A couple of months had glided away, during which time Richard Glaire had
recovered from the severe injuries he had received in the accident, and
then, as he said, gone on the continent to recruit his shattered nerves;
though in confidence Doctor Purley told his lodger Dick Glaire's nerves
were stronger than ever, in consequence of eight weeks' enforced
attention to the orders of his medical man.
Richard wanted to get away, for several things had occurred to annoy
him. He was only just recovering, when the news reached him that Daisy
Banks had become Tom Podmore's wife; and this was at a time when he was
in the habit of saying bitter things to Mrs Glaire about the
disgraceful arrangement by which Eve was still at the vicarage, where
she had been carried from the church, and where she had lain through her
long illness which followed, during which she was for weeks delirious,
and knew neither of those who watched incessantly by her side.
Daisy Banks was her most constant attendant, and had taken up her
residence at the vicarage with Miss Purley, who had told the vicar she
would do anything to oblige him; and when he thanked her warmly, had
gone up to her room at once to prepare, and sat down, poor woman, and
cried with misery, because she was forty-three, very thin, and no one
ever had, and probably never would, ask her to be a wife.
So the vicar became Doctor Purley's lodger, never once crossing his own
threshold, and Mrs Glaire went down daily from her son's sick bed, to
see how poor Eve sped.
Days and days of anxiety and anxious watching of the doctor's face as he
came home from his visits, and little hope. Days when the eminent
physician from the county town came over, to give his supplementary
advice; and still, though both doctors shook their heads, Eve lived on--
a wavering flame, ready to be extinguished by the first rough waft of
air.
"Selwood," said the doctor one night, "I've lost over a stone weight
since I've been attending that poor girl, and I've done my best;
everything I know, or could get from others. I'm going back now, for
this is about the critical time, and I shall stay all night. Why, man!
Come, come, I say."
He laid his hand upon the vicar's shoulder, for the strong man's head
had gone down upon his hands. He had fought his grief back, and borne
so much--now he had given way.
"I am weak," said the vicar, gently. "Pray go."
"Yes," said the stout old fellow with animation; and the desponding
feeling seemed to have gone. "Yes, I'll go and watch while you pray;
and between us, with God's help, we may save her yet."
As the night wore on, and the town grew stilled in sleep, the vicar rose
and left the house, to go silently down the High Street, past the
church, to his own home, where he could lean against the gate and watch
for hour after hour the little lighted window with its drawn blind, and
the one glowing spot where the candle burned.
Hour after hour, sometimes walking up and down, but always with the
prayer upon his lip that she might be spared.
Sometimes a shadow crossed the blind, and a light went through the
house. Then all was still again, and the night went on, with the stars
that had risen as he watched passing over his head, and at last a faint,
pearly light beginning to dawn in the east, and grow broader. The first
chirp of a morning bird, as the pale light grew stronger, answering
chirps, and the loud alarm-note of the blackbird that rose from the
hedge beside him, dipped down, and skimmed rapidly along the ditch.
The light brightened in the east, but paled in the window of the sick
girl's room; and the watcher's heart sank low, for he knew too well that
this was the hour when vitality was at its lowest ebb, and that,
perhaps, at this very time the gentle spirit of Eve might be winging its
way to a purer realm.
"My poor love--my love!" he murmured, as he leaned upon the gate; and if
ever man prayed fervently, that was a heartfelt prayer breathed from his
lips, and it seemed, in his weak worn state, borne upwards by a winged
messenger which rose from the field hard by, singing its morning song of
joy and praise.
He watched that lark as it rose higher and higher, its clear notes
ringing far and wide, but growing gradually fainter and fainter, till
the bird seemed lost to his gaze, as the song was to his ear. But as he
watched the sky turned from its pale dawn, tinged with a warmer flush,
to one glorious damask fret of orange and gold, lighting up the trees
and flowers of his garden as he let his eyes fall to earth, and then, as
they rested on the window, it was to see that it was blank and cold and
grey.
He could not stir, only stand gazing there with a horrible sinking
feeling--a terrible dread, and though the sun rose slowly, his light
seemed pale and sickly to the heart-stricken man, whose worst fears
seemed confirmed when the door opened, and the heavy, burly figure of
the doctor appeared, coming softly down the gravel-walk.
"You here, Selwood!" he exclaimed. The vicar bowed his head. "You have
been here all night?"
"Yes, but tell me. I can bear it now. Does she sleep?"
"Yes," said the doctor, pausing; and as he saw the weary head sink
lower, he continued, "Yes, but not the sleep you mean. The crisis is
past, dear friend, and Eve Pelly lives."
It was one soft delicious afternoon, when the vicarage garden was aglow
with flowers, mellow with sunshine, and joyous with the hum of the
insect world, that in obedience to Eve's wish the vicar went down, to
find her looking very thin and pale, but inexpressibly sweeter than she
had ever seemed before, seated on the old rustic seat beneath the great
hedge of mingled holly and yew. Daisy was with her as he entered the
garden, but she went into the house, and Eve, with her colour returning
slightly, held out one hand and pointed to the place at her side.
He did not take the seat, however, but mastering his emotion, took the
trembling hand between his and kissed it.
"You wished to see me?" he said.
"Yes," said Eve in a whisper; "to thank you for your great--great
kindness to me. They tell me I have been here eight weeks. I have been
asking Mr Purley whether I may not go home--to my aunt's--at least,"
she said, growing agitated, "somewhere--somewhere. I must not stay
here."
He had come meaning to be calm, to command himself, knowing that she was
delicate and weak; but at those words, and the visions they conjured up,
the restraint of months was broken down, and retaining her hand, he sat
down beside her.
"Do you wish to go away, Eve?" he said hoarsely, while his strong hand
trembled like that he held.
"I cannot trespass on you longer," she said; and then in a weary,
helpless manner, "but I meant to go away--far from here."
"Eve," he whispered, "may I tell you of something of which you have
never dreamed? I meant to keep it yet for months, but your words drive
me to speak, and at the risk of losing all I must.
"My child, I have known you now for months; I have watched you till I
have felt that I knew even the thoughts of your gentle heart; and as I
learned them, knowing what I did, life has been to me one long time of
agony. Eve, I have loved you with all my heart--so well that I would
not give you the pain of knowing it; glad to feel that I was your
friend, whom you could trust and turn to in your trouble. Have I kept
to that?"
"Yes, yes," she said, piteously.
"Have I ever broken from the position in which fate placed me, or been
traitor to your trust? Have I ever shown you the deep and passionate
love that was in my heart?"
"Never, never!" she moaned.
"No," he exclaimed; "I struggled and fought against it, even yielding to
your wishes to perform a duty in which I felt that I was being my own
executioner. But now you are free. You cannot wed this man!"
"No, no, no," she whispered, with a shudder.
"Then give me some little hope--however little. My darling, I will wait
for years if you will but tell me--You turn from me--am I mad in
thinking that you might some day trust me with this little hand? You
said you must go. Why--why leave me? Oh, Eve--darling! have I kept my
secret so long for this?"
He was rising from his seat when her little hands went up to his, and he
sank beside her, as they were placed upon his breast, and Eve's cheek
went down upon them, and she nestled there.
"Is this a dream?" he exclaimed.
"One," she whispered, "that I have prayed might some day come true, but
trembled, for I thought it was a sin."
"And you can love me?" he cried, drawing her closer and closer to him.
"At last," she murmured; "and when I thought I was alone in the wide,
wide world. Love you!" she faltered, as she hid her face in his breast,
"I have loved you from the first."