A DARKENED KOOM
The ‘comatose’ state, to use the language of the doctors, into which
Gorman O’Shea had fallen, had continued so long as to excite the greatest
apprehensions of his friends; for although not amounting to complete
insensibility, it left him so apathetic and indifferent to everything and
every one, that the girls Kate and Nina, in pure despair, had given up
reading or talking to him, and passed their hours of ‘watching’ in perfect
silence in the half-darkened room.
The stern immobility of his pale features, the glassy and meaningless stare
of his large blue eyes, the unvarying rhythm of a long-drawn respiration,
were signs that at length became more painful to contemplate than evidences
of actual suffering; and as day by day went on, and interest grew more and
more eager about the trial, which was fixed for the coming assize, it
was pitiable to see him, whose fate was so deeply pledged on the issue,
unconscious of all that went on around him, and not caring to know any of
those details the very least of which might determine his future lot.
The instructions drawn up for the defence were sadly in need of the sort of
information which the sick man alone could supply; and Nina and Kate had
both been entreated to watch for the first favourable moment that should
present itself, and ask certain questions, the answers to which would be of
the last importance.
Though Gill’s affidavit gave many evidences of unscrupulous falsehood,
there was no counter-evidence to set against it, and O’Shea’s counsel
complained strongly of the meagre instructions which were briefed to him in
the case, and his utter inability to construct a defence upon them.
‘He said he would tell me something this evening, Kate,’ said Nina; ‘so, if
you will let me, I will go in your place and remind him of his promise.’
This hopeful sign of returning intelligence was so gratifying to Kate that
she readily consented to the proposition of her cousin taking her ‘watch,’
and, if possible, learning something of his wishes.
‘He said it,’ continued Nina, ‘like one talking to himself, and it was not
easy to follow him. The words, as well as I could make out, were, “I will
say it to-day--this evening, if I can. When it is said”--here he muttered
something, but I cannot say whether the words were, “My mind will be at
rest,” or “I shall be at rest for evermore.”’
Kate did not utter a word, but her eyes swam, and two large tears stole
slowly down her face.
‘His own conviction is that he is dying,’ said Nina; but Kate never spoke.
‘The doctors persist,’ continued Nina, ‘in declaring that this depression
is only a well-known symptom of the attack, and that all affections of the
brain are marked by a certain tone of despondency. They even say more, and
that the cases where this symptom predominates are more frequently followed
by recovery. Are you listening to me, child?’
‘No; I was following some thoughts of my own.’
‘I was merely telling you why I think he is getting better.’
Kate leaned her head on her cousin’s shoulder, and she did not speak. The
heaving motion of her shoulders and her chest betrayed the agitation she
could not subdue.
‘I wish his aunt were here; I see how her absence frets him. Is she too ill
for the journey?’ asked Nina.
‘She says not, and she seems in some way to be coerced by others; but a
telegram this morning announces she would try and reach Kilgobbin this
evening.’
‘What could coercion mean? Surely this is mere fancy?’
‘I am not so certain of that. The convent has great hopes of inheriting her
fortune. She is rich, and she is a devout Catholic; and we have heard of
cases where zeal for the Church has pushed discretion very far.’
‘What a worldly creature it is!’ cried Nina; ‘and who would have suspected
it?’
‘I do not see the worldliness of my believing that people will do much to
serve the cause they follow. When chemists tell us that there is no
finding such a thing as a glass of pure water, where are we to go for pure
motives?’
‘To one’s heart, of course,’ said Nina; but the curl of her perfectly-cut
lip as she said it, scarcely vouched for the sincerity.
On that same evening, just as the last flickerings of twilight were dying
away, Nina stole into the sick-room, and took her place noiselessly beside
the bed.
Slowly moving his arm without turning his head, or by any gesture whatever
acknowledging her presence, he took her hand and pressed it to his burning
lips, and then laid it upon his cheek. She made no effort to withdraw her
hand, and sat perfectly still and motionless.
‘Are we alone?’ whispered he, in a voice hardly audible.
‘Yes, quite alone.’
‘If I should say what--displease you,’ faltered he, his agitation making
speech even more difficult; ‘how shall I tell?’ And once more he pressed
her hand to his lips.
‘No, no; have no fears of displeasing me. Say what you would like to tell
me.’
‘It is this, then,’ said he, with an effort. ‘I am dying with my secret in
my heart. I am dying, to carry away with me the love I am not to tell--my
love for you, Kate.’
‘I am _not_ Kate,’ was almost on her lips; but her struggle to keep silent
was aided by that desire so strong in her nature--to follow out a situation
of difficulty to the end. She did not love him, nor did she desire his
love; but a strange sense of injury at hearing his profession of love for
another shot a pang of intense suffering through her heart, and she lay
back in her chair with a cold feeling of sickness like fainting. The
overpowering passion of her nature was jealousy; and to share even the
admiration of a salon, the ‘passing homage,’ as such deference is called,
with another, was a something no effort of her generosity could compass.
Though she did not speak, she suffered her hand to remain unresistingly
within his own. After a short pause he went on: ‘I thought yesterday that I
was dying; and in my rambling intellect I thought I took leave of you; and
do you know my last words--my last words, Kate?’
‘No; what were they?’
‘My last words were these: “Beware of the Greek; have no friendship with
the Greek.”’
‘And why that warning?’ said she, in a low, faint voice.
‘She is not of us, Kate; none of her ways or thoughts are ours, nor would
they suit us. She is subtle, and clever, and sly; and these only mislead
those who lead simple lives.’
‘May it not be that you wrong her?’
‘I have tried to learn her nature.’
‘Not to love it?’
‘I believe I was beginning to love her--just when you were cold to me. You
remember when?’
‘I do; and it was this coldness was the cause? Was it the only cause?’
‘No, no. She has wiles and ways which, with her beauty, make her nigh
irresistible.’
‘And now you are cured of this passion? There is no trace of it in your
breast?’
‘Not a vestige. But why speak of her?’
‘Perhaps I am jealous.’
Once more he pressed his lips to her hand, and kissed it rapturously.
‘No, Kate,’ cried he, ‘none but you have the place in my heart. Whenever I
have tried a treason, it has turned against me. Is there light enough in
the room to find a small portfolio of red-brown leather? It is on that
table yonder.’
Had the darkness been not almost complete, Nina would scarcely have
ventured to rise and cross the room, so fearful was she of being
recognised.
‘It is locked,’ said she, as she laid it beside him on the bed; but
touching a secret spring, he opened it, and passed his fingers hurriedly
through the papers within.
‘I believe it must be this,’ said he. ‘I think I know the feel of the
paper. It is a telegram from my aunt; the doctor gave it to me last night.
We read it over together four or five times. This is it, and these are the
words: “If Kate will be your wife, the estate of O’Shea’s Barn is your own
for ever.”’
‘Is she to have no time to think over this offer?’ asked she.
‘Would you like candles, miss?’ asked a maid-servant, of whose presence
there neither of the others had been aware.
‘No, nor are you wanted,’ said Nina haughtily, as she arose; while it was
not without some difficulty she withdrew her hand from the sick man’s
grasp.
‘I know,’ said he falteringly, ‘you would not leave me if you had not left
hope to keep me company in your absence. Is not that so, Kate?’
‘Bye-bye,’ said she softly, and stole away.