The next morning after the encounter on the road, all nature seemed
refreshed, rehabilitated. The grass sparkled green with rain, the
trees glittered in the sun, the air was pure and cool and sweet. Not a
cloud darkened the sky. The whole world seemed full of joy and lusty
health. One felt that something had occurred, some burden had been
withdrawn from the earth, some portentous influence had retired.
Early bathers were hurrying towards the strand before Dr. O'Malley
was stirring. When he awoke, the events of the previous night at
once flashed into his mind. "Here's a nice pickle," he thought.
"Mysterious event--two men half-killed--both deserve to be killed, no
doubt--eminent medical man called in--eminent medical man treats with
the utmost skill--no confidence beyond confidence in his professional
ability reposed in medical man--medical man entrusted with a
Mission--Mission to console Beauty--infernal nuisance!--infernal
nuisance, Tom O'Malley! I suppose there's nothing for it but to keep
your word, and do half-an-hour's clever lying to this Miracle."
Between seven and eight o'clock the post was delivered in Glengowra.
"I'll wait till I see if there are any letters," said O'Malley to
himself. "My appointment as Surgeon-General to the Forces may at this
moment be the property of Her Majesty's Postmaster-General. I suppose
if they do offer I must accept. Oh, dear! why didn't I think of making
love to this Paragon? Poor girl! It's no laughing matter for her this
morning."
The post brought no letter for Dr. O'Malley, and as soon as the
carrier had gone by, O'Malley put on his hat and set out for the house
where Mrs. Creagh lived.
The postman was still in the street, and O'Malley gradually overtook
him. At the rate the two men walked, allowing for time lost by the
postman in delivering letters, the doctor would arrive at Mrs.
Creagh's half-an-hour before the other. He found all stirring at the
widow's place.
He had some doubt as to whether he should tell the mother first; but,
on second consideration, he decided that Miss Creagh was entitled to
the earliest news. He knocked at the door and was shown in. "When
Nellie entered the room she was dressed in white, the same dress she
had worn that day he threw away the flowers and used words instead. Of
all the things looking fresh to the doctor's eyes that morning she
seemed freshest. The bloom of perfect health was on her cheek, the
light of perfect health was in her eye. She wore no ornament but her
engaged ring and a rose in her hair.
"It's a pity," thought the little doctor, "that such a glorious
creature as that should ever be troubled or grow old. What are kings
and princes and all the powers and vanities of the world--what are all
your Roman triumphs--compared to such amazing perfection?"
"A very early call," he said, "but I was up and I thought I'd look in.
It would be impertinence to ask you how you are. I had a little
business this way, and, as I said, I thought I'd look in."
The girl smiled. Her face remained unclouded.
"I know a call at this hour is not convenient or considerate, but I
had a little thing to say to you."
"Something to say to me?" she said, with a look of gentle surprise.
What could he have to say to her so early? She smiled faintly as
though to encourage him; for now it struck her suddenly that what he
had to say was not pleasant.
"The fact is, a little accident has occurred. I am a doctor, and know
what I am saying. It is the merest scratch. You must not be alarmed.
There now, sit still."
She had risen. All the bloom had now left her cheeks. A little still
lingered at her lips. "You may tell me, Dr. O'Malley. I know he is not
dead. I can see that by your face. Where is he?"
"Sit down. My dear young lady, you are going too fast. Dead! Why he's
nearly as well as ever, and will be better than ever in a short time."
"Tell me all," she said. "May I go to him?"
"I haven't seen him this morning yet. Better wait till after
breakfast."
"Where is he?"
"At Maher's."
"Dr. O'Malley, tell me exactly what has happened."
Something strained and rigid in her voice warned him that he must be
quick if he meant to be merciful. "There was a stupid quarrel of some
kind," he said, "and he got a slight wound--I assure you not in the
least dangerous."
"With whom was the quarrel?"
"With Mr. Lavirotte."
"Mr. Lavirotte--Mr. Lavirotte! Did Mr. Lavirotte _stab_ Eugene?"
"Yes, a mere nothing, though, a pin-hole. You will be angry with me
for causing you any uneasiness when you know how slight it is."
"Why did Lavirotte stab Eugene?"
"Because there was some foolish quarrel; I really don't know what.
It's ridiculous to call the thing a stab; it's a mere scratch."
"Is Lavirotte hurt?"
"Yes; he is more hurt than O'Donnell. But putting the two hurts
together, I assure you they're hardly worth talking of."
The straightforward calmness of this girl was terrifying him. He was
becoming fidgety, and not well able to gauge the value of the words he
used.
"You know the cause of the quarrel?"
"Upon my honour I do not."
"You know the cause of the quarrel. We need not mention it now. You
see how calm I am. You must tell me the truth. Are you sure _neither_
of these men will die?"
"I--I----"
"Mind, _sure?_"
"I am as sure as man can be O'Donnell will not die."
"But Lavirotte will?"
"Lavirotte may. It is impossible to say. I left him unconscious. He is
unconscious still."
"I will not wait till after breakfast. I will go now. Stay a moment--I
must tell mother, and get my hat; I will not keep you long."
As the girl left the room, the postman turned into that street. As she
came into the room again, with her hat and gloves on, the postman
walked up the little garden and handed in a letter. It bore the Dublin
postmark, and was addressed to "Miss Creagh." Her mother, who was in
the hall, took the letter into the room where the doctor and the girl
were standing. "A letter for you, Nellie," the mother said. "Will you
keep it until you come back? It's from Ruth, I think."
"I'll take it with me," said the girl, and put the letter in her
pocket. "Ruth," she said, in the same calm, unmoved voice, "is one of
my pupils in Dublin. Now, Dr. O'Malley, if you are ready, let us go."
"She will not let me go with her," said the mother, in a tone of
concern.
"I am better alone, mother," said the girl, and she turned and moved
out of the room.
O'Malley followed her, and in a few minutes, which were passed in
silence, they were at the hotel. O'Malley went upstairs to the room
where O'Donnell lay.
"All going on well?" he said briskly to the patient. He went through
the ordinary formalities. "Yes," he said, "all going on well. Very
little fever. We shall have you all right in time for your wedding.
You can go away then and pick up strength, amuse yourself for a month
or two."
"Have you seen her?" asked O'Donnell. "How did she take it?"
"Yes, I've seen her. She took it like an angel, like a heroine. I gave
her leave to come and see you later."
"When do you think she'll be here?" asked the invalid.
"Oh, at some reasonable time. Young ladies don't visit at eight
o'clock in the morning. You'll promise to keep yourself quiet when she
does come?"
"Very quiet. Did she get a great shock?"
"Not so much a shock as a turn. Will you promise to be very quiet if I
let her come soon? The fact is, O'Donnell, she will be here in a few
minutes. There, of course, you guessed it; she is here already; she
came with me. Now I'll go down, and she may come up and see you, but
you must not talk too much."
While the brisk little doctor was preparing O'Donnell for the visit of
Nellie, the latter took out her letter and began to read it. Suddenly
her face, which had been pallid ever since she heard the bad news,
flushed, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay. "Such news," she
cried, "and on this morning!" The letter ran as follows:
"My dear Nellie, I told you I would write you if there was any news.
There is news, and very bad news, I am sorry to say. Papa came home in
the middle of the day quite unexpectedly, and told mamma that all was
over and we were ruined. I don't think it's known in town yet, but
mother told me everyone would know it to-morrow. This is dreadful.
Mamma and papa are awfully cut up. I write you this news at once,
because, of course, dear, you are greatly interested in Mr. O'Donnell,
and his father is in some way mixed up with papa. I hope it will not
hurt your _friend_." Then followed an account of some family matters,
and the signature, "Ruth Vernon."
"I must not say a word of this to Eugene now," she thought. "He told
me his father was very largely mixed up with Mr. Vernon. Of course I
could not tell Eugene. I feared there was something wrong there, but I
was bound in honour, and by my promise to Ruth, not to speak of it to
anybody living. When I met him first on the beach, and Lavirotte
introduced us, I was greatly struck by the coincidence that I should
meet him, knowing as I did, that he might suffer greatly if anything
happened to Mr. Vernon."
In a few minutes O'Malley came down and said she might go up. "He is
getting on well," he said cheerfully, "and there's nothing in the
world to fear."
That day went over quietly at Glengowra. Early in the afternoon
Lavirotte recovered consciousness. The police had got scent of the
affair, and were making inquiries.
In the afternoon news reached the village that the great banking-house
of Vernon and Son had failed for an enormous sum. It was kept from
O'Donnell, but Lavirotte heard it. "I must telegraph to London," he
said. "Someone must write the telegram for me." The body of the
message ran as follows:
"Vernon and Son bankrupt. See about your money at once. Am ill, and
cannot go over."
When the telegram reached London it was delivered to a young woman of
twenty years of age, who grew pale and flushed, and flushed and pale
again, upon reading it. "What?" she cried, "Dominique ill. My darling
suffering and I not near him. I will leave to-night for Glengowra.
Stop! I must get money somewhere first. I have none, not a penny--the
attorney told me he would have my money to-day. These people are
pressing me for the rent. They are hateful creatures. I will go
to the solicitor at once. I can pay what I owe then, and go over by
to-night's mail."
She put on her things. The landlady was waiting in the hall. The
landlady would feel obliged if Miss Harrington would give her the rent
now, before going out. She really must insist on being paid now. She
could not afford to give six weeks' credit, and she had had an
application for the rooms. There were six guineas for the rooms and
ten guineas for meat and drink, sixteen in all. Would Miss Harrington
pay or leave, please?
Miss Harrington would pay upon her return from her solicitor.
Oh, that old story about the solicitor! People could not go on
believing this old tale for ever. If Miss Harrington did not bring the
money with her, she need not come back that day. Whatever she had
upstairs would not pay half the bill, and indeed Miss Harrington ought
not to go out with her watch and chain and leave struggling people so
pressed for money.
The tears were now falling fast from the young girl's eyes. She was
alone, friendless, in London. She had not a coin in her possession.
She took off her watch and chain and laid them silently upon the hall
table. She made a great effort at self-control, and said, pointing to
the third finger of her left hand: "I have nothing else of value but
this. Shall I leave it also? It was given to me by one very dear to
me."
"It would help," said the landlady, "and I have my husband and
children to think of."
Then she took off the ring--his ring--the ring he had given her to
wear until he gave her a simpler one with a holier meaning. She put
the ring down on the table beside the watch and chain. Then her heart
hardened against this woman, and no more tears came, and bowing
slightly she said good-bye and left the place, meaning never to
return.
She went to her solicitor's. He was away. Would his managing clerk do?
Yes, anyone who could give her information about her affairs.
The managing clerk had bad news--it was terrible news indeed. They had
not been able to get the money from Vernon and Son. Vernon and Son
were bankrupts according to to-day's reports, and all her money was
gone.
Would there be none of it coming to her?
No. Owing to the way in which the money was lent there was no chance
of getting any back.
Then she left the office, homeless, friendless, penniless. She had not
even a shilling to telegraph to him--her Dominique. Whither should she
go? Where should she turn?
To the river.