It was characteristic of both Pleasance and her father--and
particularly characteristic of the latter--that when they met at
breakfast next morning they ignored the trouble which had seemed so
overwhelming at midnight. The doctor was constitutionally careless. It
was his nature to live from day to day, plucking the flowers beside
his path, without giving thought to the direction in which the path
was leading him. Pleasance was careless too, but with a difference.
She did not shut her eyes to the prospect; but she was young and
sanguine, and she was confident--of a morning at any rate--that a way
of escape would be found. So the doctor gazed through the window as
cheerfully as if his title-deeds had been his own; and if Pleasance
felt any misgivings, they related rather to the man lying in the next
room than to her own case.
"How is he, father?" she asked. "Have you been kept awake much?" The
doctor had spent the night on a sofa in order that he might be near
the stranger.
"He is not conscious," Doctor Partridge answered, "but I think that
the brain is recovering from the shock, and if all goes well he will
come to himself in a few hours." Pleasance shuddered. Her father,
without noticing it, went on: "But he ought not to be left alone, and
I must see my patients. It is useless to ask the servants to stay with
him--they are as nervous as hares. So you must sit with him for an
hour or two after breakfast, Pleasance. There is no help for it."
"I?" she said.
"Yes, to be sure; why not?" he answered lightly. "You are not afraid,
I suppose? There is nothing to be done, and Daniel can be within
call."
She gulped down her fears and assented. She was a good girl,
though she could not keep the housekeeping bills--nor her own bills,
for the matter of that--within bounds. She was used to a lonely
life--Sheffield lay nine miles away, and there were few neighbours on
the moorland; and her nerves had been braced by many a long ramble
over the ling and bracken, where the hill sheep were her only
companions.
Yet she might have answered otherwise had she known that, while the
words were on her father's lips, he questioned the wisdom of his
proposal. The man might on coming to his senses--the doctor did not
think he would--but he might repeat his attempt. And then----
Her answer, however, clenched the matter. When they rose from
breakfast the doctor said, "Now my dear, come, and I will put you in
charge."
She followed him. It was a relief to her to discover--from the
threshold of the room--that the bed had been moved, so that the light
might not fall on the patient's face. In its new position a curtain
hid him. The doctor set a chair for her behind the curtain, and she
sat down outwardly calm, inwardly trembling. He went himself to the
bedside, and stood for a moment gazing with a critical eye. Then he
nodded to her and went softly out.
He left the door ajar, and she heard him ride away. She heard too
Daniel's clumsy footsteps as he came back through the house, and the
clatter of the china as Mary washed it in the kitchen. But these
homely sounds served only to heighten her dislike for her task. She
was not afraid. She no longer trembled. But she shrank almost with
loathing from contact with her wretched companion. She conjured
up a dreadful picture of him--ghastly and disfigured--defiant and
hopeless--self-doomed.
He lay perfectly still. The curtain too on which her eyes dwelt hung
motionless. And presently there began to grow upon her a feeling and a
fear that he was dead. She fought with it, and more than once shook it
off. But it returned. At length she could bear it no longer, and she
rose in the silence, her breath coming quickly. She took a step
towards the bed, paused, stepped on, and stood where her father had
stood.
"Water!"
Before the faintly whispered word had ceased to sound she was halfway
to the carafe. Where was the loathing now? She brought a little water
in the tumbler, and held it to his lips. "Do not speak again," she
said softly. "You are in good hands. The doctor will return in a few
minutes."
She watched the weary dazed eyes close; then she went back to her
chair as though she had been a trained nurse and this the most
ordinary case in the world. But she was immensely puzzled. The picture
of the patient as he really was remained with her, causing her to
wonder exceedingly how such a man had come to attempt his life. The
face handsome despite its bandages and pallor, the eyes kindly even in
stupor, were features the very opposite of those which she had
ascribed to the dark creature of her fancy.
When her father returned she flew to tell him what had happened. He
entered and saw the patient, and came out again. "Yes," he said in his
professional tone, "if he can be kept quiet for forty-eight hours he
will do. Fever is the only thing to be feared. But he must not be left
alone, and I have to go to Ashopton. Do you mind being with him?"
"Not at all."
This time the easy-going doctor did not hesitate. He muttered
something about Daniel being within call, and, snatching a hasty meal,
got to horse again.
The case at Ashopton proved to be serious. It led to complications,
and even to a consultation with a London physician. And so it happened
that that day, and the next, and the next, Pleasance was left in
charge at home. The stranger, as his senses returned to him--and with
them Heaven knows what thoughts of the past and the future, what
thankfulness or remorse--grew accustomed to look to her hands for
tendance. A woman can scarcely perform such offices without pitying
the object of them; and Pleasance after the first morning came to wait
upon the stranger's call and minister to his wants without the
disturbing remembrance that his own act had brought him to this. Away
from the bedside she shuddered; beside it she forgot. In the mean time
the tall gentleman, who at first lay gazing upwards, taciturn and
still, came more and more to follow her with his eyes as she moved to
and fro in his service. None the less he remained grave and smileless,
speaking little even when he began to sit up, and saying nothing from
which the current of his thoughts could be judged.
"Father," she said one morning, when they had gone on in this way for
several days, "do you think that he is quite sane?"
"Sane? yes, as sane as any of us," was the uncompromising answer.
"Indeed," the doctor continued, looking at her sharply, "more sane
than you will be if you stop in the house so much, my girl. Leave him
to himself this morning and go out. Walk till lunch."
She assented, and, the weather being soft and bright, she started in
excellent spirits. As she climbed she thought that the moorland had
never looked more beautiful, the distance more full of colour. But
this mood proved less lasting than the May weather. Reaching the brow
of the hill, she turned to look down on the Old Hall, and the sudden
reflection that it must pass to strangers fell on her like a cold
shadow. The tears rushed to her eyes, the walk was spoiled. She came
back early, wondering at her own depression.
As she emerged from the shrubbery she saw with surprise two figures
standing on the lawn. One was her father. The other--could it be Edgar
Woolley come back before his time? No; this man was taller and paler,
with an air of distinction which the surgeon lacked. She drew near,
and her father, not seeing her, went into the house; while the other
sank into an arm-chair which had been set for him, and turned and saw
her. He rose with an effort, and raised his hat as she approached. It
was the tall gentleman.
The fact annoyed the girl. It was one thing, she thought, to nurse him
when he lay helpless, another to associate with him. She made up her
mind to pass him with a frigid bow. But at the last moment the sight
of his weakness melted her, and she paused on the threshold to tell
him that she was glad to see him out.
"Thank you," he answered. He spoke very quietly; but a slight flush
came and went on his brow. Probably he understood her hesitation.
Within doors a fresh surprise awaited her. She found the table laid
for lunch, and laid for three. "Father!" she cried, in a tone of
vexation, "is he going to take his meals with us?"
"Where else is he to take them?" the doctor answered gruffly, looking
up from the old bureau at which he was writing. "Would you send him to
the servants? If he is left alone in his room, he will go mad in
earnest."
He spoke gruffly because he knew he was wrong. He knew no more of the
tall gentleman, or of his reason for doing what he had done, than he
knew of the man in the moon. That the stranger dressed and spoke like
a gentleman, that there was no mark on his linen, that he had a watch
and money in his pockets, and that he had tried to take his life--this
was the sum of the doctor's knowledge; and he could not feel that
these matters rendered the stranger a fit companion for his daughter.
But the doctor had not strength of mind to grapple with the
difficulty, and he let things slide.
Pleasance would not discuss the question, but at the meal she sat
silent and cold. The doctor was uncomfortable, and talked jerkily. A
shadow--but it seemed more than temporary--darkened the stranger's
face. At the earliest possible moment Pleasance withdrew.
When she came down she found that the tall gentleman had retired to
his room, and she saw nothing more of him that evening. Next day, the
post brought a letter from Woolley, postponing his return for a day or
two, and this sent the doctor on his rounds in high spirits. Pleasance
herself, moving upstairs about her domestic business, felt more
charitable. There might be something in what her father said about
leaving the poor man to himself. She would go down presently, and talk
to him, preserving a due distance.
She had scarcely made up her mind to this when she chanced to look
through the window, and saw the stranger walking slowly across the
lawn. She watched him for a moment in idle curiosity, wondering in
what class he had moved, and what had brought him to this. Then she
noticed the direction he was taking, and on the instant a dreadful
fear flashed into the girl's mind, and made her heart stand still.
Below the lawn the rivulet formed a pool among the trees He was going
that way, glancing sombrely about him as he went.
Pleasance did not stay to think--to add up the chances. She flung the
door open, and ran down the stairs. She reached the lawn. He was not
to be seen, but she knew which way he had gone, and she darted down
the path that led to the water. She turned the corner--she saw him! He
was standing gazing into the dark pool, his back towards her, in an
attitude of profound melancholy. She ran on unfaltering until she
reached him, and laid her hand on his arm.
"What are you doing?" she cried, on the impulse of her great fear.
He turned with a violent start, and found the girl's pale face and
glowing eyes close to his. He looked ghastly enough. There was a
bandage round his head, under the soft hat which the doctor had lent
him; and in the surprise of the moment the colour had fled from his
face. "Doing?" he muttered, trembling in her grasp. And his eyes
dilated--his nerves were still suffering from the shock of his wound,
and probably from some long strain which had preceded it. "Doing? Yes,
I understand you."
He uttered the last words with a groan and a distortion of the
features. "Come away!" she cried, pulling at his arm.
He let her lead him away. He was so weak that apparently he could not
have returned without her help. Near the upper end of the walk there
was a rustic seat, and here he signed to her to let him sit down, and
she did so. When he had somewhat recovered himself he said faintly,
"You are mistaken; I came here by chance."
She shook her head, looking down at him solemnly. She was still
excited, taken out of herself by her terror.
"It is true," he said feebly. "I swear it."
"Swear that you will not think of it again," she responded.
"I swear," he answered.
She gazed at him awhile. Then she said, "Wait!" She went quickly back
to the house, and returned with some wine. "Perhaps I startled you
without cause," she said, smiling on him. He had not seen her smile
before. "I must make amends. Drink this."
He obeyed. "Now," she said, "you must take my arm and go back to your
chair."
He assented as a child might, and when he reached the chair he sank
into it with a sigh of relief. She stood beside him. The back of his
seat was towards the house, and before him an opening in the shrubbery
disclosed a shoulder of the ravine rolling upwards, the gorse on one
rugged spur in bloom, the sunshine everywhere warming the dull browns
and lurking purples into brilliance.
"See!" she said, with an undertone of reproach in her voice, "is not
that beautiful? Is not that a thing one would regret?"
"Yes, beautiful now," he replied, answering her thought rather than
her words. "But I have seen it under another aspect. Stay!" he
continued, seeing she was about to answer. "Do not judge me too
hastily. You cannot tell what reason I had--what----"
"No!" she retorted, "I cannot. But I can guess what grief you would
have caused to others, what a burden you would have shifted to weaker
shoulders, what duties you would have avoided, what a pang you would
have inflicted on friends and relations! For shame!" She stopped for
lack of breath.
"I have no relatives," he answered slowly, "and few friends. I have no
duties that others would not perform as well. My death would cause
sorrow to some, joy to as many. My burden would die with me."
She glanced at him with compressed lips, divining that he was reciting
arguments he had used a score of times to his own conscience. But she
was puzzled how to answer him. "Take all that for granted," she said
at last. "Are there no reasons higher than these which should have
deterred you?"
"It may be so," he replied. "Perhaps I think so now."
She felt the admission a victory, and, seeing he had recovered his
composure, she left him and went into the house. But the incident had
one lasting effect. It broke down the wall between them. She felt that
she knew him well--better than many whom she had owned as
acquaintances for years. The confidence surprised in a moment of
emotion cannot be recalled. It seemed idle for her to affect to keep
him at arm's length when she knew, if she did not acknowledge, that he
had confessed his sin, and been forgiven.
So when she saw him walking feebly from the house next day she went
with him, and showed him where he could rest and where obtain a view
without climbing. Afterwards she fell naturally into the habit of
going with him; and little by little, as she saw more of him, she
owned the spell of a new perplexity. Who was he? He talked of things
in a tone novel to her. He seemed to have thought deeply and read
much. He spoke of visits to this country, to that country. One day her
father found him reading their day-old _Times_, and took it from him.
"You must not do that yet," the doctor said. "My daughter can read to
you, if you like, but not for long."
She asked what she should read. He chose a review of a historical
work, and gently rejected the passing topics--even a speech by Lord
Hartington. This gave her an idea, and she privately searched the back
numbers of the paper, but could not find that any one who resembled
him was missing. Yet he had been with them almost three weeks; he had
received no letters, he had sent none. How could such a man pass from
his circle and cause no inquiry? Here at the Old Hall they knew no
more of him than on his coming. He had not offered to disclose his
name, and his host, who had fallen under his spell, had not plucked up
courage to ask for it, or for an explanation--had come, indeed, to no
understanding with him at all.
It is possible that of himself the doctor might have gone on
unsuspicious to the last. But one afternoon, as he made up his books
at the old bureau in the hall--the door being open and a flood of
sunshine pouring through it--he was aware on a sudden of a shadow cast
across the boards. He looked up. A middle-sized fair man, with a
goatee beard and a fresh complexion, was setting down a bag on the
floor and beginning to take off his gloves. "Why, Woolley!" exclaimed
the doctor, gazing at him feebly, "is it you? We did not expect you
until Monday."
"No, but you see I have come to-day," the traveller answered. It
was a peculiarity of this young man--he was not very young, say
thirty-eight--that when he was not well pleased he smiled. He smiled
now.
The doctor rubbed his hands to hide a little embarrassment. "Yes, I
see you have come," he said. "But how? Did you walk from Sheffield?"
"I came with Nickson."
The doctor stopped rubbing, then went on faster, as his thoughts flew
from Nickson to the tall gentleman, and for some mysterious reason
from the tall gentleman to Pleasance. He had never consciously traced
this connection before, but something in his assistant's face helped
him to it now.
"He tells me," Woolley continued, making a neat ball of his gloves and
smiling at the floor, "that you had a strange case here, a case he was
mixed up with, and that you made a cure of it."
"Yes."
"The fellow has cleared out, I suppose?"
"Well, no," the doctor stammered, feeling warm. How odd it was that he
had never seen into what a pit of imprudence he was sinking! He had
been harbouring a lunatic, or one who had acted as a lunatic--a
criminal certainly; in no light a person fit to associate with his
daughter. "No, he is still here," he stammered. "I think--I suppose he
will be leaving in a day or two!"
"Here still, is he?" Woolley said with a sneer. "A queer sort of
parlour-boarder, sir. May I ask where he is at present?"
"I think he is out of doors somewhere."
"Alone?"
When the doctor thought over the scene afterwards he whistled when his
memory brought him to that "Alone." He knew then that the fat was in
the fire. He saw that Woolley had pumped the carrier--who had been to
the house several times since the affair--and drawn his own
conclusions. "I rather think," he ventured, "I am not sure, but I
think----"
"I do not think," the other said dryly, "I see."
He pointed through the open door, and alas! the tall gentleman and
Pleasance were visible approaching the house. They had that moment
emerged from the shrubbery, and were crossing the lawn. The girl was
carrying a basket full of marsh marigolds, the man had a great bush of
hawthorn on the end of his stick. They were both looking at the front
of the house without a thought that other eyes were upon them.
Pleasance's face, on which the light fell strongly, was far from gay,
her smile but a sad one; yet there was a tenderness in the one and the
other which was not calculated to reassure a jealous onlooker.
"So!" Woolley muttered, his fingers closing like a vise on the
doctor's arm. "Let me deal with this."