I am Thine and Thou art Mine, Body and Soul, for ever.
In order to understand the meaning of this cry, it will be necessary to
mention that so soon as the corpulent and sombre visitor had left the
bed-room of Sir Jekyl Marlowe, Dives lent his reverend aid to the nurse
in adjusting his brother more comfortably in his bed; and he, like
Varbarriere, took instinctively a comfortable and confident view of Sir
Jekyl's case, so that when the officious handmaid of Æsculapius assumed
her airs of direction he put aside her interference rather shortly. At
all events, there was abundance of time to grow alarmed in, and
certainly no need for panic just now. So Dives took his leave for the
present, the Baronet having agreed with him that his visitors had better
be allowed to disperse to their own homes, a disposition to do so having
manifested itself here and there among them.
Sir Jekyl, a little more easy in consequence of these manipulations, was
lying back on pillows, with that pleasant confidence in his case at
which a sanguine man so easily arrives, and already beginning to amuse
himself with pictures in the uncertain future. The hospital nurse,
sitting by a fire in that dim and faded study which opened from the
sick-room, now and then rose, and with soundless steps drew near the
half-open door, and sometimes peeped, and sometimes only listened. The
patient was quiet. The woman sat down in that drowsy light, and
ruminated, looking into the fire, with her feet on the fender, and a
good deal of stocking disclosed; when, all on a sudden, she heard a
rustling of a loose dress near her, and looking over her shoulder,
surprised, still more so, saw a pale and handsome lady cross the floor
from near the window to the door of Sir Jekyl's room, which she closed
as she entered it.
With her mouth open, the nurse stood up and gazed in the direction in
which she had disappeared. Sir Jekyl, on the other hand, witnessed her
entrance with a silent amazement, scarcely less than the nurse's. A few
hurried steps brought her to his bedside, and looking down upon him with
great agony, and her hands clasped together, she said, with a kind of
sob--
"Thank God, thank God!--alive, alive! Oh, Jekyl, what hours of torture!"
"Alive! to be sure I'm alive, little fool!" said the Baronet, with an
effort, smiling uncomfortably. "They have not been telling you it's
anything serious?"
"They told me nothing. I've heard nothing. I've seen no one but Gwynn.
Oh, Jekyl! tell me the truth; what do they say?--there's so much blood
on the floor."
"Why, my precious child, don't worry yourself about it; they evidently
think it's nothing at all. I know it's nothing, only what they call,
just, the muscles--you know--a little sore. I'll be on my legs again in
a week."
"I'm going to Wardlock, Jekyl; you'll hear news of me from there."
Had the tone or the look something ineffably ominous? I know not.
"Come, Jennie, none of that," he answered. "No folly. I've behaved very
badly. _I_'ve been to blame; altogether _my_ fault. Don't tease yourself
about what can't be helped. We must not do anything foolish, though. I'm
tired of the world; so are you, Jennie; we are both sick of it. If we
choose to live out of it, what the plague do we really lose?"
At this moment the nurse, slowly opening the door a little, said, with a
look of quiet authority--
"Please, sir, the doctor said particular you were not to talk, sir."
"D--n you and the doctor--get out of that, and shut the door!" cried the
Baronet; and the woman vanished, scared.
"Give me your hand, Jennie darling, and don't look as if the sky had
fallen. I'm not going to make my bow yet, I promise you."
"And then, I suppose, a duel," said Lady Jane, wringing her hands in an
agony.
"Duel, you little fool! Why, there's no such thing now, that is, in
these countries. Put fighting quite out of your head, and listen to me.
You're right to keep quiet for a little time, and Wardlock is as good a
place as any. I shall be all right again in a few days."
"I can look no one in the face; no--never again--and Beatrix; and--oh,
Jekyl, how will it be? I am half wild."
"To be sure, everyone's half wild when an accident happens, till they
find it really does not signify two pence. Can't you listen to me, and
not run from one thing to another? and I'll tell you everything."
With a trembling hand he poured some claret into a tumbler and drank it
off, and was stronger.
"He'll take steps, you know, and I'll help all I can; and when you're at
liberty, by--I'll marry you, Jane, if you'll accept me. Upon my honour
and soul, Jennie, I'll do exactly whatever you like. _Don't_ look so.
_What_ frightens you? I tell you we'll be happier than you can think or
imagine."
Lady Jane was crying wildly and bitterly.
"Fifty times happier than ever we could have been if this--this
annoyance had not happened. We'll travel. I'll lay myself out to please
you, every way, and make you happy; upon my soul I will, Jennie. I owe
you everything I can do. We'll travel. We'll not try pharisaical
England, but abroad, where people have common sense. Don't, don't go on
crying, darling, that way; you can't hear me; and there's really nothing
to tease yourself about--quite the contrary, you'll see; you'll like the
people abroad much better than here--more common sense and good nature;
positively better people, and a devilish deal more agreeable and--and
cleverer. And why do you go on crying, Jennie? You must not; hang it!
you'll put me in the dumps. You don't seem to hear me."
"Yes, I do, I do; but it's all over, Jekyl, and I've come to bid you
farewell, and on earth we'll never meet again," said Lady Jane, still
weeping violently.
"Come, little Jennie, you shan't talk like a fool. I've heard you long
enough; you must listen to me--I have more to say."
"Jekyl, Jekyl, I am sorry--oh! I'm sorry, for your sake, and for mine, I
ever saw your face, and sorrier that I am to see you no more; but I've
quite made up my mind--nothing shall change me--nothing--never.
Good-bye, Jekyl. God forgive us. God bless you."
"Come, Jane, I say, don't talk that way. What do you mean?" said the
Baronet, holding her hand fast in his, and with his other hand
encircling her wrist. "If you really do want to make me ill, Jennie,
you'll talk in that strain. I know, of course, I've been very much to
blame. It was all my fault, I said--I _say_--everything; but now you
will be free, Jennie. I wish I had been worthy of you; I wish I had. No,
you must not go. Wait a moment. I say, Jennie, I wish to Heaven I had
made you marry me when you might; but I'll not let you go now; by
Heaven, I'll never run a risk of losing you again."
"No, Jekyl, no, I've made up my mind; it is all no use, I'll go. It is
all over--quite over, for ever. Good-bye, Jekyl. God bless you. You'll
be happier when we have parted--in a few days--a great deal happier; and
as for me, I think I'm broken-hearted."
"By ----, Jennie, you shan't go. I'll make you swear; you shall be my
wife--by Heaven, you shall; we'll live and die together. You'll be
happier than ever you were; we have years of happiness. I'll be whatever
you like. I'll go to church--I'll be a Puseyite, or a Papist, or
anything you like best. I'll--I'll--"
And with these words Sir Jekyl let go her hand suddenly, and with a
groping motion in the air, dropped back on the pillows. Lady Jane cried
wildly for help, and tried to raise him. The nurse was at her side, she
knew not how. In ran Tomlinson, who, without waiting for directions,
dashed water in his face. Sir Jekyl lay still, with waxen face, and a
fixed deepening stare.
"Looks awful bad!" said Tomlinson, gazing down upon him.
"The wine--the claret!" cried the woman, as she propped him under the
head.
"My God! what is it?" said Lady Jane, with white lips.
The woman made no answer, but rather shouldered her, as she herself held
the decanter to his mouth; and they could hear the glass clinking on his
teeth as her hand trembled, and the claret flowed over his still lips
and down upon his throat.
"Lower his head," said the nurse; and she wiped his shining forehead
with his handkerchief; and all three stared in his face, pale and stern.
"Call the doctor," at last exclaimed the nurse. "He's not right."
"Doctor's gone, I think," said Tomlinson, still gaping on his master.
"_Send_ for him, _man_! I tell ye," cried the nurse, scarce taking her
eyes from the Baronet.
Tomlinson disappeared.
"Is he better?" asked Lady Jane, with a gasp.
"He'll never be better; I'm 'feared he's gone, ma'am," answered the
nurse, grimly, looking on his open mouth, and wiping away the claret
from his chin.
"It can't be, my good Lord! it can't--quite well this
minute--talking--why, it can't--it's only weakness, nurse! for God's
sake, he's not--it is not--it can't be," almost screamed Lady Jane.
The nurse only nodded her head sternly, with her eyes still riveted on
the face before her.
"He ought 'a bin let alone--the talkin's done it," said the woman in a
savage undertone.
In fact she had her own notions about this handsome young person who had
intruded herself into Sir Jekyl's sick-room. She knew Beatrix, and that
this was not she, and she did not like or encourage the visitor, and was
disposed to be sharp, rude, and high with her.
Lady Jane sat down, with her fingers to her temple, and the nurse
thought she was on the point of fainting, and did not care.
Donica Gwynn entered, scared by a word and a look from Tomlinson as he
passed her on the stair. She and the nurse, leaning over Sir Jekyl,
whispered for a while, and the latter said--
"Quite easy--off like a child--all in a minute;" and she took Sir
Jekyl's hand, the fingers of which were touching the table, and laid it
gently beside him on the coverlet.
Donica Gwynn began to cry quietly, looking on the familiar face,
thinking of presents of ribbons long ago, and school-boy days, and many
small good-natured remembrances.