A FAIR, GLAD DAY,
AND THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED IT.
IT was strange how summer came back to us with Ralph Dugdale's arrival.
There were a few days of brilliant sunshine, the chilliness vanished
from the air, and we were not conscious of the touch of frost which had
begun to make itself felt at night and morning. And not less signal was
the sudden revival of strength and spirits which Edmund manifested.
Was it merely caused by the excitement incident to the coming of his
friend and the pleasure with which he was looking forward to going to
Grindelwald at the beginning of the next week, as Ralph had persuaded
us to do?
My heart refused to believe that it was only a temporary improvement
and hope began to fortify itself anew. I forgot the shocked, grieved
expression I had caught for an instant on Ralph's face as he first saw
Edmund after the lapse of several weeks. Edmund was once more sanguine
of recovery, and he infected me with his own hopefulness.
"I think I have taken a turn for the better at last; there is more of
life before me yet, thank God," he said, one day. "Do you know I woke
this morning with the words ringing in my ears, 'I shall not die, but
live and declare the works of the Lord.' I took it as a token that my
days were to be prolonged. Ah, you cannot know how fair God's world
looks to me now! One needs to be brought low to know the joys of life."
As he spoke thus, Edmund was lying amongst cushions and rugs on the
soft turf of a little upland glade, into which the midday sun was
pouring its warmest rays. It had been his own proposal that we should
come and make a picnic luncheon there. Sturdy bearers had carried
him to this spot through the lovely pinewood from which it opened. A
small, impetuous stream, dashing with many a turn and twist through the
gully it had formed for itself, separated us from this wood, but we
could look across at the tall, stately pines and see, spreading amidst
their bare, slender trunks, a perfect forest of ferns, their graceful,
delicate fronds growing with a luxuriance and attaining to a height
which to our English eyes appeared marvellous.
The stream went down into a green valley, dotted with wood châlets.
Seen through a vista of pines, it looked one of the fairest and most
peaceful spots on earth. Beyond the trees, shutting in the valley,
rose a rugged, purplish-grey mountain wall, its curves and rents
clearly defined against a sky of pale blue. Behind us, at the head of
the glade, stool a similar mountain ridge, so the spot we had chosen
for our picnic was well screened from chill breezes had the day been
less warm and bright than it was. The atmosphere was singularly free
from cloud or haze, and in the clear light everything, both near and
distant, looked so lovely that it was no wonder my brother should
rejoice in the hope of continuing in so beautiful a world.
"Dear Edmund," I said, pressing closer to him and taking his long, thin
hand in mine, "I am so glad, so thankful that you feel better. Yes,
dear, I really do believe that you are on the way to get well at last.
Grindelwald will do great things for you. Mr. Dugdale has been telling
me how fine the air is and how many doctors send their patients there."
Ralph was within a stone's throw of us. He was keeping watch over a
fire of chips and fir cones which he had kindled in the shelter of a
rock, and on which he was trying to boil a kettle of water that Edmund
might have the cup of tea he had expressed a desire for.
Perhaps it was because he was absorbed in his undertaking that he
took no notice of Edmund's or my words. Yet his silence made me
uneasy; and later on, when I had brewed the tea and we were taking our
luncheon in rough and ready style, I caught him gazing at Edmund with
a sad, wistful glance, which told me he did not share the hopes we
had expressed. That look, which I am sure he did not mean me to see,
cast a cloud upon my enjoyment. I was vexed with him for the doubt it
suggested. In my impatience I wanted to argue it away.
By-and-by, when I was wandering along the rugged, turfy slopes by the
little stream, and making my dessert of the whortleberries that grew
upon them, Ralph joined me, bringing a little sprig of the Alpine rose
which he had discovered in some nook—a rare prize, for the blossoming
time of this mountain shrub was long past.
"The last Alpine rose of summer," he said, with a smile as he gave it
to me.
He little guessed how his words annoyed me. Vividly they brought to
mind the autumn day when I had refused the rose Leonard offered me with
words like these. I felt constrained to accept the little sprig, but
as I placed it in my belt, I would far rather have flung it from me as
Leonard did that rose.
"Is it not delightful to see Edmund so much better?" I said. "I feel
sure that he will recover now."
Ralph did not at once reply. Instead, he cast upon me a troubled,
anxious glance.
"Surely you must agree with me," I added; "there can be no doubt that
he is very much better."
"Certainly he is somewhat stronger," he said, slowly, "and it is clear
that he feels better; but—but—dear Miss Carmichael, you must not be too
confident. I would not willingly take from you any hope that gives you
comfort, but—I have seen others suffer as Edmund suffers, and I know
what fluctuations there are in that disease."
Too well I knew the truth of his words. Was I not fighting with fear,
even whilst I hoped? But just then it was almost more than I could bear
to hear the truth.
"Oh, don't," I said, imploringly, "don't take away my hope! You say you
would not rob me of my comfort, and then you sweep it all away. Think
what my life would be if Edmund were taken from me: I should have no
one to live for, no one to love me. I should only long to die too."
"You must not say so," he said, looking greatly distressed. "I
understand how you feel, but your life has many noble possibilities,
and it can never lack love. I could tell you—"
He checked himself suddenly. There was a look in his eyes that
frightened me.
After a moment, he said more quickly, but still with deep emotion in
his tones, "Forgive me if my words seemed unkind. Surely you must know
that not for the world would I give you the least pain if I could help
it."
I murmured something, I scarce knew what, and turned hastily to
rejoin my brother. The new fear which had penetrated me kept me close
to Edmund's side, and made me shun quiet talk with Ralph during the
remainder of the day.
Memory would fain dwell on the sunlit hours we passed in that lovely
mountain nook. So bright, so happy they seem in contrast to the terror,
disappointment, and anguish which too swiftly followed. The day stands
out now before my mind like a spot of heaven's purest blue, encircled
by darkest storm-clouds. I am loth to tell of what ensued; but I must.
Much as my brother had enjoyed our picnic, it had wearied him, and soon
after our return to the pension, he was glad to retire to rest.
I sat all the evening by his bedside, and when I bade him good-night,
he said in tones full of meaning, "What a pleasant day it has been! We
are much happier, you and I, Dottie, for Ralph's coming."
"Yes," I responded with some uneasiness; "he is very good and kind. I
am glad for your sake that he is here."
"And for your own sake too, I should think," he returned, hastily; "you
and he get on so well together. Perhaps I ought not to speak of it,
but—but—I cannot help seeing how highly he thinks of you, and—how much
you are to him."
"Indeed, indeed, you make a great mistake," I exclaimed, feeling a hot
flush mount to my forehead as I spoke; "it is impossible that he can
think highly of me—and—if he did—"
"Well!" said my brother, smiling as I paused.
But I was silent.
"It is not impossible," said Edmund, earnestly, "I can say that I
know—" But there, he checked himself.
After a minute, he said with a change of manner, "It is foolish of me
perhaps to speak of this; but if what I have hinted should come to
pass, surely, surely, Dorothy, nothing would lead you to reject all
that Ralph could offer you. You must appreciate him better than that.
Where would you find his equal?"
"Nowhere," I answered humbly; "I know well how good and noble he is.
But his very goodness makes it impossible that—that—what you imagine
could ever be. You know what I am, Edmund."
"Nonsense," he said, quickly, "I know what you mean. You have your
faults, of course, but you would grow up to him. His strong, moulding
influence would make of you a noble woman."
I shivered with nervous excitement as he spoke.
"I wish you would not speak so," I said imploringly; "you do not know
how it distresses me."
"Oh, I daresay I am blundering sadly in speaking of this at all;
but, Dorothy, in my circumstances I may be pardoned for not standing
on ceremony with you. I have thought of it so often during hours of
sleeplessness. It has made me happy to fancy that you and Ralph and
Grace might belong to each other, if I were taken from you. Your
happiness is dear to me, Dottie, although I may sometimes have seemed
indifferent to it."
"That you never have," I sobbed, unable to maintain self-control amid
the tumult of conflicting emotions that wrought in my heart; "you have
always been the best, the most tender of brothers. But, oh! I wish you
had not taken this idea into your mind."
"Do you?" he said, smiling half incredulously. "I think you hardly know
what you are saying now, sister, mine. Forgive me for worrying you. I
will not speak of this again, only promise me that you will not lightly
throw away such a prospect of happiness as seems to me to be before
you."
"Yes, I can promise you that," I said.
Then I kissed him and went to my own room.
I do not suppose that Edmund had the least idea how his words would
trouble me. Doubtless, he imputed my agitation to some girlish,
hysterical emotion, which would pass as quickly as it rose. How could
he understand me when I could hardly understand myself?
He had suggested no new thought to me. In justice to myself, I must say
that the foolish vanity which leads some girls to look upon every man
of their acquaintance as a possible lover, had never been mine.
Yet, before to-day the fear had struck me that Ralph Dugdale was
beginning to care for me otherwise than as a friend, and this morning
an indefinable something in his looks and tones as he talked to me had
confirmed this fear. The discovery could not have been more unwelcome,
and now I was filled with dismay to think that Edmund had perceived the
truth, and had set his heart upon a consummation from which I shrank in
dread.
After I reached my room, I sat long at the window, gazing at the
mountains as they appeared pale and shadowy in the dim light of night,
and pondering the situation in which I found myself. Nay, pondering is
not the word to use. I could hardly be said to be thinking; my mind
was almost passive, whilst my imagination cast on it as on a camera,
all kinds of pictures, in which my past, present and future mingled in
strangest combinations.
But the excitement of mind which produces such effects is as exhausting
as hard thinking, and I did not seek in prayer the calmness that comes
from submitting ourselves to the Lord and asking His guidance in hours
of perplexity. My head ached, and I felt faint and weary when at last,
almost on the stroke of twelve, I lay down to rest. I did not expect
to sleep, but sleep after a time came to me, though it was no deep,
dreamless slumber.
In my sleep, I was transported from Switzerland, and found myself
amidst gay company in a brightly-lighted English drawing-room.
Perhaps I was at The Towers, but I had no distinct consciousness
of my whereabouts. Mabel was present, resplendent in yellow satin,
accompanied by her husband, and she was chiding me for appearing in
my old, well-worn travelling gown, with my feet encased in bedroom
slippers of scarlet wool. It was not respectful to Mrs. Glynne, she
said, and I puzzled myself to think who Mrs. Glynne could be. Everyone
but me was gaily attired, and I felt much ashamed of myself, and tried
to slink into a corner. But Grace West came to me, dressed all in
white, with roses scattered about her, "in honour of the bride," she
said, and insisted on drawing me into the middle of the room. I kept
asking what bride? But could get no answer till Rose Carsdale stood in
the midst of us with a funny little fur cap on her head, and I knew
that she was the bride. I looked, expecting to see Leonard Glynne by
her side; but, to my mingled relief and wonder, I perceived that her
hand lay on the arm of an odd, wizened, little man, whom I recognised
as the dancing master who had instructed Miss Carefull's pupils. How
bright the room was! Everywhere on the walls gleamed tall wax candles.
As I watched them, they began to sway forward and to fall. There was a
sudden blaze, followed by wild cries of fire, fire! as everyone began
to rush about in terror.
Then the whole phantasmagoria vanished; yet still the cries went on.
I became aware of a curious, crackling sound, and at the same time
conscious of a terrible sense of heat and suffocation. In unutterable
horror, I awoke to the fact that the fire of which I had dreamed was
an awful reality, and it behoved me to heed the shouts of warning and
cries of terror that resounded both without and within the hotel.
Half-stupefied, I sprang from my bed. Instinctively I threw on my
dressing-gown and thrust my feet into the very bedroom slippers which
had been such an annoyance to me in my dream. The floor was hot to my
foot as I touched it, and the awful glare beneath the window warned
that I had not a moment to lose.
What of Edmund! Was he alive to his danger? I rushed to the door, on
way to call Edmund; but when I opened it, such a suffocating cloud
of smoke rolled towards me that I staggered back, closing it in
desperation.
I had seen the flames leaping up the staircase and spreading along
the corridor. It was impossible to get to Edmund that way. Now, had
I thought, there was a door in my room which opened into that of
Edmund's; but it was behind my bed, and as I had never opened it, I did
not think to do so now. Instead, I flew to the window and sprang on to
the balcony, calling my brother loudly as I did so.
A crowd of persons had gathered outside the house, and they saw me
and shouted at my appearance. But I heeded them not; I was intent on
getting to Edmund. The heat on the balcony was intense, for already
flames were licking round the balustrades.
I gained Edmund's window. It was but slightly closed, and I managed
to push it open from outside. I climbed into the room. It was full of
smoke, and I could distinguish nothing. Pressing my dressing-gown over
my mouth and nostrils, I struggled through and reached the side of the
bed. I could not see, but I felt that it was empty. I remember passing
my hands up and down the mattress; but I remember no more of what
happened. The stifling atmosphere overpowered me, and I fell.
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