As it happened, Horace Chase was the next person who entered the parlor.
He was touched when he saw the old-looking figure, with the pathetic
little heap in its lap. But when he perceived that the figure was
unconscious, he was much alarmed; summoning help, he sent hastily for a
doctor. After being removed to her own room, Mrs. Franklin was extremely
restless; she moved her head incessantly from side to side on the
pillow, and she seemed to be half blind; her mind wandered, and her
voice, as she spoke incoherently, was very weak. Then suddenly she sank
into a lethargic slumber. The doctor waited to see in what condition she
would waken; for there were symptoms he did not like. Miss Billy,
meanwhile, was installed as nurse.
Mrs. Kip, Maud Muriel, and Miss Billy had visited this house of mourning
many times since the arrival of the funeral procession two days before,
with the mother walking beside the coffin of her son. And now that this
poor mother was stricken down, they all came again, anxious to be of
use. Chase, who had always liked her gentle ways, selected Miss Billy.
Dolly knew nothing of her mother's prostration; for her pain (her old
enemy), having been deadened by an opiate, she was sleeping. In order
that she should not suspect what had happened, Miss Billy did not show
herself at all in Dolly's room; Rinda, who was accustomed to this
service, was established there on a pallet, ready to answer if called.
Chase had decided that he would wait for the doctor's report before
starting on his drive across the mountain; it would be satisfactory to
have something definite to tell Ruth. It was uncertain when that report
would come. But as he intended to set out, in spite of the darkness, the
first moment that it was possible, there was no use in going to bed.
Alone in the parlor, therefore, he first read through all the newspapers
he could find. Then, opening the window, he smoked a cigar or two.
Finally, his mind reverted, as it usually did when he was alone, to
business; drawing a chair to the table, he took out some memoranda and
sat down. Midnight passed. One o'clock came. Two o'clock. He still sat
there, absorbed. Mrs. Franklin's reading-lamp, burning brightly beside
him, lighted up his hard, keen face. For it looked hard now, with its
three deeply set lines, one on each side of the mouth, and one between
the eyes; and the eyes themselves were hard and sharp. But though the
business letter he was engaged upon was a masterpiece of shrewdness (as
those who received it would not fail to discover sooner or later), and
though it dealt with large interests that were important, the faintest
sound upstairs would have instantly caught the attention of its writer.
On a chair beside him were railroad time-tables, and a sheet of
commercial note-paper with two lines of figures jotted down in orderly
rows side by side; these represented the two probabilities regarding the
trains which his wife might take--their hours of departure and their
connections. He had received no telegrams, and this had surprised him.
"What can the little chap be about?" he had more than once thought. His
adjective "little" was not depreciatory; Malachi Hill was, in fact,
short. In addition, his fresh, pink-tinged complexion and bright blue
eyes gave him a boyish air. To Horace Chase, who was over six feet in
height, and whose dark face looked ten years older than it really was,
the young missionary (whom he sincerely liked) seemed juvenile; his
youthful appearance, in fact, combined with his unmistakable "grit" (as
Chase called it), had been the thing which had first attracted the
notice of the millionaire.
A little before three there was a sound. But it was not from upstairs,
it was outside; steps were coming up the path from the gate. The man in
the parlor went into the hall; and as he did so, to his surprise the
house-door opened and his wife came in.
Behind her there was a momentary vision of Malachi Hill. The clergyman,
however, did not enter; upon seeing Horace Chase, he closed the door
quietly and went away.
Ruth's face, even to the lips, was so white that her husband hastily
put his arm round her; then he drew her into the sitting-room, closing
the door behind them.
"Where is he?" Ruth had asked, or rather, her lips formed the words.
"Didn't you _wait_ for me?"
"My darling, he was buried yesterday," Chase answered, sitting down and
drawing her into his arms. "Didn't Hill tell you?"
"Yes, but I didn't believe it. I thought you would wait for me; I
thought you would _know_ that I wanted to see him."
"No one saw him after we left Raleigh, dear. The coffin was not opened
again."
"If I had been here, mother would have--_mother_ would have--"
"It was your mother who arranged everything," Chase explained gently, as
with careful touch he took off her hat, and then her gloves; her hands
were icy, and he held them in his to warm them.
"Where _is_ mother? And Dolly? Weren't they expecting me? Didn't they
_know_ I would come?"
"Your mother is sick upstairs. No, don't get up--you can't see her now;
she is asleep, and mustn't be disturbed. But the first moment she wakes
up the doctor is to let me know, and then you shall go to her right
away. Miss Breeze is up there keeping watch. Dolly has broken down, too.
But Dolly's case is no worse than it has often been before, and you'd
better let her sleep while she can. And now, will you stay here with me,
Ruthie, till the doctor comes? Or would you rather go to bed? If you'll
go, I promise to tell you the minute your mother wakes." He put his hand
on her head protectingly, and kissed her cheek. Her face was cold. Her
whole frame had trembled incessantly from the moment of her entrance.
"My darling little girl, how tired you are!"
"Tell me everything--everything about Jared," Ruth demanded, feverishly.
Though she was so white, it was evident that she had not shed tears; her
eyes were bright, her lips were parched. Her husband, with his
rough-and-ready knowledge of women, knew that it would be better for her
to "have her cry out," as he would have phrased it; it would quiet her
excitement and subdue her so that she would sleep. As she could not eat,
he gave her a spoonful of brandy from his own flask, and wrapped her
cold feet in his travelling-shawl; then, putting her on the sofa, he sat
down beside her, and, holding her tenderly in his arms, he told her the
story of Jared's last hours.
His account was truthful, save that he softened the details. In his
narrative Mrs. Nightingale's shabby house became homelike and
comfortable, and Jared's bare attic a pleasant place; Mrs. Nightingale
herself (here there was no need for exaggeration) was an angel of
kindness. He dwelt upon Jared's having agreed to go with him to New
York. "I had planned to start at nine o'clock the next morning, Ruthie,
having a doctor along without his knowing it; and I had ordered a
private car--a Pullman sleeper--to go through to New York; once there, I
thought you could make him take a good long rest. That kind woman had
been sitting up at night in the room next to his. So I fixed that by
taking the same room myself. I didn't undress, but I guess I fell
asleep; and I woke up hearing him talking. And then he walked about the
room, and he even climbed out on the roof; but we soon got him back all
right. Everything possible was done, dear; the best doctor in Raleigh,
and a nurse--two of 'em. But it was no use. It was brain-fever, or
inflammation of the brain rather, and after it had left him he was too
weak to rally. They thought everything of him at Raleigh; your mother
wanted him brought here, and when we went to the depot, everybody who
had ever known him turned out, so that there was a long procession; and
all the ladies of his boarding-house brought flowers. At Old Fort, I had
intended to let Hill (I had wired to him to meet us there) take charge
of them across the mountains, for I wanted to go to New York to get
_you_. But the night was dark, and the road is always so bad that I
thought, on the whole, you'd rather have me stay with your mother. And
she has been tolerably well, too, until this afternoon, when she had an
attack of some sort. But I guess it's only that she is overtired; the
doctor will probably come down and tell us so before long."
"I _wanted_ to see him," repeated Ruth, her eyes still dry and bright.
"It was very little to do for me, I think. If I could have just taken
his poor hand once--even if it _was_ dead! Everybody else got there in
time to speak to him, to say good-by."
"No; your mother didn't get there," Chase explained.
"She didn't get there? And Genevieve _did?_ I know it by your face. Let
me go to mother--poor mother! Let me go to her, and _never_ leave her
again."
"You shall go the instant she wakes; you shall stay with her as long as
you like," Chase answered, drawing her down again, and putting his cheek
against her head as it lay on his breast. "There is nothing in the world
I wouldn't do for your mother; you have only to choose. And for Dolly,
too. You shall stay with them; or they can go with you; or anything you
think best, my poor little girl."
Ruth still trembled, and no tears came to her relief.
Her cry, "And Genevieve _did?_" had struck him. "How they all hate her?"
he thought.
He had seen Genevieve since Mrs. Franklin's attack; he had gone over for
a moment to tell her what had happened.
Genevieve, when driven from L'Hommedieu, had taken refuge in her own
room at the Cottage; here, behind her locked door, she had spent a long
hour in examining herself searchingly, examining her whole married life.
Her hands had trembled as she looked over her diaries, and as she
turned the pages of her "Questions for the Conscience." But with all her
efforts she could not discern any point where she had failed. Finally,
at the end of the examination, she summed the matter up more calmly: "It
_was_ best for Jared to be out of the navy; he was forming habits there
that I understood better than his mother. And I _know_ that I am not
avaricious. I know that I have always tried to do what was best for him,
that I have tried to elevate him and help him in every way. I have
worked hard--hard. I have never ceased to work. It is all a falsehood,
or, rather, it is a delusion; for she is, she _must_ be, insane." Having
reached this conclusion (with Genevieve conclusions were final), she put
away her diaries and went down-stairs to tea. When Chase came in and
told what had happened, she said, with the utmost pity, "I am _not_
surprised! When she comes out of it, I fear you will find, Horace, that
her mind is affected. But surely it is natural. Mamma's mind--poor, dear
mamma!--never was very strong; and, in this great grief which has
overwhelmed us all, it has given way. We must make every allowance for
her." She told him nothing of her terrible half-hour at L'Hommedieu. She
never told any one. Silence was the only proper course--a pitying
silence over Jay's poor mother, his crazed mother.
Ruth had paid no heed to her husband's soothing words, his promise to do
everything that he possibly could for her mother and Dolly. "What did
Jared say? You were with him before he was ill. Tell me everything,
everything!"
He tried to satisfy her. Then he attempted to draw her thoughts in
another direction. "How did you get here so soon, Ruthie? I told Hill to
make you stop over and sleep."
"Sleep!" repeated Ruth. "I only thought of one thing, and that was to
get here in time to see him." She left the sofa. "You ought to have
waited for me. It would have been better if you had. _Jared_ was the one
I cared for. One look at his face, even if he _was_ dead. Where did they
put him when they brought him home? For I know mother had him here, here
and not at the Cottage. It was in this room, wasn't it? In the centre of
the floor?" She walked to the middle of the room and stood there.
"_Jared_ could have helped me," she said, miserably. "Why did they take
my _brother_--the one person I had!"
The door opened and the doctor entered. "_You_ here, Mrs. Chase? I
didn't know you had come." He hesitated.
"What is it?" said Ruth, going to him. "Tell me! _Tell_ me."
The doctor glanced at Chase.
Chase came up, and took his wife's hand protectingly. "You may as well
tell her."
"It is a stroke of paralysis," explained the doctor, gravely.
"But she'll _know_ me?" cried Ruth in an agony of tears.
"She _may_. You can go up if you like."
But the mother saw nothing, heard nothing on earth again. She might live
for years. But she did not know her own child.
Chase came at last, and took his wife away.
"Oh, be good to me, Horace, or I shall die! I think I _am_ dying now,"
she added in sudden terror.
She clung to him in alarm. His immense kindness was now her refuge.