THE TWO PATIENTS.
Day followed day in Chester Square, bringing slowly, almost
imperceptibly, health and strength back to the exquisite form of Edith
Grace. The spirituality lent by illness still more refined the
delicate beauty of the girl, and when the colour came back to the
lips, and the cheeks lost their pallor she seemed more like a being
new-born of heaven to earth than a mortal of our homely race.
At the end of a week she was still restricted to her room, although
allowed to sit up. The fear was not so much of physical weakness as of
mental excitement. There was now no need to watch her by night. She
seemed in perfect health, in that cool seraphic health of man before
the Fall.
And what a change had taken place in the young girl's spirit! Her
grandmother had told her that Mrs. Hanbury had insisted on making good
the loss they had sustained in the failure of the bank, and more
beside.
"I am very rich," said Mrs. Hanbury, "for a woman, I have only a life
interest in most of the money my late husband left, and on my death it
all goes to John. But I have never spent anything like my income, and
John has an income of his own since he came of age. It is not that I
will listen to no refusal, but I will hear no objection. I put it to
you in this way: Do you suppose if my husband were making his will at
this moment and knew of the misfortune which had come upon you and the
child, he would insert no provision for you in his will? And do you
mean to say that I am to have no regard to what I know would be his
wish if he were alive? Remember, you represent the English side of his
house. The child is the last of the English side, as John is the last
of the Polish side. So let me hear no more of the matter. John has a
sufficient income. I have large savings with which I do nothing. Am I
to give my savings to an hospital or a charity or to the people of my
husband, who left the money?"
Then Mrs. Grace told Edith that Mrs. Hanbury had taken a great liking
to her.
"She always calls you 'the child' when she speaks of you, and indeed
it seems to me she cares for you nearly as much as if you were her own
daughter. She told me she never had a sister or a daughter, and that
she barely remembers her own mother, and that all her married life she
prayed for a girl-baby, but it was not given to her. And now that she
has found you, dear, and me, she says she is not going to be lonely
for womenfolk ever again, for although we are not of her own blood we
are of John's, and we are the nearest people in the world to her
except her brother, Sir Edward Preston. She says she has a right to
us, that she found us, and means to insist upon her right by keeping
us to herself."
And all this helped to make the quiet greater in the girl and helped
to heal her.
Then the old woman told Edith that Mrs. Hanbury wondered if she were
like that Grace of more than a hundred years back. She said this at
dinner one day, and there and then Mr. Hanbury conceived the notion of
trying to find out if, in that great portrait-painting age, any
portrait had been painted of the beautiful Kate Grace who had
fascinated the king. Mrs. Grace always spoke of Poniatowski as though
he were a king while he lived in England in the days of George II.
The young man hunted all London to find out a portrait, and behold in
one of the great houses within a mile of where she lay, a house at
which Mr. Hanbury had often visited, was a portrait of "Mrs. Hanbury
and child," believed to be one of the Hanbury-Williams family. Mr.
John Hanbury had gone to see the portrait, and came back saying one
would fancy it was a portrait of Edy herself, only it was not nearly
so beautiful as Edy.
This all helped to cheer and heal the girl greatly. The notion that
this Mr. John Hanbury had gone to a great house to see the portrait of
her relative, the beautiful Kate Grace, that married the man
afterwards a king, opened up fields for speculation and regions of
dreams so different from those possible when she was fronting decaying
fortune in Miss Graham's, at Streatham, or face to face with poverty
in Grimsby Street, that it was enough to pour vital strength into
veins less young and naturally healthy.
She now breathed an atmosphere of refinement and wealth. Her mind was
no longer tortured by the thought of having to face uncongenial duties
among strange people. She had all her life denied herself friendships,
because she could not hope for friends in the class of people whom she
would care to know.
Now all this was changed, as by a magician's wand. If in the old days
she might have had the assurance of Mrs. Hanbury's friendship, she
would have allowed her heart to go out to her, for Mrs. Hanbury,
although she was rich, did not think of money as those girls Edith met
at Streatham. The girls she met were, first of all, the daughters of
rich fathers, and then they were people of importance next. Mrs.
Hanbury was, first of all, intensely human. She was a woman first of
all, and a generous, kind-hearted, large-natured, sympathetic woman.
As her son had said of her, the greatest-hearted woman in the world.
Princes and peasants were, to her mind, men, before anything else.
This was a revelation to Dora, who had always heard men measured by
the establishment they kept up, and the society in which they moved.
There had been only one retreat for her from feeling belittled in the
presence of these plutocrats. She would set all store by pedigree, and
make no friends. A beggar may have a pedigree equal to a Hapsburg, and
a peasant who has no friends, and goes into no society, cannot have
his poverty impressed upon him from without, however bitterly he may
suffer from within.
And this Mrs. Hanbury, who was so kind and gentle, and who had
manifested such an interest in her, belonged to a class of society in
which no girl she ever met at Miss Graham's moved, in which any girl
she had ever met there would give anything she possessed to move. Mrs.
Hanbury's father had been a baronet, and her forefathers before him as
far as baronets reached back into history, and her father's family had
been county people, back to the Conquest, if not beyond it.
And Mr. Hanbury, who was the son of this woman, had a pedigree more
illustrious still, a pedigree going back no one knew how far. The
family had been ennobled for centuries, and in the eighteenth century
one of them had sat on the throne of Poland, a crowned king.
She was now under the roof of these people, not as the humble paid
companion of Mrs. Hanbury, which would have been the greatest height
of her hope a week ago, not as an acquaintance to whom Mrs. Hanbury
had taken a liking, but as a relative, as a distant relative of this
house, as one of this family!
Oh, it was such a relief, such a deliverance to be lifted out of that
vulgar and squalid life, to be away from that odious necessity for
going among strange and dull people as a hired servant! There was no
tale in all the Arabian Nights equal to this for wonders, and all this
was true, and referred to her!
Youth, and a mind to which are opening new and delightful vistas, are
more help to the doctor when dealing with a patient who is only
overworn than even quiet, and day by day, to the joy of all who came
near her, Edith Grace gained strength. The old stateliness which had
made her schoolfellows say she ought to be a queen, had faded, and
left scarcely a trace behind. There was no need to wear an air of
reserve, when there was nothing to be guarded against. She was Mrs.
Hanbury's relative, and to be reserved now would seem to be elated or
vain. There was no longer fear of anyone disputing her position. There
was no longer any danger of exasperating familiarity. She was
acknowledged by Mrs. Hanbury and Mr. Hanbury, who would be a nobleman
in Poland, and whose forefather had been a king.
She did not try or desire to look into the future, her own future. The
present was too blessed a deliverance to be put aside. Up to this
there had been no delightful present in her life, and she was loath to
go beyond the immediate peace.
While the young girl was slowly but surely mending in Chester
Square, the invalid under the care of Dr. Shaw, of Barnes Street, not
very far off, was slowly yielding to the summons he had received. The
kind-hearted and energetic doctor saw no reason to alter his original
opinion of the case. The end was approaching, and not very far off. On
the fifth day after the morning examination, Shaw said, "You arranged
everything with the solicitor? There is nothing on your mind, my dear
friend?"
"I understand," said Leigh. "How long have I?"
"Oh, I only wanted to know if your mind was at rest. Anxiety is always
to be avoided."
"I tell you, Shaw, I understand. How long do you think this will
last?"
"My dear fellow, if all your affairs are in order, and your mind is
quite free, your chance is improved, you know. That only stands to
reason."
"I am sorry I cannot go to Eltham. But that cannot be helped now. She,
poor thing, will notice little change, for I have not been with her
much of late. Shaw, the last time I was there I promised her a
daughter-in-law, and straight-backed grandchildren, and soon she will
not have even a cripple son! Poor old woman. Well! well! But, Shaw,
send to Chester Square for my friend, Mr. John Hanbury, the man who
brought me here, you know. I want to see him alone, privately. He is
the only person who knows all my affairs." There was a flicker of the
old boasting spirit in the way he gave Hanbury's name and address, and
spoke of him as his friend.
Hanbury came at once.
"I sent for you because I have something on my mind; and, as you are
the only man who knows all the secret of Mystery Gold, and my deputy
winder, I want you to do me a service. Will you?"
"Any thing that an honest and honourable man may do, I will do for you
with pleasure, if I can possibly," said Hanbury, shocked and subdued
by the change in the clock-maker's appearance.
"That man, Timmons, who was to get me the gold, has a place in
Tunbridge Street, London Road, across the river. He believes that a
man was burned in that fire. He believes my deputy winder lost his
life in the miserable fire that destroyed my clock. Go to Timmons, and
tell him that no one was lost in that fire, that the winder of the
clock is alive, that I am dying, and that the best thing he can do is
to leave the country. He will understand, when I am dead, no secrets
will be kept. I do not want to give him up. I have no conscience. But
the country may as well be rid of him and me together."
"But, need I go? Can I not send?" asked Hanbury, not liking the idea
of such a message from such a man to such a man. It looked like
shielding a criminal. Leigh had, according to his own account,
coquetted with crime, but kept clear of it.
"No, it would not be nearly so good to me, for you know the secrets,
and if he showed any disposition to rebel, you could drop a word that
would convince him you were authorized by me, and knew what might be
dangerous to him."
"You are asking me too much. I cannot do it."
"Where is your promise of a moment ago?"
"No honest man would assist the escape of this thief."
"Hush! Let me think awhile."
"It is not clear to me, that I ought not to give this villain up to
the police, and that you are not bound to give him up. I would do
anything I could, in reason, for you; but is it reasonable to ask me
to carry a message from you to a man who, you tell me, or hint to me,
is a thief, or receiver of stolen goods?"
"I did not regard it in that way. I fancied you would like to rid the
country of such a man."
"Yes, by locking him up. I think you are in duty bound to denounce
him."
"But, in honour, I am bound not; and honour is more binding on a man
than any law."
"But you cannot have any honourable bond with a man like that."
"What about honour among thieves? Even they recognize honour."
"But, are you a thief, that you want to shield yourself under their
code?"
"No. I am no thief. I haven't a penny that isn't fairly mine. I told
you I have no conscience, at least nothing that people are accustomed
to call conscience; but do you think honour does not bind a man to a
thief?"
"Surely not about the fruits of his theft."
"I have not looked at it in that way. When a man has no conscience,
what binds him?"
"Nothing, except the law of the land, or handcuffs."
"Ah, that is your view. Well, it is not mine. Of course, I have not
given you the man's real name or address. I gave you merely a
fictitious name and address. Whom did I say? The Prince of Wales, was
it, and Marlborough House, or the Prime Minister, and 10, Downing
Street? Which was it? I forget."
"Well," said Hanbury, "can I do anything for you?"
"Are you going to Curzon Street on Thursday?"
"No." Hanbury reddened, but he was standing with his back to the
light. "The family are leaving Town suddenly."
"Are you going too?"
"No." Hanbury was anything but pleased with all this, but who could be
angry with a dying man, and such a dying man too?
"If you were going I should like to send a message. But of course you
cannot be going if they are leaving town. I told you I have some money
of my own. I have made my will since I saw you. After my mother's
death all will go, I mean the yearly interest of all will go in equal
shares to any hunchbacks that apply for shares. The conditions will be
advertised in the papers."
"I think you could not have done better with it," said Hanbury,
cordially.
"Yes. When you see her next, tell her I gave up all thought of making
Miracle Gold, because she said she wished me. What a wonderful
likeness there is between Miss Grace and Miss Ashton. I had not begun
to model those figures of time. That clock was getting too much for
me. Often when I was away from it, and when I was in bed, the movement
was reversed, and all went backwards until the weights were wound up
so tight against the beam, that something must give way if the
machinery did not stop. Then, all at once, the machinery would stop,
and suddenly begin running in the ordinary manner, and I used often to
shout out and cry with relief. You don't know all that clock was to
me. And yet it would have killed me. It has killed me."
"The strain must have been very great. I wonder it did not break you
down."
"Yes."
"In reality, though, it was the Miracle Gold did the mischief. Only
for it I should not have been away from my clock, or left the gas
lighting. I know it is not fair of me to keep you here. You want to
go. Say good-bye to her before she leaves town. This is Wednesday. You
must not stay here any longer. Will you say good-bye to me also? Two
good-byes in one day. One to her and one to me."
Hanbury rose and held out his hand, saying "Good-bye."
Leigh did not stir.
"Are we not to shake hands?"
"Yes, in a moment."
Hanbury waited a while. "I am going now. You have nothing more to
say?"
He had not.
He had nothing more to say. He would say no more to anyone. He was
dead.