THE GUIDING HAND
Tom Arundel opened his eyes to the sunshine. He had left behind him a
world of darkness and of pain, a curiously jumbled unreal world, in
which it seemed to him that he had played the part of a thing that was
being dragged by unseen hands in a direction that he knew he must not
go, a direction against which he fought with all his strength. And yet,
in spite of all his efforts, he knew himself to be slipping, slowly but
surely slipping.
Then out of the blackness and chaos grew something real and tangible, a
pair of small white hands, and on the finger of one of these hands was
a ring that he remembered well, for it was a ring that he himself had
placed on that finger, and the hands were held out to him, and he
clutched at them.
Yet still the fight was not over, still the unseen force dragged and
tugged at him, yet he knew that he was winning, because of the little
white hands that yet possessed such wonderful strength.
And now he lay, wide-eyed in the sunshine, and the blackness and chaos
were gone, but he could still see the hands, for one of them was
clasped in his own, and lifting his eyes he saw the face that he knew
must be there—a pale face, thinner than when he had seen it last, a
face that had lost some of its childish prettiness. Yet the eyes had
lost nothing, but had gained much. There was tenderness and pity and
joy too in them.
“Marjorie,” he said, and the weakness of his own voice surprised him,
and he lay wondering if it were he who had spoken. “Thank you,” he
said. He was thanking her for the help those little hands had given
him, yet she was not to know that. So for a long time he lay, his
breath gentle and regular, the small hand clasped in his own. And now
he was away in dreams, not the black and terrifying dreams of just now,
but dreams of peace and of a happiness that might never be. And in
those dreams she whom he loved bent over him and kissed him on the
lips, and said something to him that set the thin blood leaping in his
veins.
Tom Arundel opened his eyes again, and knew that it had been no dream.
Her lips were still on his; her face, rosy now, almost as of old, was
touching his.
“Marjorie,” he whispered, “you told me—”
“I told you what was not true, but I thought it was—oh, I believed it
was, dear. I believed it was the truth—but I knew afterwards it was
not.”
“I—I got hurt, didn’t I? I can’t remember—I remember but dimly—a horse,
Marjorie. You don’t think—you don’t think I did that on purpose after
what you said?”
“No, no!” she said. “I know better. Perhaps I did think it, but oh,
Tom, I was not worth it! I was not worth it!”
“You are worth all the world to me,” he said, “all the world and more.”
Lady Linden opened the door. She came in, treading softly; she came to
the bedside and looked at him and then at the girl.
“You were talking. I heard your voice. Was he conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God!” Lady Linden looked at the girl severely. “I suppose you
will be the next invalid—women of your type always overdo it. How many
nights is it since you had your clothes off?”
“That does not matter now.”
“By rights you should go to bed at once.”
“Aunt, I shall not leave him.”
Lady Linden sniffed. “Very well; I can do nothing with you.”
“Defiant!” she thought to herself. “She is getting character, that
girl, after all, and about time. Well, it doesn’t matter, now that Tom
will live.”
Lady Linden went downstairs. “Obstinate and defiant, new role—very
well, I am content. She is developing character, and that is a great
thing.”
He was going to live. It was more than hope now, it was certainty,
after days, even weeks of anxiety, of watching and waiting; and this
bright morning Lady Linden felt and looked ten years younger as she
stepped out into the garden to bully her hirelings.
Jordan, her ladyship’s coachman, was sunning himself at the stable
door. He took his pipe out hurriedly and hid it behind his back.
“Jordan,” said Lady Linden, “you are an old man.”
“Not so wonderful old, my lady.”
“You have lived all your life with horses.”
“With ’osses mainly, my lady.”
“How long would it take you, Jordan, to learn to drive a motor car?”
“Me?” He gasped at her in sheer astonishment.
“Jordan, we are both old, but we must move with the times. Horses are
dangerous brutes. I have taken a dislike to them. I shall never sit
behind another unless it is in a hearse—and then I shan’t sit. Jordan,
you shall learn to drive a car.”
“Shall I?” thought Jordan as her ladyship turned away. “We’ll see about
that.”
Again Tom opened his eyes, and he saw that face above him, and even as
he looked the head was bent lower and lower till once again the red
lips touched his own.
“Marjorie, is it only pity?” he whispered.
But she shook her head. “It is love, all my love—I know now. It is all
ended. I know the truth. Oh, Tom, it—it was you all the time, and after
all it was only you!”