="The Other Girl Did."=
On the afternoon of the morrow, Philip Hume, who, summoned by a
telegram from Dr. Spink, had come down to Denborough by the first train
he could catch, put on his hat, and, lighting his pipe, took a turn up
and down the road that ran by Littlehill. Since his coming he had been
in the house, and the house had seemed almost to stifle him. He had a
man's feeling of uselessness in the face of a sick room; he could do
nothing to help Nellie Fane in her struggle for life; he only hindered
the people who could do something. Nor did he succeed much better
with those whose ailments were of the mind. Arthur Angell sat in one
room, suspecting now that, whether Nellie lived or died, his dearest
hopes were dead. Dale, in another room, strode unrestingly to and fro,
waiting for Wilson to come back from the messages he kept sending him
on, now upstairs to Nellie's door, now down the town to Ethel Roberts',
now, and most often, to the Grange; and always Wilson, his forehead wet
and his legs weary, came back and said:
"Please, sir, there is no change."
Once Nellie had been conscious, had asked "Is he safe?" and, receiving
her answer, had closed her eyes again. Ethel Roberts was in no danger;
the shock would pass. Of Janet there came no news, save that she was
alone with her mother, and cried to be alone even from her mother.
James Roberts, in his frenzy, had indeed wrought havoc, and Philip, as
he walked and smoked, vehemently, though silently, cursed the ways of
this world.
Presently Mrs. Hodge came out in her bonnet.
"Nellie is well looked after," she said. "I am going down to see how
that poor little Roberts is."
Philip did not offer to go with the good woman. He watched her heavy
figure hastening down the hill, wondering that she seemed almost happy
in her busy services of kindness. He could do nothing but fret, and
smoke, and try to keep out of the way.
A smart brougham drove up. It stopped by him, and Tora Smith jumped out.
"How is she?" she cried.
"Spink thinks she will pull through," answered Philip; "but of course
she's in great danger still."
"May I go to her?" asked Tora.
"She sees no one," he replied in surprise.
"Oh, I don't mean to see her. I mean to stay and help--to nurse her,
you know."
"It is very kind of you: she has her mother and a nurse."
"Oh, won't you let me?"
"It does not rest with me. But why should you?"
"I--I once thought such horrid things of her. And--wasn't it splendid?"
Philip looked kindly at her.
"That will please her," he said, "and her friends."
"Mayn't I help?"
"I tell you what: poor Mrs. Roberts has no one but a hired nurse. Mrs.
Hodge has run down for a minute, but of course she can't leave her
daughter long."
"You mean I ought to go to her?"
"One can't even be kind in the way one likes best," said Philip.
"Well, I will. But I should have loved to be with Miss Fane. I can't
tell you how I feel about her. I think people who think evil things of
other people ought to be _beaten_, Mr. Hume."
"Doubtless, but justice flags. You can't expect me to beat you, Miss
Smith."
Tora smiled for a minute; then she wiped her eyes again, and asked
gravely:
"Are you never serious?"
"Yes; I am serious now. Go to that poor woman; consider doing that in
the light of a beating."
"You'll let Miss Fane know I--I----"
"Yes; and Dale. What a terrible facer for our celebrations, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes. Harry has ridden over to see Lord Cransford about it. Mr.
Delane wants the thing put off, if possible."
"Can you put off a Prince? But I suppose he'll be only too glad not to
be bored with it."
"You know Janet is in a dreadful state? Poor girl! It must have been
awful for her. The man had hold of her! Well, I shall go. Good-by. I
shall run up here again to-morrow."
The putting off of the Prince, in spite of Philip's doubt of its
constitutional possibility, was managed: for the ceremony could hardly
take place without Mr. Delane's presence, as he had been the inspiring
force of the whole movement which had resulted in the Institute; and
Mr. Delane felt it utterly out of the question for him to take any part
in such festivities, in view of the dreadful occurrence in his grounds
and of his daughter's serious condition. The doctors, indeed, told him
that she had stood the shock remarkably well; they would not have been
surprised to find her much worse. Her reason was unshaken, and, after
the first night anyhow, the horror of the madman's grip and voice had
left her. She did not, waking or sleeping, for she slept sometimes,
dream that she was again in his hands, face to face with death; and Dr.
Spink congratulated the Squire and Mrs. Delane on a good prospect of
a total recovery. Yet Mrs. Delane and the Squire were not altogether
comforted. For Janet lay from morning to evening on her bed, almost
motionless and very quiet, whenever anyone was in the room. She asked
once or twice after her fellow-sufferers, but, except for that, and
answering questions, she never spoke but to say:
"I think I could sleep if I were alone."
Then Mrs. Delane would go away, trying to believe the excuse.
There are not many of us who would feel warranted in being very hard on
a man who had failed in such a trial as had befallen Janet Delane: in
a woman, failure would seem little other than a necessary consequence
of her sex. Death, sudden, violent, and horrible, searches the heart
too closely for anyone to feel sure that his would be found sound to
the core--not risk of death, for that most men will, on good cause and,
even more cheerfully, in good company, meet and face. It is certainty
that appalls; and it had been certain death that had awaited Janet's
first cry. And yet she would not be comforted. She had stopped to
think how certain it was; then she failed. The mistake was in stopping
to think at all. The other girl--the girl he did not love, but who,
surely, loved him with a love that was love indeed--had not stopped
to think whether the bullet could or might or must hit her. She had
not cared which; it had been enough for her that it might hit the man
she loved, unless she stood between to stop it, and she had stood
between. How could Janet excuse her cowardice by telling herself of the
certainty of death, when, had she not been a coward, she would never
have stayed to know whether death were certain or not? If she ever
could have deluded herself like that, what the other girl did made it
impossible. The other girl--so she always thought of Nellie--held up
a mirror wherein Janet saw her own littleness. And yet he had loved
her, not the other; her life belonged to him, the other's did not;
she had proclaimed proudly, but an instant before, that she would die
for him, and he had praised her for saying it. He would know now what
her protestations were worth. He would be amused to think that it was
not Janet Delane--the Janet who was always exhorting him to noble
thoughts--who was proud in the pride of her race--not she who had dared
death for him; but that other, so far beneath her, whom she had not
deigned to think a rival. Ah, but why, why had she not called? Surely
God would have given her one moment to be glad in, and that would have
been enough.
She sat up in bed, the coverings falling from her, and her black hair
streaming over her white night-dress. Clasping her hands over her
knees, she looked before her out of the window. She could see the tree
where Dale had stood and the spot where she had fallen; she could see
the fresh red gravel, put down to hide the stains, and the gardener's
rake, flung down where he had used it. He must have gone to tea--gone
to talk it all over with his wife and his friends, to wonder why Miss
Janet had not called out, why she had left it to the other girl, why
she had fainted, while the other had saved him. They would talk of
"poor Miss Janet," and call the other a "rare plucked 'un"--she knew
their way. Nobody would ever call her that--not her father again, who
used to boast that Janet, like all his house, feared nothing but
dishonor, and would make as good a soldier as the son he had longed
for in vain. Her mother had come and called her "a brave girl." Why
did people think there was any good in lies? She meant it kindly,
but it was horrible to hear it. Lies are no use. Let them call her a
coward, if they wanted to speak the truth. They all thought that. Dale
thought it; Dale, who must be admiring that other girl's gallantry, and
wondering why he had not loved her, instead of loving a girl who talked
big, and, when danger came, fainted--and stood by to see him die.
Of course he could not go on loving her after this. He would feel,
everybody must feel, that he owed his life to the girl who had saved
him, and must give it to her. Very likely he would come and pretend to
want her still. He would think it right to do that, though it would
really be kinder just to let her drop. She would understand. Nobody
knew he had spoken to her; perhaps nobody need; it would not seem so
bad to people who did not know she had promised to be his wife. Not
that it mattered much what people thought. She knew what she was,
and--she must let him go, she must let him go. And here, for the first
time, she buried her head in her pillow and sobbed.
Mrs. Delane came in.
"Why, Janet dearest, you've nothing over you! You'll catch cold. What's
the matter, darling? Are you frightened?"
There it was! Everybody thought she was frightened now.
"There is a message from Mr. Bannister, darling. He wants so much to
see you, and the doctor thinks it would do you no harm. Do you think
you could dress and see him?"
"He wants to see me?"
"Why, yes, dear. Of course, Jan. I know, my dear."
"To leave her and come and see me?"
"Miss Fane? Oh, she's going on very well. There's no reason he
shouldn't come over here. You would like to see him, Jan?"
"Tell him to go away--tell him to go to her--tell him to leave me
alone."
"But, Jan, dearest----"
"Oh, mamma, mamma, do leave me alone!"
Mrs. Delane went and told the messenger that Miss Delane might see no
one for a day or two; she was still too agitated. Then she sought her
husband and told him of their daughter's words.
"She must be a little queer still," said the Squire, with anxiety.
"Don't be worried, Mary. She's a strong girl, and she'll soon throw it
off."
But she could not throw it off--not that thought which had burned into
her breast; and all night, by the light of the moon, she sat and looked
at the tree and the fresh gravel, the spot where her honor and her love
had called on her, and called in vain.