"It was dooced unfortunate, bai Jove!" Max Bray said to himself, as he
sat over his dinner at the snug little hotel at the end of the third
day. He could not think what the foolish girl wanted to excite herself
for to such an extent. It was absurd, "bai Jove, it was!" But his plan
had answered all the same, and he'd wait till she got well, if it were a
month first--he would, "bai Jove!" She'd come round then, with a little
quiet talking to; and, after all, they were snug and out of sight in the
little town, and nobody knew them, nor was likely to know them, that was
the beauty of it. Certainly he could not get his letters; but that did
not matter: they were sure to be all dunning affairs, and he'd not the
slightest wish to have them. The only thing he regretted was not
hearing from Laura.
One thing, he said, was very evident--Ella must have been ill when they
started, or this attack would never have come on so suddenly.
And all this while, burning with fever, Ella Bedford lay delirious, and
with a nurse at her bedside night and day. The doctor was unremitting
in his attention, and was undoubtedly skilful; but he soon found that
all he could do was to palliate, for the disease would run its course.
The place they were in was fortunately kept by a quiet old couple, whose
sympathies were aroused by the sufferings of the gentle girl; and
though, as a rule, sick visitors are not welcomed very warmly at hotels,
here Ella met with almost motherly treatment.
Doctor, nurse, landlady--all had their suspicions; but the ravings of a
fever-stricken girl were not sufficient warranty for them to do more
than patiently watch the progress of events, and at times they
anticipated that the end would be one that they could not but deplore.
For Ella indeed seemed sick unto death, and lay tossing her fevered head
on the pillow, or struggled to get away to give the help that she said
was needed of her.
"Hasten on, hasten on!" Those words were always ringing in her ears,
and troubling her; and then she would start up in bed, press her long
glorious hair back from her burning temples, and listen as if called.
Then would come a change, and she would be talking to an imaginary
flower, as she plucked its petals out one by one, calling each petal a
hope or aspiration; whispering too, at times, in a voice so low that it
was never heard by those who bent over her, what seemed to be a name,
while a smile of ineffable joy swept over her lips as she spoke.
Once more, though, those words, "Hasten on, hasten on!" repeated
incessantly as she struggled to free herself from the hands that held
her to her bed.
"Let me go to him," she whispered softly once to her nurse. "He is
dying, and he calls me. Let me see him once, only for a few minutes,
that I may tell him how I loved him, before he goes. Please let me go!"
she said pitifully, clasping her hands together; "just to see him once,
and then I will go away--far away--and try to be at peace."
"My poor child, yes," sobbed the landlady. "I fear you will, and very
soon too. But does she want him from downstairs? I'll go and fetch him
up."
The landlady descended, to find Max, as usual, smoking, and told him of
what had passed.
"Bai Jove, no! I won't come up, thanks. I'm nervous, and have a great
dread of infection, and that sort of thing."
"But 'tisn't an infectious disorder, sir," said the landlady; "and I'm
afraid, sir, that if you don't come now--"
"Eh, what? I say, bai Jove, you don't mean that it's serious!"
exclaimed Max excitedly. "There's no danger of _that_, is there?"
The landlady smoothed down her apron with a solemn look in her face;
then left the room, with genuine tears of sorrow stealing down her
cheeks.
"Poor young creature!" she sighed. "Such a mere girl too!"
And then she hurried back to the sick-chamber, to find Ella lying back
in a state of exhaustion.
Another day, another, and another, with life seeming to hang as by a
thread; while Max, strictly avoiding the sick-chamber, waited anxiously
for the result; for this was an accident upon which, with all his
foresight, he had not calculated. But he could obtain no comfort from
doctor or nurse. Their looks grew more and more ominous, and at last he
began to calculate upon what would be his position, should the worst
come to the worst. Certainly, he had by deception--a stratagem, he
termed it--induced Ella Bedford to place herself under his protection,
and if she died it would be in the doctor's hands. There would be no
coroner's inquest, and the law could not touch him. And besides, she
had no relatives to call him to account, while surely--he smiled gravely
as he thought it--_his brother-in-law_ would say nothing!
But all the same, in his heart of hearts Max Bray knew that, if Ella
died, he would be morally guilty of her murder.
That last was an ugly word, but it insisted upon being spoken, to
afterwards ring again and again in his ears as he restlessly moved in
his seat.
But now a change had taken place in Ella's state. From the soft
appealing prayer for leave to go and answer the calls she fancied that
she heard, she now became fiercely excited, moved by a dread of pursuit,
and shrinking from every one who approached her. She would even wildly
inveigh against the doctor, whom she accused of being in the pay of Max
to drag her away.
No more soft appeals now, but frantic shrieks and fierce struggles for
freedom.
Again and again those who watched found that she had taken advantage of
a few minutes' absence to dress hurriedly, when it was only by a gentle
application of force that she could be overcome.
Then came the time when she seemed to have fallen into a weak and
helpless state, lying day after day apparently devoid of sense and
feeling.
Max was asked again and again whether he would see her; but he
invariably refused with a coward's shiver of dread, to the great disgust
of all who had taken interest in the poor girl's state.
"I declare, it's scandalous!" said the landlady in confidence to her
husband. "He seems to neither know nor care how she is. No relatives
are sent to, he has no letters; and it's my belief there's more than we
know hanging to this."
"'Tisn't our business to interfere," said the landlord. "He pays like a
gentleman, if he isn't one; and if we get our living by visitors, it
isn't for us to be playing the spy upon them."
The landlady did not say anything, but she evidently thought a great
deal. The doctor, too, had his opinion upon the subject, but he was
silent, and tended his patient to the best of his ability, shaking his
head when questioned as to her recovery.
Volume 3, Chapter XIX.