Jeanie was lying propped up on pillows, struggling for breath. Her face,
which had always been like that of an angel, was more visionary, more
celestial than ever; the golden hair, which had always been so carefully
braided, hung about her head like a halo. It was hair which fell in
soft, even tresses, not standing on end or struggling into rebellious
curls: everything about her was soft, harmonious, submissive. Her eyes
were full of light, enlarged, with that fatal breadth and fulness which
generally has but one meaning. A little flush of fever on her cheeks
kept up the appearance of health. Her pretty lips were parted with the
panting, struggling breath. Dr. Somers stood at her bedside, looking
very grave. Sally Timms sat crying in a corner. Mrs. Hesketh came to the
door to meet the poor grandmother, with her apron at her eyes. “She was
took bad half-an-hour after you went--just about when you’d have got to
the Hall; and called and called till it made you sick to hear--‘Granny!
granny! granny!’--never another word. Oh, I’m thankful, Missis, as
you’ve come in time.”
“Half-an-hour after I left!” said Mrs. Murray; “when I was denying the
truth. Oh, me that thought to hide it from the Lord!--me that thought
she was better, and He couldna go back! And the angel cried upon me,
Granny! granny! Lad, do you hear that!--I have lost my Jeanie for you!”
She put her hand upon Edgar’s shoulder as she spoke. Her face was white
and ghastly with her despair. She thrust him from her, almost with
violence. “Oh, let me never see you more! Oh, let me never see you more!
I have lost my Jeanie for you!”
“Is there no hope?” said Edgar, clutching Dr. Somers by the arm. He had
given way to the mother, to let her approach the bed, and now stood
behind with a face so grave and grieved that any answer seemed
unnecessary. He shook his head; and then, after a little interval,
spoke.
“I know no reason why this should have come on. Some agitation which I
cannot explain. There is no hope, unless it can be calmed somehow. The
grandmother may do it, or perhaps----”
Dr. Somers turned round and looked the newcomers in the face. Was it
possible that the innocent creature dying before his eyes could have
loved either of these men? Arthur Arden was the kind of man to pursue an
intrigue anywhere, and he had singled out Jeanie. And Edgar was young
and well-looking, and the chief object of interest to the village. Could
her eye or her heart have been caught by one of them. Why were they both
here? The Doctor’s mind was full of the one remaining chance. He looked
at Edgar again, whose face was full of emotion; he had his heart in his
eyes; he was always sympathetic, always ready to feel for any sufferer.
The Doctor mused over it a little, watching keenly the approach of the
grandmother to the bedside. Mrs. Murray went to her child as calmly as
if she had never known a disturbing feeling in her life. She bent over
her like a dove over her nest. “My bairn! my bonnie woman! my Jeanie!”
she murmured; but the patient was not stilled. The Doctor looked
anxiously on, and then he yielded to an impulse, which he could not have
explained. He took Edgar by the shoulder and drew him forward. “Go and
speak to her,” he said. “I!” whispered Edgar, astonished. “Go and speak
to her,” cried the Doctor, in tones scarcely audible, yet violently
imperative, and not to be disobeyed. The young man, deeply moved as he
was, went forward doubtfully, longing and yet afraid. What could he
say? What could he do? He did not understand the yearning that was in
his heart towards this little suffering girl. He had no sense of guilt
towards her, had never harmed her, one way or another. He longed to go
and take her in his arms, and carry her away to some halcyon place where
there would be rest. Dying was not in his thoughts; but Edgar, too, was
weary of agitation, and suffering, and distress. He had suffered, and he
had not come to the end of his sufferings. Oh, to be able to escape
somewhere, to carry away poor Jeanie, to lay her down in some cool
valley, in some heavenly silence! Tears were in his eyes. He thought of
her, and of Clare, and Gussy, all mingled together--all whom he loved
best. He went up to the bedside, behind the old woman who had thrust him
away so passionately, yet who somehow belonged to him too. “Jeanie,” he
said, in a low tremulous voice, “Jeanie, little Jeanie!” The other
spectators instinctively fell back, perceiving, they could not tell how,
that this was an experiment which was being tried. Jeanie’s panting
breath was hushed for a moment; she made a distinct effort, half raising
herself. “Who was that; who was that?” she cried. (“Speak again,” said
Dr. Somers, once more, in that imperative, violent whisper behind.)
“Jeanie,” said Edgar, advancing another step, “Do you know me? Speak to
me, Jeanie!”
She gave a great cry. She threw herself forward, opening her arms; her
face blazed as with a sudden light of joy. “Willie! Willie! Willie!” she
cried, as on the first night when she had seen Edgar from her window,
and, leaning half out of her bed, threw herself into his arms.
An awful pause ensued. Mrs. Murray kneeled down by the bedside, and with
her face raised, and two big tears flowing slowly down her cheeks,
lifted up her clasped hands and prayed. Her eyes were fixed upon Jeanie,
but she did nothing to detach her from the arms in which, as the
spectators thought, she would certainly die. Dr. Somers held them all
back. He held up his hand so that no one moved. He stood watching the
pair thus strangely clasping each other, standing close behind Edgar, to
give aid if necessary, with one finger laid softly on Jeanie’s wrist.
Was it for life, was it for death? Even the women, who had been looking
on, stole softly forward, with all the interest which attends the crisis
of a tragedy, staying the tears which had flowed in a kind of mechanical
sympathy at the apparent approach of death. They comprehended that death
had been stayed at least for the moment, and they did not know how. As
for Edgar, he stood in this unexpected and innocent embrace, feeling
the soft weight upon his breast, the soft, feeble arm round him, the
velvet-soft lips on his cheek, with an indescribable emotion. “If she
lives, I will be her brother. I am her brother from this hour,” he said
to himself. He held her fast, supporting her, with thoughts in which not
a single shade of evil mingled. Jeanie was sacred to him. He did not
understand what had moved her. He had, indeed, forgotten, in this sudden
change of all his thoughts, the suspicions he had of her mother. He
thought only that she had cast herself upon his support and protection,
and that henceforward she was to him as the sister he had lost.
“Lay her back gently. Stand by her--her strength is failing,” said the
Doctor’s quick voice in his ear. “Softly, softly! Stand by her. Now the
wine--she will take it from you. Edgar, life and death are on your
steadiness. Support her--give her the wine--now--now--”
She took it from him, as Dr. Somers said. She smiled on him, and drew
his hand feebly with both hers till she had placed it under her cheek.
Then she said “Willie!” again in a faint whisper like a sigh, and fell
asleep sweetly and suddenly, while they all watched her--fell asleep,
not in death but in life, with Edgar’s hand supporting her child-like,
angel-like face.
Then Mrs. Murray rose from her knees. “I must speak,” she said, with a
gasp; “if I did not speak now, I would repent and tempt the Lord again.
Him that’s standing there is Jeanie’s near kin--no her brother, as my
bonnie lamb thinks he is--but near, near of kin, and like, like to him
that’s gane. And I am his mother’s mother, a guilty woman, no worthy of
God’s grace. I have made my confession, and now I can tempt the Lord no
more.”
This strange speech fell upon, it seemed, unheeding ears. The
indifferent spectators stared, not knowing what it meant. The Doctor was
absorbed in watching his patient; and Edgar, in the new and strange
position which he was obliged to keep, did not realise what was said. He
heard the words, and was conscious of a vague wonder in respect to them,
but was too fully occupied, body and mind, to be able to make out what
they meant. Only Arthur Arden took them fully into his mind. He could
scarcely restrain an exclamation, scarcely keep himself still, when this
confirmation of every hope, and explanation of every difficulty, came to
his ears. He went out immediately, in the stupor of his delight, and
stood at the cottage door, under the twinkling stars, repeating it over
to himself. “Near of kin to Jeanie--near, near of kin.” No Arden at
all--an alien, of different name and inferior race. And it was he,
Arthur, who was Arden of Arden. Could it be true? was it true? The night
was dark, relieved only by the stars which throbbed and trembled in the
sky. One of them shone over the dark trees of Arden in the distance, as
if it were a giant fairy blossom springing out of the foliage. Was the
star his, too, as well as the tree? Was all his, really his--the dewy
land under his feet, the wide line of the horizon where it extended over
the park and the woods--the very sky, with its “lot of stars.” His head
swam and grew dizzy as the thought grew--all his--house and lands, name
and honour. A wild elation took possession of him. All that had happened
had been well for him; and there passed across his mind vaguely an echo
of that wonderful sentiment with which those who are at ease pretend to
console those who suffer. All for the best--had not all been for the
best? The accident which almost killed Jeanie--the sudden crisis of
illness which had made the watchers send to Arden for her
grandmother--all for the best. God had taken the trouble to disturb the
order of nature--to wear out the young life to such a thread as might
snap at any moment--to wring the old heart with bitterest pangs of
anxiety--all for good to him. Thus the egotist mused; and though he was
irreligious, said, with a horrible gratitude, and something like an
assumption of piety in his heart, “Thank God!”--Thank God! for all but
killing Jeanie--for working havoc in her mother’s breast. It had been
all for the best.
Strangely enough, Mrs. Murray, after an interval, followed him out to
the door. She grasped him by the arm in her excitement. “I thought once
I was indebted to you,” she said. “I thought I should be thankful that
you brought my bairn in, carrying her in your arms; but I know now whose
blame it was she got her accident. I know now what you would have put
into her head if it had not been for her innocence. And it is for you I
must ruin my bonnie lad, and cover my name with shame. Oh, the Lord sees
if it’s hard or no! But mind you this, man, you will never be his equal
if you were to labour night and day--never his equal--nor nigh him. And
never think that those that have loved him will stoop down to the like
of you.”
She thrust him away, as she spoke, with a scorn that made Arthur wild.
What! he the true proprietor of Arden to be dismissed so? He turned to
gaze at her as she disappeared, shutting the door upon him. An impulse
seized him to throw a stone at the window--to do something which should
show his contempt and rage; but he did not do it. He thought better of
it. He could afford to be magnanimous. He left the place where Jeanie’s
young life had been put in such jeopardy by his fault, and where he had
just concluded that it had been for the best, without seeking for any
further news of Jeanie. She might die or live for anything he cared. Her
brother was with her, or her cousin, or whatever he was--the fellow who
had kept him so long out of Arden. Thus he turned away through the dark
village, up the dark avenue, and went home to Arden, where the lights
were still burning in all the windows, and the master expected home. It
was on his lips to say--“I am master now; when that fellow comes, do not
let him in;” but in that point too he restrained himself. Fazakerly was
in the house, and Clare was in the house. He did not wish to come into
collision with either of them. For Edgar, he did not care.
Meantime Edgar stood, fatigued and weakened by the excitement of the
day, by Jeanie’s bedside, with her cheek resting on his hand. It
required all his muscular energy to support him in that strange task. He
scarcely ventured to breathe for fear of disturbing her. When he made a
little movement, her hands tightened upon his arm as she slept. The
Doctor held wine to his lips, and encouraged him. “You are saving her
life,” he said; and Edgar smiled and stood fast. He was saving her
life--at this moment when his own strength was weakest, his own courage
lowest; but it was not he who had endangered her life. The man who was
to blame was entering Arden, full of elation and selfish joy, while
Edgar stood by the humble bedside saving the life of the almost victim.
What a strange contrast it was! But there are some men in the world
whose lot it always is to be the ones who suffer and save--and their lot
is not the worst in this life. The hours were long as they crept and
crept onward to the morning. The Doctor dozed in his chair. Even the old
mother slept by snatches in the midst of her watch--but Edgar, elevated
by weariness, and weakness, and spent excitement, out of the ordinary
regions of fleshly sensation, stood by Jeanie’s bedside, and did not
sleep. He went over it all in his heart--he felt it was now finally
settled somehow--everything confirmed and made certain, though he did
not quite know how. He thought of all that had to be given up, with a
faint, wan smile upon his lips. This time it was not an opiate, it was a
numbness that hung over him, partly physical because of his attitude,
but still more spiritual because of the exhaustion of his heart. All
was over--he was a new being, coming painfully into a changed life
through bitter pangs, of which he was but half-conscious. And Jeanie
slept with her cheek on his hand, and the other living creatures in the
cottage watched and slept, and breathed around him. And life and the
great universe moved and swam about him, like scenes in a
phantasmagoria--one scene dissolving into another, nothing steady or
definite in earth or heaven. Sometimes, as if a stray light had caught
it, one scene out of the past would suddenly shine out before him,
generally something quite unconnected with his present position; and
then a strange gleam would fall over the future, over that unknown waste
which lay before. Thus the night stole on, till every minute seemed an
hour, and every hour a day.