"Till the lost sense of life returned again,
Not as delight, but as relief from pain."
_The Falcon of Sir Federigo._
Allonby's return to full consciousness had been a very gradual affair.
Each lucid interval had been eagerly watched by Dr. Forbes, who feared
the loss of memory, partial or entire, which often results from such
brain attacks. Were the young man to forget--as it was entirely probable
that he would--the circumstances immediately preceding his illness, the
difficulty of Mr. Dickens' mission would be increased tenfold.
When it became evident that the sick man recognised his sister, the
excitement began to culminate. But hours went by, he slept, ate, awoke,
and dozed again, quite tranquil, and apparently not at all solicitous as
to how Wynifred came to be at his side, or where he was, or what was the
reason of his illness.
But at last, one afternoon, the "light of common day" broke in upon the
calmness of his musings, and sent his mind tossing restlessly to and fro
in all the tumult of newly aroused consciousness.
He awoke from a delicious sleep with a sense of returning vigor in all
his big limbs, and, essaying to throw out his left arm, behold! It was
immovable.
He held his breath, while he surveyed the bandaged limb, and all the
glittering visions which had been the companion of his delirium came
showering to earth in a torrent of shining fragments.
Throughout his illness, the idea of the Island Valley of Avilion had
never left him. No doubt the fact that his dominant idea had been a
beautiful and a peaceful one had greatly served to help him through. His
talk, when he rambled, had been all of "bowery willows crowned with
summer sea," and of the rest of the exquisite imagery with which he had
mentally surrounded Edge Combe in his holiday dreams. Now, the mirage of
imaginary loveliness had fled. Like a flash it was gone, and only the
commonplace daylight of every day remained.
This sudden departure of the baseless fabric of his vision was by no
means a novelty to Osmond. Often and often before he had had violently
to recall his winged thoughts to earth: to set aside the sparkling
beauties of the life he lived in fancy, in order to cope with the
butcher's bills, the rates and taxes of the life he lived in reality.
But this last dream had been passing sweet, and he thought it had lasted
longer than was common with the airy things. It had rivetted itself in
his mind, till he felt that he could close his eyes and commit it to
canvas from memory alone. He could see the soft dim outline of the
mythic barge, he could "hear the water lapping on the crags, and the
long ripple washing in the reeds," and he could see, feature for
feature, the face of the sorrowing queen. A young, lovely face, with the
light of morning on it, but with anguish in the eyes, and sympathy of
tears upon the cheeks.
For a moment he closed his eyes to recall it all. Then he boldly opened
them, to confront a world with which he felt too weak to cope.
Not much of the said world was visible just then, and what there was
seemed calculated to soothe and cheer. It was bounded by the four walls
of a not very large room, the whitewash of whose ceiling was spotlessly
white, the roses of whose wall paper were aggressively round and pink.
To his right, a casement window hung wide open; and through it came the
sighing of a summer wind rustling through elm-trees.
Near this window stood the well-known figure of his sister Wynifred,
stepping leisurely to and fro before the board on her sketching easel,
to which she was transferring, in charcoal, some impression which was
visible to her through the window.
Her straight brows were pulled together so as to make a perpendicular
furrow in the forehead between them; the soft scratching of her charcoal
brought back to Osmond common-place memories of the Woodstead Art
School, wherein he passed three days of every week as a master, when it
was not vacation time.
Wynifred and Wynifred's occupation were familiar enough. They let him
know the folly of his dreaming; but there yet remained one puzzling
thing. How came he to be lying there in bed, with a bandaged arm, in a
room that was utterly strange to him?
It was rather a remarkable room, too, when one came to study it
attentively. It possessed a heavy door carved in black oak, which door
was not set flat in the wall, but placed cross-ways across the
corner--evidently a relic of great antiquity.
The invalid pondered over that door with a curiosity which was somewhat
strange, considering that the answer to his puzzle, in the shape of his
sister, stood so close to him, and that he had only to ask to be
enlightened.
But it is to be supposed that there is something fascinating in
suspense, or why do we so often turn over and over in our hands a letter
the handwriting of which is unknown to us--exhausting ourselves in
surmise as to who is our correspondent, when we have but to break the
seal for the signature to stare us in the face? There is no saying how
long Allonby might have amused himself with conjecture, for it was,
truth to tell, a state of mind peculiarly congenial to him. He liked to
feel that he did not know what was to happen next--to wait for an
unexpected _denouement_ of the situation. He had often, when exploring
an unknown country, been guilty of the puerile device of sitting down by
the roadside, just before a sharp bend in the road, or just below the
summit of a high hill, while he pleased himself with guessing what would
be likely to meet his eye when the corner was turned, or the hill-crest
reached. So now he lay, speculating idly to himself, and by no means
anxious to break the spell of silence by pronouncing his sister's name;
when suddenly she looked up from her work, half absently, and, finding
his eyes gravely fixed on her, flung down her charcoal, and came hastily
to the bedside, wiping her fingers on her apron.
"How are you, old man?" she said, meeting his inquiring look with one of
frank kindliness. There was no trace of the burst of feeling with which
she had told Dr. Forbes that her heart was soaring up to the evening
star in the quiet heavens in gratitude and love. Evidently Miss Allonby
kept her sentiment for rare occasions.
"I believe I feel pretty well," said he, using his own voice in an
experimented and tentative way. "But I feel rather muddled. I don't
quite recall things. I think, if you were to tell me where I am, it
would give me a leg up."
"Take a spoonful of 'Brand' first," said Wyn; and, taking up a spoon,
she proceeded to feed him. He ate readily enough; and philosophically
said no more till she had turned his pillows and arranged his head in
comfort; all of which she did both quietly and efficaciously, though in
a manner all her own, and which would have revealed to the eye of an
expert that she had been through no course of nursing lectures, nor
known the interior of any hospital.
"There!" she said at last, seating herself lightly on the edge of the
bed. "Now I will tell you--you are in a place called Poole Farm. Does
that help you?"
"Poole Farm? Yes," he said, reflectively. "I was sketching near there.
Did I have a fall? I have managed to smash myself somehow. How did I do
it?"
"Don't you remember?" asked Wyn, earnestly.
He lifted his uninjured hand and passed it over his forehead. It came in
contact with more bandages. He felt them speculatively.
"Broken head, broken arm, broken rib," he remarked, drily. "Broken
mainspring would almost have been more simple. How did it happen, now?
How did it happen? I can't understand."
"You were painting, in the lane by the wayside," said the girl,
suggestively. "A picture with a warm key of color, and a little bit of
the corner of the farm-house coming into it--evening sky--horizon line
broken on the left by clump of ash-trees."
"Yes, I know. I recollect that," he said. "I walked over from Edge Combe
in rather a hot sun. I felt a little queer. But a sunstroke couldn't
break one's bones, Wyn. I must have had a fall, eh?"
"You fell from your camp-stool to the grass," she returned, "but that
could hardly have hurt you to such an extent."
He lay musing. At last,
"I don't remember anything," he said, with a sigh. "I think the sun must
have muddled my head. Tell me what happened."
"My dear boy," cried she, "that is exactly what we want _you_ to tell
_us_!"
"What! Don't you know?" he asked, with a sudden access of astonishment.
"Nothing! Nobody knows anything except that you were found by the
roadside, all in fragments. Ah! I can laugh now. But oh, Osmond! when
they telegraphed to me first!"
She leaned over him, and kissed his forehead.
"My dear boy," she said, "I could eat you."
He caught his breath with a weary sigh.
"What's become of Hilda and Jac?" he asked.
"Oh! they are all right--gone to the Hamertons at Ryde, and having a
delightful holiday. Don't fret," she said, answering fast, and with an
evident anxiety at the turn his inquiries were taking. But he would go
on.
"And how long have I been lying here?" he asked, grimly. "I suppose
there are some good long bills running up, eh? Doctors not the least
among them." A pair of very distinct furrows were visible on his
forehead.
"And that commission of Orton's," he sighed out.
Wyn had slipped down to her knees by his bed, and now she took his hand
and laid her cheek upon it.
"Listen to me, old man," she said; "there is no need to fret, I've
managed things for you. I wrote first thing to Mr. Orton, and he
answered most kindly--his friend will be satisfied if the pictures are
ready any time within six months, so do unpucker your forehead, please.
As to expense, it won't be much. Mrs. Battishill is the most delightful
person, but becomes impracticable directly the money question is
broached. She says she never let her rooms to anybody in her life, and
she isn't going to begin now. The room would be standing empty if you
didn't have it, and you are just keeping it aired. As to linen, it all
goes into her laundry: "She don't have to pay nothing for the washing of
it, so why should we!" Ditto, ditto, with dairy produce. "It all cooms
out of her dairy. It don't cost her nothing, and she can't put no price
on it!" I have been allowed to pay for nothing but the fish and meat I
have bought; and I don't apprehend that Dr. Forbes' bill will ruin us.
There! That's a long explanation, but I must get the L s. d. out of your
head, or we shall have no peace. I've kept my eyes open and managed
everything. You are _not_ to worry--mind!"
He heaved a long breath of relief.
"Bless you, Wyn!" he said. "But we must not be too indebted to these
good folks, you know."
"I know! I'll manage it! We must give them a present. They are really
well-to-do, and don't want our money. Besides, they are, owing to us,
the centre of attraction to the neighborhood. All Edge Combe is for ever
making pilgrimages up here to know how you are faring. You are the hero
of the hour."
"And you can't tell me what it all means?" he asked, with corrugated
brow.
"I can tell you no more at present," she answered, rising as she spoke.
"I must feed you again, and you shall rest an hour or two before you do
any more talking, and, if you are disobedient, I shall send for Dr.
Forbes."
Whether Osmond found this threat very appalling, or whether what he had
already heard supplied him with sufficient food for meditation, was a
matter of doubt; but some cause or other kept him absolutely silent for
some time; and Wyn, who had retired to her easel, the better to notify
that conversation was suspended for the present, by-and-by saw his eyes
close, and hoped that he was dozing again. So the afternoon wore on,
till voices struck on her ear--voices of persons in eager conversation.
They were floated to her through the open window, but came apparently
from round the corner of the house, for she could not see the speakers
when she looked out.
As the sounds broke the stillness, Osmond's eyes opened wide.
"Who is there?" he asked, hurriedly.
"I don't know," said his sister, peering forth, "I hear Mr. Cranmer, but
there is some one else."
Then suddenly a little gush of laughter, high and clear, sailed in on
the hot summer air, followed by the distinct notes of a girl's voice.
"Saul! Saul! Get up, you stupid boy!"
Osmond stirred again. He rolled right over in bed, and turned his eager
face full to the window.
"Wyn--who is it?" he asked, uneasily.
"I'll go and see if you want to know."
"Stay one minute--I want to hear--who found me by the wayside, as you
say, in fragments?"
"A young lady and her maid," was the reply, "She is a Miss Brabourne, I
believe, and lives near here. She ran in search of help, and
accidentally met a carriage containing two tourists----"
"Brabourne? Isn't that the name of that horrible imp of a child who
lives with the Ortons?"
"Yes--I believe it is," said Wyn pausing. "_My nephew, the heir to a
very large property_," she presently added, mimicking a masculine drawl,
apparently with much success, for her brother laughed.
"That's it," he said. "Well--but who is Mr. Cranmer?"
Wynifred now became eloquent.
She told him all that Claud had done--his kindness, his interest, his
unwearying attention, his laying aside all plans for the better
examination of the mystery.
Of course she greatly exaggerated both Mr. Cranmer's sacrifice and his
philanthropy. He had been interested, that was all. It had amused him to
find himself suddenly living and moving in the heart of a murderous
drama, such as is dished up for us by energetic contributors to the
sensational fiction of the day. Vol. I. had promised exceedingly well:
Vol. II. seemed likely to be disappointing. In all the "shilling
horrors," though of course the detective does not stumble on the right
clue till page two hundred and fifty is reached, still he contrives to
be erratic and interesting through all the intermediate chapters, by
dint of fragments of a letter, the dark hints of an aged domestic, the
unwarranted appearance of a mysterious stranger, or the revelations of a
delirious criminal.
Since Allonby had burned the sole letter which could have been of any
importance, and in his delirium talked only of a place and persons alike
mythical and useless, it really seemed as if the story must stop short
for want of incident. Mr. Dickens had all but succeeded in persuading
Claud that they had to deal with a modern English _vendetta_--a thing of
all others to be revelled in and enjoyed in these days when the
incongruous is the interesting.
Our jaded palates turn from the mysteries of Udolpho, where all was in
keeping, where murders were perpetrated in donjon keeps, ghosts were
fitly provided with arras as a place to retire to between the acts, and
mediaeval knights and ladies were to the full as improbable as the deeds
and motives assigned to them. Now something more piquant must be
provided, above all something _realistic_. Mr. Radcliffe and Horace
Walpole are relegated to the land of dreams and shadows; give us
_vraisemblance_ to whet our blunted susceptibilities. Let us have mystic
ladies, glittering gems, yawning caverns, magic spells; but place the
nineteenth century Briton, chimney-pot hat and all, in the centre of
these weird surroundings. Make him your hero; jumble up what is with
what could never have been, and the first critics in English literature
shall rise up and call you blessed! They thought themselves dead for
ever to the voice of the charmer: you have given them the luxury of a
new sensation; what do you not deserve of your generation? Join the
hands of the modern English nobleman and the mythical African
princess--link together the latest development of Yankeeism and dollars
with the grim tragedy of the Corsican bandit--your fortune is made; you
are absolutely incongruous; you have out-Radcliffed Radcliffe. She gave
us the improbable; to you we turn for the absurd.
That Allonby was going to miss such an opportunity as this was, to the
mind of Mr. Dickens, a _betise_ too gross to be contemplated. He had
already caused the local newspapers to bristle with dark hints. He
awaited, in a state of feverish suspense, the waking of the lion.
Could he have seen that lion's unfurrowed brow and unenlightened
expression, his heart would have sunk within him.
As to Claud, the upshot of it all would not materially affect him,
whichever way it turned. After all his personal taste for melodrama was
only skin-deep. He preferred what was interesting to what was thrilling.
He had taken a liking to the unconscious victim; he was struck with the
loveliness of the Devonshire valley; the weather was fine; he had
nothing else to do; and that was the sum of all. Considerably would he
have marvelled, could he have heard Wynifred's description of his
conduct as it appeared to her. Nobody that he knew of had ever thought
him a hero; neither did any of his relations hold self-sacrifice to be
in general the guiding motive of his conduct.
When Miss Allonby, after instilling her own view of his actions into her
brother's willing ear, slipped off her apron, hung it over the back of a
chair, and went to summon this good genius to receive the thanks she
considered so justly his due, he was totally unprepared for what was to
come.
To have his hand seized in the languid, bony grip of the sick man, to
see his fine dark grey eyes humid with feeling, to hear faltering thanks
for "such amazing kindness from an utter stranger," these things greatly
embarrassed the ordinarily assured Claud.
He jerked his eye-glass from his eye in a good deal of confusion, he
pulled the left hand corner of his neat little moustache, he absolutely
felt himself blushing, as he blurted out a somewhat vindictive
declaration that,
"Miss Allonby must have given a very highly-colored version of the part
he had taken in the affair."
"Oh, of course you would disclaim," said Allonby, with an approving
smile. "That's only natural. But I hope some day the time may come when
I shall have a chance to do you a kindness; it doesn't sound likely, but
one never knows."
"But this is intolerable," cried Claud, fuming, "I haven't been kind--I
tell you I haven't! I have been merely lazy and more than a trifle
inquisitive! I won't be misrepresented, it isn't fair!"
"Could some fay the giftie gie us," said Wyn, smiling softly at him
across the bed.
"Oh, well," said the young man, with a sudden softening of voice and
manner, "it's not often that others see me in the light that you two
appear to have agreed upon. I don't see why I am to disclaim it. It's
erroneous, of course; but rather unpleasant on the whole; and, after
all, we never do judge one another justly. If you didn't think me better
than I am, you might think me worse; so I'll say no more."
"Better not, it would be labor lost," said Wyn, seriously. "When we
Allonbys say a thing, we stick to it."
"Do you?" said he, with an intonation of eager interest, as if he had
never before heard such a characteristic in any family.
The girl nodded, but turned away, and beckoned to him not to talk any
more.
"We must leave him a little," she said, gently. "Dr. Forbes will soon be
here, and I don't want him to think him unduly excited."
"Wyn," said Osmond, as his sister and the Honorable Claud reached the
door, "is Miss Brabourne downstairs?"
"Yes."
"It was she who found me by the roadside?"
"Yes."
"Ah!" He said no more, but turned his face to the window and lay still,
with his poetic and prominent chin raised a little. It was impossible to
guess at his musings.