MY BROTHER LEAVES ME.
HOW long I remained unconscious I know not. When I awoke, the grey
light of early morning was about me, and I was lying on a rude couch
beneath the low rafters of one of the châlets which surrounded the
hotel. Bending over me was a lady whose appearance puzzled me. It was
familiar, but I could not at once identify it, Presently I recognised
her as the wife of the English clergyman who was staying in the
pension. With that recognition the terrible event of the night flashed
upon my mind.
"Where am I?" I cried, striving to rise, only to find that my exhausted
frame refused to respond to my will. "Oh, tell me about the fire and
Edmund—where is Edmund?"
"Your brother is safe, and close at hand. You must not trouble about
him. He is uninjured and only suffering from the effects of the shock,
and the sudden exposure to the night air."
Only suffering from these! Alas, I knew well that their consequences to
my poor brother could not be slight. But what a relief it was that my
worst dread was not realised.
"Thank God, he is saved," I murmured.
[Illustration: "YOU WOULD HAVE THOUGHT HE WAS A FIREMAN
TO SEE HE VENTURED AMIDST THE FLAMES."]
"Ah, indeed! We have all great cause to thank God. It was an awful
fire. Those wooden houses burn so rapidly that the fire had taken
complete hold of some of the lower rooms and the staircase ere it was
discovered. And now the place is an utter wreck."
"Was everyone saved?" I asked.
"Yes, everyone, and, with the exception of one or two, they have
escaped unhurt. It was a most merciful deliverance."
"It is all a confusion to me." I said. "I remember nothing save that
I made my way to my brother's room and could not find him. How was I
saved?"
"By Mr. Dugdale. He found you insensible by the bedside. He struggled
through fearful smoke and flames to reach you. It was feared that you
both would perish. Oh, do not cry. We had better not speak of the fire.
You cannot bear it now."
"It does me good to cry." I sobbed, "only tell me one thing. Did Mr.
Dugdale escape unhurt?"
"Not unhurt. His hands and arms are badly burnt, and he sprained his
wrist in swinging himself down from a balcony. But, oh! He showed
himself such a brave, heroic man. You would have thought he was a
fireman to see how he ventured amidst the flames."
I asked no more questions, but lay still for some time, quietly
weeping. It was no surprise to me to learn that I owed my life to Ralph
Dugdale. I had felt sure, before I heard it, that he and no other had
rescued me and Edmund.
Some time later, I learned how our escape had been effected. I had
observed, without reflecting on the reason, that all the bedrooms in
the pension had, in addition to the doors opening on to the corridor,
doors communicating with each other. By this means, had the doors been
open, one could have passed through the rooms from one end of the long,
narrow house to the other. My room, as has been said, adjoined Edmund's
on one side, and Ralph's room was on the other side of my brother's,
but separated by two apartments from that of his friend.
As soon as he was roused by the alarm of fire, Ralph forced his way
through these rooms, intent on saving me and Edmund. He found Edmund in
his weakness already overpowered by the suffocating fumes, for the fire
had broken out immediately below our rooms, and was there raging its
fiercest. He said that he thumped vigorously on the partition dividing
my room from Edmund's and believed that he heard me respond, ere he
seized Edmund, and half-carrying, half-dragging him, bore him through
the rooms to a little balcony at the end of the corridor, beneath
which, and only a few feet lower, lay a sloping grassy bank, so that it
was easy to clamber down. Leaving Edmund, who was roused by the rush
of cold air, to the care of the persons who were gathered about the
balcony helping women and children to escape by means of it from the
burning house, Ralph hurried back in search of me.
By the time he had reached my room and had forced open the door, it was
full of smoke, and flames were rising from the floor. It was hardly
safe to enter; but screening his face and chest as best he could, he
did venture in, only, however, to search for me in vain.
The people outside, who had seen me enter my brother's room, shouted to
him to seek me there, but amidst the confused din of human voices and
the crackling and roaring of the fire, he could not distinguish their
words. As he staggered back aghast, the thought struck him that I might
have tried to get to my brother. He groped his way through the smoke to
my brother's bedside, and there came upon me lying insensible. To bear
me, unconscious as I was, through that choking atmosphere to the freer
air beyond, was no slight undertaking, but the strong, undaunted will
accomplished it. Certain it was that no one else could have done for me
what he did. Had he not found me, there would have been no awaking for
me in this world.
With a rush of gratitude that was full of pain, I realised that I owed
my life to Ralph Dugdale's heroism. Sweet, sweet did life seem to me as
lying with my face towards the low windows of the châlet, I watched the
sun rise above the mountains and gild their stainless summits with his
golden rays. I was experiencing the feeling my brother had expressed
only on the previous day. Never does life look so fair to us as when
we emerge from some dark valley of the shadow of death to enter upon a
fresh, sunlit space of time.
I felt very weak and shaken from the effects of my adventure, and it
was long ere I lost the breathless, choking sensation caused by the
fumes I had inhaled. But a German doctor, who had been staying in the
pension, came and prescribed for me, and, ere evening fell, I was well
enough to rise and go to my brother, who was in the inner room of the
châlet.
With the thought of getting up, I found myself confronted with a
serious though somewhat absurd difficulty. I had absolutely nothing
to put on save my dressing-gown and slippers. All my clothing, and,
indeed, everything that Edmund and I had with us, had perished in the
flames, for as the hotel could boast no hose nor any apparatus for
extinguishing a fire, it had been found impossible to check the flames,
and they had simply raged till they could no longer find fuel.
A grand and memorable sight was that fire for those whose circumstances
permitted them to enjoy its wild magnificence. Such have since
described to me the wonderful effect of its savage lurid glow, seen
against a background of snow mountains.
Happily, many persons whose rooms were remote from the spot where the
fire broke out had been able to rescue their luggage, and several
ladies came to my aid when they heard of my destitute condition, and
out of their abundance provided for my needs, so that I was soon able
to appear decorously clothed, though in a somewhat odd assortment of
garments.
I could make light of my misfortunes; our losses were trifles, indeed,
when compared with our great deliverance; but far more deplorable was
Edmund's condition. I found him suffering from utter prostration of
strength; his voice sunk to a whisper, his appearance ghastly in its
pallor. Yet he could smile on me and whisper how very, very thankful he
was; he did not mind his own sufferings since I appeared so little the
worse for my alarm and danger.
"And Ralph, too, dear, old fellow," he whispered; "they tell me he
showed himself a true hero, and I can well believe it."
"Why, yes, he saved my life—but for him—" A shudder ended my broken
words.
"He saved both our lives," said my brother. "Ah, Dottie, what a debt
is that! But yours is the greater gain, and you only can repay him. My
chance of doing anything for him is past."
A thrill of fear passed through me as I perceived my brother's meaning.
"Do not say so," I pleaded; "you will rally again. This is only the
effect of the shock."
But he shook his head.
Not till the next day did I see Ralph Dugdale. In truth, I shrank from
seeing him. How could I express my gratitude to the man who had saved
my life? The weight of that gratitude oppressed me.
Perhaps it was well that I came upon him suddenly. I had gone forth
to take a look at the ruins of the hotel, when, as wandering round
the blackened heap, I turned to the side where hung a remnant of the
balcony by which our escape had been made, I saw before me Ralph
Dugdale. He was very pale, his hands and arms were bandaged, his right
hand rested in a sling, he wore a loose coat which had certainly not
been made for him. All this I noted at a glance; the next moment he saw
me, and a glad smile lit up his face. Very bright was his look, yet
there was something unusually tender and emotional in his glance as our
eyes met.
"You are better? You begin to feel yourself again?" he questioned me
eagerly, ere I could say a word.
"I am all right, thank you," I answered quickly; "but oh, Mr. Dugdale,
I am so sorry to see how you have suffered! I—I—Oh, I do not know how
to say what I ought—what, indeed, I truly feel."
"Pray do not try to say it. Surely we can understand each other without
words."
"But I must tell you that I can never forget how you risked your life
for my sake."
"Nonsense, don't exaggerate the risk! For whatever I did, have I not
more than my reward in seeing you safe and sound? Do you think I would
not gladly lay down my life to save yours?"
How could I reply to this vehement speech, coming warm from the heart
in one of those rare moments when emotion will utter itself, in spite
of every consideration that might enforce silence?
Happily Ralph did not leave me much time to feel embarrassment. With a
change of manner, he asked me quietly what I thought of Edmund. There
could be but a sad answer to this question. Ralph's face grew grave and
sad as we paced to and fro, talking of my brother. He tried to comfort
me; but he could hold out but faint hope.
One thing we decided. It was impossible that Edmund should remain in
his present rough and comfortless quarters. Even at the risk of further
exhausting him, we must remove him to some more habitable region, where
he could have the comforts his condition rendered indispensable. Ralph
advised our proceeding, as we had intended, to Grindelwald, and I felt
that the advice was good. Already a general exodus from the vicinity
had begun. Most of those who had escaped unscathed from the fire had
departed on the previous day; others were now preparing to start down
the mountain.
Ralph proposed to get one of these travellers to engage us a carriage
at Lauterbrunnen for the next day. He had already written to his
sister, informing her of what had happened, and that we might arrive
at Grindelwald at any hour. He felt sure that she would make the best
arrangements she could for our reception; and I, knowing Grace as I
did, could have no doubt of that.
What a comfort it was to me to have Ralph Dugdale to help me in the
management of Edmund's removal! Though his hands were useless, his
thoughtfulness, kindness, tact, and the ease with which he made people
do exactly what he wished them to do, rendered him an invaluable ally.
We went down the mountain on the following day, treading the same path
that we had ascended with glad zest at the beginning of the season. It
was a bright day, and the scenery was no less lovely than it had been
then; but now it wore the beauty of autumn, and in my heart it was
autumn too, not an autumn of ripe fruitage, but an autumn of falling
leaves, fading flowers, dead hopes.
Edmund's bearers carried him very carefully and steadily, yet he
was sorely exhausted when we reached Lauterbrunnen. We were fain to
stay the night there, and did not start to drive up the valley to
Grindelwald till about noon the next day. Weary though he was, Edmund
enjoyed that drive. Every turn of the road which ascends by the side
of the impetuous, foaming torrent revealed new beauties. The foliage
clothing the mountain slopes was gay with the most brilliant hues of
autumn, cascades of no mean force came dashing down beside the road,
fairy rills crossed it on their way to the river.
We passed over quaint, covered wooden bridges, the river now on this
side of the carriage and now on that. Presently snow-crested summits
rose before our view; the Wetterhorn stood forth in grand magnificence,
then its companion Peaks were discerned, till, as we made the last
gradual ascent, the whole of the lovely vale of Grindelwald lay before
us.
We drove at once to the hotel at which the Dugdales were staying. Grace
had been watching for us, and was at the door to receive us. Very
loving was her greeting to me, almost too tenderly sympathetic I felt
that it was, for it showed me too plainly what she sorrowfully believed.
A large and very comfortable room had been secured for Edmund. He was
pleased to see that his window looked up the vale and commanded a fine
view of the Wetterhorn and the higher glacier.
"I am glad the beauty is so near," he said, "for I cannot go in search
of it."
So, with gentle satisfaction, he took possession of his room, never to
leave it in life.
Yet I was not without visitings of hope. There was a return of
strength, but the Swiss doctor whom we had called in did not encourage
him to make any exertion, and Edmund himself evinced no desire to go
beyond his room, but was content to rest on his couch by the window,
and gaze on the beautiful world outside.
I could not help remarking that he never now spoke of his recovery.
The hopefulness which he had manifested in the earlier stages of his
illness was gone. But whatever were his anticipations, they were met
with serene, calm resignation.
"Dorothy," he said to me one day, "do you think Mabel would come if we
asked her?"
"Come!—Come here do you mean?" I faltered. "Oh, Edmund, dear, why do
you ask? Do you wish her to come?"
"I think you must know, Dottie, why I ask," he said, giving me a
tender, pitiful glance, as though he would fain have spared me the
pain he knew his words must give. "Yes, I should be very glad to see
Mabel again if she would come; but not—not if it would cause her much
trouble."
I wrote to Mabel at once. I had written to her every day since we came
to Grindelwald. Her letters had expressed much concern at what I had
told her about Edmund; but she did not suggest coming to him. Would she
come now, I wondered, as I sent off the letter.
She did not come. Little Percy appeared to be sickening with some
childish ailment, and she could not leave him. A mother's first duty
was to her child, she wrote. It grieved her to refuse to come to dear
Edmund, but she could not believe that he was so ill as I imagined. She
knew that my affection was apt to make me over-anxious. She still hoped
to see him again in England, and she thought we should do well to start
on our homeward journey as soon as possible. Had I thought of Torquay
as a desirable place to winter in?
The letter angered me. I was indignant with Mabel for attaching so
little importance to my words. I would not believe that there was much
the matter with her little boy. To myself I accused her of heartless
indifference to Edmund. My feelings towards her did not soften as I saw
the shadow fall on Edmund's face when I told him that she could not
come.
"Then I shall not see her," he said.
"She hopes to see you again in England," I replied.
"That will not be, I think," he replied, quite calmly.
And I was silent, for my heart told me that he spoke truly.
"How could Mabel?" I was saying to myself.
Edmund must have divined my thoughts, for, after a moment, he said to
me, very earnestly, "Do not blame her, Dorothy; she does not know. And,
Dorothy, do not, I pray you, let this make any further breach between
you. Remember that, when I am gone, you and Mabel will be the only ones
remaining of the home-circle at Burford in the dear old days—the dear,
happy, old days."
I was silent, for I could not speak. Of late Edmund had often spoken
of our old life at Burford. He loved to recall our childish days with
their quaint incidents and the various scrapes into which he had led me.
"You and she have memories in common which no other can share," he went
on to say. "I can remember how proud and fond you were of 'my sister
Mabel,' when you were a little thing."
"I am proud and fond of her still," I said, half crying; "I should love
her as much as ever if—But she has changed; she does not care for me as
she did."
"Don't say you should love her," Edmund reproved me gently; "true
love does not change with the changes of others. Do you remember Mrs.
Browning's poem on the words, 'Loved Once'?
"'Love strikes one hour—Love! Those
"never" loved
Who dream that they loved "once."'"
"I am afraid mine is not the best sort of love," I sighed; "anyhow,
love and sorrow seem to be intertwined for me. Those whom I love most
are taken from me."
"I suppose love and sorrow must always in a measure combine," said
Edmund, musingly. "The King of Love was crowned with a crown of
thorns. But, Dottie, you must not speak as if my going would leave you
desolate. You have Ralph, you know."
A hot flush mounted to my forehead. Edmund waited for me to speak,
watching me keenly.
Why did I not tell him the truth? Surely when the last parting was so
near, I might have broken through womanly reserve and confided to him
my heart's secret. It seemed to me afterwards that it would have been
easy to tell him then, yet something withheld me. Edmund was far from
guessing the truth. Men do not learn such things by intuition as women
do. He had not the least glimmer of a notion that I could care for
anyone save Ralph Dugdale.
"You will not tell me," he said, presently, and his tone had a
plaintive sound that went to my heart, "though it would be such a
comfort to me to know that it would be as I hope."
Then words rushed to my lips—rash, impulsive words, as mine too often
were. What did it matter what my future was, I thought.
"Dear Edmund," I said, tremulously, "I will try, I will try to do as
you wish."
And even then he did not understand. Such a glad smile welcomed my
words, and he clasped my hand as if in gratitude.
It was strange that just then there should come a tap at the door,
followed by the appearance of Ralph Dugdale.
"Come, old friend," said Edmund, motioning Ralph to a seat on the other
side of his couch.
Ralph sat down beside him, and Edmund took his hand also, and brought
our hands together across the couch.
As he held them in his wasted ones, he said, "My two best friends," the
glad light still shining in his eyes.
I doubt not that Ralph perceived the significance of Edmund's action,
but if he looked for signs of such comprehension from me, he received
none. As quickly as I could, I drew my hand away.
There came days of chill rain and storm. Edmund's strength declined
rapidly. Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale started for a warmer latitude, but Grace
and her brother remained with us. I knew that they would not leave me.
I was thankful for Grace's presence, and glad, too, for Edmund's sake,
that Ralph was there. The mean jealousy I had once experienced did not
revive, I am thankful to say. It was plain that to Grace Edmund was a
friend, but no more. And his manner to her never showed that she was
better loved than I.
He liked to talk to her, for her Christian faith was bright and clear,
and she helped him to look forward, without doubting, to the higher,
fuller life that awaited him—the rest that he believed meant service,
not inactivity, in which the powers, denied full development here,
should be perfected, and the work for God, broken off below, find a
grander completion. I do not think there could ever have been much hope
in Edmund's love, and now, as the flame of the bodily life waxed dim,
earthly desires had no power to ruffle the heavenly calm that fell upon
his spirit.
The storms and rains subsided. There came a day of calm, autumnal
beauty, of bright sunshine, though the air was crisp with the touch of
frost. Few English visitors had dared to risk the chances of the late
autumn, and we had the hotel almost to ourselves. I can never forget
the deep quietude that seemed to reign all about us that day. Within
the house and without there was hardly a sound to be heard. Nature
seemed to be resting after her fierce conflicts.
Towards evening, we were all in Edmund's room. He seemed rather better
that day, and once more was able to leave his bed and rest, supported
by pillows, on the couch near the window. We sat so that all could see
the beautiful scene from the window. The mountains on each side the
vale had appeared that morning in a fresh covering of snow. Dazzlingly
white shone the summit and higher slopes of the Wetterhorn; the glacier
had lost its dingy hue; the russet and gold and sombre greens of the
foliage at the foot of the mountain looked the richer in contrast to
the snowy mass above.
We watched till slowly the colours faded, the shadows lengthened across
the vale, and the hollows darkened beneath the overhanging rocks. As
we gazed, almost imperceptibly the faintest tone of colour warmed the
whiteness of the Wetterhorn. Presently a golden beam fell athwart the
snowy slope. It broadened and deepened in its intensity till the whole
vast snow-field shone as with golden fire.
"The afterglow," someone murmured, and then for a few moments none of
us spoke as we watched the glowing vision fade as swiftly as it had
come. It was not the first time I had seen the wonder of the afterglow,
but this, I thought, was the finest manifestation of its loveliness
that had been granted me. I rejoiced that Edmund saw it. And he
rejoiced. His voice it was that broke the stillness.
"I am glad I have seen this before I go," he said. Then in low, fervent
tones, he added, with a reverent upward glance, "I thank God for the
beauty of His world."
"And it is but the shadow of the divine beauty," said Grace, in tones
that vibrated with emotion; "you will pass out of the shadow into the
perfect light. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty.'"
Edmund smiled, such a happy, radiant smile. "His people reflect that
beauty here," he said, looking at her. "As we strive after goodness, He
gives us of His beauty. May the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us."
"Amen," said Ralph Dugdale.
With that our little party broke up. I sat alone with my brother for
some hours. He was inclined to talk, and he talked brightly, going back
again to our childish days, and dwelling on them with pleasure.
About ten o'clock Ralph and Grace came in. It had been arranged that
Ralph should watch beside him tonight, as I had sat up during the
previous one.
But now I felt reluctant to leave my brother, and would fain have
stayed had Edmund been willing, but he was not.
"No, you must go to bed, Dottie," he said; "you look worn out. What
good could you do by staying? I shall sleep soundly, I know. Come, kiss
me and say good-night."
As I bent over him, he drew me close and kissed me many times. Did he
know that the parting was so near?
"Grace too," he said, his eyes raised pleadingly to hers.
And Grace also gave him a sister's kiss.
I did not go to bed, though Ralph soon brought me the news that Edmund
was sleeping peacefully.
After a while I lay down, dressed as I was, on the outside of the bed,
and I must have slept, for it seemed as if but a short time had passed
when Ralph summoned me, but already the day was dawning.
"You had better come," was all he said.
And without a minute's delay, I followed him.
Edmund no longer slept. He was sitting up in bed, propped by pillows;
his hands were moving restlessly over the coverlid, and he was speaking
rapidly. His voice had an unusual sound, but his eyes were clear and
bright.
"Why does not Dottie come?" I heard him say.
"I am here, Edmund, here," I said, laying my hand on his.
But he heeded neither touch nor word. I saw with pain that he was
looking beyond me, unconscious of my presence.
"There is my father," he said, mere quietly, his gaze fixed apparently
on the window; "he is coming from the tan-yard across the garden. And
there is Dottie at last—Dottie and Grace, standing beneath the trees;
the trees are all white with blossom. Yes, Salome, I hear you. Dottie!"
My old pet name came with a faltering sound. Did he know me at the
last? I hoped so. His head sank a little on one side, his lips moved; I
fancied I caught the words, "The King in His beauty."
A few moments of awful stillness, broken only by short, panting
breaths, and then Ralph's hand gently trying to draw me away told me
that I was brotherless.
——————