"Asleep!"
"You, sir? I--I suppose I must have been," faltered Sarah.
"Well, why not? I just came to see if you were within reach, in case I
wanted you."
"Master, sir?"
"Just the same."
The doctor went out just as silently as he had entered, and Sarah heard
the study door softly close, when once more she uttered the same low,
moaning sigh, and rocked herself to and fro in her chair as she seemed
to see the hard, thin face of her husband gazing straight at her, as she
had seen it when he was dying in their cottage, and laying upon her the
terrible duty she was to fulfil.
How long she sat like that she could not tell, but hours must have
passed unnoted--hours during which, with eyes unvisited by sleep, she
had gone on and on through her old life, and the scenes, when her
husband had returned from his work, bitterly reviling Gartram for some
real or fancied wrong, and then a light seemed to flash into the room
like the light she had been expecting, and the doctor stood before her
with a curious, intense look in his countenance, one she recalled
vividly as having been there on the day her husband died.
Meanwhile Claude and Mary had sat talking for some time about the
strange ending of the evening. Claude, in spite of her anxiety on her
father's behalf, feeling half pleased, half frightened by Glyddyr's
acts.
He appeared so strange, she thought, so shrinking in her presence, and
so fearful of intruding upon her, even to be ready to go away.
Was this the man's real love for her? Did he really care for her? and
was she misjudging him in thinking that his desire was for her future
prospects alone--her money?
She shuddered with dread lest he really should love her, and then her
heart sank lower and lower, for the stern, upbraiding look of Chris
Lisle was before her. The face of the boy companion, for whom she had
always felt a warm affection, one which she knew in her heart, though
she had not confessed it, had ripened into woman's love for man.
"Are we going to sit up, or try to sleep, Claude?" said Mary at last.
"I am going to sit up, Mary. You are going to lie down and sleep."
"Doctor Asher said that we were both to lie down and rest."
"Yes; and you will do so. I could not sleep if I did. It is
impossible."
"But uncle is not seriously ill now, dear."
"How do we know, Mary? He is not as he should be. I know--I feel that
he is in an unnatural state."
Mary slowly rose, walked across the room to the washstand, and stood
there for some minutes before turning to her cousin.
"There," she said; "now I feel as you do--that it would be impossible to
sleep. Let's have a quiet talk about uncle, and see if we cannot devise
some means for making him think less about the quarry and money. Oh,
Claudie, what a happy world this would be if there were no money and no
love."
Claude made no reply but sat gazing out through the window at the sea,
where the moon, now high in the heavens, sent a path of silvery light
along the dark waters, while, from far below, the waves washed and
whispered among the rocks with a musical, plashing sound that rose in a
drowsy murmur to the window against which she sat.
"Claude, dear, shall I shut the window now? Isn't it too cool on a
night like this?"
Claude turned to her, and looked rather vacantly in her face.
"The tide is going out fast, Mary," she said, in a low, dreamy whisper.
"Don't you ever feel that there may be some truth in what they say, that
people who are near the end pass away from us with the falling tide?"
"Claudie, dear, are you going to be ill?"
"I hope not."
"And so do I; but do you know you are talking a lot of dreamy nonsense,
such as is most distressing at a time like this. We haven't got anybody
near the end. Oh, what nonsense! It's all old-fashioned silliness."
Claude shook her head.
"No," she said, "there is something in it all, Mary, and to-night it is
as if some great trouble were coming upon us."
"Are you going to set up for a prophetess, dear?"
"Shall we go down and see how my father is, Mary?"
"And insult Dr Asher by setting his commands at defiance. No; I am
going to sit here patiently till morning, unless he sends word to us
that uncle has woke up, and that he has gone to bed like a Christian.
Claude, dear, your father must be a very unhappy man."
"Then it is our duty to try and make him happy."
"By doing everything he wishes us to do?"
Claude felt the hot blood flush into her cheeks again and she made no
reply. She only turned to look out at the broad path of light
stretching far away over the sea, and, as the water murmured about the
rocks, it was as if some solemn spell of silence had fallen upon them,
influencing Mary so that she ceased speaking, leaving the bantering
remarks ready, unsaid. Claude put her arm around her cousin, and laid
her head upon her shoulder, thinking of the words that had been spoken,
and of why they were sitting up, till her heart almost sank, and the sea
began to be to her full of strange whisperings and portents of some
trouble to come.
And so hour after hour glided by, till they were chilled by the cold
night air, but neither moved till they were electrified by a quick,
light tapping on the door, which was opened before they could reach it,
and from out of the darkness came a husky voice which sounded familiar.
"Come down, Miss Claude, at once."
"Ah! Woodham? How is he?"
"Don't ask me, my dear, but make haste down. You may be wanted. Doctor
Asher wishes me to go and fetch Doctor Rixton."
"But why? What for?"
"Miss Claude, dear, don't ask me," said the woman, in suffocating tones,
as she turned slowly away.
Claude hurriedly followed her down toward the study door, where she
stood trembling for a few moments, feeling that there had then been a
meaning in the portent which had troubled her that night. Then, turning
the handle, she went into the room.
"Well, back so soon?" said the doctor, whose face was from her. "Is he
coming?"
"Doctor Asher."
"You, Miss Gartram!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he turned sharply
round. "What is it? Why have you come?"
"Woodham called me. What is the matter? Is he worse?"
"Hush!" said the doctor, in a hurried way, as he took her hand. "Don't
be agitated. We must hope for the best, and--"
"Then he is worse," cried Claude, breaking from him and running to her
father's side, but only to shrink back.
For the light had been shifted so that it should fall upon Gartram's
fixed, stern face, in which she read so terrible a reality that it was
as if a hand of ice had clutched her heart, paralysing thought and
action, so that she stood there with staring eyes and parted lips,
feeling that she was in the presence of death.
Then the reaction came, and, uttering a gasp, her womanly, helpful
nature came to the front.
"I am not a child," she said in a quick, passionate voice. "Tell me;
how is this? When was he taken worse? Doctor Asher, why don't you
speak to me? Tell me what I can do to help."
He shook his head.
"I am doing everything possible, and have sent Mrs Woodham for Doctor
Rixton to share the responsibility."
Claude caught him in turn by the wrist, drew him right to the far side
of the room, by the panel of the bookshelves which formed the masked
door, and in a whisper, as if she were afraid that her father should
hear, she said--
"Is he dead?"
"No, no--no, no, my dear Miss Gartram. It is only what I have always
feared, but he would not be advised. Look, my child, look!"
He went quickly to Gartram's side, and drew something from his
breast-pocket and held it before Claude in the light.
"Yes, I know," she said, "the medicine bottle--the sedative draught."
"Yes," said Asher, quietly. "You saw that he had it in his breast."
"It is generally in that cabinet. He keeps it there."
"Yes," said the doctor; "but I found it in his breast-pocket as I was
trying to place him in an easier position. What can a medical man do
when his patient acts in direct opposition to his wishes?"
"I don't understand you--that is the medicine you prescribed for him."
"Yes, my child," said the doctor, in quick, angry tones; "but if I order
a patient to take a tablespoonful of brandy, I don't mean him to take a
bottle."
"Oh!" ejaculated Claude, the word coming from her breast like a moan.
"You see he had this to take, but he has been in the habit of carrying
it in his pocket, to apply to as a drunkard does to a flask. I
suspected to-night that he had taken a stronger dose than usual, or at
more frequent intervals, and thought that the effect, as he was so
inured to it, would pass off, but--"
"It will, doctor--oh, say it will," whispered Claude. "Why don't you
give him something? Would wine or spirits be of any good? Ah, here is
Doctor Rixton."
She ran to open the door as steps were heard in the hall, but it was
Sarah Woodham who entered, holding her hand to her side, haggard and
breathless, as she staggered into the room, only just able to pant
forth, "Coming directly," before she reeled and would have fallen, had
not Claude supported her, and let her sink into a chair.
"Hold up, woman!" whispered the doctor, savagely; "you must not give
way."
"I--ran--there--and--back--Miss Claude," whispered the woman, and then
to herself, as she lay back with her eyes closed, "It is too horrible,
too horrible!"
The doctor went to the table and poured out some brandy, as Claude crept
with a glass of wine to her father's side, knelt by him, and, taking his
hand, laid her other across her breast.
A chill crept through her, and a hysterical sob struggled to her lips,
as she felt that the hand she held was growing clammy. But making an
effort, she told herself that, in cases of sudden illness, the
extremities did grow cold, and that this was not a matter for alarm.
There was the doctor's assurance, too.
Just then she turned her head and saw Sarah Woodham thrusting back the
glass the doctor had held to her lips.
"No, no," she said with a shudder; and the doctor turned away
impatiently and set the glass upon the table.
"Miserable teetotal whims," he muttered; and he went back to Gartram's
side, ignoring Claude's presence and inquiring looks as he bent over his
patient for a moment, and then hurriedly crossed to the door, flung it
open, and went out into the hall, and then to the front door, which he
threw open, and stood out in the air wiping the perspiration from his
brow.
"He ought to be here by now," he muttered, "he ought to be here by now."
"Sarah! Sarah!"
The wretched woman opened her eyes with a start, and gazed in a
frightened way at her mistress, who was standing over her, and had
shaken her shoulder.
"Tell me--you were here?"
"No, my dear. He sent me to lie down in the dining-room to wait till he
called me, but I did not go to sleep. I was sitting there--in the
dark--thinking, when he came to me and said, `I want more help. Your
master is worse.'"
"Oh, Sarah, Sarah!" moaned Claude, clinging to her; "tell me it is not
so bad as I think. He will not die?"
The woman shuddered as she rose to her feet, and, in a curiously furtive
weird way, she crossed to where Gartram lay back in his chair. Pausing
once and shrinking away, but evidently overcome by the attraction, she
once more advanced, battling the while with that which mastered her, and
which drew her unwillingly on, till she stood close to the great
easy-chair, and bent down over the form thereon.
Then, drawing herself up to her full height, she stood there erect,
gazing straight before her into space, and muttering strangely to
herself.
Claude gazed at her in alarm.
"Sarah," she whispered, "Sarah! why don't you speak? Sarah!"
There was no reply, and at last Claude laid her hand upon the woman's
arm, with the result that she turned slowly, muttering to herself the
while, in a curiously absent manner, as if all the while unconscious of
her mistress's presence.
"Sarah," whispered Claude again, as she gazed in affright at the woman's
strange, drawn face, "speak to me! I want comfort--tell me--he is not
dead?"
"And I tried so hard," said the woman, hoarsely. "I tried to do that
which was right and just.--With all his sins upon his head, unrepentant,
harsh and cruel to the last."
"Sarah!"
"Hush, my child, hush!" said the woman in a low voice, full of deep
passionate emotion. "I never had a child to love--to call me mother.
Oh, my poor dear, helpless, motherless, fatherless girl; and I tried so
hard--I tried so hard."
"Sarah," cried Claude, struggling from the woman's encircling arm, "you
don't think--"
"This way, please--quick, sir, quick."
The door was thrown open, and Doctor Asher entered, followed by a tall
grave-looking man, who bowed to Claude, and laid his hat upon the table,
looking then inquiringly at Asher.
"Yes; of course," said the doctor. "My dear Miss Gartram, you will go
now."
"But, doctor--"
"No appeal, please; we must consult over the case and be alone. Trust
me; we will do our best. There, you will come back soon."
Claude reluctantly allowed herself to be led out of the room, and then,
as she stood in the great sombre-looking hall; she in turn staggered and
would have fallen, but for Sarah Woodham's arm, and she suffered herself
to be led into the drawing-room, where, with the awful truth beginning
to grow and grow till it overshadowed her like a cloud she was about to
fling herself sobbing in a chair, when a low sigh caught her ear.
Looking up, it was to see Mary Dillon coming slowly into the room, her
eyes closed, and feeling her way along by the door, and then supporting
herself by the various pieces of furniture she passed.
"Mary!" cried Claude.
"Yes; I have been there--in there all the time. You did not see me, but
I heard everything. Oh, Claude, is it all true?"
She did not wait for a response, but sank down, covering her face with
her hands, and completely prostrated by her grief.
"No, no," whispered Claude, going to her, kneeling by her side, and,
hungering for love and sympathy, drawing the weeping girl to her breast.
"Doctor Asher said that it was not so, Mary darling," she whispered;
"help me to pray. He must not--he cannot die."
Sarah Woodham stood near them hearing every word, and a shiver swiftly
ran through her as she listened to the allusions to death, and again and
again, with her face working, she stretched out her hands as if to try
and comfort the two weeping girls, but only to shake her head sadly, and
draw back from where they were now clasped in each other's arms.
And the time went on.
Every few moments Claude rose to go to the door, and after opening it,
stood listening intently, but the most she could hear was the low
muffled sound of voices, and each time she returned to her cousin's side
with a despairing sigh.
"We seem so helpless," she exclaimed. "Surely I might go back now."
But she made no attempt to disobey the doctor's commands, and waited and
waited till the low sobbing gave place to silent despair; and with eyes
fixed upon the door, all sat waiting for the tidings that they dared not
hope now would be good.
A step at last in the hall, and Claude flew to the drawing-room door,
and flung it open, but only to shrink away, as she saw that it was not
Asher, but the strange doctor--a new comer to the place--and one whom
they had hardly spoken to before.
He came slowly across the hall, and bowed his head gravely as he
entered, looking from one to the other, as if waiting to be
interrogated, but no one spoke; and as the door swung to, the light of
another day came stealing though the windows, and between the half-drawn
blinds in a curious ghastly way, making everything look unreal, and the
candles lit upon the table burn with a sickly glare.
Claude made an effort to speak twice, but the words failed upon her
lips. She felt that she must rush by this strange, solemn-looking man,
and seek the information she wanted in her father's room, but her limbs
refused to act, and she stood holding on by the back of a chair, while
the new doctor now fixed his eyes on Sarah Woodham, who stood there
wild-looking and motionless, her eyes appearing to burn.
"I grieve to say," said the new doctor at last, and then he turned, for
the woman's eyes glared at him so fiercely that he ceased, paralysed.
"Well," she said harshly, "Why do you not speak?"
"Doctor Asher has given me a history of the case," he said, with an
effort. "It is a most regretful incident. No one to blame. Perhaps
Doctor Asher might have--but no--I should probably, under the
circumstances, have been guilty of the same error."
He paused in his low, faltering delivery, for Sarah Woodham had taken a
step toward him, bending forward, and fascinating him with her wild,
dark eyes.
Then, after a painful interval, as a low, querulous wail arose from
outside, followed by what sounded like a fiendish chorus of chattering
laughter from the rocks below, where a flock of gulls were quarrelling
over some refuse cast up by the sea, the doctor continued--
"We have done everything possible under the circumstances, but the case
was beyond our power. Ladies, this is a most painful communication for
me to have to make. Doctor Asher--completely prostrated by grief. His
most prominent patient, and--"
Claude stretched out one hand blindly fur that of her cousin, and took a
step toward the door, but, as they reached it, Mary uttered a low cry
and shrank back, withdrawing her hand.
Claude did not notice the action, but went slowly out of the room, as
one goes deliberately on when walking in sleep.
They followed her to the door and saw her cross the hall, into which the
soft glow of morning was now stealing fast, and there was something
weird and strange about her movements as she went on and slowly opened
the study door, to pass from their sight, as it were, from day into
night.
One moment, the morning light bathed her light dress and gave her a look
that was mistily transparent; the next, as she passed through the
doorway into the shuttered and curtained room, the glow from the lamp
within made her black and strange.
Then the door swung to behind her as she walked silently over the thick
carpet.
"Miss Gartram! You have come?"
Claude made no reply, but walked straight to the couch upon which her
father had been laid, and there she stood mentally stunned and unable to
realise the fact.
His face looked stern and hard, but no more stern and hard than she had
often seen it when she had stolen into the room where he had been lying
asleep--as he appeared to be lying now--after some tiresome, wakeful
night. Everything was the same, even to the faint odour of drugs and
spirits which pervaded the place.
For one instant a flash of hope illumined her dark heart, but it was
only for a moment. No: he would wake no more. The end had come; and as
the truth forced itself deep down into her heart, she sank slowly upon
her knees, placed her hands gently round the stalwart figure, and laying
her cheek against the stony face, she whispered softly--
"Father, father! I loved you very dearly. Left--left alone!"
Volume Two, Chapter XII.