A Change of Air

Mrs. Delane came in.

"Why, Janet dearest, you've nothing over you! You'll catch cold. What's the matter, darling? Are you frightened?"

There it was! Everybody thought she was frightened now.

"There is a message from Mr. Bannister, darling. He wants so much to see you, and the doctor thinks it would do you no harm. Do you think you could dress and see him?"

"He wants to see me?"

"Why, yes, dear. Of course, Jan. I know, my dear."

"To leave her and come and see me?"

"Miss Fane? Oh, she's going on very well. There's no reason he shouldn't come over here. You would like to see him, Jan?"

"Tell him to go away – tell him to go to her – tell him to leave me alone."

"But, Jan, dearest – "

"Oh, mamma, mamma, do leave me alone!"

Mrs. Delane went and told the messenger that Miss Delane might see no one for a day or two; she was still too agitated. Then she sought her husband and told him of their daughter's words.

"She must be a little queer still," said the Squire, with anxiety. "Don't be worried, Mary. She's a strong girl, and she'll soon throw it off."

But she could not throw it off – not that thought which had burned into her breast; and all night, by the light of the moon, she sat and looked at the tree and the fresh gravel, the spot where her honor and her love had called on her, and called in vain.

CHAPTER XXII.

The Fitness of Things

If anything could have consoled Market Denborough for the certain postponement and possible loss of the Duke of Mercia's visit, it would have been the cause of these calamities. Its citizens were not more hard-hearted than other people, and they bestowed much sympathy on Nellie Fane, who, out of the competitors, was easily elected the heroine of the incident; but neither were they more impervious to the charms of excitement, of gossip, and of notoriety. The reporters and the artists who had been told off to describe and depict the scene of the royal visit did not abandon their journey, but substituted sketches of the fatal spot, of the Grange, of Littlehill, and of the actors in the tragedy; while interviews with the Mayor, and anybody else who knew, or knew someone who knew about the circumstances, or professed to do either, amply supplied the place which the pageant and the speeches had been destined to fill. And if the occurrence excited such interest in the great London papers, the broadsheets and columns of the local journals were a sight to behold. The circulation of the Standard went up by more than a hundred; while the Chronicle announced, it must be admitted to a somewhat skeptical world, that its weekly issue had exhausted three editions, and could no longer be obtained at the booksellers' or the office. The assertion, however, being untested, passed, and everyone allowed that young Mingley's detailed account of poor Roberts' last words to Dale Bannister, before he fired, were perfect in verisimilitude, which, under the regrettable circumstance of Mingley's absence, and of no such words having been uttered, was all that could be expected. Mingley was puffed up, demanded a rise of salary, got it, and married Polly Shipwright, the young lady at the "Delane Arms." So the ill wind blew Mingley good. Yet the editor of the Chronicle was not satisfied, and as a further result of Mingley's activity, he inserted an article the following week, in which he referred, with some parade of mystery, to the romantic character of the affair. It was not only in fiction, he remarked, that love had opportunities for displaying itself in heroism, nor, it was to be earnestly hoped, only in the brains of imaginative writers that affection and gratitude found themselves working together toward a joyful consummation. Denborough knew and admired its gifted fellow-townsman, and Denborough had been a witness of the grace and charm of the young lady who had shed such luster on her sex. Accordingly, Denborough waited the result with some confidence. Into this personal side of the matter the Standard did not try to follow its rival. Mr. Delane controlled the Standard, and he forbade any such attempt, on grounds of careful generality. But the article in the Chronicle was quite enough; it expressed what everyone had been thinking, and very soon the whole town was expecting to hear, simultaneously, that Nellie was out of danger, and that she had given her hand to Dale Bannister. The theory was so strongly and unhesitatingly accepted that the two or three who, mainly out of a love of paradox, put their heads on one side and asked how Miss Delane came to be out in the garden with Dale Bannister, were pooh-poohed and told that they merely showed their ignorance of the usages of society; whereupon they went home and grumbled to their wives, but were heard no more in public places.

Dale Bannister flung the Chronicle down on the table with a muttered oath, asking the eternally-asked, never-to-be-answered question, why people could not mind their own business – an unjust query in this case, for it is a reporter's business to mind other people's business. He had just come down from his first interview with Nellie. She was mending rapidly, and was now conscious, although any reference to the events of the fatal night was sternly forbidden; he was not even allowed to thank the friend who, happily, had only risked, not lost, her life for him. He had whispered his joy at finding her doing well, and she had pressed his hand in answer; more than that vigilant attendants prevented. Then he had come downstairs, picked up the Chronicle in the hall, read the article, and gone into the smoking room, where he had found Arthur Angell sitting by the fire, his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears, a picture of woe.

"What infernal nonsense!" said Dale, with a vexed laugh. "Do you see how this fellow disposes of us, Arthur?"

"Yes, I saw," said Arthur gloomily.

"I suppose they're bound to say that. The public loves romance."

"I think it's very natural they should say it. Why did she follow you? Why did she risk her life? Why did she ask after you the first moment she was conscious?"

"No one but me was being murdered," suggested Dale, with a rather uneasy smile.

"We left her here. Why did she go out at all? But it's too plain. I saw it before I had been here a day."

"Saw what, man?" asked Dale, passing by Arthur's questionable assertion.

"Why, that Nellie – you know. I don't know what you feel, but I know what she feels. It's rough on me having me down – "

"I never thought of such a thing," said Dale quickly.

"Oh, I suppose not; though how you didn't – I say, now, before you came to Denborough, didn't you?"

"I – I don't think so. We were great friends."

Arthur shook his head, and Dale poked the little bit of fire in an impatient way.

"How damned crooked things go!" he said.

Arthur rose and said in a decided tone:

"Well, I'm out of it. She saved your life, and she's in love with you. It seems to me your duty's pretty plain. You must drop your other fancy."

"My other fancy?" exclaimed Dale in horror. Lived there a man who could call his love for Janet a "fancy"?

"You'd break her heart," said Arthur, who thought of no one but his lady-love in his unselfish devotion.

It crossed Dale's mind to say that the situation seemed to involve the breaking of one heart at least, if Arthur were right; but he thought he had no right to speak of Janet's feelings, well as he knew them. He threw the poker down with a clang.

"Take care – you'll disturb her."

This annoyed Dale.

"My good fellow," he remarked, "we're not all, except you, entirely indifferent whether she lives or dies. I might throw pokers about all day – and I feel inclined to – without her hearing me in the blue room."

"Oh, I beg pardon," said Arthur, turning to the window and looking out.

He saw a stout man coming up the hill. It was the Mayor of Denborough, and he was evidently making for Littlehill. When he was ushered into the smoking room, he explained that he had come to ask after Miss Fane's progress.

"The town, Mr. Bannister, sir," he said, "is takin' a great interest in the young lady."

"I am glad to say she has, we think, turned the corner," said Dale.

"That's happy news for all – and you first of all, sir."

The Mayor might merely have meant that Dale's feelings would be most acute, as Nellie had received her wound in his service; but there was a disconcerting twinkle in the Mayor's eye.

"Mrs. Roberts," the Mayor continued, "is doin' first rate. After all, it's a riddance for her, sir. Have you any news from the Grange?"

"I hear there is no change in Miss Delane. She still suffers from the shock."

"Poor young lady! I hear the Captain's back at the Warren, sir."

"What?"

"Captain Ripley, sir. Back at home."

"Oh!"

The Mayor was bursting with suppressed gossip on this point also, but the atmosphere was most repressive. He looked round in despair for another opening, and his eye fell on Arthur Angell.

"Seen the Chronicle, sir?" he asked. "That Mingley's a sharp young chap. Still I don't 'old – hold with all that talk about people. Did you say you'd seen it, sir?"

"Yes, I've seen it. It's mostly lies."

"He, he!" chuckled the Mayor. "You're right, sir."

A long pause ensued before the Mayor very reluctantly took his hat.

"I hope we shall see Miss Fane about soon, sir?" he said.

"Oh, I hope so. I think so, if nothing goes wrong."

"She must be proud and happy, that young lady, sir. As I said to my daughters, says I: 'Now, girls, which of you is goin' to save your young man's life?' And my wife, Mrs. Hedger, sir, she put in: 'None of you, I'll be bound, if you don't – '"

The anecdote was lost, for Dale interrupted:

"Let me see you as far as the gate," and pushed the Mayor's walking-stick into his hand.

Having got rid of the Mayor, Dale did not hasten to return to Arthur Angell. At this moment, exasperated as he was, everything about his friend annoyed him – his devotion, his unselfishness, his readiness to accept defeat himself, his indiscreet zeal on behalf of his mistress. His despair for himself, and his exhortation to Dale, joined in manifesting that he neither possessed himself nor could understand in another what a real passion was. If he did or could, he would never have used that word "fancy." How could people speak of friendship or gratitude, or both together, as if they were, or were in themselves likely to lead to, love? You did not love a woman because you esteemed her. If you loved her, you might esteem her – or you might not; anyhow, you worshiped her. Yet these peddling Denborough folk were mapping out his course for him. And Arthur Angell croaked about broken hearts.

Suddenly a happy thought struck him, a thought which went far to restore his equanimity. These people, even that excellent Arthur, spoke in ignorance. At the most, they – those who knew anything – supposed that he had a "fancy" for Janet. They had no idea that his love had been offered and accepted, that he was plighted to her by all the bonds of honor and fidelity. This exacting gratitude they harped upon might demand a change of nascent inclinations; it would not require, nor even justify, broken promises, and the flinging back of what a man had asked for and received. Dale's step grew more elastic and his face brighter as he realized that, in reality, on a sane view of the position, duty and pleasure went hand in hand, both pointing to the desired goal, uniting to free him from any such self-sacrifice as Arthur Angell had indicated. If Arthur were right about Nellie's feelings, and if he had been a free man, he might have felt some obligation on him, or at least have chosen, to make the child happy, but as it was —

"I must be just before I'm generous," he said to himself, and added, with a shamefaced laugh, "and I happen to like justice best."

At this moment a servant in the Grange livery rode up, touching his hat, and handed him a note. It was from Janet, though her writing was so tremulous as to be scarcely recognizable. He tore it open and read:

You can never wish to see me again, but come once more. It was not quite as bad as it seemed. J.

In bewilderment he turned to the man.

"Miss Delane sent this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Say I'll come over to the Grange to-morrow morning."

The man rode off, and Dale stood, fingering and staring at his note.

"What does the dear girl mean?" he asked. "What wasn't so bad? Why don't I wish to see her again? Has that ruffian driven her out of her senses?"

When Dr. Spink came that evening, Dale seized the opportunity of sounding him. The Doctor laughed at the idea of any serious mental derangement.

"Miss Delane's very much upset, of course, very much, but her mind is as right as yours or mine."

"She's got no delusions?"

"Oh, dear, no. She's nervous and over-strained, that's all. She'll be all right in a few days."

"Then," said Dale to himself, as the Doctor bustled off, "all I can say is that I don't understand women."

CHAPTER XXIII.

A Morbid Scruple

Mrs. Delane had ceased to struggle against the inevitable, and she hailed her daughter's desire to see Dale Bannister as an encouraging sign of a return to a normal state of mind. Strange as Janet's demeanor had been since that fearful evening, there could not be anything seriously wrong with her when her wishes and impulses ran in so natural a channel. Mrs. Delane received Dale with an approach to enthusiasm, and sent him up to the little boudoir where Janet was with an affectionate haste which in itself almost amounted to a recognition of his position.

"You must be gentle with her, please, Mr. Bannister," she said. "She wanted so much to see for herself that you were really alive that we could not refuse to allow her, but the Doctor is most strict in ordering that she should not be excited."

Dale promised to be careful, and went upstairs without a word about the strange note he had received; that was a matter between Janet and himself.

Janet was sitting, propped up with cushions, on a low chair, and she waved Dale to a seat near her. When, before sitting down, he came to her and kissed her, she did not repel his caress, but received it silently, again motioning him to the chair. Dale knelt down on the floor beside her.

"How pale you are, poor dear!" he said. "And why do you write me such dreadful things?"

"I wanted," she began in a low voice, "to tell you, Dale, that I did try, that I really did try, to call out. I did not forsake you without trying."

"What do you mean, darling? How have you forsaken me?"

"When he caught hold of me, there was plenty of time to call out. I might have warned you – I might have warned you. I might have done what she did. But I couldn't. I tried, but I couldn't. I was afraid. He said he would blow my head to bits. I was afraid, and I left her to save you."

"My dearest girl," he said, taking her hand, "you did the only thing. If you had cried out, he would have murdered you first and me afterward; all the chambers of the revolver were loaded. I would have died a thousand times sooner than have one of your dear hairs roughened; but, as it was, your death wouldn't have saved me."

She had looked at him for a moment as if with sudden hope, but, as he finished, she shook her head and said:

"I didn't think anything about that. I was just afraid, and I should have let you be killed."

"My sweet, who ever expected you to condemn yourself to certain death on the chance of saving me? It would be monstrous!"

"She did it," said Janet in low tones.

Dale paused for a minute.

"She was not in his clutches," he said. "He might have missed her."

"Ah, no, no!" she broke out suddenly. "You run down what she did to spare me! That's worst of all."

"Why, Jan, I don't say a word against her; but there was a difference."

"She thought of no difference. She only thought of you. I thought of my own life."

"Thank God if you did, dearest!"

"I'm glad you came. I wanted to tell you I had tried."

"I need nothing to make me love you more, my beauty and delight," he said, pressing her to him.

She looked at him with a sort of amazement, making a faint effort to push him away.

"It was so lucky," he went on, "that I didn't see you, or I should have rushed at him, and he would most likely have killed you. As it was – " He paused, for it seemed impossible to speak of poor Nellie's hurt as a happy outcome.

"Come," he resumed, "let's think no more about it. The wretched man is dead and Nellie Fane is getting better, and we – why, we, Jan, have one another."

With sudden impatience she rose, unlacing his arms from about her.

"Who is she?" she cried. "Who is she? Why should she give her life for you? I loved you, and I was afraid. She wasn't afraid."

Dale thought that he began to understand a little better. Jealousy was a feeling he had read about, and seen, and written about. If Jan were jealous, he could undertake to reassure her.

"She's a very old and good friend of mine," he said, "and it was just like her brave, unselfish way to – "

"What had you done to make her love you so?"

"My sweetest Jan, surely you can't think I – "

"Oh, no, no, no! I don't mean that. I'm not so mean as that."

Dale wondered whether this passionate disclaimer of jealousy did not come in part from self-delusion, though he saw that Janet made it in all genuineness.

"You have made her love you – oh, of course you have! Why did she follow you? why did she come between you and the shot? I loved you, too, Dale. Ah! how I loved – how I thought I loved you! But her love was greater than mine."

"Come, Jan, come; you exaggerate. You must be calm, dearest. Nellie and I are very fond of one another, but – "

"You know she loves you – you know she loves you to death."

"My darling, I don't know anything of the sort. But supposing she did – well, I am very sorry, very deeply grieved if she is unhappy; but I don't love her – or any other woman in the world but you, Jan. If she had saved my life a thousand times, it would make no difference. You, Jan, you are the breath of my life and the pulse of my blood."

He spoke with passion, for he was roused to combat this strange idea that threatened all his joy. As she stood before him, in her fairness and distress, he forgot his searchings of heart, his tenderness for Nellie, everything, except that she, and she alone, was the woman to be his, and neither another nor she herself should prevent it.

Looking at him, she read this, or some of it, in his eyes, for she shrank back from him, and, clasping her hands, moaned:

"Don't, don't! You must go to her – you belong to her. She saved you, not I. You are hers, not mine."

"Jan, this is madness! She is nothing to me; you are all the world."

"You must despise me," she said in a wondering way, "and yet you say that!"

"If I did despise you, still it would be true. But I worship you."

"I must not! I must not! You must go to her. She saved you. Leave me, Dale, and go back. You must not come again."

He burst out in wrath:

"Now, by God, I will not leave you or let you go! Mine you are, and mine you shall be!" and he seized her by the wrist. She gave a startled cry that recalled him to gentleness.

"Did I frighten you, my beauty? But it is so, and it must be. It is sweet of you to offer – to make much of what she did, and little of yourself. I love you more for it. But we have done with that now. Come to me, Jan."

"I can't! I can't! She would always be between us; I should always see her between us. O Dale, how can you leave her?"

"I have never loved her. I have never promised her," he replied sternly. "It is all a mere delusion. A man's love is not to be turned by folly like this."

She answered nothing, and sank back in her chair again.

"If it's jealousy," he went on, "it is unworthy of you, and an insult to me. And if it's not jealousy, it's mere madness."

"Can't you understand?" she murmured. "How can I take what is hers?"

"I can take what is mine, and I will. You gave yourself to me, and I will not let you go."

Still she said nothing, and he tried gentleness once more.

"Come, Jan, sweetest, you have made your offering – your sweet, Quixotic self-sacrifice – and it is not accepted! Say that's my want of moral altitude, if you like. So be it. I won't sacrifice myself."

"It's for her to take, not for you. I offer it to her, not to you."

"But I don't offer it to her. Would she care for such an offer? She may love me or not – I don't know; but if she does, she will not take my hand without my heart."

"You must love her. If you could love me, how much more must you love her?"

"You are mad!" he answered, almost roughly, "mad to say such a thing! I know you love me, and I will not listen to it. Do you hear? I shall come back and see you again, and I will not listen to this."

She heard his imperious words with no sign but a little shiver.

"There," he went on, "you are still ill. I'll come back."

"No use," she murmured. "I can't, Dale."

"But you will, and you shall!" he cried. "You shall see – "

The door opened, and the nurse came in to forbid his further lingering. With a distant good-by, he left Janet motionless and pale, and, hastening downstairs, went to the Squire's room.

"I have come," he said abruptly, "to ask your sanction to my engagement with your daughter."

The Squire laid down his book.

"I'm not much surprised," he said, smiling. "What does Jan say?"

Dale launched out into a history of the sweet things Janet had said, and of the strange, wild things she said now. The Squire heard of the latter with raised eyebrows.

"Very odd," he commented. "But it seems, my dear fellow, that, for good reasons or bad, at present she says No."

"She said Yes; she can't say No now," declared Dale. "Do you consent, Mr. Delane?"

"If she does, my dear fellow. But I can't help you in this matter."

"I want no help. She is not in her senses now. I shall make an end of this folly. I will not have it."

He went out as abruptly as he had rushed in, leaving the Squire in some perplexity.

"A man of decision," he commented; "and, altogether, a couple of rather volcanic young people. They must settle it between themselves."

CHAPTER XXIV.

The Heroine of the Incident

After Dale's visit to the Grange a few days elapsed in a quiet that was far from peaceful. Dale had gone to the Grange the next day, and the day after that: the sight of Janet had been denied to him. He was told that his visit had left her very agitated and upset, and the doctor was peremptory in forbidding any repetition of it. He had sent her a note, and she had returned a verbal message by her mother that she did not feel equal to writing. Was it possible that she meant to abide by her insane resolve to break off their engagement?

At Littlehill things were hardly more happy. Nellie was recovering, but very slowly, and she also remained invisible. Arthur Angell manifested all the symptoms of resentment and disappointed love, and only Philip Hume's usual placid cheerfulness redeemed the house from an atmosphere of intolerable depression. Philip had discovered a fund of amusement in the study of Mrs. Hodge. As soon as that good lady's first apprehensions were soothed, she was seized with an immense and exuberant pride in her daughter, which found expression both in her words and her bearing. Though ignorant of the historical precedent, she assumed the demeanor of a mother of the Gracchi, and pointed out to all who would listen to her – and Philip never thought of refusing her this kindness – small incidents and traits of character which had marked out Nellie from her very cradle as one of heroic mold and dauntless courage.

"I should be astonished, if I did not know her mother," said Philip politely.

"Ah, you must be chaffing, of course. But it's not me she takes it from. My heart goes pit-a-pat at a mouse."

"Oh, then it's Mr. Hodge."

"You couldn't," said Mrs. Hodge with emphasis, "catch Hodge at a loss. He was ready for anything. He'd have been proud to see Nellie to-day. Look what the papers are saying of her!"