GIVEN BACK
Sydney seemed to herself to have a good many odd dreams during that time
of illness.
Strange faces looked out of a great darkness, and pictures came and went
like magic-lantern slides. But one thing always stayed, and that was
fever.
Then there came a time when she seemed to herself to be all alone in a
dark place where no one came to her, though she cried continually for
mother, and was certain that if only this weight would leave her head,
she could lift it and call loud enough for mother to hear her!
And then, quite suddenly, there was shaded lamp-light in the rose
bedroom, and mother was sitting there beside her bed.
She tried to speak, but found the words did not come; nor did a hand,
that seemed lying loosely on the counterpane belonging to nobody, move
from its place, but mother took it in hers and kissed it. Sydney had a
vague kind of feeling that everything was right now mother had come.
Then there was a time when things grew clearer; when she knew that
there was sometimes daylight on the wall and sometimes lamp-light, and
then father was beside her, looking at her through the gold-rimmed
eye-glasses she knew so well. And presently Mr. Seaton was kneeling by
her bed, saying words which she was dimly conscious he had said before.
Then suddenly everything was quite clear, and a mild spring-like air was
coming in through the open window, and she felt as if all the dreams had
passed away in that long night of fever.
“I always said she would turn the corner when Mrs. Chichester came!”
Dr. Lorry declared, rubbing his hands gleefully; and though of course
all credit should be given to the doctors and the nurses, I think Mrs.
Chichester’s presence and her strong mother-love had no small amount
to do with calling back the girl, whose feet had gone so very near the
margin of that river we call death.
Dr. Chichester himself brought the news that Sydney had turned the sharp
corner and come back to those who loved her, to the kinsman keeping his
watch on the sofa in the library, and I think any feelings of antagonism
towards the Chichesters that St. Quentin may have had left, were quite
swept away by the look on the doctor’s face and the choke in his voice as
he said, “She has turned the corner now—thank God for it!”
The marquess even went so far as to remember Hugh and his feelings and,
unconscious of that watch the young man had kept outside the Castle,
desired that a servant should instantly go down with a message to the
improvised hospital.
It was the next morning—a strange, disorganised morning—when everybody
seemed to be united in the one absorbing gladness, that St. Quentin asked
to see the Vicar when he came down from his visit to Sydney.
Mr. Seaton wondered at the summons, but rejoiced over it with all his
heart. It had been one of his great griefs that he was allowed to give no
help or comfort to this man who stood so plainly in need of both.
“So you’ve pulled your boy round?” was St. Quentin’s greeting, as the
Vicar came into the library. “I can’t tell you how glad I am of that—the
jolly little chap! That will be something to tell Sydney when she’s
strong enough to hear news.... That isn’t what I want to say, though.”
He stopped; then brought the last words out with a rush: “Isn’t there
something you pray in churches when you’ve something—very special—to be
thankful for?”
“Yes,” said the Vicar, sympathising with the effort in his tone—“there is
a prayer of thanksgiving for ‘great mercies vouchsafed’—that is what you
mean, I think?”
St. Quentin nodded. “I didn’t exactly deserve mercy,” he said, “but I am
thankful for it! She’ll be a credit to the name, you know.... Say the
prayer for me, will you, now? I can’t go to church, you see!”
And the Vicar, kneeling, thanked God for more than His gift of life to
the girl upstairs!
“Come and look me up again when you’ve time, will you?” said the
marquess, when Mr. Seaton took his leave; and the Vicar said, “I will,”
with all his heart.
Sydney was very happy in her dainty rose-room, with mother sitting by her
bedside, holding her hand: she was very happy when carried to the sofa in
the morning-room, where mother read to her, or talked and worked. “But I
want to go downstairs and see St. Quentin,” she said, and Dr. Lorry was
prevailed upon to sanction the proceeding as soon as it was at all safe.
Grand preparations were made downstairs for the great event. Dickson
worried St. Quentin to the verge of distraction with his repeated
tidyings of the library, and would have worried him into a very bad
temper if the preparations had been made on behalf of anyone but Sydney.
A deputation arrived from the convalescent village to know if anyone
would be allowed to see “our young lady,” and though Dr. Lorry was
obliged to decline such attentions for his patient on her first
appearance, the deputation was dismissed with the assurance that Miss
Lisle would soon be out and among them once more.
Dr. Chichester came down again for twenty-four hours to see how “his
little girl” bore the move, and Sydney had another visitor.
“I suppose she won’t be happy without the paragon!” St. Quentin said to
Dr. Lorry, “so you’d better bring him up with you to tea. But mind, he’s
not to be up to any of his fool’s tricks with her—talking as though they
were mere acquaintances, as he did when last they met. Tell him to be
natural and brotherly, or else to stop away!”
But Hugh came. Perhaps his manner was not quite brotherly as he came
forward to arrange the sofa for the slight girl whom his father carried
in so easily, but Sydney did not seem to find anything amiss with it.
She lay smiling blissfully upon them all—father—mother—Hugh—St. Quentin.
“Oh, Cousin St. Quentin, if only you could get well I should be quite
happy!” she said.