"They are through for the present and coming down now."
"Then I will go to him. Oh, but I must"--this to the horrified little
Sister's upraised hands of protest and headshake of negation.
"It's against all rules," ejaculated the little Sister.
Miss Blair addressed herself to the young doctor.
"Kindly take me to the room," she said.
The abashed young fellow looked from one to the other. But he started.
The little Sister, however, hastily interposing herself between Miss
Blair and progress, was heard to murmur that name of authority--the
Mother.
"Go and bring her," said Harriet.
The Sister departed in haste, to return speedily with the Mother, her
calm face beneath its bands mild, benignant, but inexorable.
"But I am," returned Harriet to anything she could say. "I am going to
him."
The dominant calmness of the Mother had met its equal. Finally, in her
turn, she retreated behind authority and mentioned Father Ryan.
"Oh," said Harriet, "go and bring him."
He came, heavy of jowl, keen and humorous of eye, but his manner
disturbed, distraught, as with one whose absorption is elsewhere.
Suddenly Harriet remembered that he was the intimate, the friend of
Major Rathbone.
"I am going to him," said Harriet; "nothing that you can say makes
any difference."
The Father gazed at her thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "No," he said;
"you are right; nothing will."
Just then the two other physicians came down the stairs.
"A word with you first, gentlemen, please," said the Father. The four
men gathered at the foot of the stairway.
Watching, an outsider would have said that the priest and the young
doctor were pleaders with the others for the cause of Miss Blair.
Later, the Mother herself led Harriet up the stairs and along a
corridor, the young doctor following with Alexina.
"I think I--do you think I ought to go with her?" Alexina had faltered
to him.
The two young things gazed at each other indeterminate. Alexina's
eyes were swimming, like a child's, with unshed tears. Never has
tragedy such epic qualities as in youth. Then he turned and led the
way. "Yes," he told her, "I think if I were you I would."
Harriet was by the bed when they entered, gazing down on the lean,
brown face of the man, whose eyes were closed. The Sister in charge,
sitting on the other side, was speaking in a low voice. Had she seen
fit to tell what she knew?
For Harriet turned as they entered and looked at them. Her face was
set as in marble. It was cold, it was stern; only, the eyes fixed on
the young doctor's face were imploring.
"Will he wake first?" she asked.
The young fellow seemed to shrink before the majesty of her suffering.
Alexina put out a hand to touch her and drew it back, afraid. If only
she were not so superbly self-controlled.
"Yes, he will most likely awake," he assured her, and must have done
so even if he had not thought it.
She took off her hat, a large, festive affair with plumes and jewelled
buckles, and dropped her wrap. There was a low chair near the bed. She
drew it close and sat down, her eyes on the face on the pillow. Jewels
gleamed in the lace of her gown, and the shining silk of its folds
trailed the floor about her.
Alexina stole across to a far and shadowed corner of the room and sat
down by a table. She was crying and striving to keep it noiseless.
The doctor stood irresolute, then made a movement.
"Do you have to go?" said Harriet, turning.
"No; I expect to be here in the building all night. There might come
a--change."
"Stay, please," she asked him; "here."
He sat down by the open fire and she turned again to the face on the
pillow.
The night passed. Now and then the Sister moved noiselessly about, or
the doctor came to the bedside, lifted the inert hand, laid it down,
and went back to the fire.
Alexina moved from her chair to the window or to the fire and back
again. Now and again she knew that she must have slept a little, her
head against the table. So the night passed.
The square framed by the window sash was turning grey when there came
a movement, and the eyelids of the face on the pillow lifted. Harriet
was leaning over before the others, the nurse or doctor, got to the
bed, and must have been there when the eyes opened. She must have seen
consciousness of her presence in them, too, and possibly questioning,
for she spoke rapidly, eagerly, like one who had said the thing over
and over in readiness for the moment, though her voice shook. "You
said you loved me from your soul, and, living or dead, would go on
loving and wanting my love?"
There seemed no wonder in the voice replying, only content. There was
even the usual touch of humour in his reply. "And will go on wanting
your love," he said.
"But I am here to tell you how I love you," she returned.
The room was still, like death. Then in the man's voice: "Is this
pity, Harriet?"
Her voice hurried on. "And how, living or dead, I will go on loving
and wanting you."
It was no pity that trembled in her voice, it was passion. He moved.
After a time he spoke again. It was to call her name, to say it as to
himself. This time he knew it was love this woman was talking of, not
pity.
"I could not bear it that you should not know," she hurried on to tell
him. "I made them let me come to you."
"You know then, Harriet; they have told you?"
She was human; the sound that broke from her was the cry of a rent
soul.
The doctor, who had gone back to the mantel, crouched over the fire.
The Sister seemed to shrink into the shadows beyond the narrow bed.
Alexina clenched her hands, her head on her arms outstretched on the
table.
But Harriet had regained herself. "I am here to ask you something.
May I be married to you--now--at once, I mean?"
His response was not audible, only her reply. "Oh, surely you will.
For the rest of my life--to have been--you will give me this, won't
you?"
There was a quick movement from him, and a sound of warning from the
nurse who moved forward out of the shadow.
Material things seemed to come back to Harriet. Alarm sprang into her
voice. "Shall I go away?" she asked the nurse, even timidly.
The answer came from him. "No; oh, no. Since it may be for so little
time I may ask it of you; stay with me, Harriet."
She turned to the doctor.
"Stay," he told her, poor boy, new to these things.
"Then give me my way," Harriet begged, turning back again. She had
forgotten the others already. "You said that after what happened
between you and Austen you wanted it known how you felt to me. Haven't
I the same right and more, since it was my brother who said it, to
want the world to know how I feel to you?"
They could feel the laugh in his reply. "The world, the world, as if
you ever cared for what the world--come, be honest, Harriet; you say
this in the generous desire of making it up to me."
"But I do--I do care. I could clap my hands, I could glory to cry it
from the house-tops, how I care, how I am here, on my knees, begging
you will marry me."
"You are kneeling? Yes? Kneel then; even that, since it brings you
closer. But let's not talk of this now. I'm not used to the knowledge
of the first yet. Will you put your hand in mine, Harriet?"
The girl over in the shadow felt that her heart would break. And this
was love. The great, sad thing was love!
He was talking again. "I never thought, surely, to be a stick of a man
like this. I could have made a royal lover, Harriet. A man's blood at
forty is like wine at its fulness. My head--won't lift--God, that it
should come to find me like this! yet, kiss me, will you, Harriet?"
But a moment and she returned to her pleading. "They will send me away
from you, you know, I have no right to be here--unless you give it to
me?"
Was she using this, the inference, to move him?