Richard felt very bitter as he followed Mrs Jenkles across the road.
Mingled with pity for the poor girl he was about to visit, there was a
sense of resentment; for she seemed to have been the cause of pain and
sorrow to one he dearly loved. And yet, how innocent and gentle she
was--how unlike any one he had met before! Pity may or may not be akin
to love, but certainly it was very strong in Richard's breast at the
present moment.
"If you'll step in the kitchen just a moment, sir, I'll see if you can
go up," said Mrs Jenkles, smoothing her apron.
She ushered the visitor into the clean, bright place, where Sam was
seated by the fireside, looking very hard at his pipe.
"How do, sir, how do?" he said. "Take a cheer, sir."
"Thanks, no, Sam, I'll stand," said Richard, quietly. "But where's your
pipe?"
"There it hangs, sir," said Sam, folding his arms and looking at it.
"No tobacco?"
"Plenty, sir," said Sam; "but I've put the pipe out at home, sir: cos
why? It sets that poor gal a-coughing, and that spoils it. It's a
wonder, aint it, as doctors can't do more?"
Further converse was cut short by the entrance of Mrs Jenkles, who
beckoned their visitor to come, and he followed her upstairs to the neat
little front room, where a pang shot through Richard as he saw the
change. Netta was half lying on a couch, propped up by pillows, and
beside her, on a table, were the two plants he had sent across,
evidently carefully tended,--not a withered leaf to be seen amongst
their luxuriant foliage, while she who had made them her care lay there,
white, shrunken, and so changed.
There was a bright smile of pleasure flickering about her lips, and a
ray of gladness flashing from her eyes, as she held out her hands to
him--hands that he caught in his and kissed, as he sank on his knees by
her side.
"My poor girl!" he exclaimed, huskily, "is it so bad as this?"
"I'm so glad you are come," she whispered; and then she lay gazing at
him, as if her very soul were passing from her eyes to his. "I've
longed and prayed so for this. I thought once that it wasn't to be--
that I was never to see you again; but I'm better now."
"Better--yes; and you'll soon grow strong and well again."
"Do you think so?" she said, looking at him wistfully, while an
incredulous smile was upon her lips. "But don't let's talk of that.
Sit down by me, where I can see you--I've so much to say."
He drew a chair to her side, and, as he did so, he saw that they were
alone, for Mrs Lane had gone out softly directly he had entered. Then
sitting down, the note which he had received fell from his pocket, and
lay half beneath the couch.
"You are not angry with me for sending for you?" said the girl,
piteously. "Why do you frown?"
"Did I frown?" he said, gently. "It was only a passing thought. There,
now, let's have a quiet, long chat."
"Yes," she said, eagerly. "I want to thank you for being so kind to
us--for the fruit and flowers, and all you have done for mamma. As for
me," she continued, laying her hand in his, "I shall be so ungrateful."
"No, no, I cannot believe that."
"Yes," she said, smiling, "you have done so much to make me well, and in
return I shall die."
"My dear child, you must not talk like this," exclaimed Richard, with an
involuntary shiver. "You must get well and strong again."
She shook her head sadly, and then lay gazing up into his eyes.
"Netta," he said, gently, "you have thought a great deal about me since
you have been ill."
"Yes--oh yes," she said.
"Looking back, then, do you blame me--do you think I was cruel, and led
you on to think I loved you?"
"No," she said, and her hand closed almost convulsively on his. "I
don't think so now. I have thought it all over, and it was my folly and
weakness. I seem to have grown old since then, and to have become so
much wiser. That's all past now; but I want you to tell me, first, that
you did not think me forward then, and strange."
"My child," said Richard, "I have felt that the blame has been on my
side, and it has caused me many a pang."
"But it is all past now," said Netta, eagerly. "I know--I can see
plainly enough. You knew better how ill I was than I did, and pitied
and were very sorry for me; and it seemed so sweet to me that--that I
could not help watching for you--feeling glad when you came. But that's
all past now, and you said we could be friends."
"Indeed, yes," he said, gazing into the great, brilliant eyes; but in a
sad, dreamy way, for he could read but too plainly the coming end.
"And you forgive me--quite forgive me?" she murmured.
"My poor child, I have nothing to forgive," he said, leaning over and
kissing her forehead.
"Thank you," she murmured, closing her eyes; and she lay silent for a
few moments. Then, brightening, she said, "Now tell me again about
her."
He remained silent, and she repeated her request--almost impatiently.
"Tell me her name."
He looked at her wonderingly for a few moments, before he answered,
softly--
"Valentina."
"Valentina," said Netta, smiling. "Yes, a pretty name--Valentina. I
shall love it as I love her."
"You love her?"
"Yes, though I have never seen her. Did you not tell me that she loved
you? You think me strange," she continued, smiling in his face, "but I
am not. Why, if you could have loved me, I could not have stayed, and
you would have been unhappy. It is for the best, and I shall know that
you are content."
"Netta," said Richard, hoarsely, "you must not talk like this."
"Why not?" she said, wonderingly. "All the trouble seems past to me.
Now I know you feel for me--I believe you like me. Everybody seems kind
to me now, and that foolish little dream has quite passed away. Come,
tell me about her. I should like to know her. Would she come to see
me--if she knew that I was dying?"
"Yes, I feel sure she would, if she knew all," said Richard, sadly.
"She is everything that is gentle and good, and would have loved you
dearly, Netta. You may meet yet."
"I should like to see her," said the girl, enthusiastically, "that I
might tell her how noble and good you are. There, you see how I make an
idol of my brother Richard."
He started, and looked hard at her.
"Yes," she said, "brother Richard--you were behaving like a dear brother
to me, only I could not understand. I never had a brother, but you will
be one to me still. You will not stay away, Richard, even if I love
you, for it is a chastened love now--one that I need not feel ashamed to
own. You'll not stay away, but come and sit with me, and read to me, as
you did before?"
He shook his head sadly.
"Yes--yes, you will come," she cried, putting her hands together. "I
shall have something to live for then--a little longer--and we can sit
and talk of her--of Valentina. If you stay away--I--I--shall--die."
It was no fiction of the lips, and Richard knew it, as her voice grew
weaker, and she seemed to droop. The mark was upon her face, telling
that she was one of those soon to fall. Her pitiful appeal went to his
heart; and raising her in his arms, he pillowed her head upon his
shoulder, and kissed her quivering, pallid lips, as in a voice broken
with emotion he muttered in the familiar old scriptural words--
"God do so to me, and more also, my poor stricken lamb, if I do not try
and smooth your poor, thorny path."
Once, and once only, did her poor, thin lips respond to his caress.
Then, her transparent, white hand was passed lightly over his forehead;
her eyes closed, and with a faint sigh of content, she lay quite still,
her fluttering breath telling, at the end of a few minutes, that she
had, thoroughly exhausted, fallen asleep.
Volume 3, Chapter XIII.