The rain ceases, and St. John endeavours to work off his disappointment
and rage in a very long walk. When he at length re-enters the house,
the two old people are hobbling into luncheon, and Miss Blessington
sweeping, slowly and alone, after them. Her face is serene, and, to his
surprise, wears no bellicose expression towards himself. To tell the
truth, during three hours of point-lace work, the Gerard diamonds have
kept flashing and gleaming, restless-bright, before her mind's eye. She
has been telling herself that she was over-hasty in the relinquishment
of them--has been resolving to make one effort, if consistent with
dignity, for their recapture.
"Does Miss Craven know that luncheon is ready?" asks St. John of the
butler, when they have all been seated for some minutes.
"If you please, sir, I don't think that Miss Craven is coming to lunch."
"Why not?--is she ill?" he inquires, anxiously, perfectly indifferent
as to whether his anxiety is remarked or no.
"I believe she is rather poorly, sir."
Luncheon over, the old people are convoyed back to their arm-chairs.
Gerard stands with his back to the hall-fire, with the _Times_ in his
hand. Constance, under some pretext of looking over the day's papers,
lingers near him.
"I have been telling my aunt about our alarm last night, St. John," she
says, as sweetly as usual.
"Indeed!"
"And its tame prosaic _dénouement_."
"Indeed!"
"I am afraid I was unreasonably angry with you for what was evidently a
mere accident; but when one is nervous and frightened, one really does
not know what one says. I'm sure I have the vaguest recollection of
what I said."
"I remember distinctly what you said, Constance."
"Indeed!" (with a smooth low laugh). "You don't bear malice, I hope?
Things are much as they were before, I suppose?"
He lays down his paper, and looks at her steadily with his clear grey
eyes. "Things are between us as they have been all our lives up to last
October; as they have been since then, they will never be again."
She turns away quickly, to hide the mortification which even the cold
pure mask of her face cannot wholly conceal.
"That is what I meant," she answers, quietly--with great presence of
mind endeavouring to prevent her defeat from being converted into a
rout; and though she deceives neither herself nor him, the effort to do
both is at least laudable.
And Esther, interrupted midway in the packing of her few and paltry
goods by the sharper recurrence of that pain in her side, lies on her
bed, shut out by the strength of that bodily agony from all power of
mental suffering. The excitement of the night--the exposure to the
chill morning air--the thorough wetting undergone in her wild run
through the park, amid the driving rain, have hastened the coming of
that great sickness with which for weeks past she has been threatened.
Darkness falls: dinner-time comes. Presently the housemaid, who had
formerly given her the laudanum, knocks at her door.
"Dinner, please, miss."
"I cannot go down," answers the poor child, rather piteously, sitting
up, and pushing away the tumbled hair from her flushed cheeks, while
her eyes blink in the candle-light. "I don't want any dinner; I'm ill!"
"Dear me, 'm! you _do_ look bad!" exclaims the woman, drawing nearer to
the bed, and speaking with an accent half-shocked, half-pleased; for,
in a servant's eyes, the next best thing to a death in the house is a
serious illness. "Would not you like to have Mr. Brand sent for?"
"Oh, no--thanks!" replies the girl, sinking wearily back on her pillow.
"I daresay it will go of itself."--"If I did send for him, I have no
money to pay for him," is her mental reflection.
The evening drags away about as heavily as usual in the saloon. Gerard,
having ascertained that Miss Craven is still in the house, and has
consequently broken her resolution of not sleeping another night under
the same roof with him, tries to content himself with the idea that
to-morrow--her temporary indisposition probably past--he will have
another opportunity of reasoning and pleading with her. About nine
o'clock Miss Blessington's maid appears at the door.
"Please 'm, might I speak to you for a moment?"
"Certainly," answers Constance, graciously, rising and walking off to
the demanded conference.
Constance is always polite to her servants; it is a bad style,
middle-class to be rude to one's inferiors.
"If you please, 'm, I really think as something oughter to be done for
Miss Craven; she is uncommon bad, poor young lady!"
"What is the matter with her?" inquires the other, placidly; "nothing
but influenza, I daresay; it always goes through a house."
"Indeed, 'm, I don't know; but she has a hawful pain in her side, and
she can scarce draw her breath, and she is hot--as hot as fire."
"Good heavens!" cries Constance, thoroughly roused by this gay picture;
"I hope it is not anything _catching!_"
Reassured on this point, and having ordered the attendance of Mr.
Brand, she returns unruffled to the fireside.
"What was that mysterious communication, Constance?" asks St. John,
lazily, quite willing to be amicable now that their relative positions
are made clearly evident.
"She only came to tell me that Miss Craven was very unwell," she
answers, carelessly. "Servants exaggerate so; I daresay it is nothing!"
"What is the matter with her?" he asks, hurriedly.
"I really don't know," she replies, drily; "you had better wait till
Mr. Brand comes, and ask him."
Ten o'clock! The old couple are trundled off to their separate
apartments: and Miss Blessington, having bidden St. John a cold
"good-night," sails, candle in hand, up the grand staircase, to that
sleep that never fails to come at her calm bidding. Gerard foregoes his
evening pipe, because the smoking-room does not look to the front. In
painful unrest, he unfastens the shutters of one of the saloon-windows,
and, raising the stiff and seldom-opened sash, leans out, looking and
listening--looking at the maiden moon that rides, pale and proud,
while black ruffian clouds chase each other to overtake her. Mr. Brand
is out, apparently; for half-past ten has been struck, in different
tones--bass and treble, deep and squeaky--by half-a-dozen different
clocks, and still he has not arrived. At length, to the watcher's
strained ear, comes the sound of wheels descending the steep pitch,
from Blessington village; then a brougham's lamps gleam, issuing from
between the rhododendron banks, and roll, like two angry eyes, to the
door. In his feverish anxiety, and impatience at the long tarrying of
the sleepy footman, St. John himself admits the doctor; and, following
him at a little distance, as he is ushered upstairs, sits down in his
own bedroom, with the door wide open, ready to pounce out upon the
small Æsculapius, as he passes along the gallery at his departure, and
learn his verdict.
The visit is rather a long one; to St. John, sitting still in his idle
impatient misery, it seems as though the sound of Esther's opening door
would never come; but never is a long day. At length the welcome sound
is heard; and the young man, precipitating himself into the passage,
comes face to face with a small elderly gentleman, shiveringly taking
his way down the unwarmed ghostly old corridors.
"Is it a serious case?" he asks, abruptly, framing the simple words as
they rise from his full heart.
Mr. Brand stares, surprised, at his questioner's blanched face. He had
imagined that his patient was a little friendless orphan companion,
whose life or death--save as a mere matter of compassion--were subjects
of almost equal indifference to the people under whose roof she lies,
panting out her young life.
"_Serious?_ Well--oh! I assure you there is no cause for alarm, my dear
sir," he says, imagining that he has got the key to the mystery; "it is
nothing infectious, I assure you--nothing whatever!"
"That is not what I asked," rejoins Gerard, bluntly. "I don't care
whether it is infectious or not; is it _dangerous?_"
"Are you any relation of the young lady, may I ask?--brother, perhaps?"
inquires the little doctor, peering inquisitively, though under
difficulties--for the abundant wind is playing rude tricks with the
flame of his candle--into St. John's sad brown face.
"No--none."
"Well, then, to be candid with you, it _does_ look rather serious,"
he answers, with the careless deliberate calmness which those whose
half-life is spent in pronouncing death-warrants seem insensibly to
acquire: "a sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, brought on by
neglect and exposure. By-the-by, can you inform me whether there is any
predisposition to lung-disease in Miss--Miss Craven's family?"
"I know nothing about her family," replies the other, gloomily. He
has no reason, beyond the probability of the thing, for supposing
that she had ever had a father or mother, much less a grandfather or
grandmother. Mr. Brand retires, completely mystified; and St. John,
re-entering his room, throws himself into an arm-chair, and, covering
his face with his hands, sends up violent voiceless prayers for the
young life that is exchanging the first passes with that skilfulest of
fencers, whom the nations have christened "Death!" In all his rough
godless life he has had small faith in the efficacy of prayer: but, on
the bare chance of there being some good in it, he prays wordlessly in
his stricken heart for her.
Before they have done with him, the inmates of Blessington Hall have
grown very familiar with Dr. Brand's face; night and morning, night and
morning, coming and going, coming and going, through many days; for the
adversary with whom the child is wrestling has thrown many a better
and stouter than she--and the battle is bitter. It is of little use
now that she hate the shadowing ginger curtains of the vast old wooden
four-poster; there must she lie, through all the weary twenty-four
hours, in paroxysms of acutest pain, in fits of utter breathlessness,
in agonies of thirst. Grief for Jack, love for St. John, shamed
concern at Miss Blessington's damaging story and insulting words, are
all swallowed up in the consuming craving for something to wet her
parched lips, to cool her dry throat--something to drink! something to
drink! By-and-by, with the pain, she becomes light-headed--wanders a
little--"babbles of green fields;" babbles to the uninterested ears of
the sleepy tired nurse, of the twisted seat under the old cherry-tree,
of the tea-roses up the kitchen-garden walk, of the yellow chickens in
the rickyard. Then her delirium grows wilder: the green flabby Cupids
on the walls come down out of the tapestry, and make at her. One, that
is riding on a lion and blowing a horn, with fat cheeks puffed out,
comes riding at her--riding up the bed-quilt, riding over her. Then the
black and gold cocks on the old japan-chest, that, with neck-feathers
ruffled, and heads lowered, stand ever, in act to fight, change their
attitude: come pecking, pecking at her--pecking at her eyes; and she,
with terrified hands stretched out, fights at them--thrusts them away.
"And thrice the double twilights rose and fell,
About a land where nothing seemed the same,
At morn or eve, as in the days gone by."
And it comes to pass, that there falls a day when these sick fancies
pass--when the pain and breathlessness pass--and when Esther lies in
utter exhaustion, weak as a day-old babe, whiter than any Annunciation
lily, between her sheets. Eyes and ears and power of touch are still
hers: but it seems as though all objects of sensation, of sight and
sound and touch, reach her only through a thick blanket. She can see,
as if at an immense distance off, shrouded in mist, the faces of doctor
and nurse as they lean over her, and then, turning away, whisper
together. She cannot hear what they say; she has no wish to hear--she
has no wish for anything; only she lies, staring, with great eyes,
straight before her at the bed-hangings, at the ceiling, at the little
countless pigeon-holes in her toilet-table. One of the windows is open;
and heaven's sweet breath circulates fresh and slow through the quiet
room.
It is Sunday; the village people are clustering about the church-door;
the violets, like blue eyes that have slept through winter's night,
are opening under the churchyard wall. The bells are ringing; now,
loud and clear--"ding-dong bell! ding-dong bell!" almost as if they
were being rung in the still chamber itself--they come; now, faint and
far; the wind has caught the sound in his rough hand, and carried it
otherwhither. Whether they ring loud or faint, whether they ring or
ring not at all, she has no care; she has no care for anything. She is
very weary: it seems as if there were but a faint life-spark left in
her; she can scarce lift her hand to her head. Now and then they raise
her up, and, without asking her consent, pour brandy and beef-tea down
her reluctant throat. She is _so_ tired! Oh! why cannot they leave her
alone! The slow hours roll themselves round; the people have gone into
church, and have come out again.
Mr. Brand is here still; he is entering at the door; he is leaning over
her. What can he have to say that he must needs look so solemn over?
"My dear Miss Craven," he begins, with slow distinctness, as if he
imagined that her illness had carried away her powers of hearing, "Mr.
Winter is here; would not you like to see him?"
Mr. Winter is the meek M.A., whose voice the old squire drowns.
She fixes her great eyes,
"Yet larger through her leanness,"
upon his face--wondering as a child's just opened upon this strange
green world. "I--why should I?" she asks, in a faint astonished
whisper. She cannot speak above a whisper.
The good man looks embarrassed. "You are very ill," he says, indirectly.
"Am I?"
"And people in your situation generally wish for the holy offices of a
minister of the Church."
"Do they?" She is too feeble to join one link to another in the
simplest chain of reasoning. She has failed to grasp his meaning. He
looks baffled, uneasy.
"My dear young lady," he says, very gravely, "it is very painful for me
to have such a sad task to perform; but I cannot reconcile it with my
conscience not to tell you that, in all human probability, you have not
many more days to live."
Through the thick veil of her weakness and its attendant apathy pierces
the sting of that awful news: her eyes dilate in their horror and fear,
and she falls to weeping, feebly and helplessly.
"Don't say that--it is not true. How unkind you are! I don't want to
die; I'm so young; I have had so little pleasure!"
"We must submit to God's will," says the doctor, a little tritely.
It is so easy to submit to God's will towards one's friends and
acquaintance.
She does not answer, but raises her hands with difficulty to her wasted
face, while the tears trickle hot and frequent through that poor white
shield.
"Have you any relations that you would like to have sent for?" inquires
Mr. Brand, not unkindly; stooping over her, rather moved, but not very
much so. Often before has it been his portion to say, to youth and maid
and stalwart man, "Thou must die!"
"I have no relations," she answers, almost inaudibly.
"Any friends?"
"I have no friends."
"You have, then, no wish to see any one?"
"No. Stay," she says, as he turns to leave her, reaching out her hand
to detain him; "are you _quite_ sure that I shall die?" (Her lips
quiver, and a slight shudder passes over her form, as she utters the
words, "Is it _quite_ certain?")
"It is impossible to be _quite_ certain in any case," he answers,
slowly; "while there is life, there is hope, you know; but--but--I
cannot buoy you up with a false confidence."
She lies quiet a moment or two, regathering her spent strength. "How
long do you think I shall live?"
"It is impossible to say exactly," he replies, gravely. "A few days--a
few hours; one cannot be certain which."
Again she is silent, exhausted with the slight effort of framing a
sentence. "Ask Mr. Gerard to come and see me--_now--at once--before I
die!_"
He looks at her in astonishment, with a half-suspicion that she is
light-headed; but her eyes look back at him with such perfect sanity
in their clear depths, that he must needs abandon that idea. He cannot
choose but undertake her commission at her bidding.
And St. John comes. They are singing the "Nunc Dimittis," which, saith
Bacon, "is ever the sweetest canticle" in the Church, as he crosses
the threshold of that room, and draws near that bed on which, but
a few short nights ago, he had seen her, with his covetous lover's
eyes, lying in all her round dimpled beauty. There comes no greeting
blush _now_ into her cheeks--the cheeks, that the sound of his far-off
footfall had been wont to redden. How can she, that is the affianced
of great Death, blush for any _mortal_ lover? Her eyes lift themselves
languidly to his face; and, even in the "valley of the shadow," dwell
there comfortably; though in that countenance--never beautiful, and
now made haggard by watching, with reddened eyelids and quivering
muscles--a stranger would have seen small comeliness.
"So I am going to die, they tell me!" she says, whisperingly--says it
simply and mournfully.
Gerard cannot answer; only he flings himself forward upon the bed, and
devours her thin hand with miserable kisses.
"Perhaps it is not true! Oh, I hope it is not, St. John!" she says,
falling to weeping; in her feebleness and great dread of that goal to
which all our highways and byways and field-paths lead:
"Death, and great darkness after death!"
Still no answer.
"Cannot they do anything for me?" she asks piteously.
He lifts his head; and in his eyes--the eyes that have not wept more
than twice since he was a little white-frocked child--stand heavy
burning tears.
"Nothing, darling, I'm afraid," he answers, in a rough choked voice.
"There is _no_ hope, then?"
"Oh, poor little one! why do you torture me with such questions? I
_dare_ not tell you a lie!"
"You mean that I am _sure_ to die!" she says, faintly, with a slight
shudder, while a look of utter hopeless fear comes into her wan face.
He throws his arms about her in his great despair. "Why do you make me
tell you such news _twice?_ Is not _once_ enough?"
"It is _quite_ sure! Oh, I wish I was not so frightened!"
His features contract in the agony of that moment; an overpowering
temptation assails him, to tell her some pleasant falsehood about her
state; but he resists it.
"As far as anything human _can_ be sure, it is so," he says, turning
away his head.
"Are you sure there is no mistake?--is it _quite_ certain?"
"Quite."
"Then"--essaying to raise herself in the bed, and reaching out her
slight, weary arms to him--"then kiss me, St. John!"
Without a word he gathers her to his breast; fully understanding, in
his riven heart, that this embrace, which she herself can ask for, must
indeed be a final one; his lips cling to hers in the wild silence of a
solemn last farewell.
"I'm glad you are not angry with me now," she whispers, almost
inaudibly; and then her arms slacken their clasp about his bronzed
neck, and her head droops heavy and inert on his shoulder.
And so they find them half an hour later: he, like one crazed, with a
face as ashen-white as her own, clasping a lifeless woman to his breast.