BETROTHED.
As Tor sat at dinner with Maud and Mrs. Lorraine, about three days
after his return from Germany, a pencilled note was brought to him,
which he was told had been sent in urgent haste from Mr. Meredith’s
house.
The note was from Roma, and only contained a few words.
‘My father has been taken dangerously ill. He wants you. Can you come
at once?
‘R. M.’
Tor handed the note to Aunt Olive, and rose from the table.
‘I suppose I must go. I hope it may be nothing serious. Poor girl! it
is a hard thing for her to be so much alone at a time like this. I
will be back as soon as I can. Good-bye.’
Tor strode rapidly along the path which led by a cross-cut to
Meredith’s house. He did not much like such a summons, for he was
always in dread of what the blind man might require of him; but common
humanity forbade him to refuse, when such a message as that had been
despatched; so he walked on, hoping for the best, and trusting that no
very awkward questions would arise.
He seemed to be expected at the house, for the servant who admitted him
asked no questions, but led him direct to the sickroom.
As he approached it, the door opened, and the doctor came out.
‘Ah, Mr. Debenham, I am glad you have come. My patient seems very
impatient for your arrival. The sight of you will do him more good than
my draught.’
‘Is he seriously ill?’
‘Everything is serious with a man whose brain and heart are so
abnormally irritable as his. A very slight thing might upset the
balance of reason, or do hopeless mischief to the heart. He wants the
very closest watching and most perfect quiet both of mind and body.
With these, I see no reason why he should not get over this attack;
but if he will work himself up into a fever over any real or imaginary
grievance, I will not give _that_ for his chance. His daughter seems
to understand him thoroughly. I have great confidence in her; but
the morbidly sensitive condition of his mind is a very unfavourable
concomitant in his case. I shall look in again before midnight. Do what
you can to quiet him. If all goes well during the next six hours, I
should say he would do.’
Tor nodded, and went quietly into the room which the doctor had just
quitted.
Michael Meredith lay flat upon his back in bed, a strange, ghastly
pallor upon his face, and a wandering restlessness in his sightless
eyes. His face helped Tor to realize how ill he was, better than the
doctor’s words had done. He felt shocked and startled at the change he
beheld in the familiar countenance.
Roma, as white as a marble statue, stood at the farther side of the
bed, bathing her father’s forehead with eau de Cologne. The room
was pervaded by the odour of strong stimulants and restoratives. The
only light was that of a carefully-shaded lamp. Hopelessly blind as
Meredith was, he would not permit any glare of light in his room. Even
in moments like this, he never lost sight of his love for producing
effects.
‘Philip Debenham, you have come. It is well!’
This was his greeting, as Tor came and stood beside the bed. The young
man took the cold, powerless hand in his strong grasp, and uttered a
few kindly and cheering words. There was something reassuring in his
strength and vitality, and he possessed that ready gentleness which is
the almost invariable attribute of unusual physical power. Father and
daughter both felt the better for his presence in the room.
Tor gave his hand to Roma, and looked at her with the grave sympathy of
comprehension. Then he crossed over to her, and placed a chair beside
the bed.
‘Sit down,’ he said, with quiet authority. ‘You must not waste your
strength. Mr. Meredith, I am going to prescribe for your daughter.’
‘Do so—do so!’ said Meredith, with gentle satisfaction in his tone.
‘She needs more care than I can give.’
Roma certainly looked less white and shaken after she had swallowed
the potion Tor mixed for her. The shock and strain that had tried her
powers so sorely that day, had begun to make itself felt, and it was
time that help should come.
When Tor came round to his old position at the bedside, he fancied that
Meredith’s face had changed somewhat for the better. Either the extreme
ghastliness had passed off a little, or else his eyes had grown used to
it.
‘You had better sleep if you can, sir,’ suggested Tor persuasively.
‘I will sit beside you, if that will be any satisfaction. Sleep will
restore you better than anything;’ and he drew up a chair and prepared
to follow out his own part of the programme.
‘Stop!’ said Meredith, slowly and softly, as if speaking were still
something of an effort; ‘sleep can wait. Sleep will come later. First I
must set my mind at rest.’
‘Will not you be able to do that better after you have slept?’
suggested Tor, who had a distinct dread of what he felt was coming.
‘No. I cannot sleep yet. Who knows if I shall ever wake again in this
world? I must set my house in order before I go.’
No response was made to this speech by either watcher. Tor fancied that
the danger could not be imminent whilst the patient could talk in this
strain. He fancied that men who really were dying did not make set
speeches to that effect; but Roma’s face quivered pitifully, and it
needed all her strong self-repression to keep under her emotion. Tor
felt a very great compassion for her in her loneliness and devotion.
All the chivalry of his nature woke up within him, and urged him to do
what he could to lighten the load which lay so heavily upon her.
‘Philip Debenham,’ said Michael Meredith slowly, ‘I withdraw my veto.
You have my consent to your wish.’
Naturally, Tor was at a loss to comprehend the drift of this remark.
All he could say was:
‘I am greatly obliged to you, sir.’
Then came a pause. Meredith seemed to expect the young man to proceed.
Tor was trying hard to remember what it was to which the blind man
alluded—what veto he could possibly have laid upon any expressed wish
of his. He had been quite prepared to hear some allusion to Meredith’s
wish respecting his marriage with Roma, but not unnaturally he failed
to recognise the old subject in its new guise.
‘Young hearts should not be severed. I have been selfish in my wish to
keep my daughter to myself. Take her now, Philip Debenham. I yield her
up to your care. Take her with my blessing, and be a good husband to
her, for you have won a pearl amongst women!’
Tor was too much taken aback to make any immediate reply. He glanced
at Roma, who sat with hands clasped closely together like one in pain,
her head bent, and her face covered with blushes, which were those of
misery and humiliation, with nothing in them of maiden shame or joy.
Tor saw at a glance how matters stood with her—saw that her position
was infinitely more trying than his; and his one desire now was to save
her as far as possible from needless pain.
But Michael Meredith must not be agitated. Agitation meant death to him
at such a time as the present. Tor was perfectly aware of this, and had
no intention of killing the father before his daughter’s eyes.
Even the short silence which followed his speech seemed to cause some
slight uneasiness to the sick man.
‘You do not speak—you do not answer!’ he said, with a certain
sharpness, and a catch in his breath which showed how easily he was
agitated.
Tor signed to Roma to give him brandy, and answered gently enough:
‘If I do not speak, it is not because I do not feel. I am deeply
conscious of the honour you do me; Roma and I both understand all that
your words mean to us. But whilst you are so ill, we would rather
postpone further discussion. What has passed already is enough for us.’
The strained look upon the white face relaxed, and the rapid breathing
grew more natural.
‘It is well,’ he said; ‘dutiful, filial, affectionate! All is very,
very well. Roma, give me your hand.’
She obeyed, rising and standing beside the bed, opposite to Tor. Her
eyes were lowered, her hand shook a little, yet something in Tor’s
manner took away the keen edge of her pain and shame.
‘Your hand, Philip Debenham,’ said Meredith.
Tor placed his own within the sick man’s feeble clasp, and thus Michael
Meredith had the extreme gratification of joining together the hand of
his daughter Roma, and that of the man whom he believed to be Philip
Debenham.
‘Bless you, my children!’ he said fervently.
Roma felt compelled to raise her eyes with imploring deprecation to the
young man’s face, and found that Tor was smiling down upon her with
such a kindly reassurance in his eyes, that she could but smile back,
and feel that he at least did not misunderstand her.
Their right hands were still joined. Tor bent his head over them and
kissed—not her hand, but the empty air.
Michael Meredith smiled slowly.
‘Have you a ring?’ he asked dreamily. ‘I should like the pledge to be
given and received before my eyes.’
Tor wore Phil’s watch and chain, and there was upon it, with Mr.
Debenham’s seal, a ring which had belonged to his wife. This he
disengaged, and placed upon the third finger of Roma’s left hand, with
another reassuring smile.
Michael Meredith fingered the little antique hoop of chased gold, and
his face lighted up with a peculiarly sweet smile.
‘Kismet!’ he said softly. ‘’Tis the same ring I sent to Philip
Debenham, as a wedding gift to his wife. How all things have come round
according to my will! Kiss me, Roma, my child!’
She kissed him silently and passionately; and almost at once he sank
into a calm, health-giving sleep; and when Tor had watched him for some
considerable time in silence, and saw how much more natural his face
had grown, and how tranquilly he breathed, he felt convinced that the
worst was over, and that the patient would recover.
For an hour he and Roma had sat silent and motionless on either side of
the bed. Tor had been considering how best to put the girl at her ease
with him, to show her how completely he understood the situation, and
how little need there was for her to trouble herself about the matter.
He would arrange everything with the father when he was in a more fit
state to hear the truth. She was not to be afraid, for he would make it
all right.
This hour of watching gave him ample time to mature his plan, and at
the end of it, he wrote a few words upon a slip of paper, and handed it
across to Roma.
‘I think I had better see you alone for a few minutes before I go. Your
father seems much better. Can you leave him for a short time? I will
not detain you long.’
Roma rose at once, after she had read these words, and quietly crossed
the room to the door, which opened noiselessly. Tor followed her out,
and as soon as she had sent Mr. Meredith’s servant into his master’s
room, she led the way down to the dining-room, where some refreshments
had been spread for the watchers.
‘Ah, this is well—this is as it should be,’ said Tor, looking round
with some satisfaction. ‘I was summoned away in the midst of my dinner,
Miss Meredith, so I am hungry, and you ought to be, whether you are or
not. In the character of your affianced husband’—here he smiled in his
frankest way—‘you must allow me to insist upon your eating something.’
Roma sat down and poured out the tea, which was standing ready. She was
confused and unhappy, and Tor was sincerely sorry for her.
‘Look here, Roma,’ he said, addressing her in a far more brotherly
fashion than he ever managed to assume towards Maud. ‘I wish you would
not make yourself miserable over your father’s fancy. I know quite well
how it has all arisen, and it is a pity; but, you know, it is no bond,
really; only I think, just for the time being, we must humour him by
the fiction of an engagement. I hope it is not very distasteful to you.
We will keep it as quiet as possible, and I will take the earliest
chance that I can to put matters right. I know it is hard upon you; but
it seems the only way.’
‘Hard upon me!’ echoed Roma; ‘as if that mattered! I am his daughter; I
would do anything for him—I must; but you—oh, it makes me so ashamed!’
‘Why should you be ashamed? You cannot help the curious bent of your
father’s mind, nor his feebleness, which makes agitation so bad for
him. We must take things as we find them, and make the best of his
eccentricity. I do not think it is so very bad, after all. We quite
understand one another, and we can surely be friendly conspirators in
our cause, without being painfully afraid of one another.’
Roma began to smile in a tremulous sort of way. ‘You are very good to
take it like that. It might have been so dreadful.’
‘Dreadful for you, no doubt, though hardly so for me,’ he answered
gallantly. Then, to put her more completely at her ease, he continued
gravely, ‘No, Roma, you need not be at all afraid of me; for I had lost
my heart before ever I saw you, and it is not mine now to give away.
I confide in you, because I am sure that perfect frankness is best
between us; but I must ask you to guard my secret jealously, for there
are reasons why I cannot make it known as yet to anyone. You see, you
are already my chosen confidante, and my only one.’
‘Doesn’t Maud know?’
‘No; and you must not tell her, please.’
‘Of course not. I would never say a word to anyone. But—but—suppose
she—_she_ were to hear something about—about _this_. Would she not—I
mean, might it not do harm?’
Tor smiled, as though he were not much afraid.
‘I must risk that. No doubt it can be explained all in good time. But
there is no need for many people, or any people to know of this little
episode. Your father and you have very few visitors; and we shall not
be likely to spread the story about. The servants may get an idea and
start a rumour; but I think that is all we have to fear; and if you
have no objection, I should like to tell Maud the story. I do not keep
secrets from her, as a general thing.’
‘Oh yes, tell her. I do not mind a bit. I think she ought to know.’
‘Thank you, I will let her know how it has happened; and now that we
fully understand one another, and the parts we have to play, is there
anything more that I can do for you?’
Roma passed her hand across her brow, with an action that showed both
weariness and bewilderment.
‘Thank you, no—I don’t think so. You have been very kind, and I am
most grateful. But it seems all so strange; and when I go back to
father—and—and if he talks about _this_, what am I to say?’
‘You need say nothing, or hardly anything. Just let him go on his own
way, and think his own thoughts. Leave the explanation to me when the
right time comes.’
Roma looked at him mournfully.
‘You do not know him—you do not know what he is like. The right time
will never come. You will never be able to do it without—— Oh, I can’t
guess what will happen!’
She leaned her forehead upon her clasped hands, as if to shut out the
vision her imagination had conjured up.
Tor looked at her with a compassionate curiosity.
‘I wonder, Miss Meredith, if you will think my question a very
intrusive one. I cannot help wondering, as I watch you with your
father. It seems to me as though you would willingly sacrifice your
whole future life, rather than give him one hour’s pain. Do you not
think that, making every allowance for filial piety, you carry matters
rather to an extreme point?’
‘No,’ answered Roma, very low. ‘For other women it might be so; but
nothing, _nothing_ can be too great a sacrifice for me to make for him.
I must not shrink from anything.’
‘Why is this so?’ asked Tor.
‘Because,’ and the voice was lower than ever now—‘because it is through
my fault that he is blind.’
‘I should not have asked the question,’ answered Tor gently, for he saw
that she was much agitated by the tide of recollection which swept over
her. ‘I beg your pardon. Forget it, and think no more about it.’
‘I cannot help thinking—it is never really out of my thoughts when I am
with him. I will tell you how it was——’
‘Excuse me, Roma, you will do no such thing. I decline to hear the
story. We will have no more melancholy reminiscences to-night. Maud
will think I am lost if I do not hasten home soon, and I do not mean to
go until I have seen you take something to eat and drink. You are as
white as a ghost. Your father will think we have had a quarrel already,
if you go back to him so limp and spiritless. I am sure he is much
better. I quite believe the worst is now past. These heart attacks are
very alarming whilst they last, but they are soon over. I will look
round in the morning, and see how you are both going on; and if you
take my advice, you will not sit up with him. Most likely he will sleep
now, and you ought to get a good night’s rest too.’
Roma shook her head doubtfully.
‘I don’t feel as if I could sleep.’
‘Why not?’
‘Everything is so strange. I can’t bear deceiving my father, or seeing
you victimized like this; and I can’t see any way out of it.’
‘Miss Meredith, there is no need for you to see anything at all. All
you have to do is to play your part in the little farce with which
we are humouring him. All the rest lies with me, and is out of your
province altogether. Leave it to me.’
‘I must; but I dare not think what will happen.’
‘Nothing will happen. Your father will yield up his desire to make me
his son-in-law, as quietly and willingly as heart could wish.’
Roma shook her head.
‘You do not know him, Mr. Debenham, or you would not say so.’
‘It is because I do know him well that I do say so.’
She made no reply. Tor’s manner was so conclusive, that it seemed
useless to dispute the point.
‘You are a very wonderful man,’ she said, after a short pause.
‘Sometimes I think so myself,’ answered Tor, with a smile; ‘but I
assure you, Miss Meredith, I am not deceiving you. My revelation to
your father, when the time for it arrives, shall not cause him any
disappointment or agitation.’
‘And when will that moment arrive?’
‘That I cannot tell. It may be soon, or may be late—probably not just
yet; but it depends upon circumstances I cannot now explain. Some day
you shall know all, and in the meantime I must ask you to trust me!’
Roma gave him her hand with her rare sweet smile, as she said:
‘I should be ungrateful indeed, if I did not.’
Tor looked down at her as he stood holding her hand, and said:
‘We shall have to be good friends after this, I think, Roma. Try and
feel towards me as if I were your big brother, and I will be a brother
to you as far as I know how to play the part. I never had a sister—I
mean, practically, until I came back a month or so ago—so that I am new
to the part; but I will play it as well as I can. And you must let me
help you with your father, so far as lies in my power, and you must not
mind deceiving him a little while for his good.’
‘No, I dare not do otherwise; and I should like to feel that you were a
sort of brother to me—Philip.’
She spoke the name with a little hesitation, and he smiled approvingly.
‘That is right. Now I think we understand one another. I must say
good-night; and hope to see you early to-morrow, and to hear a good
account of your father.’
So Roma went back to her quiet watch beside the sick man; and Tor
strode across the dewy park to tell his story to Maud.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]