“Ah! let none other alien spell so’er
But only the One Hope’s, One name be there—
Not less nor more, but even that word alone.”
ROSSETTI.
It was six o’clock and growing dark, only across the fields, rich with a
late harvest, the last light caught colour from the golden corn, lying
in rippling fields beneath the hills. The air was fresh and sweet, and
the shadows lay sharp and clear over the country. Reggie drove very
fast, and Daphne saw nothing but old memories.
“Is he dying?” she said at last.
“Yes,” said Reggie.
“Oh!——” murmured Daphne. Reggie lashed the horse, it danced a little,
and quickened its pace. Daphne did not notice that they were driving
much too fast. “Reggie,” she said at last, “why did you call me ‘Miss
Fordington’? I don’t believe you were a bit glad to see me!” Reggie was
simply furious; that she could dare to make him such a speech at the
present moment, showed that she was not only thoroughly bad, but cruelly
heartless. That at the time, when the man who ought to have been her
husband was dying, she could observe the greeting of another man, struck
him as about the lowest and vainest thing he could imagine.
“I do not think we need discuss my feelings,” he said, “they are not
your concern, nor ought they to be.” Daphne looked at him in hurt
surprise.
“Oh! Reggie!” she said, “I can’t understand you.”
“It is just as well,” he said coldly, “that you should not.” They barely
escaped running over a child, and Daphne caught his arm in terror. Then
he looked at her, it was a look of such absolute disgust that it stung
her like a whip.
“Does he suppose I am trying to flirt with him?” she thought. Her only
wish now was for the drive to end. The garden was deserted, everyone had
left but Lilian. She stood in the hall to welcome Daphne; it was years
since they had met, and Lilian held her close to her, in silence. Reggie
did not see their meeting, he drove furiously to the station and caught
the last train up. There was nothing especial for him to do in town, so
he took the night express to Scotland, but his troubled thoughts kept
pace even with the Edinburgh express.
“Am I too late?” said Daphne. Lilian shook her head, and they went
upstairs hand in hand.
“It has been a fight against the hours,” Lilian told her, “but I do not
think he could die until he saw you.”
“And his—wife?” said Daphne.
“Is dressing for dinner,” replied Lilian simply. “He will not see her,
and she would not go to him if she could, I think. Oh! my dear, it’s a
terrible business.”
“Oh, Arthur,” said Daphne, “I can’t imagine him helpless——” she bit
her lips to keep the tears back. “I only knew this afternoon,” she
explained.
The surgeon’s room had that atmosphere of utter calm, and order in which
the mind has only itself to fight against. All the windows were wide
open, and by the light of the shaded lamp, Daphne saw his grey face,
propped up by many pillows. His hands plucked at the counterpane, with
futile, unpausing fingers. Daphne remembered how they had boasted of
them in hospital, as the most beautifully formed hands in London, and
she understood that their work was done, as no amount of mere terrible
reports of him could have shown her. Hope can keep alive against all
reason, until sight stuns it with reality. When she saw his face, the
rest of the world vanished, and she knew that nothing at all existed but
his fight with the unseen. She did not notice Katherine until the other
pointed out to her, the little compromises with death that he himself
had brought down with him. Then she left them. Daphne sat by his side
and put her hand over one of his. He looked at her and smiled as a child
does who has been looking for its mother.
He had passed beyond surprises, and forgotten all his troubles, but he
knew that she was there.
“It’s all right, Daphne,” he said, “they told you it was all right,
didn’t they?” he repeated, frowning a little.
“Yes,” said Daphne, “it is _quite—quite_ all right now.” He was
satisfied, and lay watching her face in absolute restfulness, only his
fingers still picked fruitlessly at the counterpane.
Three hours later Katherine looked in at them, they neither of them
moved, and until she died she never forgot the picture that they made.
The fire-light (which in spite of the summer the chill of failing life
made good to him) flickered “with subtle sound of flame.” And the
moonbeams flooded the room. Daphne was still beside him, but now her arm
lay beneath his head holding him up, her other hand was on his, and her
dark eyes were filled with light. When Katherine saw his face, she came
in, and closed the door, for she saw that there was another presence in
the room. The end had come, but they neither of them heard her.
“God keep you, Arthur,” Daphne said. For a moment the old, amused look
came back into his failing eyes.
“He—won’t—let—go!” he whispered. The effort was too much for him, the
breath stopped with one short gasp. His weight on her arm was terribly
heavy. She looked at Katherine.
“I don’t see why _you_ should cry,” she said. Then her own lips
quivered, she buried her head in her hands. Steps sounded outside the
door, and Katherine went to it.
“I’m his nurse!” sobbed Miss Smith. “I always nursed his cases!”
“Yes! yes,” said Katherine gently, “but he doesn’t want either of us
now, he——” Miss Smith broke away from her, and rushed into Rosamonde’s
room.
“You’ve killed your husband!” she cried. “Do you hear me? You’ve killed
your husband!”
“Oh! how horrible!” cried Rosamonde. “How dare you frighten me so, I
sha’n’t be able to go to sleep, I must have some——”
“No! you don’t!” cried Miss Smith, her sobs ceased. She began to make
Rosamonde some coffee on a spirit lamp.
Arthur had done the kindest thing he could for her when he gave her
something to do for him. Almost as kind as if he had known, but it was
always impossible to tell what he knew.