stopping to think at all. The other girl – the girl he did not love, but who, surely, loved him with a love that was love indeed – had not stopped to think whether the bullet could or might or must hit her. She had not cared which; it had been enough for her that it might hit the man she loved, unless she stood between to stop it, and she had stood between. How could Janet excuse her cowardice by telling herself of the certainty of death, when, had she not been a coward, she would never have stayed to know whether death were certain or not? If she ever could have deluded herself like that, what the other girl did made it impossible. The other girl – so she always thought of Nellie – held up a mirror wherein Janet saw her own littleness. And yet he had loved her, not the other; her life belonged to him, the other's did not; she had proclaimed proudly, but an instant before, that she would die for him, and he had praised her for saying it. He would know now what her protestations were worth. He would be amused to think that it was not Janet Delane – the Janet who was always exhorting him to noble thoughts – who was proud in the pride of her race – not she who had dared death for him; but that other, so far beneath her, whom she had not deigned to think a rival. Ah, but why, why had she not called? Surely God would have given her one moment to be glad in, and that would have been enough.

She sat up in bed, the coverings falling from her, and her black hair streaming over her white night-dress. Clasping her hands over her knees, she looked before her out of the window. She could see the tree where Dale had stood and the spot where she had fallen; she could see the fresh red gravel, put down to hide the stains, and the gardener's rake, flung down where he had used it. He must have gone to tea – gone to talk it all over with his wife and his friends, to wonder why Miss Janet had not called out, why she had left it to the other girl, why she had fainted, while the other had saved him. They would talk of "poor Miss Janet," and call the other a "rare plucked 'un" – she knew their way. Nobody would ever call her that – not her father again, who used to boast that Janet, like all his house, feared nothing but dishonor, and would make as good a soldier as the son he had longed for in vain. Her mother had come and called her "a brave girl." Why did people think there was any good in lies? She meant it kindly, but it was horrible to hear it. Lies are no use. Let them call her a coward, if they wanted to speak the truth. They all thought that. Dale thought it; Dale, who must be admiring that other girl's gallantry, and wondering why he had not loved her, instead of loving a girl who talked big, and, when danger came, fainted – and stood by to see him die.

Of course he could not go on loving her after this. He would feel, everybody must feel, that he owed his life to the girl who had saved him, and must give it to her. Very likely he would come and pretend to want her still. He would think it right to do that, though it would really be kinder just to let her drop. She would understand. Nobody knew he had spoken to her; perhaps nobody need; it would not seem so bad to people who did not know she had promised to be his wife. Not that it mattered much what people thought. She knew what she was, and – she must let him go, she must let him go. And here, for the first time, she buried her head in her pillow and sobbed.