THROUGH THE NIGHT.
The village-clock struck five. As the last lingering stroke died upon
the air there was the sound of a carriage rapidly approaching. Carroll
raised his head when it stopped at the gate, and saw Hardwicke spring
out and help a lady to alight. She was an old lady, who walked quickly
to the house, looking neither to right nor left, and vanished within the
doorway. Hardwicke stopped, as if to give some order to the driver, and
then hurried after her. Archie stared vaguely, first at them, and then
at the man, who turned his horses and went round to the stables. When
they were out of sight he laid his head down again. The little scene had
been a vivid picture which stamped itself with curious distinctness on
his brain, yet failed to convey any meaning whatever. He had not the
faintest idea of the agony of love and fear in Mrs. Middleton's heart as
she passed him. To Archie, just then, the whole universe was _his_
agony, and there was no room for more.
Ten minutes later came Dr. Grey's brougham. The doctor, as he jumped
out, told his man to wait. He went from the gate to the house more
hurriedly than Mrs. Middleton, and his anxiety was more marked, but he
found time to look round as he went with keen eyes, which rested for an
instant on the young sailor, though he lay half hidden by the bushes.
He too vanished, as the others had vanished.
About an hour later he came out again, and Fothergill followed him. The
doctor started when he encountered his eager eyes. Fothergill demanded
his opinion. He began some of the usual speeches in which men wrap up
the ghastly word "death" in such disguise that it can hardly be
recognized.
The soldier cut him short: "Please to speak plain English, Dr. Grey."
The doctor admitted the very greatest danger.
"Danger--yes," said Fothergill, "but is there any hope? I am not a
fool--I sha'n't go in and scare the women: is there any hope?"
The answer was written on the doctor's face. He had known Sissy Langton
from the time when she came, a tiny child, to Brackenhill. He shook his
head, and murmured something about "even if there were no other injury,
the spine--"
Fothergill caught a glimpse of a hideous possibility, and answered with
an oath. It was not the profanity of the words, so much as the fury with
which they were charged, that horrified the good old doctor. "My dear
sir," he remonstrated gently, "we must remember that this is God's
will."
"God's will! God's will! Are you sure it isn't the devil's?" said
Fothergill. "It seems more like it. If you think it is God's will, you
may persuade yourself it's yours, for aught I know. But I'm not such a
damned hypocrite as to make believe it's mine."
And with a mechanical politeness, curiously at variance with his face
and speech, he lifted his hat to the doctor as he turned back to the
farmhouse.
So Sissy's doom was spoken--to linger a few hours, more or less, in
helpless pain, and then to die. The sun, which had dawned so joyously,
was going down as serenely as it had dawned, but it did not matter much
to Sissy now. She was sensible, she knew Mrs. Middleton. When the old
lady stooped over her she looked up, smiled faintly and said, "I fell."
"Yes, my darling, I know," Aunt Harriet said.
"Can I go home?" Sissy asked after a pause.
"No, dear, you must not think of it: you mustn't ask to go home."
"I thought not," said Sissy.
Mrs. Middleton asked her if she felt much pain.
"I don't know," she said, and closed her eyes.
Later, Henry Hardwicke sent in a message, and the old lady came out to
speak to him. He was standing by an open casement in the passage,
looking out at the sunset through the orchard boughs. "What is it,
Harry?" she said.
He started and turned round: "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Middleton, but I
thought in case you wanted to send any telegrams--if--if--I mean I
thought you might want to send some, and there is not very much time."
She put her hand to her head. "I ought to, oughtn't I?" she said. "Who
should be sent for?"
"Mr. Hammond?" Hardwicke questioned doubtfully.
Something like relief or pleasure lighted her sad eyes: "Yes, yes! send
for Godfrey Hammond. He will come." She was about to leave him, but the
young fellow stepped forward: "Mrs. Middleton"--was it the clear red
light from the window that suddenly flushed his face?--"Mrs. Middleton,
shall I send for Mr. Percival Thorne?"
She stopped, looking strangely at him: something in his voice surprised
her. "For Percival?" she said.
"May I? I think he ought to come." The hot color was burning on his
cheeks. What right had he to betray the secret which he believed he had
discovered? And yet could he stand by and not speak for her when she had
so little time in which to speak for herself?
"Is it for his sake," said Mrs. Middleton, "or is it that you think--?
Well, let it be so: send for Percival. Yes," she added, "perhaps I have
misunderstood. Yes, send at once for Percival."
"I'll go," said Harry, hurrying down the passage. "The message shall be
sent off at once. I'll take it to Fordborough."
"Must you go yourself?" Mrs. Middleton raised her voice a little as he
moved away.
"No: let me go," said Captain Fothergill, turning the farther corner: "I
am going to Fordborough. What is it? I will take it. Mrs. Middleton, you
will let me be your messenger?"
"You are very good," she said.--"Harry, you will write--I can't. Oh, I
must go back." And she vanished, leaving the two men face to face.
"I've no telegraph-forms," said Harry after a pause. "If you would take
the paper to my father, he will send the messages."
Fothergill nodded silently, and went out to make ready for his journey.
Hardwicke followed him, and stood in the porch pencilling on the back of
an old letter. When Fothergill had given his orders he walked up to
Carroll, touched the lad's shoulder with the tips of his fingers, and
stood away. "Come," he said.
Archie raised himself from the ground and stumbled to his feet: "Come?
where?"
"To Fordborough."
The boy started and stepped back. He looked at the farmhouse, he looked
at his cousin. "I'll come afterward," he faltered.
"Nonsense!" said Fothergill. "I'm going now, and of course you go with
me."
Archie shrank away, keeping his eyes fixed, as if in a kind of
fascination, on his cousin's terrible eyes. The idea of going back alone
with Raymond was awful to him. "No, I can't come, Ray--indeed I can't,"
he said. "I'll walk: I'd much rather--I would indeed."
"What for?" said Fothergill. "You are doing no good here. Do you know I
have a message to take? I can't be kept waiting. Don't be a fool," he
said in a lower but not less imperative voice.
Archie glanced despairingly round. Hardwicke came forward with the paper
in his outstretched hand: "Leave him here, Captain Fothergill. I dare
say I shall go to the inn in the village, and he may go with me. He can
take you the earliest news to-morrow morning."
Archie looked breathlessly from one to the other. "As you please," said
Fothergill, and strode off without another word.
The boy tried to say something in the way of thanks. "Oh, it's nothing,"
Hardwicke replied. "You won't care what sort of quarters they may turn
out to be, I know." And he went back to the house with a little shrug of
his shoulders at the idea of having young Carroll tied to him in this
fashion. He did not want the boy, but Hardwicke could never help
sacrificing himself.
So Archie went to the gate and watched his cousin ride away, a slim
black figure on his black horse against the burning sky. Fothergill
never turned his head. Where was the use of looking back? He was intent
only on his errand, and when that piece of paper should have been
delivered into Mr. Hardwicke's hands the last link between Sissy Langton
and himself would be broken. There would be no further service to
render. Fothergill did not know that the message he carried was to
summon his rival, but it would have made no difference in his feelings
if he had. Nothing made any difference now.
Mrs. Middleton sat by Sissy's bedside in the clear evening light. Harry
Hardwicke's words haunted her: why did he think that Sissy wanted
Percival? They had parted a year ago, and she had believed that Sissy
was cured of her liking for him. It was Sissy who had sent him away, and
she had been brighter and gayer of late: indeed, Mrs. Middleton had
fancied that Walter Latimer-- Well, that was over, but if Sissy cared
for Percival--
A pair of widely-opened eyes were fixed on her: "Am I going to die, Aunt
Harriet?"
"I hope not. Oh, my darling, I pray that you may live."
"I think I am going to die. Will it be very soon? Would there be time to
send--"
"We will send for anything or any one you want. Do you feel worse, dear?
Time to send for whom?"
"For Percival."
"Harry Hardwicke has sent for him already. Perhaps he has the message by
now: it is an hour and a half since the messenger went."
"When will he come?"
"To-morrow, darling."
There was a pause. Then the faint voice came again: "What time?"
Mrs. Middleton went to the door and called softly to Hardwicke. He had
been looking in Bradshaw, and she returned directly: "Percival will come
by the express to-night. He will be at Fordborough by the quarter-past
nine train, and Harry will meet him and bring him over at once--by ten
o'clock, he says, or a few minutes later."
Sissy's brows contracted for a moment: she was calculating the time.
"What is it now?" she said.
"Twenty minutes to eight."
Fourteen hours and a half! The whole night between herself and Percival!
The darkness must come and must go, the sun must set and must again be
high in the heavens, before he could stand by her side. It seemed to
Sissy as if she were going down into the blackness of an awful gulf,
where Death was waiting for her. Would she have strength to escape him,
to toil up the farther side, and to reach the far-off to-morrow and
Percival? "Aunt Harriet," she said, "shall I live till then? I want to
speak to him."
"Yes, my darling--indeed you will. Don't talk so: you will break my
heart. Perhaps God will spare you."
"No," said Sissy--"no."
Between eight and nine Hardwicke was summoned again. Mrs. Latimer wanted
some one to go to Latimer's Court, to take the latest news and to say
that it was impossible she could return that night. "You see they went
away before Dr. Grey came," she said. "I have written a little note. Can
you find me a messenger?"
"I will either find one or I will go myself," he replied.
"Oh, I didn't mean to trouble you. And wait a moment, for Mrs. Middleton
wants him to go on to her house. She will come and speak to you when I
go back to the poor girl."
"How is Miss Langton?"
"I hardly know. I think she is wandering a little: she talked just now
about some embroidery she has been doing--asked for it, in fact."
"When Dr. Grey was obliged to go he didn't think there would be any
change before he came back, surely?" said Hardwicke anxiously.
"No. But she can't know what she is saying, can she? Poor girl! she will
never do another stitch." Mrs. Latimer fairly broke down. The unfinished
embroidery which never could be finished brought the truth home to her.
It is hard to realize that a life with its interlacing roots and fibres
is broken off short.
"Oh, Mrs. Latimer, don't! don't!" Harry exclaimed, aghast at her tears.
"For dear Mrs. Middleton's sake!" He rushed away, and returned with
wine. "If you give way what will become of us?"
She was better in a few minutes, and able to go back, while Harry waited
in quiet confidence for Mrs. Middleton. He was not afraid of a burst of
helpless weeping when she came. She was gentle, yielding, delicate, but
there was something of the old squire's obstinacy in her, and in a
supreme emergency it came out as firmness. She looked old and frail as
she stepped into the passage and closed the door after her. Her hand
shook, but her eyes met his bravely and her lips were firm.
"You'll have some wine too," he said, pouring it out as a matter of
course. "You can drink it while you tell me what I am to do."
She took the glass with a slight inclination of her head, and explained
that she wanted an old servant who had been Sissy's nurse when she was a
little child. "Mrs. Latimer is very kind," she said, "but Sissy will
like her own people best. And Sarah would be broken-hearted--" She
paused. "Here is a list of things that I wish her to bring."
"Mrs. Latimer thought Miss Langton was not quite herself," he said
inquiringly.
"Do you mean because she talked of her work? Oh, I don't think so. She
answers quite sensibly--indeed, she speaks quite clearly. That was the
only thing."
"Then is it down in the list, this needlework? Or where is it to be
found?"
"You will bring it?" said Mrs. Middleton. "Well, perhaps--"
"If she should ask again," he said.
"True. Yes, yes, bring it." She told him where to find the little case.
"The fancy may haunt her. How am I to thank you, Harry?"
"Not at all," he said. "Only let me do what I can."
It was nearly eleven before Hardwicke had accomplished his double errand
and returned with Sarah. The stars were out, the ruins of the priory
rose in great black masses against the sky, the farmhouse windows
beneath the overhanging eaves were like bright eyes gazing out into the
night. Dr. Grey had come back in the interval, and had seen his patient.
There was nothing new to say, and nothing to be done, except to make the
path to the grave as little painful as might be. He was taking a nap in
Mr. Greenwell's arm-chair when the young man came in, but woke up clear
and alert in a moment. "Ah, you have come?" he said, recognizing the old
servant. "That's well: you'll save your mistress a little. Only, mind,
we mustn't have any crying. If there is anything of that sort you will
do more harm than good."
Sarah deigned no reply, but passed on. Mrs. Middleton came out to meet
them. Sissy had not spoken. She lay with her eyes shut, and moaned now
and then. "Are you going home, Harry?" said the old lady.
"Only into the village: I've got a room at the Latimer Arms. It isn't
two minutes' walk from here, so I can be fetched directly if I'm
wanted."
"And you will be sure to meet the train?"
"I will: you may depend upon me. But I shall come here first."
"Good-night, then. Go and get some rest."
Hardwicke went off to look for Archie Carroll. He found him in the
square flagged hall, sitting on the corner of a window-seat, with his
head leaning against the frame, among Mrs. Greenwell's geraniums. "Come
along, old fellow," said Harry.
There was only a glimmering candle, and the hall was very dim. Archie
got up submissively and groped his way after his guide. "Where are we
going?" he asked as the door was opened.
"To a little public-house close by. We couldn't ask the Greenwells to
take us in."
As they went out into the road the priory rose up suddenly on the left
and towered awfully above them. Carroll shuddered, drew closer to his
companion and kept his eyes fixed on the ground. "I feel as if I were
the ghost of myself, and those were the ghosts of the ruins," he said as
he hurried past.
The flight of fancy was altogether beyond Hardwicke: "You've been
sitting alone and thinking. There has been nothing for you to do, and I
couldn't help leaving you. Here we are."
They turned into the little sanded parlor of the ale-house. Hardwicke
had looked in previously and given his orders, and supper was laid ready
for them. He sat down and began to help himself, but Archie at first
refused to eat.
"Nonsense!" said Harry. "You have had nothing since the beginning of the
day. We must not break down, any of us." And with a little persuasion he
prevailed, and saw the lad make a tolerable supper and drink some brandy
and water afterward. "Vile brandy!" said Hardwicke as he set his tumbler
down. Archie was leaning with both elbows on the table, gazing at him.
His eyes were heavy and swollen, and there were purple shadows below
them.
"Mr. Hardwicke," he said, "you've been very good to me. Do you think it
was my fault?"
"Do I think what was your fault?"
"_This!_" Archie said--"to-day."
"No--not if I understand it."
"Ray said if he had been there--"
"I wish he had been. But we must not expect old heads on young
shoulders. How did it happen?"
"We climbed up on the wall, and she was saying how narrow and broken it
was, and I picked some of that stuff and called to her, and as she
looked back--"
Hardwicke groaned. "It was madly imprudent," he said. "But I don't blame
you. You didn't think. Poor fellow! I only hope you won't think too much
in future. Come, it's time for bed."
"I don't want to sleep," Archie answered: "I can't sleep."
"Very well," said Hardwicke. "But I must try and get a little rest. They
had only one room for us, so if you can't sleep you'll keep quiet and
let a fellow see what he can do in that line. And you may call me in the
morning if I don't wake. But don't worry yourself, for I shall."
"What time?" said Carroll.
"Oh, from five to six--not later than six."
But in half an hour it was Carroll who lay worn out and sleeping
soundly, and Hardwicke who was counting the slow minutes of that
intolerable night.
Sarah had been indignant that Dr. Grey should tell her not to cry. But
when Sissy looked up with a gentle smile of recognition, and instead of
calling her by her name said "Nurse," as she used to say in old times,
the good woman was very near it indeed, and was obliged to go away to
the window to try to swallow the lump that rose up in her throat and
almost choked her.
Mrs. Middleton sat by her darling's bedside. She had placed the little
work-case in full view, and presently Sissy noticed it and would have it
opened. The half-finished strip of embroidery was laid within easy reach
of hand and eye. She smiled, but was not satisfied. "The case," she
said. Her fingers strayed feebly among the little odds and ends which it
contained, and closed over something which she kept.
Then there was a long silence, unbroken till Sissy was thirsty and
wanted something to drink. "What time?" she said when she had finished.
"Half-past twelve."
"It's very dark."
"We will have another candle," said Aunt Harriet.
"No: the candle only makes me see how dark it is all round."
Again there was silence, but not so long this time. And again Sissy
broke it: "Aunt Harriet, he is coming now."
"Yes, darling, he is coming."
"I feel as if I saw the train, with red lights in front, coming through
the night--always coming, but never any nearer."
"But it _is_ nearer every minute. Percival is nearer now than when you
spoke."
Sissy said "Yes," and was quiet again till between one and two. Then
Mrs. Middleton perceived that her eyes were open. "What is it, dear
child?" she said.
"The night is so long!"
"Sissy," said Aunt Harriet softly, "I want you to listen to me. A year
ago, when Godfrey died and I talked about the money that I hoped to
leave you one day, you told me what you should like me to do with it
instead, because you had enough and you thought it was not fair. I
didn't quite understand then, and I would not promise. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"Sissy, shall I promise now? I've been thinking about it, and I've no
wish on earth but to make you happy. Will it make you happier if I
promise now that it shall be as you said?"
"Yes," said Sissy with eager eyes.
"Then I do promise: all that is mine to leave he shall have."
Sissy answered with a smile. "Kiss me," she said. And so the promise was
sealed. After that the worst of the night seemed somehow to be over.
Sissy slept a little, and Aunt Harriet nodded once or twice in the
easy-chair. Starting into wakefulness after one of these moments, she
saw the outline of the window faintly defined in gray, and thanked God
that the dawn had come.