This made again a delay in Dr. Burnet’s plans. You cannot begin to make
love to a girl when you have just told her of the serious illness, not
likely to end in anything but death, which is hovering over her father.
It is true that old Tredgold was not, could not, be the object of any
passionate devotion on the part of his daughter. But even when the tie
is so slight that, once broken, it has but a small effect on life, yet
the prospect of that breaking is always appalling, more or less worse
than the event itself. All that a man can say in such circumstances, Dr.
Burnet said--that he would be at her service night or day, that
everything he could do or think of he would do, and stand by her to the
last. That was far more appropriate than professions of love, and it was
a little trying to him to find that she had not even noticed how he
looked at her, or that he said, “Dear Katherine!” which, to be sure, he
had no right to say. She was not even aware of it! which is discouraging
to a man.
Dr. Burnet was a good doctor, he knew what he was about; and it was not
long before his prophecy came true. Mr. Tredgold was seized with an
alarming attack in the spring, which brought him to the very verge of
the grave, and from which at one time it was not expected he would ever
rally. The old man was very ill, but very strong in spirit, and fought
with his disease like a lion; one would have said a good old man to see
him lying there with no apparent trouble on his mind, nothing to
pre-occupy time or draw him away from the immediate necessity of
battling for his life, which he did with a courage worthy of a better
cause. His coolness, his self-possession, his readiness to second every
remedy, and give himself every chance, was the admiration of the
watchers, doctors, and nurses alike, who were all on the alert to help
him, and conquer the enemy. Could there be a better cause than fighting
for your life? Not one at least of more intimate interest for the
combatant; though whether it is worth so much trouble when a man is over
seventy, and can look forward to nothing better than the existence of an
invalid, is a question which might well be debated. Mr. Tredgold,
however, had no doubt on the subject. He knew that he possessed in this
life a great many things he liked--what he would have in another he had
very little idea. Probably, according to all that he had ever heard,
there would be no money there, and if any difference between the beggar
and the rich man, a difference in favour of the former. He did not at
all desire to enter into that state of affairs. And the curious thing
was that it could never be discovered that he had anything on his mind.
He did not ask for Stella, as the large circle of watchers outside who
read the bulletins at the lodge, and discussed the whole matter with the
greatest interest, feeling it to be as good as a play, fondly hoped. He
never said a word that could be construed into a wish for her, never,
indeed, mentioned her name. He did not even desire to have Katherine by
him, it was said; he preferred the nurses, saying in his characteristic
way that they were paid for it, that it was their business, and that he
never in anything cared for amateurs; he said amateurs, as was natural,
and it was exactly the sentiment which everybody had expected from Mr.
Tredgold. But never to ask for Stella, never to call upon her at his
worst moment, never to be troubled by any thought of injustice done to
her, that was the extraordinary thing which the community could not
understand. Most people had expected a tragic scene of remorse,
telegrams flying over land and sea, at the cost of a sovereign a
word--but what was that to Mr. Tredgold?--calling Stella home. The good
people were confounded to hear, day by day, that no telegram had been
sent. It would have been a distinction for the little post-office in
Sliplin to have a telegram of such a character to transmit to India. The
postmistress awaited, feeling as if she were an inferior, but still
very important, personage in the play, attending her call to go on. But
the call never came. When the patient was at his worst various ladies in
the place, and I need not say Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay, had many
whispered conferences with the people at the post. “No telegram yet? Is
it possible?”
“No, indeed, ma’am, not a word.”
“I wonder at you for expecting it now,” cried Miss Mildmay, angry at the
failure of all those hopes which she had entertained as warmly as
anyone. “What use would it be. She couldn’t come now; he’ll be gone,
poor man, weeks and weeks before Stella could be here.”
But Mr. Tredgold did not go, and then it began to be understood that he
never meant nor expected to go, and that this was the reason why he did
not disturb himself about Stella. The spectators were half satisfied,
yet half aggrieved, by this conclusion, and felt, as he got slowly
better, that they had been cheated out of their play; however, he was an
old man, and the doctor shook his head over all the triumphant accounts
of his recovery which were made in the local papers; and there was yet
hope of a tragedy preceded by a reconciliation, and the restoration of
Stella to all her rights. Dr. Burnet was, throughout the whole illness,
beyond praise. He was at the Cliff at every available moment, watching
every symptom. Not a day elapsed that he did not see Katherine two or
three times to console her about her father, or to explain anything new
that had occurred. They were together so much that some people said they
looked as if they had been not only lovers but married for years, so
complete seemed their confidence in each other and the way they
understood each other. A glance at Dr. Burnet’s face was enough for
Katherine. She knew what it meant without another word; while he divined
her anxiety, her apprehensions, her depression, as the long days went on
without any need of explanation. “As soon as the old man is well enough
there will, of course, be a marriage,” it was generally said. “And, of
course, the doctor will go and live there,” said Mrs. Shanks, “such a
comfort to have the doctor always on the spot--and what a happy thing
for poor Mr. Tredgold that it should be his son-in-law--a member of his
family.”
“Mr. Tredgold will never have a son-in-law in his house,” said Miss
Mildmay, “if Katherine is expecting that she is reckoning without her
father. I don’t believe _that_ will ever be a marriage whatever you may
say. What! send off Sir Charles Somers, a man with something at least to
show for himself, and take in Dr. Burnet? I think, Jane Shanks, that you
must be off your head!”
“Sir Charles Somers could never have been of any use to poor, dear Mr.
Tredgold,” said Mrs. Shanks, a little abashed, “and Dr. Burnet is. What
a difference that makes!”
“It may make a difference--but it will not make that difference; and I
shouldn’t like myself to be attended by my son-in-law,” said the other
lady. “He might give you a little pinch of something at a critical
moment; or he might change your medicine; or he might take away a
pillow--you can’t tell the things that a doctor might do--which could
never be taken hold of, and yet----”
“Ruth Mildmay!” cried Mrs. Shanks, “for shame of yourself, do you think
Dr. Burnet would murder the man?”
“No; I don’t think he would murder the man,” said Miss Mildmay
decidedly, but there was an inscrutable look in her face, “there are
many ways of doing a thing,” she said, nodding her head to herself.
It appeared, however, that this time at least Dr. Burnet was not going
to have the chance, whether he would have availed himself of it or not.
Mr. Tredgold got better. He came round gradually, to the surprise of
everybody but himself. When he was first able to go out in his bath
chair he explained the matter to the kind friends who hastened to
congratulate him, in the most easy way. “You all thought I was going to
give in this time,” he said, “but I never meant to give in. Nothing like
making up your mind to it. Ask the doctor. I said from the beginning, ‘I
ain’t going to die this bout, don’t you think it.’ _He_ thought
different; ignorant pack, doctors, not one of ’em knows a thing. Ask
him. He’ll tell you it wasn’t him a bit, nor his drugs neither, but me
as made up my mind.”
The doctor had met the little procession and was walking along by Mr.
Tredgold’s chair. He laughed and nodded his head in reply, “Oh yes, he
is quite right. Pluck and determination are more than half of the
battle,” he said. He looked across the old man’s chair to Katherine on
the other side, who said hastily: “I don’t know what we should have done
without Dr. Burnet, papa.”
“Oh, that’s all very well,” said old Tredgold. “Pay each other
compliments, that’s all right. He’ll say, perhaps, I’d have been dead
without your nursing, Katie. Not a bit of it! Always prefer a woman that
is paid for what she does and knows her duty. Yes, here I am, Rector,
getting all right, in spite of physic and doctors--as I always meant to
do.”
“By the blessing of God,” said the Rector, with great solemnity. He had
met the group unawares round a corner, and to see Burnet and Katherine
together, triumphant, in sight of all the world, was bitter to the
injured man. That this common country doctor should be preferred to
himself added an additional insult, and he would have gone a mile round
rather than meet the procession. Being thus, however, unable to help
himself, the Rector grew imposing beyond anything that had ever been
seen of him. He looked a Bishop, at least, as he stood putting forth no
benediction, but a severe assertion that belied the words. “By the
blessing of God,” he said.
“Oh!” said old Mr. Tredgold, taken aback. “Oh yes, that’s what you say.
I don’t mean to set myself against that. Never know, though, do you, how
it’s coming--queer thing to reckon on. But anyhow, here I am, and ten
pounds for the poor, Rector, if you like, to show as I don’t go against
that view.”
“I hope the improvement will continue,” the Rector said, with his nose
in the air. “Good morning, Miss Katherine, I congratulate you with all
my heart.”
On what did he congratulate her? The doctor, though his complexion was
not delicate, coloured high, and so did Katherine, without knowing
exactly what was the reason; and Sliplin, drawing its own conclusions,
looked on. The only indifferent person was Mr. Tredgold, always sure of
his own intentions and little concerned by those of others, to whom
blushes were of as little importance as any other insignificant trifles
which did not affect himself.
It was perhaps this little incident which settled the question in the
mind of the community. The Rector had congratulated the pair in open
day; then, of course, the conclusion was clear that all the
preliminaries were over--that they were engaged, and that Mr. Tredgold,
who had rejected Sir Charles Somers, was really going to accept the
doctor. The Rector, who, without meaning it, thus confirmed and
established everything that had been mere imagination up to this time,
believed it himself with all the virulence of an injured man. And
Katherine, when Dr. Burnet had departed on his rounds and she was left
to accompany her father home, almost believed herself that it must be
true. He had said nothing to her which could be called a definite
proposal, and she had certainly given no acceptance, no consent to
anything of the kind, yet it was not impossible that without any
intention, without any words, she had tacitly permitted that this should
be. Looking back, it seemed to her, that indeed they had been always
together during these recent days, and a great many things had passed
between them in their meetings by her father’s bedside, outside his
door, or in the hall, at all times of the night and day. And perhaps a
significance might be given to words which she had not attached to them.
She was a little alarmed--confused--not knowing what had happened. She
had met his eyes full of an intelligence which she did not feel that she
shared, and she had seen him redden and herself had felt a hot colour
flushing to her face. She did not know why she blushed. It was not for
Dr. Burnet; it was from the Rector’s look--angry, half malignant, full
of scornful meaning. “I congratulate you!” Was that what it meant, and
that this thing had really happened which had been floating in the air
so long?
When she returned to the Cliff, Katherine did not go in, but went along
the edge of the path, as she had done so often when she had anything in
her mind. All her thinkings had taken place there in the days when she
had often felt lonely and “out of it,” when Stella was in the ascendant
and everything had rolled on in accordance with her lively views. She
had gone there with so many people to show them “the view,” who cared
nothing for the view, and had lingered afterwards while they returned to
more noisy joys, to think with a little sigh that there was someone in
the world, though she knew not where, who might have preferred to linger
with her, but had been sent away from her, never to be seen more. And
then there had been the night of Stella’s escapade in the little yacht,
and then of Stella’s second flight with her husband, and of many a day
beside when Katherine’s heart had been too full to remain quietly
indoors, and when the space, the sky, the sea, had been her consolers.
She went there now, and with a languor which was half of the mind and
half of the body walked up and down the familiar way. The tamarisks were
beginning to show a little pink flush against the sea. It was not warm
enough yet to develop the blossom wholly, but yet it showed with a tinge
of colour against the blue, and all the flowering shrubs were coming
into blossom and flowers were in every crevice of the rocks. It was the
very end of April when it is verging into May, and the air was soft and
full of the sweetness of the spring.
But Katherine’s mind was occupied with other things. She thought of Dr.
Burnet and whether it was true that she was betrothed to him and would
marry him and have him for her companion always from this time forth.
Was it true? She asked herself the question as if it had been someone
else, some other girl of whom she had heard this, but almost with less
interest than if it had been another girl. She would, indeed, scarcely
have been moved had she heard that the doctor had been engaged to
Charlotte Stanley or to anyone else in the neighbourhood. Was it true
that it was she, Katherine Tredgold, who was engaged to him? The
Rector’s fierce look had made her blush, but she did not blush now when
she thought over this question alone. Was she going to marry Dr. Burnet?
Katherine felt indifferent about it, as if she did not care. He would be
useful to papa; he would be a friend to Stella--he would not oppose her
in anything she might do for her sister. Why not he as well as another?
It did not seem to matter so very much, though she had once thought, as
girls do, that it mattered a great deal. There was Charlie Somers, for
whom (though without intending it) Stella had sacrificed everything. Was
he better worth than Dr. Burnet? Certainly, no. Why not, then, Dr.
Burnet as well as another? Katherine said to herself. It was curious how
little emotion she felt--her heart did not beat quicker, her breath came
with a kind of languid calm. There were no particular objections that
she knew of. He was a good man; there was nothing against him. Few
country doctors were so well bred, and scarcely anyone so kind. His
appearance was not against him either. These were all negatives, but
they seemed to give her a certain satisfaction in the weariness of soul.
Nothing against him, not even in her own mind. On the contrary, she
approved of Dr. Burnet. He was kind, not only to her, but to all. He
spared no trouble for his patients, and would face the storm, hurrying
out in the middle of the night for any suffering person who sent for him
without hesitation or delay. Who else could say the same thing? Perhaps
the Rector would do it too if he were called upon. But Katherine was not
disposed to discuss with herself the Rector’s excellencies, whereas it
seemed necessary to put before herself, though languidly, all that she
had heard to the advantage of the doctor. And how many good things she
had heard! Everybody spoke well of him, from the poorest people up to
Lady Jane, who had as good as pointed him out in so many words as the
man whom Katherine should marry. Was she about to marry him? Had it
somehow been all settled?--though she could not recollect how or when.
She was tired by the long strain of her father’s illness, not so much
by absolute nursing, though she had taken her share of that (but Mr.
Tredgold, as has been said, preferred a nurse who was paid for her work
on the ordinary business principle), as by the lengthened tension of
mind and body, the waiting and watching and suspense. This no doubt was
one great reason for her languid, almost passive, condition. Had Dr.
Burnet spoken then she would have acquiesced quite calmly, and indeed
she was not at all sure whether it might not have so happened already.
So she pursued her musing with her face towards the lawn and the
shrubberies. But when Katherine turned to go back along the edge of the
cliff towards the house, her eyes, as she raised them, were suddenly
struck almost as by a blow, by the great breadth of the sea and the sky,
the moving line of the coast, the faint undulation of the waves, the
clouds upon the horizon white in flakes of snowy vapour against the
unruffled blue. It was almost as if someone had suddenly stretched a
visionary hand out of the distance, and struck her lightly, quickly, to
bring her back to herself. She stood still for a moment with a shiver,
confused, astonished, awakened--and then shook herself as if to shake
something, some band, some chain, some veil that had been wound round
her, away.