Neil Harley's troubles had of late been great. He had gone on striving
to be matter-of-fact and business-like, telling himself that he must be
calm and cool; but all the same he suffered bitterly.
It had been a great shock to him, the disappearance of Helen; and though
her recovery had followed, it was in such a guise that at times he felt
half maddened, and as if his troubles were greater than he could bear.
He had loved her from the first; and though he had laughed at and
bantered her, treating her numerous flirtations as trifles unworthy of
his notice, at the same time he had suffered a terrible gnawing at the
heart, and every glance sent at Hilton--every whispered compliment paid
to her by the handsome young captain--caused him acute pain.
Time after time he had striven to tear himself from what he felt was a
hopeless, foolish attachment; and when he made the effort, Helen's
beautiful face rose before him with a sly, half-mocking,
half-reproachful look, and he knew that he was more her slave than ever.
The mishaps that had befallen the various prisoners seemed to recoil
upon him, to increase his troubles. He felt, as it were, to blame, and
often asked himself if it was not due to his want of clever management
that the chaplain had not also been recovered; but for his comfort there
were times when he was fain to confess that it would have puzzled the
cleverest diplomat to have dealt differently with so wily a Malay as
Murad, or with his people, who were ready to hide everything from the
English intruders upon their land.
"I ought to be in better heart," he said to himself, as he sat thinking
in his cool room at the Residency; "three out of my four lost sheep are
back, and I have hopes of the fourth. But Helen?" His face grew
contracted and wrinkled as he sat thinking of the swarthy face and
disfigured mouth of the belle of the station, and wondered whether, in
spite of his declarations to the contrary, there was any attachment left
between Hilton and the suffering girl.
"No," he said; "none. Hilton is quite honest. His was but a changing
love for the bright, handsome face and deep, dreamy eyes. He does not
care for her now. What man would?"
There was a pause here, and he sat dreamily gazing through the open
window at the silver shimmering of the river.
"What man would love Helen Perowne now?" he said, softly; "now that she
comes back with such a social stigma upon her, just rescued from the
hands of this Eastern sensualist--changed! ah! how changed! Poor girl--
poor girl! What English gentleman would hold out his hand to her now,
and say to her, `Helen, love! my own! Will you not be my wife?'"
Another pause, broken only by the loud insect-hum from the blossom-laden
trees outside the window.
What man would say this to her now?
"I would!" he cried aloud; "for is mine so mean and paltry a love that
it is to be checked and turned aside by her misfortune? No; let her but
ask me--as I said she some day would ask me--with look or lip, to come,
and I should be at her side--for I so love her, in spite of all, and
with my whole heart!"
For a moment the abject, frightened face that he had for a few moments
seen shrinking from him before its owner concealed it with her trembling
brown fingers, when she was transferred from the Sultan's to his own
boat, was there before him; when Helen had uttered a loud, piteous cry
as she recognised one of her deliverers. The next moment that scene
upon the river, vividly as it was impressed upon his mind, with the
swarthy Malays, the prostrate prince, the brilliant sunshine flashing
from the river, even as he could see it now, and the dark shadows of the
drooping trees, all had passed away, and in place he saw only Helen--the
Helen of his love--prostrate upon her bed of sickness, dull of eye,
shrunken and thin with fever, suffering and helpless. And as he asked
himself, "Did he love her still?" he rested his elbows upon his table,
his face went down upon his hands, and with a low moan he felt that he
was cruel and wanting in his love for being away from her at a time like
this, when he ought to be showing her how true and fervent was his
feeling--that it was no light fancy of the young and thoughtless youth,
but a strong man's true and lasting love.
He did not hear the matting-screen drawn aside, nor heed the light step
of his Chinese servant, as he softly entered the room, and then stopped
short, as if afraid to interrupt his master as he slept.
It was an important message, though, that he had to give, and he went up
to the table.
"Master," he said, softly; but the Resident did not move.
"Master!" said the man again; but the Resident heard him not, for he was
dwelling upon the tidings that he had received an hour before, that
Helen's case was utterly hopeless, and that though she might live for
days or weeks, her recovery was impossible.
It was on good authority that he received those sad tidings, for they
were from Dr Bolter's lips; and he had to listen, with a composed and
placid mien, when all the time he had felt as if he could have thrown
himself upon the floor, and torn himself in the bitterness of his
anguish.
If he could have been allowed to sit at her pillow, holding one poor
wasted hand, he told himself that he could have borne it better, and
watched her with patient hope. But he was shut out from her
resting-place--from her heart! She had never cared for him, and his
words to her had been but an empty vaunt. And yet he loved her so well,
that as he thought of all the past and the bitter present, he felt that
when Helen died he dared not face the empty present, and something
seemed to whisper to him, would it not be better to seek in oblivion for
the rest that his heart told him he should never know.
"Master!"
Louder now, and a hand was laid upon his arm.
The Resident started up, and gazed angrily at the intruder upon his
sacred sorrow--so fiercely that the servant shrank away.
"What is it?" cried the haggard man, harshly. "Is--is she--dead?"
"A messenger, master, from Miss Stuart," said the man, shivering still
from the wild face and mien.
"I knew it--" moaned the Resident.
"To say, will you go directly to the doctor's house."
Neil Harley started from his chair; and then he staggered, and caught at
the table for support.
"The heat!" he said, huskily--"giddy!--a glass--water!"
The servant went to a great cooler standing in the draught of the
window, and filled and brought a glass of the clear, cold fluid.
"Thanks!" said the Resident, drinking feverishly, and recovering
himself. "Who brought the message?"
"Yusuf, the Malay. His boat waits," replied the man; and making an
effort to be calm, the Resident took up his sun-hat, and walked firmly
down to the landing-stage, where he was ferried across and then walked
up to the doctor's cottage, overtaking Hilton on the way.
"You going there?" he said.
"Yes," replied Hilton. "I was going up to ask how Miss Perowne was now.
Were you going there?"
"Yes," said the Resident, bitterly; "I was going there. Were you sent
for too?"
"I? No; it was not likely. Pray disabuse your mind, Harley, of all
such thoughts as that! There is nothing between Miss Perowne and me."
"Not now that she is in misery and distress!" retorted the Resident, and
his voice sounded almost savage in its reproach.
Hilton flushed angrily.
"Your reproaches are unjust," he said. "You know that Miss Perowne
never cared for me, and that I was too weak and vain not to see it
earlier than I did. Harley, I will not quarrel, for I esteem you too
well. We ought to be good friends."
"And we are," said the Resident. "Forgive me for what I have said!"
He held out his hand, which the other pressed warmly.
"I'm an outsider!" said Hilton, bitterly, in turn. "I'm going to set up
for my friend's friend. I shall be best man to Chumbley when he marries
Miss Stuart; and so I shall to you, for I believe you will marry Helen
Perowne after all."
"Silence, man!" cried the Resident, harshly. "I have been sent for by
Miss Stuart. Her friend is dying, I am sure. Perhaps it is best!"
"Dying!" cried Hilton.
"Yes! Are you surprised after what the doctor has said?"
"I am," said Hilton; "for I had hopes after all. Let us make haste."
The Resident glanced at him quickly, for Hilton's words even then caused
him a jealous pang; but there was nothing but honest commiseration
there; and they walked on hastily to the doctor's door.
Dr Bolter himself met them, looking very grave, and the faint hope that
had been struggling in Neil Harley's breast died out.
The doctor saw the question in each of his visitors' eyes, and answered,
hastily:
"No; I don't think there is immediate danger, but--She expressed a wish
to see you, Harley."
That _but_, and the way in which he finished his sentence, spoke
volumes. An invalid in a dangerous state expressing a wish to see some
one in particular! It was like the cold chill of death itself seeming
near.
"You may go in, Harley," said the doctor. "My wife and Miss Stuart are
there."
The Resident hesitated for a moment. Then drawing a long breath, he
walked through the drawing-room, and into Helen's bedroom, seeing
nothing but the thin swarthy face upon the white pillow, about which was
tossed her abundant hair.
Mrs Bolter rose as he entered, and taking Grey Stuart's hand, they
softly moved towards the door, and left the room without a word.
For a few moments Neil Harley stood there, gazing down at the wasted
face before him, his very soul looking out, as it were, from his eyes,
in the intensity of his misery and despair; while Helen gazed up at him
now with a saddened and resigned expression of countenance, the vanity
all passed away and the dread that he should see her, disfigured as she
was, a something of the past.
"I sent for you to ask you to forgive me," she said, in a low, faint
voice; but he did not speak.
"I know now how weak--how vain I was--how cruel to you; but--you know--
my folly, you will forgive?"
He was down upon his knees by her bedside now, and the words seemed to
be literally torn from his heart as he groaned:
"Helen!--Helen! my poor girl! has it come to this?"
"Yes!" she said, softly, "it seems like rest! I am happier now; but I
thought--I should like to see you again--to say Good-bye!"
"No, no, no!" he cried, passionately. "You shall not leave me, Helen!
My love--my darling--you shall not die!" She smiled faintly.
"I knew you loved me differently from the rest!" she said, softly, as he
clasped her thin hand and held it to his lips; "that is why I sent. You
said I should send for you--some day."
"To ask me to take you for my wife," he panted; "and, Helen, the time
has come!"
"Yes," she said, softly, "but it was the Helen of the past; not this
wreck--this--this--Oh, Heaven!" she moaned, passionately, "did I sin so
vilely that you should punish me like this?"
"Hush! hush!" he whispered, passing his arm beneath her light, too
fragile form, and raising her till her head rested upon his breast.
"That is all past now, and it is not the Helen of the past I love, but
she who has sent for me at last. Helen, darling, speak to me again!"
"Speak?" she said, faintly; "what should I say, but ask you to forgive
me, and say good-bye?"
"Good-bye?" he cried, frantically. "What, now that I have, as it were,
begun to live?"
"One kind, forgiving word," she said, faintly. "One? A thousand!" he
panted; "my own--my love! Leave me? No, you shall not go! Is my love
for you so weak and poor that I should let you go--that I should turn
from you in this hour of trial? Helen!" he cried; "I tell you it is not
the Helen of the past I love, but you--you, my own! Tell me that you
have turned to me--truly turned to me at last, and live to bless me with
your love!"
Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes
closed, and as he clasped her more firmly to his breast a faint
shuddering sigh seemed to fan his cheek.
"You shall not die," he whispered, as he raised her thin arm and laid it
tenderly round his neck, while his heart throbbed heavily against hers;
"I am strong, and my strength shall give you strength, my breath should
be yours, Helen, love, were it my last. Take it, darling, and breathe
and live, my own--my wife--my all!"
As he whispered frantically these words he seemed endued with the idea
that she would draw life from his strong manliness, and breathe it in
his breath, as he bent down lower and laid his lips upon hers.
Then the shuddering sigh came again, and feeble as she was before, he
felt her relax and sink away; her arm fell from where it rested on his
shoulder, and in an agony of dread he stamped upon the floor.
There was a hurried rush of feet, the door was flung open, and the
doctor entered the room.
"Quick!" he cried. "Lay her down, man!--That's well."
"Is--is she dead?" groaned the Resident; and in an agony of remorse and
despair he sank back in the chair by the bedside, as he saw the doctor
take one hand in his and lay his other upon his patient's throat.
"No," said Dr Bolter, shortly. "Fainting. Go away."
"But, Bolter--" protested the Resident.
"Be off, man, I tell you!" cried the little doctor, angrily, showing how
thoroughly he was autocrat of the sick room. "Go, and send in my wife,
and Miss Stuart. Or no: my wife will do."
The Resident bent down once over the thin, dark face, and then stole
softly out of the room, to find Mrs Bolter waiting; and nodding
quickly, she went in and closed the door.
"What news?" asked Hilton, eagerly, as he rose from a chair near the
window.
"I don't know--I dare not say," replied Harley, sinking hopelessly into
a chair; and for a time no one spoke.
It was the doctor who broke the silence by coming back from the sick
room, and this time sending a thrill of hope into the breast of all as
he began to rub his hands in an apparently satisfied manner, and gazed
from one to the other.
"Is--is she better, doctor?"
"Don't know! won't prognosticate!" he said, sharply. "I'll say that
she's no worse. Prostrated by mental emotion, but other symptoms at a
standstill. If she lives--well, if she lives--"
"Yes, yes, doctor!" cried the Resident, imploringly.
"Well, if she lives, I think it will be from some sudden turn in her
mental state, for I have done all I know, and of course a man--even a
medical man--can do no more."