When Sir Robert went in somewhat reluctantly to Lily’s room--for he was
not accustomed to illness, and did not know what to do or say, or even
how to look, in a sick room--he found her fully conscious, very white,
very worn, her eyes looking twice their usual size and full of that
wonderful translucent clearness which exhaustion gives. Her face, he did
not know why, disposed the old gentleman to shed tears, though he was
very far indeed from having any inclination that way in general. There
was a smile upon it, a smile of wistful appeal to him, such a claim upon
his sympathy and help as perhaps no other human creature had ever made
before.
“Uncle!” she cried, holding out two thin hands which seemed whiter than
the mass of white linen about her. “Uncle Robert! oh! are you there? I
have been an ill bairn to you, Uncle Robert. I have not been faithful
nor true. You sent me here for my good, and I’ve turned it to harm. But
you’re my only kin and my only friend, and all that I have in the
world.”
“Lily, my dear, compose yourself, my poor lassie. I am not blaming you:
why should I blame you? When you were ill, what could you do but lie in
your bed and be taken care of? Woman, have ye no sense? She is not fit
yet to be troubled with visits; you might have seen that!”
“Oh, Sir Robert, and so I did! But how could I cross her when she just
said without ceasing: ‘I want my uncle. I want to see my uncle!’ She was
not to be crossed, the doctor said.”
“It was not Beenie’s fault.” Lily stretched out her hands till they
reached her uncle’s, who stood by her bedside, yet as far off as he
could, not to appear unkind. He was a little horrified by the touch of
those hot hands. She threw herself half out of the bed to reach him, and
caught his hard and bony old hand, so firm still and strong, between
those white quivering fingers, almost fluid in their softness, which
enveloped his with a sudden heat and atmosphere, so strange and unusual
that he retreated still a step, though he could not withdraw his hand.
“Uncle Robert, you will not forsake me!” Lily cried. “I have only you
now, I have only you. I have been ill to you, but, oh, be good to me! I
am a very lonely woman. I have nobody. I have put my trust in--other
things, and they have all failed me! I’ve had a long dream and now I’ve
awakened. Uncle Robert, I have nobody but you in all the world!”
“Now, Lily, you must just compose yourself, my dear. Who thought of
forsaking you? It is certain that you are my only near relation. Your
father was my only brother. What would ail me at you? My poor lassie,
just let yourself be covered up, and put your arms under the clothes and
try if you cannot sleep a little. A good sleep would be the best thing
for her, Robina, wouldn’t you say? Compose yourself, compose yourself,
my dear.”
Lily still clung to his hand, though he tried so hard to withdraw it
from her hold. “And I will be different,” she said. “You will never need
to complain of me more. My visions and my dreams they are all melted
away, like the snow yon winter-time, when my head was just carried and I
did not know what I was doing. Oh, I have been ill to you, ill to you!
Eaten your bread and dwelt in your house and been a traitor to you. If
they tell you, oh, Uncle Robert, do not believe I was so bad as that. I
never meant it, I never intended---- It was a great delusion, and it is
me that has the worst to bear.”
“Robina!” cried Sir Robert, “this will never do. What disjointed
nonsense has the poor thing got into her head? She will be as bad as
ever if you do not take care. No more of it, no more of it, Lily. You’ve
been very ill; you must be quiet, and don’t trouble your head about any
thing. As for your old uncle, he will stand by you, my poor lassie,
whatever you may have done--not that I believe for a moment you have
done any thing.” He was greatly relieved to get his hand free. He went
so far as to cover her shoulders with the bedclothes, and to give a
little pat upon the white counterpane. Poor little thing! Her head was
not right yet. Great care must be taken of the poor lassie. He had heard
they were fond of accusing themselves of all kinds of crimes after an
attack of this sort.
“I suppose the doctor will be coming to-day?” he said to Beenie as he
hastily withdrew toward the door.
“It’s very near his hour, Sir Robert.”
“That’s well, that’s very well! Keep her as quiet as you can, that’s the
great thing, and tell her from me that she is not to trouble her head
about any thing--about any thing, mind,” said Sir Robert with an
emphasis which had no real meaning, though it awakened a hundred alarms
in Beenie’s mind. She thought he must have been told, he must have found
out something of the history of these past months. But, indeed, the old
gentleman knew nothing at all, and meant nothing but to express, more or
less in the superlative, his conviction that poor Lily was still under
the dominion of her delusions, and that it was her fever, not herself,
which brought from her lips these incomprehensible confessions. He
understood that it was often so in these cases; probably, if he had let
her go on, she would have confessed to him that she had tried to
murder--Dougal, say, or somebody else equally likely. The only thing was
to keep her quiet, to impress upon her that she was not to trouble her
head about any thing, not about any thing, in the strongest way in which
that assurance could be put.
Lily lay quite still for a long time after Sir Robert had escaped from
the room. She was very weak and easily exhausted, but happily the
weakness of both body and brain dulled, except at intervals, the active
sense of misery, and even the memory of those events which had ravaged
her life. She was still quite quiet when the doctor came, and smiled at
him with the faint smile of recovered consciousness and intelligence,
though with scarcely a movement as she lay on her pillows, recovered,
yet so prostrated in strength that she lay like one cast up by the
waves, half dead, unable to struggle or even to lift a finger for her
own help. A much puzzled man was the doctor, who had brought her
successfully through this long and dreadful illness, but whose mind had
been sorely exercised to account for many things which connected this
malady with what had gone before. That he divined a great deal of what
had gone before there was little doubt; but he had no light upon Lily’s
real position, and his heart was sore for a young creature, a lady, in
such sore straits, and with probably a cloud hanging over her which
would spoil her entire life. And he was a prudent man, and asked no
questions which he was not compelled to ask. Had it been a village girl
he would have formed his conclusions with less hesitation, and felt less
deeply; but it was a very different matter with Sir Robert Ramsay’s
niece, who would be judged far more severely and lose much more than any
village maiden was likely to do. Poor girl! he tried as best he could,
like a good man as he was, to save her as much as possible even from the
suggestion of any suspicion. “What has she been doing? You have allowed
her to do too much,” he said.
“She would see her uncle, doctor; she just insisted that she would see
Sir Robert. If I had crossed her in that, would it no have been just as
bad?”
The white face on the pillow smiled faintly and breathed, rather than
said: “It was my fault.”
“And he said she was not to trouble her head about ainy thing, not about
_ainy thing_, doctor, and that was a comfort to her--she was so vexed,
him coming for the first time to his ain house, and her no able to
welcome him, nor do any thing for him.”
“That’s a very small matter; she must think of that no more. What you
have to do now, Miss Ramsay, is just to think of nothing, to trouble
your head about nothing, as Sir Robert judiciously says; to take what
you can in the way of nourishment, and to sleep as much as you can, and
to think about nothing. I absolutely proheebit thinking,” he said,
bending over her with a smile. She was so touching a sight in her great
weakness, and with even his uncertain perception of what was behind and
before her, that the moisture came into the honest doctor’s eyes.
Lily gave him another faint smile, and shook her head, if that little
movement on the pillow could be called shaking her head, and then he
gave Beenie her instructions, and with a perplexed mind proceeded to the
interview with Sir Robert to which he had been summoned. He did not know
what he would say to Sir Robert if his questions were of a penetrating
kind. But Sir Robert’s questions were not penetrating at all.
“She has been havering to me, poor lassie,” said the old gentleman,
“about being alone in the world and with nobody but me to look after
her. It is true enough. We have no relations, either her or me, being
the last of the family. But why should she think I would forsake her?
And she says she has been an ill bairn to me, and other things that have
just no sense in them. But that’s a common thing, doctor? Is it not
quite a common thing that people coming out of such an illness take
fancies that they have done all sorts of harm?”
“The commonest thing in the world,” said the doctor cheerfully. “Did she
say she had stolen your gear, or broken into your strong-box?”
“There is no saying what she would have said if I had let her go on,”
said Sir Robert, with a laugh, “though, indeed, I was nearer crying than
laughing to see her so reduced. But all that will come right in time?”
“It will all come right in time. She’s weaker than I like to see, and
you must send for me night or day, at any moment, if there is any
increase of weakness. But I hope better things. Leave her to the women:
they’re very kind, and not so silly as might reasonably be expected.
Don’t go near her, if I might advise you, Sir Robert.”
“Indeed, I will obey you there,” said the old gentleman; “no fear of
that. I can do her no good, poor thing, and why should I trouble both
her and myself with useless visits? No, no, I will take care of that.”
And the doctor went away anxious, but satisfied. If there was a story to
tell, it was better that the poor girl should tell it at least when she
was full mistress of herself--not now, betrayed by her weakness, when
she might say what she would regret another time.
But Lily asked no more for Sir Robert. It was but the first impulse of
her suddenly awakened mind. She relapsed into the weakness which was all
the greater for that brief outburst, and lay for days conscious, and so
far calm that she had no strength for agitation, often sleeping, seldom
thinking, wrapped by nature in a dream of exhaustion, through which mere
emotion could not pierce. And thus youth and the devoted attendance of
her nurses brought her through at last. It was October when she first
rose from her bed, an advance in recovery which the women were anxious
to keep back as long as possible, while the doctor on the other hand
pressed it anxiously. “She will lose all heart if she is kept like this,
with no real sign of improvement,” he said. “Get her up; if it’s only
for an hour, it will do her good.”
“It will bring it all back,” said Beenie in despair. She stopped herself
next moment with a terrified glance at him; but he knew how to keep his
own counsel. And he gave no further orders on this subject. Lily,
however, was not to be restrained. When she was first led into the
drawing-room, she went to the window and looked out long and with a
steadfast look upon the moor. It had faded out of the glory of heather
which had covered it everywhere when she last looked upon that scene.
Nearly two months were over since that day, that wonderful day of fate.
Lily looked out upon the brown heather, still with here and there a
belated touch of color upon the end of the long stalks rustling with the
brown husks of the withered bells. The rowan-trees gave here and there a
gleam of scarlet or a touch of bright yellow in the scanty leaves,
ragged with the wind, which were almost as bright as the berries. The
intervals of turf were emerald green, beginning to shine with the damp
of coming winter. The hills rose blue in the noonday warmth with that
bloom upon them, like a breaking forth of some efflorescence responsive
to the light, which comes in the still sunshine, disturbed by no flying
breezes. Lily looked long upon the well-known landscape which she knew
by heart in every variation, resisting with great resolution the
endeavors of Beenie to draw her back from that perilous outlook.
“Oh, look nae mair, my bonnie leddy!” Beenie said. “You’ve seen it mair
than enough, that awfu’ moor!”
“What ails you at the moor, Robina?” Sir Robert said, coming briskly in.
“You are welcome back, my dear; you are welcome back to common life.
Don’t stand and weary yourself; I will bring you a chair to the window.
I’m glad, Lily, that you’re fond of the moor.”
Lily turned to him with the same overwhelming smile which had nearly
made an end of Sir Robert before, which shone from her pale face and
from her wide, lucid, liquid eyes, still so large and bright with
weakness; but she did not wait for him to bring her a chair to the
window. She tottered to one that had been placed for her near the fire,
which, however bright the day, was always necessary at Dalrugas. “I am
better here,” she said. She looked so fragile seated there opposite to
him that the old gentleman’s heart was moved.
“My poor lassie! I would give something to see you as bright-faced and
as light-footed as when you came here.”
“Ah, that’s so long ago,” she said. “I was light-hearted, too, and
perhaps light-headed then. I am not light in any way now, except,
perhaps, in weight. It makes you very serious to live night and day and
never change upon the moor.”
“Do you think so, Lily? I’m sorry for that. I thought you were so fond
of the moor. They told me you were out upon it when you were well,
rambling and taking your pleasure all the day.”
“Yes,” she said, “it’s always bonnie. The heather is grand in its time,
and it’s fine, too, in the gray days, when the hills are all wrapped in
their gray plaids, and a kind of veil upon the moor. But it cannot
answer, Uncle Robert, when you speak, or give you back a look or say a
word.”
“That’s true, that’s true, Lily. I was thinking only that it’s a
peaceful place, and quiet, where an old man like me can get his sleep in
peace; though there’s that Dougal creature with his pails and pony that
is aye stirring by the skreigh of day.”
“The pony was a great diversion,” said Lily, “and Dougal, too, who was
always very kind to me.”
“Kind! It was his bounden duty, the least he could do. I would like to
know how he would have stood before me if he had not been kind, and far
more, to the only child of the old house!”
“Thank you, Uncle Robert,” said Lily, “for saying so. They were all
kind, and far more than kind. They have just been devoted to me, and
thought of nothing but to make me happy. You will think of that--in case
that any thing should happen.”
“Lily!” said Sir Robert with an angry tone, “I’m thinking you’re both
ungrateful and unkind yourself. God has spared you and brought you back
out of a dreadful illness, and these two women have nursed you night and
day, and though I could do little for you, having no experience that
way, yet perhaps I’ve felt all the more. And here are you speaking of
‘any thing that might happen,’ as if you had not just been delivered out
of the jaws of death.”
“Yes, I am very grateful,” said Lily, holding out her thin hand, “to
both them and you, Uncle Robert, and most of all to you, for it was out
of your way indeed; but as for God, I am not sure that I am grateful to
him, for he might have taken me out of all the trouble while he was at
it, and that would have been the best for us all. But,” she added,
looking up suddenly with one of her old quick changes of feeling and
countenance, “how should you think I meant dying? There are many, many
things that might happen besides that. I might go away, or you might
send me away.”
“I’ll not do that, Lily.”
“How do you know, Uncle Robert? You sent me away once before when you
sent me here. You might do it again--or, what is more, I might ask
you---- Oh, Uncle Robert, let me go away a little, let me leave the
sight of it, and the loneliness that has broken my heart!” Lily put her
transparent hands together and looked at him with a pathetic entreaty in
her face.
“Go away!” he said, startled, “as soon as I come here--the first time
you come into the drawing-room to ask that!”
“It is true,” said Lily, “it’s ungrateful, oh, it’s without heart, it’s
unkind, Uncle Robert, as you say; but only for a little while, till I
get a little better. I will never get better here.”
“This is a great disappointment to me,” he said. “I thought I would have
you, Lily, to keep me company. I thought you would be my companion and
take care of me for a year or two. I am not likely at my age to trouble
any body for very long,” he added with a half-conscious appeal for
sympathy.
“And so I will,” said Lily; “I will be your companion. I will be at your
side to do whatever you please--to read or to write, to walk or to talk.
I will look for nothing else in this world, and I will never leave you,
Uncle Robert, and there is my hand upon that. But I must be well first,”
she added rapidly. “And I will never get well here. Oh, let me go! If it
was but for a week, for a fortnight, for two or three days. Is it not
always said of ill folk that when they get better they must have a
change? Let me have a change, Uncle Robert! I want to look out at
something that is not the moor. Oh, how long, how long, if you will only
think of it, I have been looking at nothing but the moor! I am tired,
tired of the moor! Oh, I am wearied of it! I have liked it well, and I
will come back and like it again. But for a little while, uncle, only
for a little while, let me go away from the moor.”
“Is it so long a time?” he said. “I was not aware you had been here so
long a time. Why, it is not two years! If you think two years is a long
time, Lily, wait till you know what life is, and that a year’s but a
moment when you look back upon it.”
“It looks like a hundred years to me,” she said, “and before I can look
back as you do it will be a hundred years more. And how am I to bear
them all without a break or a rest? If I were even like you, a soldier
marching here and there, with your colors flying and your drums
beating! but what has a woman to do but to sit and think and count the
days? Uncle Robert,” she said, putting her hand on his arm as he stood
near her, with his back to the fire, “I’m not unwilling at all to die. I
would never have minded if it had been so. I would have asked for
nothing but a warm green turf from the moor, and maybe a bush of heather
at my feet. But it has not ended like that, which would have been God’s
doing--only I will never get well unless I get away, unless I breathe
other air; and if you refuse me, that will be your doing!” she cried
with something of her old petulance and fire.
“Did the doctor say any thing about this change?” Sir Robert asked
Beenie, with a cloud upon his face.
“He said she was to be crossed in naething,” Beenie replied.