WAITING FOR NEWS.
When Cheyne returned to the hotel, he found clues had accumulated
during his absence, but that nothing more important than clues had
turned up. He wrote a brief note to Miss Traynor, saying they had
certain intelligence of Marion; that he had been to a house in which
she had sought lodgings last night; and that there could now be no
doubt Marion would be restored to her friends in a very short time. He
did not name any exact hour, or even day, for her return; for, warned
by his hasty prophecy of the night before, he did not care to risk
another disappointment. In avoiding prophecy, he did not wholly, or
even to any large extent, consider Miss Traynor's ease of mind, for,
from what he had seen of her since Marion's flight, he did not think
theory or hope likely to be of any great good. "Nothing," he said to
himself, "but the sight of Marion, and the touch of her hand, will
rouse the poor old lady from her lethargy." But he forbore to
prophesy, because he did not wish to be again mistaken to himself. He
would admit no sentimental thoughts into his mind until the mere
business of the case had been discharged--until Marion was once more
under the protection of her aunt; and in the meantime he must not
exhaust his hope or energy by placing limits to her absence, only to
find these limits overpassed.
It was past ten o'clock when Cheyne got back to his hotel. He had two
great desires in this unhappy affair. One was that his own rank should
not ooze out, and the other that the utmost possible secrecy should be
observed. These two wishes were indeed only two parts of the one, for,
if it were known that the Duke of Shropshire had a case in the hands
of the detectives, it would be sure to get into the papers; and, if
anyone knew that Miss Durrant had left her home alone without
consulting her friends or guardians, it would very soon be known the
relation in which she stood to him. Accordingly, he telegraphed to
Miss Traynor's servant that she was not to open the door that day to
any one whatsoever until he saw her; for he very well knew that if
Anne allowed an acquaintance of either of the ladies in, or even if
she stood talking for a few seconds at the open door, the secret would
be over the whole district in an hour. Having despatched the telegram,
he adopted another precaution. He sent down one of the private-inquiry
men to Tenby Terrace with instructions that he was to stay in the
house, to open the side-door as far as was absolutely necessary, and
to see that no one went into or came out of the house. Of course Anne
was in the secret, and might tell at some later day, even though a
curb was now placed on her natural loquacity; still, sufficient for
the day is the evil thereof, and later on he could devise means of
insuring her permanent silence. In order most effectually to guard
against the danger of his rank being discovered, he thought the best
thing for him to do would be to retire from the active conduct of the
search. He therefore resolved to place it in the hands of Macklin and
Dowell, and at about eleven o'clock he found himself detailing the
facts of the evening and night to Mr. Macklin, who promised to do all
he could, and undertook to say that there was no doubt whatever that
the young lady would be discovered that day before set of sun.
Mr. Macklin was very unlike the typical family London lawyer. He was
low of stature, well-proportioned, fresh-complexioned, and abrupt and
forcible in speech. He had a decidedly horsey appearance, although, as
a matter of fact, he took as little interest in horses as any man
within the sound of Big Ben. Although he was a solicitor, he hated
law, and left all the legal elements of the firm to his partner. But
he had a taste for business which did not wear a strictly legal
aspect, and he entered into the ordinary and extraordinary affairs of
the clients with a zest which made him cheering to his own side and
irresistible against those on the other. Cheyne had known him, and
liked him, before the great change had taken place in his fortunes;
and one of the chief pleasures he had in contemplating his good luck
was that by means of it he could do a service to Macklin by appointing
his firm law-agents to the Shropshire property. Macklin was the
quickest and most ready of men. When a thing was proposed to him he
never made a difficulty. He either instantly declared the thing to be
impossible, or he went about doing it with all his heart and soul, and
with such a manner of conviction he was right that it seemed an
outrage on common sense to oppose him.
Cheyne asked the lawyer if there was anything more he would recommend
to be done.
"No," said Macklin, "leave it all in the hands of Bracken now. You
could not possibly have done better. There is not a more intelligent,
conscientious, and painstaking man in the Yard. You may do what you
like, go where you please. Take my word for it, things will turn out
as I say, and before dark you will be at rest."
"And now," said Cheyne, "I want you to do something for me. I told you
of the way in which we heard of her?"
"Yes, yes, of course, through the old widow lady; of course. Somewhere
in Kennington. I wonder you found a lady keeping lodgings there. My
impression was, and is still, that with the one exception you met,
every lodging-house is kept by a retired upper servant. But you were
about to say----?"
"The house is No. 8, Garthorne Road, Kennington, and I want you, if
you can, to buy it for me. I know this is rather a strange thing to
ask you, for of course the house may not be for sale."
"Any limit as to price, your grace."
"No; no limit."
"Then if the house is not in the market, we must put it in the
market."
"How can you manage that?"
"We will put golden rollers under it, and roll it into the market. If
the house is one the market valued at five hundred pounds, we will pay
down the five hundred. If, being worth five hundred pounds, it is not
in the market, we give a thousand, that's the only difference. You
cannot get everything you want in this world, your grace, unless you
have plenty of money, and are willing to give your money for what you
want."
"Then I may look on that thing as settled?"
"Oh, yes, practically settled. Of course, if a miracle should occur
against us, there would be a hitch."
"And suppose a miracle did occur against us, what then?" asked Cheyne.
"Why, then the purchase-money would be two thousand pounds, instead of
only one."
Then Cheyne explained to the lawyer his wishes with regard to secrecy,
and her name and his being kept out of people's mouths, and most
particularly out of the newspapers.
"Last night," said he, "when the first fresh anxiety was upon me, I
thought of going to the newspapers and inserting advertisements for
this morning; but it was too late, and now I am glad it was too late;
for while there would be hardly a likelihood of her seeing any of the
advertisements, and less of her acting on them, there would be reason
to fear someone else might see and understand to whom they referred. I
wish you to take the whole thing up for me, and act for me now until
the end. Of course, last night I had to do what I could myself. I did
not know where to find you. You will, I am sure, do all you can for
me."
"You may rely on my thinking of nothing else until the young lady is
restored to her friends."
When he asked himself the question, had his love for May altered with
his altered fortune? he smiled, but would not deign any other reply.
He was not insensible to the enormous advantages attending his new
position. To be a duke of England was to be one of the first subjects
of the first country in the world; and then to have that great honour;
coupled with an income which exceeded that of many European
sovereigns, were circumstances which impressed him profoundly.
Although he moved and acted as though he believed all that had
happened, when he was alone he always tried to shake off what he could
not help regarding as a delusion. At times it seemed to him as though
he was but playing a part, into which he had entered so thoroughly
that he could not at ordinary moments divest his mind of the character
he had temporarily assumed. This was a very unpleasant feeling; he
would have given a great deal to be rid of it, but nothing he could do
would drive it away. When people came up to him and called him "your
grace" he always felt inclined to laugh, but refrained from doing so,
lest it might spoil the play.
He had talked to May about taking the oath and his seat; but although
his manner may have been serious, he spoke more as one continuing the
play than as one uttering serious words of measured import.
He had called her Duchess, but he had done it in jest, or at least
half jest, or as another portion of the play, but not as a part of
their own real life. Women are much more literal than men. She had
taken all his words literally, and been affrighted by them. Besides,
it was much more easy for her than for him to realise the fact that he
was a duke. She was a woman; he was her lover, her hero, and, to her
mind, worthy of being anything and everything good on earth. But he
knew the stuff he was made of, the thoughts that had been in his mind;
and to himself the notion of his wearing a coronet was mostly comic.
Still, carrying out the conceit of the play, he had indulged his
imagination with comic scenes in the House of Lords, between him and
others of the hereditary members until he had to shout out laughing.
He had had even the irreverence to picture a full sitting of the House
of Lords as a transformation scene, in which all the noble lords wore
their robes and coronets until the red fire was turned on, and he,
playing harlequin, jumped in, and with one blow of his lath sword
turned all the noble lords into his old intimate friends of Fleet
Street.
In the other days, when he lived in Long Acre and earned a few pounds
a week, he had indulged his imagination with lordly company. He had
written about lords and ladies, dukes and fine associates; he had
described palaces beside which the Escurial was but a simple
manor-house; he had lavished riches, and bestowed whole countries, on
his heroes. Moreover, he had taken these lords and ladies out of the
frame of fiction, and set their portraits round his simple table,
making believe that he was the wisest, the richest, and the most
puissant of all. He had acted as one of the commissioners in opening
Parliament, and crowned monarchs in Westminster Abbey; he had been
received with regal honours at foreign courts; had danced with
Princesses of the Blood, and been minister in attendance at Osborne.
In all these romances and dreams he had been awake. Then into his
sleep his splendid surroundings had followed him; the mere dross of
authorship he left behind when he slept, but he could not, if he
would, shake off the phantoms aristocracy; they followed him into
sleep with the easy familiarity of friends whom he could not deny. The
shadowy duke who by day graced his garret breakfast by night sent him
presents of game or wine or jewels. In his waking and his sleeping
dreams he was always rich beyond measurement by number. All the wealth
of the world was at his feet, and he scattered it with a liberal hand.
The affluence of his imagination was never checked by the emptiness of
his purse. He had led a double life--the one of iron poverty, the
other of golden visions. So much had his dreams become a portion of
his inner life that they often overflowed into his talk. When he
dreamed he had been on a visit to the Marquis of Thanet, and came to
tell of his dream, he forgot to put in the words "I dreamt." What
difference did those two words make? No one was the richer or the
poorer for leaving the words out, and the anecdote was all the
shorter.
Now reality had exceeded in his own person any dignity or wealth he
had ever enjoyed in the realm of shadows. It was one of his great
difficulties to persuade himself all was not the pure creation of the
brain. He had never, after waking, believed in the reality of those
dreams. He had never been at a loss to know whether the Long Acre
rooms or the marquis's castles were the reality when he was awake in
the Long Acre rooms; but in his sleep he was confident the castles
were substantial. When he slept now, he lived in the Long Acre rooms;
when he woke, then he dwelt in the marquis's castles. The real and the
imaginary had been interchanged, and although he felt, in talking to
men who knew of the great change, that he should act as the Duke of
Shropshire, he was always prepared to awake and find himself in bed at
the top of Mr. Whiteshaw's carriage-manufactory, and, hear the noise
of Mrs. Ward in the outer room, busy getting his breakfast ready.
But in the old time and the new there was one thing that never
changed--he was always May's lover. In the old time, when he was at
the marquis's castles, he thought how he should bring May there when
they were married. In the old time, in the Long Acre rooms, he thought
how he should go away from them for ever when May was his. In the new
time May would enjoy the Long Acre rooms, and how she would enjoy the
marquis's castles! Thus she was more with him at this time than ever.
Her image was never from his side; her voice was always in his ear.
And now she had gone away from him.
Where was she now? Good God, if anything had happened to her!
CHAPTER X.
"FIRE!"
Hour after hour went by that day, and although Bracken came back three
times from Kennington, he brought nothing new. The local men had not
been able to find a single trace of Marion after the moment she left,
the house in Garthorne Street. They had made inquiries at all the
lodging-houses and hotels in the district, and had discovered
absolutely nothing. They, of course, were hopeful; policemen and
private detectives always are. But despite all this hope, and the
knowledge that unlimited money was at their disposal, they could not
get the slightest additional trace of the fugitive.
In order to beguile the time, rather than from any hope Marion had
returned, Cheyne went more than once to Tenby Terrace. There he found
poor Miss Traynor had at last succumbed, and gone to bed; but no trace
or tidings of the missing girl. If "to be wroth with those we love
works like madness in the brain," there is some self-sustaining power
in the anger itself; but to love tenderly, and seek the loved object
in vain, is more wearing and depressing than mere anger.
He went to Mr. Macklin; but the energetic lawyer was able to do
nothing beyond find out that No. 8, Garthorne Street might be bought
for eight hundred pounds, upon which Cheyne told him to buy; and when
the purchase had been effected, to make a deed of gift in favour of
Mrs. Harriet Dumaresq, and hand the documents to the widow without
comment or explanation. The purchase and the gift were to be made in
the name of Ashington. Cheyne wished to benefit in a substantial way
the woman who had been gentle to his love, and careful of her when she
was away from him.
The long summer day began to wane, and yet there were no definite
tidings--nothing beyond the news Bracken had gathered of the widow in
the morning. The detective was quite sure she was in the neighbourhood
of Kennington; but beyond this he was sure of nothing.
Cheyne could hardly believe it possible she had not been found. It
was, indeed, only by an effort he could believe she had been lost.
When his mind was not busy with the subject of her disappearance, he
always felt as though she were in Knightsbridge, and he was going over
presently to see her, and chat with and chide her humorously for some
fault of his own inventing. Then a great sadness fell upon, him, and
he thought of all her sweet secret ways and gentle sprightliness. All
her sweet ways were secret, and only to be found out by accident.
Often and often she had been saucy to him, but never, as far as he
knew, to her aunt. But her sauciness fascinated him more than anything
else, and now a thousand instances of it crowded in upon him, and
filled him with anguish at his loss. He had always been a man of few
wants and desires; but, as often happens with such men, those wants
were paramount with him, and the loss of anything he loved or had set
his heart upon seemed to make his life bankrupt. He could have lived
without wine or fine clothes, and never felt the want of either; but
clean linen and tobacco were necessaries to him, as bread and beef are
to other men. Although in the old days he had spoken of dukes and
marquises, he had never longed to be one; he had never thought of
being one; and now that things had taken such a different aspect, he
set his titles and his riches down at a very low rate, and would
rather have given up the marquisate of Southwold, or even the dukedom
itself, than abandon the use of tobacco.
Now what had he lost? The only being on earth he loved. What were all
his lands and castles and titles if he might not share them with her,
if he might not live in the glory of her happiness? To feel that she
was happy because he was with her, and that her happiness was diverted
from his own individuality only by the contemplation or possession of
something procured for her by him, was the end and aim of all his own
expectations of happiness as far as the relations between man and
woman are concerned. He had his independent masculine ambitions and
hopes. He did not believe he should die if Marion were never found. He
did not think he should throw his money and his coronet into the
Thames, and lead the life of a recluse ever afterwards. But he knew
that never again could he wrap anyone in such a beautiful mystical
chivalry. Never again in all his life should he be able to taste the
sweet perfume of romantic passion. He had the feelings of a poet, and
she was his best-beloved poem. He had the ardour of a lover, and she
was his most dear mistress. He worshipped beauty, and she was the most
beautiful spirit in his earthly paradise.
And now she was gone, gone away from him? No one whom he knew could
tell him where she was, and he could not find her. Good Heavens! what
an unhappy ending to all the happy hours he had spent with her, all
the happy hours he had spent thinking of her when away from her! He
had in the still times of his leisure thought of nothing else. "She
was his festival to see;" and he had brightened some of his darkest
hours with thoughts of her. He had never to her betrayed his love
emotionally. He looked on emotion with suspicion. But his passions,
like his frame, were strong. His rage, his pity, his love, would have
carried him any distance. But for mere emotion, that quality of human
nature which appraises everything by the accident of the present
moment, he had a supreme contempt.
He became restless. He could not remain in one place. The same faculty
of his nature which drove him down in a fury to Silverview now drove
him between the two extremes of rage and despair. His passions, when
roused, were grotesque. In his ordinary moods few men had a more level
or equable temper; but once excited, he knew no self-control,
attempted no moderation. At one time he thought of going to Bracken,
seizing him by the shoulders, and knocking his brains out against a
wall; at another time he thought of putting an advertisement in the
papers, setting forth the whole facts of the case and offering a
stupendous reward for any information about her.
At last daylight failed, and the long summer day was over. Macklin,
who remained at his office, declared that he had been belied by
events; and Bracken confessed that, since morning, no progress had
been made, and that practically no progress could be made during the
night. Cheyne asked Bracken what was to be done; and Bracken said
little or nothing could be done till morning. What was there for him
to do? Nothing. He might go to bed, but there was no chance of his
sleeping. This night was worse than last, for nothing had been done
towards the recovery of the girl last night, and he had felt the
fullest confidence in the men he had put on her track. Now a whole day
had been passed in active search, and nothing had been discovered.
What if she had met with an accident, and was now lying in a hospital?
But no; Bracken surely had inquired at all the hospitals in London.
Then there was the worst chance, the most awful chance. Perhaps she
had met with an accident, and was now beyond the united skill of all
the hospitals in London! The Thames, the treacherous, lithe, sleek,
murderous Thames, could it have anything to do with the fact that she
had not written, the fact that no trace of her had been found of later
date than yesterday evening? That woman over there in Kennington had
told them the missing girl had seemed in great distress. Could it be
that, driven desperate by her desolate condition, she had----
The thought was unendurable. It drove him mad. He would not, he could
not, sit any longer inactive under it. What was the good of rank and
civilisation, and wealth and police, if a young girl might disappear,
and the cleverest men in London could find no trace of her? Why, in
the American forests a hunter could follow up his poor, helpless,
simple child.
When he came upon the idea of her being a helpless simple child, he
groaned and stamped and struck his thigh with his clenched fist; then
got up, and swore an oath he would go and find her himself. He was in
the hotel at the time, and it was then ten o'clock. Having asked
Macklin to act for him in his absence, he left the hotel and crossed
the river on foot.
Going over Westminster Bridge he paused, and looked down at the dark
swift waters beneath. Could it be that black heedless tyrant below
there had strangled his love? Could it be the swirling tide below was
now waving to and fro that beautiful brown hair?--that brown hair on
which he had loved to lay his hand, that he might feel sanctified. Had
loved--had loved! Gracious heavens, had it come to that? Was his love
already a thing of the past? Had the love, which was yesterday a
living passion with worshipper and idol, in one brief moment left
finally for want of an object? Was his life widowed of the one passion
which had ennobled it? And here was he, strong, rich, titled,
possessed of almost unlimited power to prosecute such an inquiry, as
helpless against this mystery as he was against the accursed water
rushing beneath his feet!
He left the bridge, and moved on. It was now quite dark--that is, as
dark as night is in mid-summer. It was fresh, and not too warm for
walking with comfort. The streets were crowded with people, and nearly
all the shops were still open.
Cheyne strode on at a rapid pace, his great form cleaving its way
through the crowd as a descending stone divides water. He went on
without looking to either side until he passed Newington Butts. Here
he slackened; here he ceased to be indifferent to the people, and
looked sharply every moment from side to side, examining every face
with anxious care. If he had been in his ordinary mental condition, he
would have known quite well that nothing was more unlikely than that
Marion would be walking out at such an hour. But he was not in his
ordinary mental condition; and when, after awhile, that thought
occurred to him, he put it away impatiently, and said to himself:
"Better fail myself to find her here than listen to the history of
others' failures over there." And he turned round and looked
indignantly back upon the way he had come. Then he resumed his walk
and his eager questioning glance at the unfamiliar passers-by.
On and on he kept until he got to the top of Kennington Road; then he
turned, and, having crossed the road, walked back again to Newington
Butts. Then, facing round again, he went hither and thither, down
by-streets, he knew not, he cared not where.
Gradually the streets became deserted and more deserted. Lights shone
a short time in upper windows, and were then put out. The cabs, which
had set down people coming home from the theatres, had long since
rattled away; The great silent dome of night, fretted with millions of
stars, seemed to have absorbed from earth all the unruly noises of
day, and only now and then the sound of a solitary footfall broke
upon the ear, like a penitential ghost from the dead day. The stormy
heart of day was eased of its trouble by that "sweet oblivious
antidote"--night. There lingered in remote distances marvellous tones
of music. The harsh inconsistencies of day had lain down to sleep,
like weary wayward children. The peace of the desert had descended on
the great city. Upon all the land had fallen night, that great Sabbath
of Nature, when men cease from doing evil to their neighbours and
blaspheming God, when the earth rises up out of the great ocean of
sunlight, which is for the uses of the earth only, towards the great
light of illimitable heaven, which is for the peace of the soul.
All round people were asleep. So great was the silence that the
ticking of the clocks could be distinguished through the front doors.
It was almost possible to fancy the breathing of the people above
could be heard.
As the night wore on, and the chill dawn paled and pushed back the
flaming stars, Cheyne's mood changed from one of indignant
determination to melancholy. He seemed no longer possessed of vitality
enough to be angry. The long walk and the depressing influence of the
hour overcame him, and he felt inclined to weep.
Slowly the day broadened. A solitary crow broke the overwhelming
silence of the morning with a single cry, that reverberated through
the streets and went rolling away among the distant echoes. That one
sound seemed more like the last note of an expiring world than the
reveille for the world's work.
Cheyne looked up, stopped, and kept his eyes fixed on the one thing
visible in the zenith, that solitary bird.
Then, while he was still watching the crow, down through the streets
rang a very different sound:
"Fire!"
CHAPTER XI.
DAWN.
Cheyne looked up and down. He had taken little or no notice of the
street. Now for the first time he observed that it was a quiet
by-street of inferior order. There was but one other person visible,
and that a man of the working class, who yelled at the top of his
voice:
"Fire!"
Cheyne saw this man a few hundred yards in advance of him, standing in
front of a three-storey house. Again the man yelled "Fire!" and then
ran up and knocked loudly at the door of one of the houses. Cheyne
walked on rapidly in the direction of the house, and saw no symptom of
fire. When Cheyne came up the man was still knocking at the door.
There was an area, and into this Cheyne now looked. He could see
nothing unusual, but he heard a crackling angry noise.
"Fire!" shouted the man again, as he thundered at the door. Then he
turned round and saw Cheyne. "Do you know where the station is?" he
asked.
"No," answered Cheyne; "I am a stranger here."
"Very good, then," he said; "you rouse them, and I'll fetch the
engine."
At that moment a crash was heard, and on looking into the area Cheyne
perceived the glass of the kitchen window had been broken, and that
through the hole issued a long lazy-moving cloud of smoke.
Cheyne now seized the knocker and knocked, and shouted "Fire!" with
all his might. The working-man ran up the street at the top of his
speed. Above, the crow sailed serenely on. Around, the people lay
sleeping quietly. In this house, the existence of which was now
threatened, the inmates had not yet awakened.
From the first cry of "Fire!" to this time not more than five minutes
had passed. Now the flames began to beat against the kitchen window,
and glass fell out again. Cheyne knocked and shouted. At last the
window of a room on the second-floor was opened; a man appeared at it,
and asked what was the matter.
"Fire!" answered Cheyne. "Your house is on fire; get all the people
out at once. A messenger is gone for the engine. Look sharp!" The man
withdrew in terror to rouse the household. Cheyne could do nothing
more. So he stood at the area railings watching the progress of the
disaster.
It had got firm hold. Owing to the smoke he could not see plainly, but
he now and then caught sight of a tenacle of flame as it shot forth
and seized some new object. The crackling sound had increased to a
muffled roar, through which occasionally came a sharp hiss. Some of
the neighbours had been roused by this time and were at the windows
talking excitedly.
Cheyne heard a crash, and for a moment there was more smoke and less
flame and noise. Then a dulness seemed to come on the glass of the
first-floor room. It was smoke. The plastering of the kitchen ceiling
had fallen, and the smoke was making its way up through the laths and
boards.
There was no time to be lost, for the flames must soon reach the hall
and staircase.
Again Cheyne went to the door and knocked. At last the door opened,
and a man and his wife and two servants came out half-clad into the
street. They were terrified and only partly awake. Each carried
something or other.
"Anyone else in the house?" asked Cheyne.
"No," answered the man, "we are all here. My wife, two servants and
myself. But shall we not be able to save any of our things? They are
not insured."
"You, I am greatly afraid, will not, and ought to think yourself lucky
in getting off with your lives." As Cheyne spoke, the fire burst
through the door at the head of the kitchen stairs, and rushed up the
hall towards the entrance. Cheyne caught hold of the handle and banged
the door.
"What did you do that for?" asked the man angrily.
"To give you the only chance you have of saving your furniture."
"What do you mean?" said the man, in bewilderment. "How are we to get
at it now?"
"The air, my dear sir, the air. You cannot go into that hall now to
get at anything. Nothing can be done until the firemen come; and if
you left the front door open, you would only be blowing the flame
upstairs."
"The mistress of the house had by this time been taken in by a
neighbour opposite, but the servants declined a sanctuary, preferring
the excitement and the spectacle in the street. Cheyne approached one
of the servants and said:
"Are you quite sure no one else is in that house, for I greatly fear
there is little hope of saving a stick of it."
"Oh yes, sir," said the girl. "Quite sure. We have a lodger.
"And where is he?"
"Gone out of town for a few days. She's been with us a good while, and
went away on her holidays this very day. It's a lady, sir; Mrs.
Carpenter."
"And you're quite sure she has left the house?"
"Yes, sir, quite sure; I helped to bring her things downstairs
for her this night, and saw her get into a cab and drive off to the
railway-station. She went away from here about ten o'clock, and drove
straight to the station. I heard her tell the cabman to take her to
Waterloo."
"Oh, then, it's all right?" said Cheyne.
"All right!" exclaimed the servant indignantly; "and it was only the
day before yesterday that missis got in a new wardrobe that cost every
penny, and the odd shillings too, of twelve guineas! I can smell the
varnish of it burning now. It's a shame the fireman aren't here. Oh,
yes," went on the loquacious maid, "Mrs. Carpenter is safe enough, and
I'm glad of it; for there isin't, sir, in all London, a nicer or a
kinder lady. She's been with us now ever so long; she's been with us
before I came into this place. I was in a situation in Dulwich before
I came here. I ought to know she is safe, for I was the only person in
the house, sir, when she left. The master and missis went to the
theatre in London, and cook was out--it was her evening out. But I
stayed in until Mrs. Carpenter was gone, and then I went over, sir, to
see my mother, who does washing in Canterbury Lane, off the Brixton
Road. Missis said I might go when Mrs. Carpenter was gone; for I am
general servant, and there was not a thing to do, and missis gave cook
the latchkey, and I had leave till eleven o'clock; and at eleven to
the minute I was back, and cook let me in, and the master and missis
were not home until nigh to twelve o'clock, as they had to come from
London in a cab. Mrs. Carpenter locked her door before she went away,
as she said there were things about, and she'd rather tidy them
herself than put me to the trouble. She is a real lady, and lives on
her own money, which her own husband left to her out of the coal
business. And now all the poor lady's things are going to be burned
up. That is her room there, at the top. She had the drawing-room
too--that, see, beginning to light up now. Mercy on us, there's the
beautiful plate-glass gone all to bits, and the furniture only two
years old, and master's got no insurance on it! Oh, it's a cruel pity!
But, as I was saying, I saw Mrs. Carpenter into the cab, and she gave
me half-a-sovereign--I may as well do her justice and own to it, now
that her things are going to be burnt up. And she locked the door of
her bed-room, and took away the key, and when I came back from my
mother's in Canterbury Lane, I put my hand on the handle of the door,
and it was locked sure enough, so she's safe, and I'm glad of it; for
she's a good kind lady, and I sha'n't meet her like again, I know."
The servant had by this time a large group for audience. Cheyne was
standing among that group, and he had heard, in an unconscious kind of
way, all she had said.
It was full daylight. All round that now awakened street the same
profound quiet reigned as before, but scarcely a house from one side
to the other was without a representative in the crowd. Almost every
front door was open, and people half-clad were at the windows of the
opposite houses, looking on in affrighted amazement.
Meanwhile the flames had gained ground rapidly. They were now pouring
out of the basement and ground-floor windows, and already the smoke
wreathed and curled against the windows of the drawing-room on the
first-floor. The top or third-floor was yet uninvaded. On the front
door the paint cracked and blistered, and as it became hotter and
hotter, chinks opened in it, and through those chinks the fumes
streamed in an idle and leisurely manner. The flames and heat issuing
from the basement window had scorched the paint of the area-railings,
and the wreaths of flame and smoke had already marked the walls with
bars of soot.
The people next door on either side were already busy moving the
furniture, for there was no saying what dimensions the fire might
ultimately assume. Plenty of neighbours were able and willing to help,
and already, not more than twenty minutes after the first alarm, two
growing piles of furniture stood on the opposite footpath. All was
done silently and with a business-like absence of bustle, as if the
people had been brought up to the work. The men were in their shirts,
trousers and slippers, and spoke little. They took their orders from
the owners of the houses, and carried out the things as carefully as
if they had been their own. Sashes had been removed from windows, and
ropes had been procured somewhere, and by means of these ropes the
heavier articles of furniture were being lowered into the street.
Cheyne stood merely looking on. At another time, under ordinary
circumstances, he would have been in the thick of the fight. But there
were men enough and to spare for the work, and he felt too depressed
and wretched to take much interest in saving a few pounds' worth of
tables and chairs. He stood by, idly looking on.
The police and the turncock had by this time arrived, and a column of
water five feet high was boiling up in the street a little distance
from the burning house. It was evident that the house on fire was
doomed. Nothing could save it. Even if the engines came now they would
not avail. Already the flames were visible in the drawing-room.
Another clatter of glass sounded through the whirring and flapping of
the flames, and the glass of the drawing-room windows fell, clashing
and shrieking from window-sill to window-sill until it shot down the
area, shattered into a thousand echoing pieces.
At this moment the fire-escape arrived, and almost at the same instant
a steam fire-engine came clattering up the street. As the fire escape
was not needed, it was placed at the end of the street. The engine
drew up in position, and in a few minutes was ready for work.
The fire-escape was ordered up and reared against the burning house. A
man mounted the escape with a hose, and began playing through one of
the drawing-room windows. Through the ground-floor window the flames
were rushing out in great volumes, and frequently the position of the
man on the ladder became extremely critical.
Now the fire darted out, and bending upwards and sideways, seemed to
try to reach him. Now it contented itself with darting a fang at the
ladder, as though exasperated at not being able to meet him, it had
resolved not to be baulked of some prey outside the scope of its
present activity.
The gradual growth of day progressed meanwhile, and the broad dawn was
white and full. In the fierce glare of day the flames grew paler and
paler, until they almost disappeared. Now the position of the fire was
marked by a column of dense black smoke, for there was not a breath of
wind to blow it away. The sun had risen above the horizon, and its
white light stood up against the black shaft of smoke. No bird was now
in the air over the doomed house. The great city still slept; all but
those of it who had sorrows.
The flames were at their fiercest. The man still stood on the ladder
and directed the water through the windows. The flames darted out
still more angrily, and came nearer to him, but he did not flinch.
The crowd was small, and the police did not insist on the people
keeping at any great distance. Cheyne leaned against a railing, and
looked on quietly at the scene. It was better to look at such a scene,
which prevented one thinking, than to wander through the streets
brooding over his loss.
The burning house faced the east; and now that the flames were on a
level with the window-sill of the third-floor the sunlight struck the
windows full, and they blazed with light. The people murmured,
thinking the upper floor was burning.
For a moment all eyes were directed upwards; and while dispute ran
high as to whether the glare came from within or without there was a
crash below, and a shout of dismay, and all eyes were lowered.
The ladder on which the fireman had been standing had snapped in two,
and he and a portion of the ladder had fallen into the area.
For a moment there was silence.
Cheyne stood up and shook himself. He might be of help to this poor
fellow, who had been so cruelly treated by Fate in the discharge of
his perilous duty.
All at once a yell of horror burst from the crowd, and someone
shrieked:
"Look up!"
A hundred arms pointed frantically aloft.
Cheyne raised his eyes, and saw, at the window of the third-floor of
the burning house, lighted up by the sweet cool light of early summer
morning, Marion Durrant!
CHAPTER XII.
NIGHT.
When Marion Durrant went down the steps of No. 8, Garthorne Street,
that evening, she was in despair. She did not know where to turn or
what to do. She had tried three times to get lodgings, and had failed.
She would not go to an hotel; and even if she did, she now felt
certain they would not take her in. She had money in her pocket; but
she had no luggage, no reference; and both reference and luggage
seemed almost more necessary than money. If she had had no money, but
had been able to give a reference, she had no doubt the lady whom she
had just left would have let her stay the night anyway. Now what
should she do? It was cruel to think that she, who had done no wrong,
and had money in her pocket, and was willing to pay for it, could not
get a lodging that night in great London. She had often heard it said
that, with money, one could do anything; and yet here was she with
money, and she could not get the commonest of all human necessaries, a
roof to cover her.
There was only one thing impossible, and that was that she should go
back to Knightsbridge. But she did not know what to do. The notion of
walking about the streets all night was appalling; still it was
preferable to going back. Anything was better than going back. She
would rather sit down by the side of the way and die than anything
else. But she was she felt, young and strong and full of life; and as
to interfering with her existence, the thought was as little to be
entertained as that of returning to Knightsbridge; going back was her
ideal of absolute impossibility.
She wandered on now she did not know, she did not care, where. She was
tired by this time, and would have liked to sit down. She could not
sit down by the side of the street. She did not know of any place to
which she could go. She had only one idea, and that was to keep
moving; for she had heard that the police insisted on suspicious
people moving on, and she supposed she must be a suspicious-looking
person, for no one would take her in. So she kept on.
She had no notion of what would become of her. She had not thought,
she did not think, of what would happen when she could go on no
further. All she knew was, that back to Knightsbridge she would not
go. She was thirsty, and would have given half-a-crown for a glass of
water, but she did not know where or how to get it. She felt hunted
and dismayed.
So much was she shocked and discouraged by the last interview that she
failed to observe she had taken the wrong turning, and was going
towards the Thames. She adopted no regular course, followed no regular
track. Now she crossed a street aimlessly. Then she as aimlessly
crossed back again. The wheels became less, and the feet more,
frequent. The streets were thronged, and in a misty, half-unconscious
way she realised for the first time the enormous magnitude of London.
We are told one half the world does not know how the other half lives.
One half of London has never seen the district in which the other half
dwells.
It was a matter of perfect indifference to her which way she went, so
long as it was not to Knightsbridge. Of course going towards
Knightsbridge meant nothing; for when one takes a step due north, one
is going towards the North Pole. The moment she came anywhere near
Knightsbridge she should know it--then it would be time to change her
direction; but until then she had only to keep moving on according to
police regulations.
But how much longer could she continue to walk about? She had been
brought up in London, and was not accustomed to more walking than
falls to the lot of an average London-reared girl. She had now been
four hours wandering about, and had endured three serious
disappointments about getting somewhere to rest for the night. She was
indifferent to her fate. She assumed that at one time or another
something would happen to decide it; but what that something might be,
or what was likely to happen, she could not guess. She did not try to
imagine.
It was now growing dusk; but by this time she was too worn out and too
miserable to be any longer horrified at the notion of being alone in
the dusk or dark of London streets. She had only two desires, and
these were to get a drink of water and find some place where she might
sit down and rest ten minutes.
It seemed to her that if she might have just ten minutes' rest, and a
drink of water, she should be able to face any danger, encounter any
fatigue. But where should she turn? Whither should she go?
Despair had given way to indifference, and she now did not care what
became of her. By instinct she avoided the crowded thoroughfares and
wandered through a network of quiet by-streets.
Minute succeeded minute, and silence gradually fell upon the streets
through which she passed, until the only footfall which kept company
with her own was that of the policeman. She was footsore and hungry
and weak, but still she kept on. Part of the time, it seemed to her,
she must have been asleep as she walked, for she was always conscious
of passing into a condition of increased wakefulness when anyone
passed her.
At length the darkness faded, and it was daylight once again. Still
she stumbled on until at last she came to the gates of Kennington Park
and found them open. The park was almost deserted. Without intention
she took one of the quiet side-walks apart from the main one, along
which a few workmen were hastening with their tool-baskets over their
shoulders.
Here she found a sheltered seat, and, sitting into the corner of it,
fell fast asleep.
It was three hours before she awoke. She was aroused by the voices of
children journeying on their way to school. She heard some of them
talk of a fountain, and then all ran away. She followed them, and
having waited until they had scampered off and no one else was near,
she reached up and filled the little cup and drank, and felt greatly
refreshed by her sleep and the delicious cool water she had been so
long thirsting for.
Then she sat down again and rested till noon. She was too feeble and
worn out to think of any plan for the future. She forgot she had money
in her pocket and that she could buy food. After the horrors of the
evening and night she could think of nothing but that it was cheerful
day again with the security of light and people around her.
At noon she rose and tried to walk a little, but felt so tired and
footsore that she went no farther than the next chair, and then sat
down. But day waned and evening came on, and the time for shutting the
park arrived. What was to become of her now? She had not the courage
to go to that fountain since, as the people began to appear soon after
the children passed by. And now she was thirsty and tired and hungry,
and did not know whither to turn. Her mind was enfeebled like her
body, and beyond the firm resolution not to go back to Knightsbridge
and a consciousness of an obligation to keep moving, she had no clear
perception of anything.
She had for some time been walking down a large and populous road, and
now she suddenly came upon a railway viaduct. In an idle effortless
way she looked up, and found she was near Waterloo Station. Often,
when she had gone little journeys with her aunt, before Miss Traynor
had been altogether laid up, she had been to Waterloo Station, and had
often rested in the waiting-room, It occurred to her she might do so
now. She turned into the station, found a waiting-room, and sat down.
She selected a corner, and had not sat many minutes when all the
objects in view grew softer and less angular to her eyes, and when her
sense of desolation diminished, until the faculties of her nature were
centred on the one supreme physical sensation of the deliciousness of
rest. She settled her shoulders more comfortably into the corner, and
before she was conscious of drowsiness was asleep.
Mrs. Carpenter, a widow in comfortable circumstances, living in
lodgings at Wilkinson Street, Kennington, had that day made up her
mind to go south to some relatives for awhile. Although she had got
the letter of invitation days ago, she had not answered it until that
day, and then she telegraphed that she would be with them late that
night, by the last train, or the train before the last.
Mrs. Carpenter was, in a few ways, a little eccentric. In all London
there was not a woman with a warmer or more humane heart, but in some
things she was not as other people. She had a habit of making up her
mind suddenly, and unmaking it quite as quickly. She conceived violent
likes and dislikes, without being able to account for them. She
trusted altogether to instinct, and pooh-poohed reason. She had her
troubles and trials in the world, but she was now, as far as money
went, above any chance of evil fortune, and what she loved most was to
help others who were deserving and were not so fortunate.
She was not what is popularly called a charitable woman. She did not
give half-crowns to tramps or large sums to hospitals and other
charitable institutions. But she found out men who could get no work
because of the want of tools, or women whose children were hungry
because of their mother's illness, or some other case of blameless
distress, and then she stretched forth no niggard hand, but one open
and free, and full of aid and kindly counsel. She did not sermonise
away the value of her gifts or loans, or make them an opportunity for
dwelling upon any particular form of faith. If she found people hungry
and deserving, she gave them bread, without making it the price of a
pious mortgage.
On this particular night, when she left her lodgings in Wilkinson
Street, she drove to Waterloo Station. She had some minutes to spare,
and went into the waiting-room. Here the only object that met her eye
was the unusual one of a well and quietly dressed girl of good
appearance fast asleep in one of the corners of the public
waiting-room. She drew near and looked at the sleeper. Even in sleep
there was an expression of pain and weariness upon the girl's face.
But, being worn out, she slept soundly.
"She'll lose her train as sure as fate is fate," said the sympathetic
widow, drawing still nearer, and putting her hand softly on Marion's
arm. "I beg your pardon, my dear," she said, shaking her softly.
Marion did not wake at once.
"My dear, my dear, you will lose your train. Where are you going? Wake
up!"
"Ah," said Marion, opening her eyes and looking into the kindly face
above her, "I--I am not going by train anywhere."
"Then you must have been a long time asleep. Do you know it's ten
o'clock?"
"Yes, I know it is ten o'clock. I have been only a few minutes here. I
was very tired, and when I sat down I fell asleep."
"But, child, this is no place for a young girl to fall asleep. Are you
waiting here for anyone?"
"No."
"Then allow me to advise you to go home. This is not at all a proper
place for a young girl to fall asleep in. What would people,
uncharitable people, say if they saw you?"
"I do not know what people would say. But I cannot go home, and I have
not been able to get a lodging," said Marion piteously. She liked the
kindly voice and face of the widow, and she resolved to confide in
her.
"And where are you to sleep to-night, my dear?" asked the widow, in
mingled horror and amazement.
"I do not know. I wish you could help me; and I am very thirsty, I can
hardly speak."
Mrs. Carpenter stretched out her hand and took Marion's, and said:
"Come with me. I will get you something to drink, and put you right
for the night. I shall miss the train I intended taking; but never
mind that, there is another later."
She took the girl into the refreshment-room and got her a cup of tea.
Marion could eat nothing, but she drank the tea with a great sense of
relief. While she was drinking the tea, she told the widow as much of
her story as she would tell anyone--how, for reasons unconnected with
the fault of anyone, she had been compelled to leave home unexpectedly
and suddenly, and how she had wandered about, looking in vain for
lodgings.
"And," said Mrs. Carpenter, "what is your name?"
Marion felt it hard to refuse to tell one who had been so kind to her,
and yet she had made up her mind to tell no one.
"If you would not think it very ungrateful of me, I would rather not
tell you," she said in a voice of pain.
"Oh, my dear, I am not in the least curious, not in the least. I had
no object in asking you what it was. I only wanted to know what I am
to call you."
"My christian name is Marion, and they call me May," said the girl,
with a spasm at her throat when she said the word "they." What were
they thinking of now? What were they thinking of? Long ago both her
notes had been delivered. When they knew she had gone away, what would
they say? And in all this, "they" meant only two people, Charlie and
her aunt.
"Well, May, come along now, and I'll do better for you than any of
those very particular people. Cab--four-wheeler!"
They got in, and she gave the direction to drive to Wilkinson Street.
Here she opened the door with a latch-key and went in, making Marion
follow her. She told the cabman to wait.
"Now, are you sure, my dear child, that you would not like something
to eat?"
"Oh, quite, thank you. I want only to sleep. You are too kind to me,
and I am too tired and too miserable to thank you in any way. Indeed,
I shall never be able to thank you, for I was in despair."
"Poor child! poor child! It must have been cruelly hard. Mind yourself
now in the dark. I'll get a candle in my own room; I don't know where
to put my hand on one here. This is my door. I've got the key in my
pocket; ay, here it is. Now, my dear, come in. Oh, yes, here is the
candle. That is better; now you can see around you. There is no one in
the house but ourselves. The master and mistress are gone to the
theatre, and the servants are out. You will find the whole of the
people very nice. I have been lodging here some time, and I must say I
never met nicer people--not a bit like the ordinary lodging-house
folk."
"But when they come in and find me here, what will they say? What am I
to say?" asked Marion faintly.
"They will say nothing to you, and you will be fast asleep when they
come. I have a very simple plan of getting over that difficulty: I'll
write a note. They know my door is locked. You shall take the key and
lock the door on the inside. Tomorrow morning you push my note out
under the door. They will not be much surprised to see it there, and
they will be only astonished, not alarmed, when they hear that you are
in this room; whereas, if you showed yourself to-night, or if you
opened the door to-morrow morning, without their knowing about you,
they might be terrified, or treat you as a thief."
She sat down at the dressing-table and wrote the note, and then, after
giving a few more words of instruction, said "Good-night," and added:
"I shall not be back for a couple of weeks anyway, and during that
time you are quite welcome to stay here. By that time you will have
succeeded in getting a place for yourself, as you can use the landlady
here as a reference, or me, for that matter, if you prefer it."
She closed the door after her, and was gone.
Marion turned the key and sat down to think.
The events of the past hour had added a fresh and surprising subject
for thought to the situation. What deliverance could have been more
thorough, more opportune, or more unexpected? Now that she was safe
within walls, securely housed and sheltered, she recognised the
gravity of her position an hour ago. What would have become of her but
for this kind and thoughtful woman? She did not know. She could not
answer the question; but the fact she was unable to answer was more
terrible than any answer she could conceive. To wander another night
through those weary streets! She could not have done it. She should
have fallen down and died; or if she did not die, no doubt the police
would take her to the station or somewhere else.
This was the first time she had been from under the protection of her
father or mother or aunt, and she felt as if the ground beneath her
was no longer solid and trustworthy, but full of holes and other
dangers.
And then the thought of her poor old invalid kind aunt rushed in upon
her, and she sobbed. What would the poor old woman do now that she was
gone? Marion knew very well her aunt had no thought of anything in
this world but herself, Marion. She knew that never fell greater
desolation on a mother than would fall on her heart when the fact of
her flight broke upon her for the first time. She could not conceive
what the poor old woman would do. Perhaps she might die. That would be
a merciful end of this wearying tragedy. If she, too, might only die
here in secret, where no one knew, where even her name had never been
heard, would never be known! What a delivery death would be! Sudden
and painless death she would prefer, but she would not shirk pain, if
it proved the gateway to release. She was not conscious of any great
wickedness; and she believed she should find nothing in the hereafter
so bad as what she now endured.
Then she knelt down and said a short prayer, begging of God to take
her that night as she lay in sleep.
She was as loyal-hearted a maiden as man need hope to win. And as she
lay down to sleep that night she wished and prayed that she might die,
for her sweetheart's ease. After God, she held him first, above all
considerations of self or others. She was profoundly sorry for her
poor helpless aunt. If the question had arisen as to whether she or
her aunt should die, she would have freely offered herself as the
victim; if her offer was rejected, she would have felt resigned. But
on the question of whether he or she should be sacrificed, she would
not have allowed the right of any human interference. She was, by the
nature of her womanhood and the quality of her love, the natural
victim in any such sacrifice. She would have gone gladly to the stake
for him, as she had despairingly gone into exile away from him.
Then she fell asleep.
It was a broad open plain, bounded on all its four straight sides by
swift impassable rivers. In that wonderful atmosphere it was possible
to see objects distinctly at enormous distances. All this vast plain,
hundreds and hundreds of miles every way you looked, was dotted, at
regular intervals, with groups of mounted men, a vast horde, more
numerous than all the armies of the world combined. These bodies of
men kept moving from spot to spot, always movements of equal length,
like draughts on a board. Yet no one body of men came in contact with
any other. They always kept at regular distances; and the most curious
thing was, that although there seemed to be a body of cavalry for each
space, so that every space was occupied, they moved about from square
to square without touching or filling up the blank places, which were
only half the size of the occupied spaces.
There was another curious thing too about those squares of men. No
matter how far remote from the eye--and some of them are evidently
thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of miles away--the movements
of those that were remotest were only equal to those immediate to the
eye, and yet looked as great.
Another most remarkable thing about this plain was, that while the
rivers bounding it were at such distances that the mind of man could
not appreciate them, the sound of the swift rivers--cataracts in fact,
they were--came as clearly upon the ear as the sound of the tramp of
the horses close by.
Now the formation of this incalculable body of men and horses
underwent a change. Instead of being ranged in squares equidistant,
they, with incredible speed, formed into two long lines, and stood
facing one another. It was obvious the great battle was about to begin
at last. The slaughter would be terrific.
Not only had the formation changed, but the very nature of the troops
themselves. They were no longer cavalry, but artillery with long lean
guns, that looked hungry like starved wolves.
The men had all dismounted from their horses now, and were busy about
the guns. It was not possible to see exactly what the men were doing,
but anyone must know they were preparing for battle. If, when these
men had been merely cavalry, the carnage was sure to be great, what
would it be now that each man, as well as could be seen, had a long,
lean, hungry-looking cannon?
And now the battle began. The long, lean, hungry-looking cannon
belched forth huge columns of smoke, which lay down on the earth and
drifted towards the spectator. There was no sound of firing from the
cannon; all that could be heard was the roaring of the waters and the
hissing and screaming of the cannon-shot.
For hours this battle went on, and although the shriek of the shot
through the air could be distinctly heard, no one fell on either side,
nor was there any means of ascertaining whither the shot went, for no
spirit of dust rose to show. Upon the whole it was a most
extraordinary battle, such as one seldom or never sees nowadays.
The only progress which the battle seemed to make was in the
accumulation of smoke; for this had not only continued to gather, but,
by an inexplicable freak of Nature, the two lines of smoke were blown
together, and both forced downward on the spectator.
This smoke was suffocating, maddening. It was not to be borne any
longer. It had already blotted out the battle, and nothing could be
seen, although everything could be heard, including the shouts of the
dying; for now the shot must have begun to tell, as cries and yells
and screams burst in upon the ear, and almost maddened the listener.
The spectator tried to retire, but could not. A high wall had
insensibly arisen on the plain, and now barred retreat, To advance
against that fog was as impossible as to walk through that wall. What
was to be done? Suffocation! Oh, help!
With a shriek she awoke.
The room was dim with smoke. She sprang up. She had not undressed. She
rushed to the window and looked out. She saw at once that the house
was on fire, and that no one knew she was in it.
Right opposite to her stood Charlie, leaning against the railings. Was
her prayer for death about to be answered?
CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE ROOF.
For a moment he and she stared at one another in mute stupefaction.
She had prayed she might die that night, and now death had sought her.
And yet--and yet----
To die alone was easy, would have been less than easy when she offered
up the prayer; would have been easy now if he had not been present.
But how was she to die within the view of him? How was she to go out
of life while he stood by? No, no. Now was not the time to die. She
could not, she would not, die now.
"Charlie! Charlie! can't you save me?" she cried, throwing out her
arms towards him.
He could not hear her voice, but he saw the appealing arms. For a
moment he felt as though he had received a heavy blow on the head.
Then he uttered a loud shout that drew all eyes upon him, and lowering
his head, darted through the crowd and across the road towards the
house next the one on fire. Two policemen tried to stop him, but he
pushed them aside with an oath.
He sprang into the hall of the house next door and dashed up the
stairs. They were still removing the furniture from this house, and
when he reached the second landing he found it blocked with a wardrobe
four men were carrying down. He caught two balusters of the higher
flight, and drawing himself up flung himself over the balustrade. Then
he dashed on again. At last he reached the top of the house. He looked
into one of the rooms. Some of the neighbours were taking down an iron
bedstead. He seized one of the side-rails, and with a blow of it
knocked out the sash of the front window.
He got out on the window-sill, carrying the iron bar with him. He
rested the bar against the side of the window, and then for a moment
seized the gutter-pipe and swung out of it. The gutter bore his weight
without giving way in the least.
When he had ascertained that the gutter would bear him he took up the
iron bar, and, laying it down in the gutter, pushed it towards the
burning house.
Thus he was now standing on the window-sill next to the one at which
he had seen Marion, and the iron bar, to which the cross laths of the
bed had been attached, lay in the gutter overhead between him and the
burning house.
Was she still standing at that window? or had the accursed
flames---- No, no; he must not even think of such a thing for a
moment. It would unnerve him, and he had need of all his nerve and
strength now if she was to be saved. So far all had gone well. It was
not more than a minute and a half since he had seen her figure at the
window. How long that minute and a half seemed to him! Keep cool! That
was the great thing; keep cool!
All this rushed through his mind as he once more lifted himself up by
the power of his hands and hung out of the gutter.
At that moment a fireman thrust his head through the bottom sash, and
said:
"We've sent for another escape. What are you going to do? You can, if
you are strong, go along the gutter to the window, but you can't bring
her back that way."
"I am not going to try," said Cheyne.
"Then what are you going to do? You can't go along the roof, it's too
steep."
"I can," said Cheyne.
"You cannot," said the fireman. "We've been looking at it, and we all
agree it's too steep."
"I have no time to talk, but I'm going."
"It's as much as your life is worth, and I won't let you."
"By ---- if you touch me I'll impale you on the railings below!"
The fireman drew back, and, as he did, Cheyne let go the gutter and
slipped off his boots. Then seizing the gutter once more, and standing
at one side of the window-sill--the side farthest from the burning
house--he pressed his stocking-feet against the brickwork of the
embrasure of the window, and walked up until his left foot was at the
top of the window. Thus his body was now higher at the feet than at
the head.
He raised his left leg cautiously and caught the edge of the gutter
with the foot. He raised the right leg and passed it over the left.
Then he lifted his body up as high as he could by the hands until he
got the elbow of his right arm into the gutter. He was able to keep
himself in this position by pressing his right knee firmly against the
wall.
The great danger of his present position was that the holdfasts
securing the gutter might give way. If they did, he would have had no
chance of life.
A moment he hung in this way, on the edge of the roof. Then, by a
prodigious effort of his enormous strength he rolled himself in on the
roof. There was a cheer from the crowd below. Not one of the firemen
had believed he could do this.
His position was still one of extreme danger. The roof was too steep
to allow of his walking upright on it, although in his stocking-feet.
To prevent himself slipping down he kept one hand and one foot in the
gutter. Now he thrust his right hand upward on the slates as far as he
could, lifted up a slate, tore it off, and flung it over the roof. He
did this to avoid any chance of its striking anyone in the street or
the area, where three firemen were now busy rescuing their injured
comrade. He tore off another slate, and threw it over in like way.
Then he had something to lay hold of. Clutching the laths, he drew
himself up by his right hand until his breast was on a level with the
hole in the slates. Holding on with his left hand, he thrust his right
down the gutter and took up the side rail of the bed, and, resting
himself on the slates, keeping his toes in the gutter, he stretched
himself upward to his full height, holding the iron rail in his right
hand.
Again there came a cry of applause from the crowd below. All this
Cheyne had done with amazing swiftness. From the moment he had burst
through the crowd below, only two-and-an-half minutes had gone by. Yet
to him it had seemed an age.
Now his progress was much slower than it had hitherto been, for in
order not to start the holdfasts of the gutter, he was obliged to rest
as much of his weight as possible on the slates. Thus he had to lie at
full length on the slates, and in moving to the burning house had to
shift his feet with great deliberation and caution along the gutter.
The people below watched in breathless excitement. At length he passed
the boundary between the two houses. The houses were old, and the
party-wall did not come through the roof. The smoke was dense, almost
suffocating. He had to dodge his head this way and that to try and get
a breath of air. At last the crowd shouted, "Far enough."
He paused, and, resting on his knees and toes, raised the iron bar
high and brought it down with a mighty crash on the slates. They rose
in a shower of fragments; and, when he could see, the laths were
exposed in two or three places. Seizing hold of the laths he drew
himself up, and, standing upon the laths, which gave him a firm
foothold, he thrust the bar down--as one uses a pavior--until he had
made a hole big enough to allow his body through.
Into this hole he dropped, and found himself in an unboarded cockloft
over the room in which he had seen Marion. Between two of the joists
he now thrust his bar. Already the smoke was thick in the cockloft,
but when the hole was made in the ceiling the smoke rushed up in a
dense column.
Not a moment was to be lost. Perhaps it was already too late.
He smashed down the ceiling, and in a few seconds had cleared a space
large enough to allow his body to pass between the joists. He threw
away the bar and dropped his legs through the hole and lowered himself
until he hung at full length from the joists by his hands. Then he let
go.
The room was so full of smoke he could not see anything distinctly.
One thing was clear, Marion was no longer standing at the window. Six
minutes had passed since he left the street--only six minutes! She was
then standing at the window, but in those six minutes what might not
have happened?
Meantime, the firemen had not been idle. They had got their comrade up
out of the area, and were busy with a long rope. One of the men got
upon the stump of the escape, and having secured the end of the rope
to a hammer and coiled twenty or thirty yards of the rope in his left
hand, he swung the hammer round his head three or four times, and then
let go.
The hammer flew upward towards the roof next that of the burning
house; the coil ran out of the man's left hand--the hammer disappeared
over the roof. Another fireman now rushed into the house over which
the line lay, and in a few seconds the rope was hauled a little from
the back of the house. Then the fireman who had gone into the
adjoining house came to a window on the top-floor, and cried out:
"Pull in!"
Just as this man cried "Pull in!" Cheyne saw, through the smoke,
something lying on the ground near the window. He could feel, by his
unshod feet, that the floor of the room was already hot; the smoke was
stifling. Everything depended on the haste he made.
Under the hole in the ceiling he dashed a table, then on this he flung
a chair. The roof of the room was low and he was a tall man, so that
by standing on the chair he could reach the ceiling.
Then he seized the insensible form of the girl and mounted on the
table, and from that to the chair. He was almost choked with smoke,
and for a moment he felt as though he was about to faint. His
shoulders were on a level with the ceiling.
Making a supreme effort, he pushed his burden upward through the
opening and rested it on the joists above. Then he drew himself up
until his feet came through, and he crouched in the cockloft.
It did not take him a moment to get from the cockloft to the roof. But
how was he to get back. He had never thought of getting back until
now. He looked down at the insensible girl. He had just been in time.
He saw a flutter at her throat. The air had already begun to revive
her.
Now the people below saw him, and shouted with relief and joy.
How was he to get back? It was utterly impossible for him to go as he
had come. Awhile he rested on the edge of the hole. The smoke was
increasing every moment. He looked in the face of the girl he loved
more than all the world besides, he looked at the burning house, he
looked down at the opposite side of the street, and then he turned his
eyes straight in front of him and saw the white level light of dawn
broadening in the east.
She was reviving, but for what fate? What a horrible thing to think
of! What a maddening thing to fancy of even for a minute!
At that moment the people below shouted:
"The rope! the rope!"
He looked along the roof and saw the rope. It was now secured at the
back of the next house, and held by one of the firemen in front. This
man drew the rope as much as he dared in the direction of the burning
house; but, owing to the flames issuing from the windows, he could not
bring it across the house, hence it was twenty feet off from Cheyne.
Those twenty feet made all the difference in the world. The whole
distance to the point from which he had set out was not more than
thirty feet. It would have been as difficult for him to have got ten
as thirty feet.
There was no foothold, no handhold, and the gutter would not do--would
not bear the whole weight of himself, not to allow for her weight at
all. For now, if he were to try and regain the roof of the next house,
he would have to employ his arms with her, and could not take any of
his weight off the gutter by leaning on his hands or chest.
The smoke coming up the hole grew more and more dense. Fortunately
there was no wind, and the smoke rose in a solid column through the
roof, and the two were little annoyed by it.
That rope seemed the only chance of delivery, for in less than another
ten minutes the flames would be bursting through that hole, and all
would be over with them. How could he reach that rope?
Marion had not yet fully revived, but he could see she was breathing
more freely.
At last a thought struck him. He lay down, thrust his arm and shoulder
into the cockloft, and brought up the iron bar. Then, having carefully
placed the unconscious girl at his feet, he raised the bar and brought
it down with tremendous violence on the slates in the direction of the
rope. A shower of splinters rose into the air and fell with a rattle
on the roof. A huge gash appeared on the roof. Again Cheyne brought
down the bar with great force, and a space a foot wide was cleared of
slates and showed the naked laths. Then he battered down the laths
close at hand as far as the bar would reach. Having thrust the bar
through the laths, as far as he had broken, he looked once more at
Marion.
Her eyes were open. She was perfectly conscious, but very weak.
"May," he said, "have courage. Have courage, my girl, and try and do
what I tell you."
"Oh, God forgive me, Charlie; God forgive me for all this!"
"Hush, child, hush! There is not a moment to lose. Now do what I tell
you. On no account look down into the street. Sit here. Lean upwards
on the slates, and hold on by this rafter with both your hands. Or
stay, better lean forward and clasp the rafter with both arms. Do not
stir now, and I will not be a moment."
Then he crept on to the next rafter and clove in the lath and plaster
there, and then to the next, and the next, and so on, until at last,
in an incredibly short space of time, he had worked his way to where
the rope stretched across the roof.
When he reached it another cheer burst from the crowd below. Balancing
himself with the heavy iron bar he crawled back along the rafter to
where Marion lay.
But up through that hole the smoke had been rushing with increasing
volume, and when Cheyne touched the young girl he found she had
fainted again.
He raised her up and drew her out of the immediate up-draught of the
smoke. She did not revive at once, but he saw the weakness which had
again overtaken her was of a trifling nature. He placed her above him
on the slates, and then drew up some of the slack of the rope. He
wound the rope round his body, so that it stretched taut from the
coping of the roof to his waist.
Then placing her on his shoulder and pressing her securely to him with
his left arm, he caught the rope in both his hands, and leaning
slightly backwards, resting the weight of his body partly on the rope
and partly on his feet, took a few steps slowly and carefully up the
slates towards the coping.
The pure white light of dawn was on his back, and when for a moment he
stood still, he looked, against the sun, like a bronze statue of
Hercules triumphant.
He took four or five steps to the left, and was then off the roof of
the burning house, from which slender shafts of flame, almost
invisible in the strong light, were now darting through the dense
column of smoke.
Another cheer burst from the crowd when they saw he was at last clear
of the burning house. But still he was in a position of no small
difficulty. He had left his bar behind.
He was on a roof upon which he could not stand without support, and he
had the fainting girl in his arms. He could stop there as long as he
liked by making the rope fast, but the fire might spread.
At that moment another shout rose from the people. "The escape! the
escape!" they cried, and looking up the street he saw a second escape
approaching.
In a few minutes it was rolled into position, ladders were shot up,
and backing gradually by aid of the rope, he reached the ladder and
was soon on firm ground.
Marion had again opened her eyes.
"A cab!" he cried.
One was on the spot in a short time.
"I'll take charge of this lady--she is a friend of mine," said Cheyne,
as he helped her in. To the driver he said: "Knightsbridge Road, and
then I'll show you." He got in, and the cab drove away.
CHAPTER XIV.
A SILENT DRIVE.
Neither said anything. Both were exhausted. Both were experiencing
collapse after the danger and anxieties of the past two days--of the
past hour. He put his arm round her to support her, and she leaned on
him unconscious, or almost unconscious, that it was really he.
Cheyne now felt for the first time that he was covered with bruises
and cuts from slates and nails. Of course, when he came to think of
it, nothing but a miracle could have saved him injury in the ordeal
through which he had just come. He knew that his clothes were all in
tatters. His left leg and right arm felt particularly cold and
uncomfortable, with here and there a very slight sense of pain. The
pain was not worth talking about, but the cold uncomfortable sensation
was new and very sickening.
He did not think of May or of the rescue he had just made. He was
feeling, more than thinking. He allowed his mind to drift, and took no
heed of the course it followed; and by a circumstance for which he
feebly endeavoured to account as the cab rattled along, he found his
mind more occupied with a curious observation of his own physical
condition, that with any thought of May or recent events. This was
very strange, and perplexed him in a hazy sort of way, as one is
perplexed on waking in a dark strange room, and being unable to
recollect in what relation the bed stands to the door or the door to
the window.
Why could not he take his mind off his left leg and his right arm,
when he had just not only recovered his lost darling, whom he had been
two days seeking, but whom he had only just delivered from imminent
risk of death? It was strange, very strange.
He had no desire to talk, no desire to utter a word. May was sitting
there beside him, and he was taking her home to her aunt's house, and
yet he felt no inclination to talk. What he should like most of all
would be to go to bed and get covered up well, and fall fast asleep.
By Jove, he was falling fast asleep as it was! What an extraordinary
thing he should feel drowsy now he had recovered May, and all was so
satisfactorily settled!
Asleep! Yes, he was falling asleep! What a wonderful thing! No doubt
it was owing to the two sleepless nights he had spent. But his leg and
arm did feel very dreary.
What! could he not keep his eyes open? This was incredible!
Swimming?--he thought he had done with swimming. And yet here he was
once more swimming out to that wreck with the line! What was the good
of his going out again to that wreck when all the men but the one he
had saved were drowned? What earthly good could come of carrying a
line out to a ship on which there was not a living soul? Absurd as it
was, he should not so much mind it only for his arm and leg. They had
got entangled in the rope, and he could hardly support himself in the
water. They were dragging him down.
May was also silent, although she never felt less sleepy in all her
life. She was scared, and could not gather her thoughts. The past two
days were like a dream to her, and she felt she should not be fully
awake until she had got back to Tenby Terrace, and seen the old place
and kissed her kind old aunt. She had run away and hidden herself, and
Charlie had come in search of her and had found her, and she was going
back with him. That was quite right and natural, and she was glad that
horrible time was over--a time of dreaming or waking. Yes, she was
going back once more to her old home with Charlie. She had no longer
any doubt that it was wrong of her to have left home. She ought to
have remained there and resisted Charlie. It was weak and cowardly of
her to run away; and instead of that helping to make Charlie forget
her, it would of course make him only more determined not to give her
up. If she had stayed at home and seen him every day, and treated him
merely as a friend when he called, he would have been much more
swiftly cured of his love for her than by her flying and hiding
herself from him.
What a wonder Charlie did not speak! He had not uttered a word since
they had got into the cab, and now they were crossing the river.
Yes, this was Charlie's arm round her, and it would never be round her
again. Never. Even now it was not round her in the old way. It was
that of a supporter, a protector, not a lover. How could he continue
to love her after her last act? If he had run away from her, would she
care for him again?.... Ah, that would be a different thing. Of course
she would forgive him. Who could, help forgiving Charlie anything? But
then it was quite a different thing. He had everything in his favour,
she nothing; and she had thrown him up, run away from him, and told
him she would never marry him or meet him again as a lover. No. It was
impossible to make any comparison between the two cases, and no doubt
Charlie had thought over the whole thing, and came to the same
conclusion as she.
That was lucky. It was lucky for her that Charlie had finally
abandoned all thought of looking at her in the old way. She had tried
to break away from her old home, and she had met cruel difficulties
and rebuffs. She would never have left her aunt but that she thought
doing so would be of advantage to him. And it had been of advantage to
him. Had it not changed him from the warm but unwise lover into merely
the protector and friend? Nothing could have been more efficacious
than the plan she had adopted. If he had not found her that night, the
chances are his love of her would have gone on as of old, and if she
had been a whole fortnight from home his love of her might have
increased, to fade away as the time of her absence grew longer. But
here was she now, who had run away only two days ago, who only two
days ago had told him she would never know him as a suitor again,
brought back from her hiding and placed face to face with him. All his
love must have left him. What could be plainer? What could be more
simple? They were now driving through Piccadilly, and he had not said
a word.
His face was pale and drooped forward, so that she could only see his
forehead. His clothes were, like hers, torn and ragged, and--yes,
there was something the matter with his clothes she had not noticed
before--something that was not the matter with hers--they were wet!
Wet! Wet with what?
Here by this shoulder, close to which she rested her head, his coat
was wet and clammy. Clammy!
"Charlie! Charlie! I am very sorry for all I have done--all the
trouble I have caused you and poor dear aunt. Will you not speak to
me? Scold me if you like, but speak!" she said pleadingly. She
stretched out both her hands and touched his left hand. She lifted
that hand; there was no resistance. She let that hand go; it fell
inertly back. Then she shook herself free from the arm that held her;
it dropped down nervelessly behind her back.
"My God!" she cried, "what is the matter?" She turned towards him. She
put one of her hands on his forehead. She touched his cheek. Both were
cold. She raised his head. It wagged to either side, and then fell
forward again until the chin rested on the chest.
Then she shrieked. The cabman heard her and drew up. He clambered down
out of his seat and looked into the cab.
"What's the matter?" asked the man. "Oh, I don't know! I don't know!
Look!"
"Wake up, sir, wake up. The young lady is frightened. Wake up, sir!"
The man shook Cheyne, and raised his hand, and struck his thigh, but
there was no response.
"Why, he's wet!" cried the man; "he's wet all over! What wet him?"
"I don't know. Oh Heaven, be merciful to me, and do not drive me mad!
I was in a house that caught fire--the one you saw burning--and he
saved me!"
The man opened the cab and looked carefully up and down Cheyne. Then
he looked at the floor of the cab close to where Cheyne sat, and
glancing up with a face full of fear, he cried: "Why, it's blood. He's
all wet with blood! Look!"
May turned her eyes down, and saw upon the floor of the cab a large
pool of blood close to the left leg. She did not shriek. She turned
deadly pale, and said to the man: "Quick, quick; quick as you can go!
Eight, Tenby Terrace!"
The man clambered up into his seat, and, whipping the horse, drove off
at the top of the beast's speed.
In less than ten minutes he drew up at the door of Miss Traynor's
house, jumped down and knocked loudly. The man whom Cheyne had set to
watch the side door opened it and came out. In a minute Anne appeared
at the front-door. Both were dressed, and ran forward hastily towards
the cab. By this time May had alighted, and was standing at one side
of the cab, while the driver stood at the other.
Anne uttered a cry of delight at seeing May, but the girl pointed into
the cab, saying: "Make haste, get him up to the spare room at once."
The two men lifted him out of the cab and carried him slowly and with
difficulty upstairs, and laid him on the bed in the small spare room.
The cab was immediately sent for a surgeon, and May sat down by
Cheyne's side to watch.
Miss Traynor had gone to bed that night and was now asleep. May did
not know what to do, except to try and force a few teaspoonfuls of
brandy into Cheyne's mouth. Fortunately the surgeon was at home, and
in a few minutes his tread was heard on the stairs. May told the
surgeon all she knew, and then she and Anne went out of the room,
leaving the surgeon and the man Cheyne had sent together.
For upwards of an hour May had to wait before the surgeon opened the
door; then he came downstairs with a very grave face.
The surgeon said Mr. Cheyne was now conscious, but very low.
May had given the injured man's old name in order, if possible, to
avoid attracting particular attention to the circumstances out of
which the case arose, or the case itself. The patient had lost a very
large, an exceedingly large, quantity of blood. Only he happened to
have a splendid constitution and youth, he must have succumbed in the
cab. His right arm and left leg had been severely torn by splinters
and nails. Some of the splinters had remained in the flesh, and had
had to be extracted. The sufferer had been overtaxed at the time he
received the injuries. He had, the surgeon gathered from him, been two
days in great mental excitement, eating little, and moving about
continually. Then at the fire he had made prodigious efforts. The
speaker had questioned him in detail on this part of the case, and
felt sure that few men, few of even the strongest men in their
freshest vigour, could have accomplished the feats performed by him in
that emergency. Even if he had come out of that fierce ordeal of
physical strength unscathed, there would in all likelihood be a great
reaction and depression of vital power. But the great loss of blood
coming at such a moment made the case one of great anxiety--of the
gravest anxiety.
Was his life in danger?
Well, the life of anyone who got a cut or a scrape was to a certain
extent in danger, for many things might assail that cut or proceed
from it. There was another thing which complicated this case, namely,
the fact that where these fresh cuts and scrapes appeared were others
not quite healed, This gave the case an ugly appearance.
Would Dr. Fernbeck wish for assistance? He could have any one he
liked.
Well, up to this there was no immediate cause of alarm. But let him
see.
Yes, he should like to meet the man who attended for those older cuts
and bruises. It would be useful to meet that man. Where was he to be
found?
It was Dr. Oliver Rowland, of Barnardstown.
And where were those injuries received?
At Silver Bay.
What! Was the Mr. Cheyne upstairs the Mr. Cheyne of the celebrated, of
the immortal swim to the yacht _Seabird?_
Yes.
And consequently he was the Duke of Shropshire?
Yes.
And possibly a brother to the lady the speaker had then the honour of
addressing?
No. And would Dr. Fernbeck have the goodness not to say anything about
the patient's rank, or even the name she had given him? as, for some
sufficient reason, the Duke was in London, and had been for some days
under an _incognito_.
Dr. Fernbeck promised to respect the _incognito_, and say nothing
about the case. He would at once telegraph to Dr. Oliver Rowland, at
Barnardstown, asking him to come up and consult with him. Let him see;
it was now five o'clock. There was no use in telegraphing before
eight, as the office at Barnardstown was sure not to be open until
then. By nine or half-past nine he should have a reply from Dr. Oliver
Rowland, and by ten he would be at Tenby Terrace again.
Might she go up and sit with the patient?
Was the lady whom he had the honour of addressing the Miss Marion
Durrant of whom his grace had spoken, and whom his grace so much
desired to see?
Her name was Marion Durrant.
Then she might go up, but no one else was to go into the room save the
man whom he had left with the patient, and who would be relieved in a
few hours by a professional nurse. In the meantime, the patient was
not to be excited or allowed to excite himself. Excitement of any kind
might produce the gravest, the very gravest, results.
When Dr. Fernbeck had gone. May went into the little sitting-room for
a moment, to think. She had told Anne not to rouse her aunt, for,
knowing what a poor sleeper she always was, and having heard how she
had sat up the night before, and feeling that the poor old helpless
woman would be unable to render any assistance, and that the sense of
her uselessness would only pain her. May had resolved to let Miss
Traynor sleep on. But, now she was about to go up and see him, what
would he say? what should she say?
The thoughts which had passed through her mind in the cab, having been
nearly all based on the belief that he was at the time deliberately
keeping silence, were now worthless, and she had no clue to what had
really been, in his mind, for she did not know at what precise moment
he had fainted. He may have been semi-unconscious at the instant he
helped her in. Owing to her own terror and excitement she had not
noticed the blood on his clothes; and as he wore black, and the blood
came from within, it had no other effect on the clothes but to make
them damp and clammy.
But what would he say? what should she say? It was impossible to
answer these questions. Let her go to him at once. That was the only
way to solve the riddle.
CHAPTER XV.
THE MARRIAGE OF CHARLIE AND MAY.
She stole up noiselessly and knocked at the door. The man who was
minding Cheyne opened the door and let her in. She went to the foot of
the bed and looked at the poor pale face, now trying to force the
pallid flesh into a smile.
"May," said a voice she hardly knew, it was so weak and thin, "come
and sit by me, dearest. I want to speak to you." He looked at the man
and said: "I am much obliged to you. You will leave us a little while,
if you please."
The man withdrew.
"Dearest," he said again, and paused and smiled that pale sad smile.
"Dearest." Again he stopped; the repetition of the word, and the sight
of her face, seemed to be the only thing he then cared for.
"Oh Charlie! oh Charlie!" she cried and covered her face with her
hands.
"May," he whispered, "take my hand. I cannot lift it now. I should not
mind my weakness, only that I cannot take your hand, dearest."
She took his hand in hers, and cherished it against her bosom for
awhile, and then put it down on the counterpane, and laid her warm
young cheek upon it, and bathed it with her tears.
"Oh Charlie, Charlie! This is awful. Oh God, give me strength!"
Again he tried to smile, and said: "May, you must not fret yourself in
this way. You must not, dearest. You ask for strength. Why you are a
Goliath compared to me now. It is not so long ago, only a few days
since, I was counted a strong man, could do things with my arms no man
of the company could do. But now I cannot get a kiss of my sweetheart
unless she comes and kisses me. I cannot raise my stupid old head so
as to touch my sweetheart's lips."
She bent over him and kissed his forehead, his lips, her tears falling
so fast the while that she could scarcely see.
"When I was on the roof that time, and you were in that room, I could
have torn up those rafters with my hands, I could have pushed a wall
down with my back, I could have taken a chimney-stack in my arms and
dragged it up by the roots. Now, May, I could not lift one of the
braids of your beautiful hair, dearest. If it was our bridal-day I
could not put the ring on your finger."
Her heart was breaking. She leaned over him and whispered with
passionate entreaty into his ear: "But, Charlie, Charlie, you will put
it on another day. Some day soon, won't you, my heart's darling?"
"Not very soon," he said; "I am not sure I shall ever put that ring on
your finger now, dearest." Still he smiled.
"But oh, my Charlie! I did not mean what I said when I wrote that
dreadful note. I am only a weak girl, not a strong man like you."
"Strong man!" he repeated in a tone of amusement. "I cannot be a very
strong man, can I, when I have swum to the life-buoy, see the ship
bearing down to take me up, and yet feel my hand relaxing on the buoy
so that I shall not be able to float until she is near enough to take
me on board."
May did not understand that he was speaking metaphorically, and
thought his mind was wandering back to that great swim which had made
his name famous. But she did not want his mind to go so far afield
now. She wanted to keep his mind as close as she possibly could to
herself. So she said: "But you will give me that plain gold band
soon?"
"No; not soon. It can't be soon."
"I mean as soon as you are quite well."
"That may not be very soon, dearest."
"Oh yes it will."
He smiled. "May, do they not say marriages are made in Heaven?"
"Yes, Charlie."
"I am greatly afraid I am not good enough to have my marriage made
there; but if I am, you may be sure we shall be married, not soon,
but--by-and-by."
Again she missed his meaning. "Soon or by-and-by are all the same to
me, so long as you forgive me and take me back to your heart."
"You have never been out of my heart, child, never for a minute."
"But I have behaved very badly, Charlie."
"You did what you thought was best; and no one can do more than that."
"And you forgive me?"
"Dearest, I have nothing to forgive."
"But, my darling, my poor heart's darling, only for me you would now
be strong and well."
"Do you think I could ever be strong and well again if any harm had
come to you in that blazing house?"
She was conscious that this was special pleading on her behalf; that
it was not sound; but she could not find out the flaw, and for awhile
she sat tranquil, holding his hand.
He was silent for a long time, and at last May knew by his breathing
that he slept. She sat as the morning wore on, and still he slept. At
last she released his hand and went downstairs. It was now nine
o'clock, and her aunt was in the little breakfast-parlour.
Miss Traynor had not recovered from the shock of her niece's flight,
and, although Anne had told her of Marion's return, she was still too
feeble to understand the full import of that event. Indeed she was
never very clear as to Marion's flight, and had dim doubts as to
whether the whole thing was not a dream. Anne had also told the
invalid that Mr. Cheyne had been put to bed in the spare room, and
that the doctor had come and said he was very bad.
When May saw her aunt she ran to her, and throwing her arms round the
old woman's shoulders, burst into a passionate flood of tears, but
said no word; her heart was too full for speech.
"There now, my child! there now, my child! Don't cry. I am very glad
you came back. We are all very glad you came back. It was very wrong
of you to go out this bitterly cold weather without anything to put
round you when you were coming home. I did not mind your going in the
least, but you must never again do such a thing without taking a cloak
or a shawl with you. Charlie, your Charlie, was very uneasy too at
your not having even a silk handkerchief to put about your neck when
you came out of the theatre."
May did not say anything, but, sliding down on her knees, buried her
head in the old woman's lap, thinking:
"Oh, my aunt, my poor good aunt, has my folly struck you down too!"
At ten o'clock Dr. Fernbeck came. He had had a telegram from Dr.
Oliver Rowland, who was already on the way up, as he felt most deeply
interested in the case. Then Dr. Fernbeck went up to the sickroom, and
upon coming down reported the patient in pretty much the same
condition as in the early morning. Yes, Miss Durrant might go up and
stop with the patient, but she must not let him talk. No, not even for
a minute. It was imperative that he should be kept quiet. Miss
Durrant's presence would be more conducive, no doubt, to his quiet
than her absence, but there must be no talking. He would come again in
the afternoon with Dr. Rowland.
So Marion went up again to the bedroom, and took his hand and held it
for his comfort--he was now awake--and wept quietly for her own
heart's ease. He wished to speak, but she would not allow him, and
told him if he made any new attempt in that direction she would be
compelled to leave the room, as her orders allowed of no exception;
upon which he smiled and remained silent, with his pale face turned
towards her and his weary eyes fixed upon her face.
Shortly after this the professional nurse arrived, but she was told
she would not be wanted in the sick-room as a watcher--not for the
present at least, and that she might rest below until need arose for
her upstairs.
It was four o'clock when Dr. Fernbeck came again. This time he was
accompanied by Dr. Oliver Rowland. The two medical men spent half-an
hour in the sick-room, and then came down, saying that, as Sir Francis
Granby had seen the patient in his former illness, it could do no harm
if he saw him now in this. Dr. Rowland would remain in attendance
while Dr. Fernbeck went to fetch Sir Frederick, and a cabman was sent
for Mr. Macklin, of the firm of Macklin and Dowell, solicitors to the
patient, as the latter had some business matters of importance to
communicate to Mr. Macklin.
It was judged best that, until Sir Francis had seen the sufferer, Miss
Durrant should not visit him. It was more than likely Sir Francis
would not be there for an hour, and Dr. Rowland suggested that Miss
Durrant should take some refreshment, a glass of wine and a biscuit,
and lie down and try and sleep. Dr. Rowland promised to call her when
the great doctor had seen the injured man.
And May, being half distracted and quite weak, ate a biscuit and drank
a glass of wine, and lay down as she had been bid. In a few minutes
she was asleep. She was exhausted, and she slept profoundly,
dreamlessly, for hours. When she woke up the west was all aglow. With
a pang of grief that she had allowed herself to sleep so long, and a
feeling of indignation against Dr. Rowland, who had promised to wake
her when Sir Francis Granby was gone, she rose and went out on the
narrow landing, at the farther end of which was the room in which he
lay.
Just at that moment the door of the sick-room opened, and three men
descended the stairs and went into the little drawing-room, which had
in the morning been used a consulting-room by the two doctors. She
remained standing on the landing until she heard the drawing-room door
open, and then the front door, and finally a carriage drive away. Then
she ran down.
She met Dr. Rowland in the hall, and said eagerly:
"Well?"
"Sir Francis Granby has just left," said Rowland gravely. "Doctor
Fernbeck could not get him until now. He was out of town. This will
explain why I did not call you."
"Yes, yes. But what does he--what do you all think?"
"That the case is serious, very serious."
"But Doctor Fernbeck thought the case very serious this morning. Is he
worse?"
"That is a thing hard to say. The symptoms are but very slightly
changed."
"But you think he will be quite well again in a few days?"
"Ah, well--a few days? Not quite so soon as that."
"But soon?"
"He is very ill."
"But he is enormously strong, and he is young."
"These are two points in any man's favour."
"Are they not in his favour _now?_"
"We are most anxious,"
"Ah, I see you mean that he will die."
"No, we do not say he must die."
"Doctor Rowland, may I go to him? He was very dear to me."
"I know, child. I know--you may go to him," said the Radical doctor,
turning into the drawing-room and putting his hand before his face.
She went upstairs with a slow step. When she entered the room, Cheyne
said to her: "Come here, little May, and sit down beside me, and take
my hand as you did awhile ago. I want to say something to you."
She did as he told her without saying a word. He went on:
"When you were last here you asked me if we should not be married
soon, and I said I feared not. I have changed my opinion. I now think
we shall be married very soon. At once."
She turned and looked at him. His face was turned towards the window,
through which the red disc of the setting sun was clearly visible
above the distant housetops. The ruddy light fell on his face and made
him look more like his old self. She said nothing, but kept her
piteous eyes on his face. He smiled.
"We are alone now, and I suppose we are not likely to be interrupted
for a little time. In that little time, dearest, let us get married."
Still she said nothing. She thought his mind was wandering.
"Little Marion, I have forgotten to get a wedding-ring, and even if I
had one I could not put it on your finger. I have not the strength
left. But then, out there is the great red ring of the sun, and if you
hold my hand in yours until it goes down below those housetops, I
shall feel that we are married. It is the poor conceit, dearest, of a
Fleet Street hack who is weak and spent, and--and--and--well, never
mind 'and' what. Will you do it, dearest, to humour a whim? and then I
shall sleep sounder this night than ever, for I shall know that
nothing can ever part us, for I shall believe this is a real
marriage--as real as though it were performed in the dear old Abbey.
Now, dearest, the ring begins to dip. Hold my hand and let us be
silent until we can see it no more."
In silence they both watched the sun as it sank. She held his hand in
both hers. When she could no longer see the sun she turned to him, and
said:
"Charlie, it is set."
With a prodigious effort he raised himself in the bed, and, throwing
out both his arms towards her, cried in a voice of agony and love:
"Marion! Marion, my wife--my dearest! My wife, Marion!" and then fell
back, to see the sun no more.
Dr. Rowland heard that cry, and hurried upstairs. He knew what had
happened. He took her by the hand.
"Come with me, child, come with me;" and saying these words he led
Marion away out of the chamber of death.
_THE END_.
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Duke's Sweetheart, by Richard Dowling