"SOMETHING PARTICULAR TO SAY."
Horace North had sternly determined on self-repression, and, from the
moment when the crisis of Leo's fever had left her utterly prostrate, he
had set himself the almost superhuman task of saving her from the grave.
He had treated his patient with a gentleness and care that gradually won
upon her, harsh and distant as she was by nature; so that at last, after
the first fits of wearing fretfulness were over, she began to greet him
with a welcoming smile, and seemed happier when he sat down and stayed
chatting to her by her bed.
On that night when the passionate avowals had been uttered she had sunk
back into a violent fit of delirium; and since then, in all his long
hours of watching, no word of love had passed her lips--no kindly look
her eyes.
North was disappointed and touched to the quick, for he watched for her
loving looks, listened for her tender words.
On the other hand, in his calmer moments he was pleased, for it made his
task the lighter. He could repress himself until such time as his
patient were well and he could honourably approach her to ask her to be
his wife.
He was not surprised at her petulance or her irritability; and even in
her worst moods he only smiled, as he thought of her past sufferings and
present weakness. This childlike temper was the natural outcome of such
a fever, and would soon pass away.
"It is better as it is," he said, and he toiled away, neglecting his
studies, his great discovery, all for Leo's sake, that she might live
and grow strong once more.
"How beautiful!" he thought; and as she unconsciously suffered his
attentions, receiving them as her right, as if she were a queen, Mary
drank in all, and read the doctor's heart to the very deepest cell.
But she made no sign. It was her lot to suffer, and she would bear all
in silent patience to the end, working to make others happy if she
could, but sorrowing the more, as she wished well to North, and tried to
believe that, after all, Leo might change, and worthily return his love.
For, after seeing her home, Tom Candlish sent twice to know how Leo was.
After that he seemed to take no further notice, though he really spent
his time in asking Dally Watlock about her mistress, as he called it--
questions which took a long time to ask and longer to gain replies.
Leo never mentioned his name, but lay back reading, setting aside the
book wearily when any one seemed disposed to converse, and taking up the
book again as soon as whoever it was had done.
Salis entered the room where North was seated conversing with Mary,
whose pinched face bore a slight colour as she listened to his words,
something he was saying being interrupted by the brother's entrance.
"Ah, here you are!" cried North warmly. "I have stayed to see you, for
I have something particular to say."
"That's right. At least, it is not bad news, I hope."
"I hope good," said the doctor warmly, and then he stopped awkwardly.
It had all seemed so easy to say in his own room. Here it was terrible.
Mary's heart began to flutter, and a piteous look came into her eyes;
but she closed them gently, and a tear slowly welled through from each.
"Well, what is it? Nothing fresh about Tom Candlish, I hope?"
"About him? No; nonsense! I wanted to tell you that there is no
further need for me to attend your sister," Slid the doctor clumsily.
"She is nearly well now, and--"
"My dear Horace, you have saved her life!"
"No, no; nonsense! Only did as any other medical man would have done."
"I say she owes you her life, and it will be Leo's duty to remember
that, and to strive henceforth to render back to you--"
"If she only will!" cried North excitedly, as he sprang up and clasped
his old friend's hand.
For the ice was broken. He could speak now, and as Mary looked up
through a mist of blinding tears he seemed to her like the hero she had
always painted--as the man whom some day she might love. But for her
love was dead.
"Why, Horace, old man, what do you mean?" cried Salis, as Mary fought
down a wail of agony which strove to escape her lips.
"What do I mean, Salis?" cried the doctor passionately; "why, that I
love Leo dearly, and I ask you to let me approach her, and beg her to be
my wife."
The curate sank into the nearest chair, and sat gazing up at his friend.
"Why, you don't seem--I had hoped--Hartley, old fellow, don't look at me
like that."
"I am very sorry."
"No, no; don't speak in that way--so cold and bitter."
"Have you spoken to Leo--of your love?"
"Not a word. On my honour."
A sigh escaped Mary.
"You need not say your honour, Horace, old fellow," said the curate
sadly. "I did once hope this, but that time has gone by, and I can only
say again I am very sorry."
"But why?--why?"
"Because," said the curate slowly, "Leo is not the woman to make you a
happy husband."
"Nonsense, my dear boy. I--I believe she loves me."
The curate shook his head.
"Ah! well," cried the young doctor joyously; "we shall see. Tell me
this: would you accept me as your brother?"
"I already look upon you as a brother."
"Then you will let me speak to Leo?"
The curate paused a few moments, and then in the gravest of tones said:
"Yes."
"Now? At once?"
"If you wish it," said Salis, after another pause.
"Then I will," said North. "I have waited months, and borne agonies all
through her illness. Now I will be at rest."
"But--"
Salis was too late, for hot, excited, and strung up hard to the highest
pitch of excitement, North strode from the room, while Salis stooped
over Mary and kissed her.
"I am very sorry," he repeated: and a couple of loving arms closed round
his neck, as Mary sobbed gently upon his breast.
Then brother and sister sat talking, for the drawing-room door had
closed, and they could hear the low, dull murmurings of the doctor's
voice.
He had entered the drawing-room, where, looking extremely beautiful in
her _negligee_ habit, and refined by illness, Leo lay upon her couch by
the fire, for the spring was cold, and as he entered she lowered her
book and smiled.
It was a good augury, and with beating heart Horace North advanced and
took her hand--to ask this woman to be his wife.