ALONE IN THE WORLD.
Sir Harry did not find Mr. Forrester at home; the solicitor was at a
consultation in the Temple. Thither drove the baronet, who was impetuous
in most things, and intolerant of delay where an object lay near his
heart. Up to the counsel's chambers in the Temple mounted Sir Harry
Rokestone. He hammered his double knock at the door as peremptorily as
he would have done at his own hall door.
Mr. Forrester afforded him just half a minute; and they parted good
friends, having made an appointment for the purpose of talking over poor
mamma's affairs, and considering what was best to be done.
Sir Harry strode with the careless step of a mountaineer, along the
front of the buildings, till he reached the entrance to which, in answer
to a sudden inquiry, Mr. Forrester had directed him. Up the stairs he
marched, and stopped at the door of the chambers occupied by Mr. Carmel.
There he knocked again as stoutly as before. The door was opened by
Edwyn Carmel himself.
"Is Mr. Carmel here?" inquired the old man.
"I am Mr. Carmel," answered he.
"And I am Sir Harry Rokestone," said the baronet. "I found a letter from
you this morning; it had been lying at my house unopened for some time,"
said the baronet.
Mr. Carmel invited him to come in. There were candles lighted, for it
was by this time nearly dark; he placed a chair for his visitor: they
were alone.
Sir Harry Rokestone seated himself, and began:
"There was no need, sir, of apology for your letter; intervention on
behalf of two helpless and suffering ladies was honourable to you; but I
had also heard some particulars from their own professional man of
business; that, however, you could not have known. I have called to tell
you that I quite understand the case. So much for your letter. But, sir,
I have been informed that you are a Jesuit."
"I am a Catholic priest, sir."
"Well, sir, I won't press the point; but the ruin of that family has
been brought about, so far as I can learn, by gentlemen of that order.
They got about that poor foolish creature, Lady Lorrimer; and, by
cajoleries and terror, they got hold of every sixpence of her fortune,
which, according to all that's right and kind in nature, should have
gone to her nearest kindred."
Sir Harry's eyes were fixed on him, as if he expected an answer.
"Lady Lorrimer did, I suppose, what pleased her best in her will," said
the young man, coldly; "Mrs. Ware had expectations, I believe, which
have been, you say, disappointed."
"And do you mean to tell me that you don't know that fact for certain?"
said the old gentleman, growing hot.
"I'm not certain of anything of which I have no proof, Sir Harry,"
answered Mr. Carmel. "If I were a Jesuit, and your statement were a just
one, still I should know no more about the facts than I do now; for it
would not be competent for me to inquire into the proceedings of my
superiors in the order. It is enough for me to say that I know nothing
of any such influence exerted by any human being upon Lady Lorrimer; and
I need scarcely add that I have never, by word or act, endeavoured ever
so slightly to influence Lady Lorrimer's dealings with her property!
Your ear, sir, has been abused by slander."
"By Jea! Here's modesty!" said Sir Harry, exploding in a gruff laugh of
scorn, and standing up. "What a pack o' gaumless gannets you must take
us for! Look-ye now, young sir. I have my own opinion about all that.
And tell your superiors, as you call them, they'll never get a plack of
old Harry Rokestone's money, while hand and seal can bind, and law's
law; and if I catch a priest in my house, ye may swear he'll get out of
it quicker than he came in. I'd thank you more for your letter, sir, if
I was a little more sure of the motive; and now I've said my say, and I
wish ye good evening."
With a fierce smile, the old man looked at him steadily for a few
seconds, and then turning abruptly, left the room and shut the door,
with a firm clap, after him.
That was, to me, an anxious night. Mamma continued ill; I had written
rather a wild note for our doctor; but he did not come for many hours.
He did not say much; he wrote a prescription, and gave some directions;
he was serious and reserved, which, in a physician, means alarm. In
answer to my flurried inquiries, as I went downstairs by his side, he
said:
"I told you, you recollect, that it is a capricious kind of thing; I
hope she may be better when I look in in the morning; the nature of it
is that it may end at any time, with very little warning; but with
caution she may live a year, or possibly two years. I've known cases, as
discouraging as hers, where life has been prolonged for three years."
Next morning came, and I thought mamma much better. I told her all that
was cheery in the doctor's opinion, and amused her with plans for our
future. But the hour was drawing near when doctors' opinions, and
friends' hopes and flatteries, and the kindly illusions of plans looking
pleasantly into an indefinite future, were to be swallowed in the
tremendous event.
About half an hour before our kind doctor's call, mamma's faintness
returned. I now began, and not an hour too soon, to despair. The
medicine he had ordered the day before, to support her in those
paroxysms, had lost its power. Mamma had been for a time in the
drawing-room, but having had a long fainting-fit there, I persuaded her,
so soon as she was a little recovered, to return to her bed.
I find it difficult, I may say, indeed, impossible, to reduce the
occurrences of this day to order. The picture is not, indeed, so chaotic
as my recollection of the times and events that attended my darling
Nelly's death. The shock, in that case, had affected my mind. But I do
not believe that any one retains a perfectly arranged recollection of
the flurried and startling scenes that wind up our hopes in the dread
catastrophe. I never met a person yet who could have told the story of
such a day with perfect accuracy and order.
I don't know what o'clock it was when the doctor came. There is
something of the character of sternness in the brief questions, the low
tone, and the silent inspection that mark his last visit to the
sick-room. What is more terrible than the avowed helplessness that
follows, and his evident acquiescence in the inevitable?
"Don't go. Oh, don't go yet; wait till I come back, only a few minutes;
there might be a change, and something might be done."
I entreated; I was going up to mamma's room; I had come down with him to
the drawing-room.
"Well, my dear, I'll wait." He looked at his watch. "I'll remain with
you for ten minutes."
I suppose I looked very miserable, for I saw a great compassion in his
face. He was very good-natured, and he added, placing his hand upon my
arm, and looking gently in my face, "But, my poor child, you must not
flatter yourself with hopes, for I have none--there are none."
But what so headstrong and so persistent as hope? Terrible must be that
place where it never comes.
I had scarcely left the drawing-room, when Sir Harry Rokestone, of the
kindly change in whom I had spoken to our good doctor, knocked at the
hall-door. Our rustic maid, Anne Owen, who was crying, let him in, and
told him the sudden news; he laid his hand against the door-post and
grew pale. He did not say a word for as long as you might count twenty,
then he asked:
"Is the doctor here?"
The girl led the way to the drawing-room.
"Bad news, doctor?" said the tall old man, in an agitated voice, as he
entered, with his eyes fixed on Sir Jacob Lake. "My name is
Rokestone--Sir Harry Rokestone. Tell me, is it so bad as the servant
says? You have not given her up?"
The doctor shook his head; he advanced slowly a step or two to meet Sir
Harry, and said, in a low tone:
"Mrs. Ware is dying--sinking very fast."
Sir Harry walked to the mantelpiece, laid his hand on it, and stood
there without moving. After a little he turned again, and came to Sir
Jacob Lake.
"You London doctors--you're so hurried," he said, a little wildly, "from
place to place. I think--I think--look, doctor; save her! save her,
man!"--he caught the doctor's wrist in his hand--"and I'll make your
fortune. Ye need never do an hour's work more. Man was never so
rewarded, not for a queen."
The doctor looked very much offended; but, coarse as the speech was, it
was delivered with a pathetic and simple vehemence that disarmed him.
"You mistake me, sir," he said. "I take a very deep interest in this
case. I have known Mrs. Ware from the time when she came to live in
London. I hope I do my duty in every case, but in this I have been
particularly anxious, and I do assure you, if----What's that?"
It was, as Shakespeare says, "a cry of women," the sudden shrilly
clamour of female voices heard through distant doors.
The doctor opened the door, and stood at the foot of the stairs.
"Ay, that's it," he said, shaking his head a little. "It's all over."