"Very ill indeed. Typhoid."
Mark went to Chelsea in the first hansom he saw. At his brother's house
carriages were coming and going upon the straw which had been laid down.
Dibdin gave details. His mistress had complained of headache and
general _malaise_ for some ten days, but had refused persistently to see
her doctor. Finally, she had taken to her bed, ravaged by fever. She had
eaten some oysters sent as a present to the preacher by an ardent
admirer. Archibald also had eaten the oysters, but with impunity.
"Lady Randolph is upstairs, and master is in the library," said Dibdin.
"Won't you see him, Mr. Mark?"
Mark hesitated.
"Yes," he said nervously, "I will. Show me in, Dibdin."
Archibald, who was writing at his desk, rose to receive him. As the
door closed behind Dibdin, the eyes of the brothers met.
"If she asks for me, you will send?" said Mark, moving a step nearer.
"Go," Archibald replied, trembling and turning aside his eyes.
"Not till I have your promise. She may not ask, but if she does, by
Heaven! you must, you shall send. Swear it!"
"Go, go!"
But Mark advanced, omnipotent by virtue of the passion within him.
Archibald retreated. Did he fear violence? Or did he read in his
brother's eyes a power of will against which he was helpless. Pale,
shaken as by a palsy, he stammered out: "I w-w-will s-s-send."
"Swear it!"
"I swear it."
Mark went back into the hall. Dibdin mentioned, with a pride which at
any other time would have tickled Mark's humour, that everybody in
London wanted the latest news. He and George, the footman, were almost
worn out answering inquiries. Princes of the blood, the House of Peers,
the House of Commons, Royal Academicians, county families, had learned
with infinite regret of Mrs. Samphire s dangerous illness. Mark
listened with eager ears. And what did Dibdin himself think? Dibdin,
like all of his class, was lamentably pessimistic. "In the hall, we
entertain no hope, no hope," Dibdin murmured. "And to think of that
beautiful castle at Parham without the mistress is breaking our hearts
in two, sir."
A terrible ten days passed. At the beginning of the first week Mark
received a letter from Mrs. Perowne. Between the lines of it an even
more distracted vision than Mark's might have caught a glimpse of the
Fury. Mark read it, wondering what charm he had perceived in her, and
thankful that no links stronger than words bound him to the witch. He
had asked no questions concerning Mrs. Perowne's past; and she had asked
none concerning his. The postscript to her letter was very imperative:
"Come to the woman you love, if you are alive." He replied simply: "The
woman I loved as a boy and a man, the woman I love still, is dying.
Think what you please of me, and forget me as soon as possible." By
return of post came his play with a brutal line across the title page:
"Take this to her; I have no use for it." Mark tossed the typescript
into a drawer with a laugh. _Fenella_, the graven image of success which
he had set up and worshipped, had become a thing of absolutely no
importance. But he remembered the Chow and the spirits of ammonia. His
dear love, who lay dying, had saved him from--what?
Meantime, his friends sought him out, but he sent away David, and Tommy
Greatorex and Pynsent. Jim Corrance, however, refused to leave him,
although Mark ignored his presence for twenty-four hours. Then, very
gradually, he thawed into speech with his old friend. Together they
awaited the bulletins. The disease was running its slow, tortuous
course. One telegram spelt hope in capital letters; another--despair:
each rose and fell with Betty's temperature. Mark's self-control
distressed poor Jim unspeakably. His face, which had lost the
expression of youth, always so captivating, wore an iron mask of
impassivity. And yet Jim knew that the intermittences of Betty's fever
imposed themselves on Mark.
We are told that Chinese malefactors condemned to die by the abominable
torment of _Ling_--the death from a thousand cuts--only suffer up to a
certain point. Then insensibility dulls the knives of the executioners.
Jim was asking himself the question: "Will Mark cease to feel?" when a
telegram from Archibald reached Hampstead, containing one word,
"_Come_."
*CHAPTER XLI*
*THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE*
Lady Randolph was awaiting Mark in the pretty drawing-room overlooking
the river.
"Nothing can save her," she whispered. "She is alive because she could
not die without seeing you. What is left is yours. You understand.
Archibald has been generous."
"Archibald has his son," Mark said hoarsely.
"She was not herself till last night, when the fever burnt itself out.
But, Mark, always, always she raved of you. Husband and child were
never mentioned. It was terrible for him--poor fellow--terrible!"
Mark followed her upstairs.
Betty lay in bed, the light from the windows, which were opened wide,
streaming upon her emaciated face. A clean, sweet perfume of violets
filled the air, and whatever might have indicated a long and terrible
illness had been removed.
She met his glance with a strange smile, as he stumbled forward, falling
on his knees at the bedside, saying nothing, but kissing the hand lying
limp upon the coverlet. Betty spoke first:
"Mark, Mark, Archie has forgiven you."
Mark said nothing. His brother's forgiveness came upon him at this
moment as a meaningless blow on the cheek. What did he care for
Archie's forgiveness? But he understood instantly what it meant to
Betty. It explained the smile with which she greeted him. The question
in her eyes slowly burnt its way to his heart.
"And he has been so good to me, so--good," she faltered.
"Yes, yes," he said hastily. Should he lie to her as she lay dying?
Should he swear, if need be, that he, too, was purged of hate and envy?
Why not, if such empty words had any virtue in them for her? But the
lie could not leave his lips. A minute or two passed in silence. Then
she whispered: "You will not leave me, Mark?"
Again he kissed her fingers.
"I shall not leave you, dear, dear Betty."
"Ah, but I must leave you. And I'm afraid."
"If I could go too----Shall I? Would it make it easier?"
The life raging in him communicated itself to her. A faint colour flowed
into her cheeks, her eyes sparkled.
"You would do that?"
"Gladly."
"I knew you would say it. But I am not afraid for myself. I
am--afraid--for--you. And if--if you went with me, we should part on
the other side."
The words dropped one by one from her pallid lips, slowly, faintly, yet
with indescribable emphasis.
"You must--wait," she whispered. "Promise me that you will wait.
Quick!"
He obeyed, awestruck, for she had closed her eyes, and he feared she was
gone. After a pause she spoke of his sermon: "It is
here--under--my--pillow. Will you read the last two pages to me?"
He consented reluctantly, obedient to some spiritual authority. At the
sound of his broken, troubled voice, harsh, but vibrant with that
strange arresting quality which always had thrilled her, she smiled and
sighed. Mark read the manuscript, unable to recognise it as his own.
But reading on, he leaped the years which had passed. The sermon closed
with a passage of great beauty and power. When he finished, he said
wonderingly: "Did I write that?"