Chapter Nineteen.
Was it Delirium?
“Leo, my child, think what you are saying,” cried North.
“I do think. I have lain here and thought for hours. I am not ashamed to confess it. Why should I be?”
She looked up at him inquiringly; while he for the moment felt giddy with emotion, but recovered himself directly.
“She is delirious, poor child,” he said to himself; and he tried to remove the enlacing arms from his neck.
“No, no; don’t leave me,” she said softly. “Don’t be angry with me for saying this.”
“I am not angry, but you are weak. You have been very ill, and you must not be excited now.”
“No, I am not excited. I only feel happy – so happy. You are not angry?”
“Angry? No,” he said tenderly. “There, let me lay you back upon your pillow. Try and sleep.”
“No. I do not wish to sleep. Only tell me once again that you are not cross, and then sit down by me, and let me hold your hand.”
“Poor girl!” muttered North, as he felt the hands which had clasped his neck steal down his arm softly and lingeringly, as if they delighted in its strength and muscularity, resting for a few moments upon his wrist, and then grasping his hand tightly, while their owner uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.
He seated himself by the bedside, and Leo said softly, as she lay gazing into his eyes:
“I feel so happy and restful now.”
“And as if you can sleep?”
“Sleep? No. Let me lie and look at you. Don’t speak. I want to think. Shall I die?”
“Die? No; you must get better now, and grow strong, for Mary’s sake and for Hartley’s.”
“And for yours,” said Leo softly, as she smiled lovingly in his face. “I shall be your wife if I live.”
“You shall live, and grow to be happy with all who love you.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “with all who love me;” and she closed her eyes.
“It is delirium, poor child,” said North to himself. “Good heavens! am I such a scoundrel as to think otherwise?”
He sat back in his chair startled by the thoughts which had surged up to his brain. He was horrified. For, in spite of medical teaching, of his thorough command over himself, and of the fact that he had always been one whose love was his profession, he had found that he was strongly moved by the words and acts of the beautiful girl who had seemed to be laying bare the secrets of her heart.
“Delirium – delirium! the workings of a distempered brain,” he said to himself fiercely. “Good heavens! am I going to be delirious too?”
At that moment Leo opened her eyes again, with a calm, soft light seeming to burn therein, as she smiled in his face and drew his hand more to her pillow so that she could rest her cheek upon it, and once more her eyes half closed; but he knew that she was gazing at him still with the same soft, loving look which, in spite of his self-control, made his heart beat with a dull, heavy throb.
“I have so longed to tell you all this,” she whispered; “but I never dared till now. It has made me bitter, and distant, and strange to you. I was angry with myself for loving you; and yet I could not help it. You made me love you. I always did – I always shall.”
“It is delirium,” panted North. “I will not listen to her. Pah! it is absurd. Where is my manliness – where are all my honourable feelings? I can master such folly, and I will.”
He set his teeth, and his face grew hard and cold; but all the same his pulses quickened, and as he sat prisoned there, with those soft, lustrous eyes gazing into his, he found that he was dreaming of another life in which his scientific researches would be forgotten in the sweet, dreamy, sensuous existence which would be his – enlaced in that loving embrace, while those eyes gazed in his as they were gazing now, and those curved lips returned his kisses or murmured tenderly as once more they whispered the secrets of her breast.
“It has been so long. I have been so ill: but I do not complain, for it has made me free to speak to you as I speak now. No, no; don’t take away your hand. Let me rest like that.”
He was softly stealing away his hand, but she clung to it the more tightly, and her white teeth glistened between her ruby lips in a smile that was half mocking.
He heaved a deep sigh, and resigned himself to his position, while the new thoughts which came surging on in a flood began to sweep everything before them. She had been delirious, but there was no delirium here. She loved him. This young and beautiful girl, to whom for years he had given no thought save as the sister of his old friend, loved him passionately, and he knew now the meaning of the ideas which had troubled him for days – he must – he did love her in return.
But he was not beaten yet. A flush rose to his forehead and he set his teeth hard, as he recalled his position – the confidence reposed in him as a medical man – a confidence which he seemed to be abusing; and drawing his breath deeply, he resolved that he would be man enough to resist this temptation now Leo was weak and excited. She was yielding to her impulse as she would not have yielded had she been strong and well; hence he would be taking an unmanly advantage if he trespassed upon her weakness now.
His course was open; his mind clear. He would be tender and kind to her now. After she was well he could listen to her confessions of love as a lover should; and as the thought expanded in his brain that he would call this loving girl wife, he wondered how it was that he could have been so dull and cold before – how it was that love should have been shut from his mental vision as by a veil? And he sat gazing at his patient, almost dazzled by the bright light which seemed to be shed upon his future, till Hartley softly entered the room.
“Any change?” he whispered.
North glanced at the bed, and his heart beat fast. Leo was again sleeping uneasily, and muttering in a low whisper. To an ordinary observer there seemed to be none, but to Horace North there was an enormous change, and he asked himself whether he should speak now or wait.
He could not speak then of the subject nearest to his heart. He and Salis had always been the most intimate of friends – almost brothers – and they would be quite brothers in the future; but he could not tell him then.
“She seems calmer,” he whispered. “She was awake and talking a little while ago.”
“What – lucidly – sensibly?”
In spite of himself North could not help a start as he turned and met his friend’s eye, while his words were slow and constrained as he said, in a hesitating manner:
“Yes; I think so. But she is very weak.” And the mental question insisted upon being heard – Was she speaking sensibly, and as one in the full possession of her senses?
“North, old fellow, this is great news,” cried the curate. “Heaven be thanked! I must go and tell Mary.”
He was hurrying from the room, but his friend caught his arm.
“No, no; not yet,” he said hurriedly. “I would not raise her hopes too much.”
“Not when she is starving for the merest crumb of comfort? I must tell her.”
“Then be content to say I think she is a trifle better,” whispered North.
“But the climax must have come and gone?”
“I – I am not sure. The case is peculiar. Do as I say, and give her the crumb of comfort of which you spoke. To-morrow, perhaps, I can speak more definitely.”
Hartley Salis left the room, and North once more bent over the bed. His heart beat, his pulses throbbed, and the nerves in his temples seemed to tingle, as he laid his hand upon the burning brow, placed a finger upon the wrist, where the pulse beat so hard and pitifully, while, when he softly raised one of the blue-veined eyelids and gazed at the pupil, he drew back slowly, and shaded the sick girl’s face from the light.
It was growing late, the wind howled mournfully about the house, and from time to time there was a soft, patting noise at the window, as of some one tapping the panes with finger-tips. So high was the wind without that the candle flames were at times wafted to and fro.
Horace North had left the bedside, and was standing with his foot upon the fender, gazing down into the tiny glowing caverns in the fire, where the cinders fell together from time to time with a peculiar musical sound – the sound that strikes a watcher’s ear so strangely in the long hours of the night.
His thoughts were wild, and a tempest was raging in his breast as furious as that without. Love had made its first attack upon a strong man, and the wound was rankling. His brain was confused. He was almost giddy with his new sensations, astonished at the position in which he found himself.
He had been keen enough man of the world to understand Mrs Berens’ tender, shrinking advances, and they had been to him by turns a cause of annoyance and of mirth. But this was a novel and an intense delight. He could not have believed that he could be so moved.
It was a hard fight, but the man of honour won.
“I am her brother’s friend; I am her medical attendant,” he mused; “and neither by word nor look will I betray what passes in my heart till she is well. Then I, too, will lay bare the secret I shall hide.”
“And if she speaks to you again as she spoke a while ago – what then?”
It was as if a soft voice had whispered those words in his ear, and he shivered as he asked himself, “What shall I say?”
“It is all madness,” he cried fiercely – “utter madness. They were the outpourings of her diseased brain. Am I growing into an idiot? Has much study of the occult wonders of our life half turned my brain?”
He walked quickly to the bed, took up the candle, and let its light fall upon the flushed face for a few moments, a face looking so beautifully attractive with its wealth of rich hair tossed away over the white pillow.
He set down the candle, and pressed his hand softly once more upon her burning brow, listening the while to the dull throbbings of his heart.
“Yes, Horace North,” he said at last, “you, the much-praised would-be savant, are as weak as the weakest of your sex, ready to be flattered into a passion by the first sweet words which fall from a woman’s lips. You are strong in knowledge, you have mastered endless difficulties, but you have not mastered Horace North.”
“Fool – fool – fool!” he whispered to himself, after a pause; “with all your study to be so ready to rush to such a belief – ready to forget the trust reposed in you by a true man, by his sweet-minded sister, and, as it were, by you, my poor helpless girl. Spoken in your wild delirium, my child – the emanations of a young girl’s brain, of one whose waking thoughts must, Nature taught, be almost always of who is to be your mate through life. You opened the secret casket of your heart, my child, when helpless and without control, and I have gazed therein with prying eyes. But sleep in peace; they shall be secrets still. Yes,” he added, once more, as he drew steadily back – “delirium: she knows not what she says.”
A sigh from the sleeper made him pause, and then a low, musical laugh rang out, followed by a quick muttering.
Then once more the low laugh was heard, and the muttering became louder – then plainly heard, as if the speaker were in a merry protesting mood.
“You ask so much. Again? Well, I will confess. Yes, I do love you – with all my poor weak heart!”
Chapter Twenty.
A Venerable Old Man
“No, Moredock, I am not going to find more fault, and I am not going to complain to the rector. If you had been a young man, with chances of getting work elsewhere, I should have had you discharged at once.”
“Ay, discharged at once,” said the old man, trying to bite his livid lip with one very yellow old tooth, as he stood in the vestry doorway, looking down at the curate.
“But as you are a venerable old man – ”
“Gently, Parson Salis; a bit old, but not venerable,” grumbled the sexton.
“I shall look over it, and not disturb you for the short time you have to live upon this earth. But – ”
“Now, don’t go on like that, sir, and don’t get talking about little time on earth. I may live a many years.”
“I hope you will, Moredock,” said the curate, taking out the cigar-case he had started at North’s recommendation, and carefully selecting a cigar before replacing it; “and I hope you will bitterly repent. If you had come to me and asked me I would have given you a bottle of wine, but for a trusted servant of the church to take advantage of his position and steal – ”
“On’y borri’d it, sir.”
“I say steal, Moredock. It was a wicked theft,” said Salis sternly. “The wine kept here for sacramental purposes – ”
“But it was only in the cupboard.”
“It was a wicked theft, sir.”
“And it’s poor sweet stuff; no more like the drop o’ port Squire Candlish give me than treacle and water’s like gin.”
“You’re a scoundrelly old reprobate, Moredock.”
“No, I arn’t, parson. I’m a good old sarvant o’ the church. Here have I been ill, as doctor ’ll tell you, and I was took bad in the church o’ Saturday, and you’d ha’ done the same, and took a drop o’ the wine.”
“And you’ve been taken bad Saturday after Saturday for months past, eh, sir?” said the curate sternly.
“Been out of order for a long bit, sir,” grumbled Moredock, shuffling from foot to foot like a scolded schoolboy.
“You old scoundrel!” said the curate, half rising from his seat in the dim vestry, where the surplices and gowns, hung against the old oak panels, seemed like a jury listening to the sexton’s impeachment. “You old scoundrel!” he said again, shaking the cigar at him, as if it were a little staff. “It’s quite a year since I began missing the wine, and I would not – I could not – suspect you. Why, I should as soon have thought that you would rob the alms box.”
The old man started, as if his guilty conscience needed no accuser, for he had more than once helped himself to a silver coin from the box within the south door, telling himself that the alms were for the poor, and that he was one of that extremely large fringe of rags upon civilisation.
“Well,” continued the curate, “I shall to some extent condone this very serious offence, Moredock, for I cannot find it in my heart to prosecute an old man of over ninety; so now go, and I sincerely hope that you will repent.”
“Ay, I’ll repent, parson; but it wouldn’t ha’ been much loss to ha’ been turned out o’ being saxton. Nobody dies now, and no one gets married. How’s Miss Leo?”
“Getting quite strong again.”
“That’s a blessing, sir,” grumbled the old man, who in spirit abused the young girl for defrauding him of certain fees. “Health’s a blessing, sir.”
“Yes, Moredock, it is,” said the curate, rising.
“And I thankye kindly, sir, for looking over the wine, I do. You needn’t lock it up. I won’t touch it again.”
“I shall not lock it up, Moredock. My forgiveness is full. I shall trust you as if this had never occurred.”
“Thankye, parson. That’s han’some.”
“But let me have no more complaints. You must do your duty, as I try to do mine.”
“Ay, parson, and I will,” said the old sexton, following his superior to the door leading out to the churchyard, where Salis stopped and took a box of vestas from his pocket, as he stood just outside the old stone doorway, where a stone corbel with a demoniacal expression of countenance seemed to be leering by his shoulder as if in enjoyment of what had taken place.
It was a sheltered corner for lighting a cigar, and the curate, without pausing to think, struck a match, and began to puff out the smoke.
“Well, I’ve no right to speak, as between parson and sax’on, sir; but twix’ old man and young man, I do say – what would you ha’ said to me if you’d ketched me having a pipe in the churchyard?”
“Why, you old rascal, I’ve often seen you smoking when you’ve been digging a grave.”
“Not often, parson; because one never hardly gets a grave to dig. I have had a pipe sometimes when my chesty has felt a bit weak.”
“I deserve your reproof, Moredock,” said the curate, putting out his cigar. “I have taken to smoking so much that I find myself lighting cigars at all times and seasons, and I am greatly to blame here.”
“Nay, nay, I shan’t say no more,” said the old man, calmly taking the place of reprover instead of being reproved; “but try a pipe, parson. Worth a dozen cigars. Stop a moment, sir, I wants another word with you.”
“Yes. What about?”
“My gran’child, Dally, parson. I arn’t saddersfied there.”
“Why, Moredock?”
“Because I don’t think you looks arter her morals as you should. ‘Send her to me, Moredock,’ you says, ‘and me and the young ladies will take every care on her.’”
“I did, Moredock; and we have.”
“Nay, you haven’t, sir; or else she wouldn’t go on as she do.”
“What do you mean, man?”
“Along o’ young Tom Candlish, squire’s brother, sir.”
“Is this true?”
“True, sir? Course it is. Don’t I say so? I’ve ketched ’em together over and over again.”
“Tut – tut – tut! this must be stopped,” cried Salis angrily. “Did you speak to him?”
“Ay, I spoke to him.”
“What did he say?”
“Called I an old fool.”
“But your grandchild. Did you speak to her?”
“Ay, course I did; but you might as well talk to yon cobble. She just laughed, and give her pretty head a toss. She is a pretty gal, parson.”
“Far too pretty, Moredock.”
“Oh! I don’t know ’bout that, sir. Think young Tom wants to marry her? I’ll put down a hundred pound the day she’s wed.”
“You will, Moredock? Why, I thought you were very poor.”
“So I am, parson, so I am; but I’ve saved up for the gal. But you keep her in more; it’ll make him more hungry arter her, and I’d like to see her mistress up at the Hall.”
“Moredock!” cried the curate, in horrible perplexity.
“Well, I should,” said the old man, grinning. “Squire’s drinking hisself to death as fast as he can, and he won’t marry; so young Tom’s sure to get the place. But you keep her in.”
“I will, Moredock,” said the curate sternly, and, in grave perplexity at the loose ideas of morality existing in Duke’s Hampton, he went straight home, to find the doctor seated by Mary’s couch.
Chapter Twenty One.
“Something Particular to Say.”
Horace North had sternly determined on self-repression, and, from the moment when the crisis of Leo’s fever had left her utterly prostrate, he had set himself the almost superhuman task of saving her from the grave.
He had treated his patient with a gentleness and care that gradually won upon her, harsh and distant as she was by nature; so that at last, after the first fits of wearing fretfulness were over, she began to greet him with a welcoming smile, and seemed happier when he sat down and stayed chatting to her by her bed.
On that night when the passionate avowals had been uttered she had sunk back into a violent fit of delirium; and since then, in all his long hours of watching, no word of love had passed her lips – no kindly look her eyes.
North was disappointed and touched to the quick, for he watched for her loving looks, listened for her tender words.
On the other hand, in his calmer moments he was pleased, for it made his task the lighter. He could repress himself until such time as his patient were well and he could honourably approach her to ask her to be his wife.
He was not surprised at her petulance or her irritability; and even in her worst moods he only smiled, as he thought of her past sufferings and present weakness. This childlike temper was the natural outcome of such a fever, and would soon pass away.
“It is better as it is,” he said, and he toiled away, neglecting his studies, his great discovery, all for Leo’s sake, that she might live and grow strong once more.
“How beautiful!” he thought; and as she unconsciously suffered his attentions, receiving them as her right, as if she were a queen, Mary drank in all, and read the doctor’s heart to the very deepest cell.
But she made no sign. It was her lot to suffer, and she would bear all in silent patience to the end, working to make others happy if she could, but sorrowing the more, as she wished well to North, and tried to believe that, after all, Leo might change, and worthily return his love.
For, after seeing her home, Tom Candlish sent twice to know how Leo was. After that he seemed to take no further notice, though he really spent his time in asking Dally Watlock about her mistress, as he called it – questions which took a long time to ask and longer to gain replies.
Leo never mentioned his name, but lay back reading, setting aside the book wearily when any one seemed disposed to converse, and taking up the book again as soon as whoever it was had done.
Salis entered the room where North was seated conversing with Mary, whose pinched face bore a slight colour as she listened to his words, something he was saying being interrupted by the brother’s entrance.
“Ah, here you are!” cried North warmly. “I have stayed to see you, for I have something particular to say.”
“That’s right. At least, it is not bad news, I hope.”
“I hope good,” said the doctor warmly, and then he stopped awkwardly.
It had all seemed so easy to say in his own room. Here it was terrible.
Mary’s heart began to flutter, and a piteous look came into her eyes; but she closed them gently, and a tear slowly welled through from each.
“Well, what is it? Nothing fresh about Tom Candlish, I hope?”
“About him? No; nonsense! I wanted to tell you that there is no further need for me to attend your sister,” Slid the doctor clumsily. “She is nearly well now, and – ”
“My dear Horace, you have saved her life!”
“No, no; nonsense! Only did as any other medical man would have done.”
“I say she owes you her life, and it will be Leo’s duty to remember that, and to strive henceforth to render back to you – ”
“If she only will!” cried North excitedly, as he sprang up and clasped his old friend’s hand.
For the ice was broken. He could speak now, and as Mary looked up through a mist of blinding tears he seemed to her like the hero she had always painted – as the man whom some day she might love. But for her love was dead.
“Why, Horace, old man, what do you mean?” cried Salis, as Mary fought down a wail of agony which strove to escape her lips.
“What do I mean, Salis?” cried the doctor passionately; “why, that I love Leo dearly, and I ask you to let me approach her, and beg her to be my wife.”
The curate sank into the nearest chair, and sat gazing up at his friend.
“Why, you don’t seem – I had hoped – Hartley, old fellow, don’t look at me like that.”
“I am very sorry.”
“No, no; don’t speak in that way – so cold and bitter.”
“Have you spoken to Leo – of your love?”
“Not a word. On my honour.”
A sigh escaped Mary.
“You need not say your honour, Horace, old fellow,” said the curate sadly. “I did once hope this, but that time has gone by, and I can only say again I am very sorry.”
“But why? – why?”
“Because,” said the curate slowly, “Leo is not the woman to make you a happy husband.”
“Nonsense, my dear boy. I – I believe she loves me.”
The curate shook his head.
“Ah! well,” cried the young doctor joyously; “we shall see. Tell me this: would you accept me as your brother?”
“I already look upon you as a brother.”
“Then you will let me speak to Leo?”
The curate paused a few moments, and then in the gravest of tones said:
“Yes.”
“Now? At once?”
“If you wish it,” said Salis, after another pause.
“Then I will,” said North. “I have waited months, and borne agonies all through her illness. Now I will be at rest.”
“But – ”
Salis was too late, for hot, excited, and strung up hard to the highest pitch of excitement, North strode from the room, while Salis stooped over Mary and kissed her.
“I am very sorry,” he repeated: and a couple of loving arms closed round his neck, as Mary sobbed gently upon his breast.
Then brother and sister sat talking, for the drawing-room door had closed, and they could hear the low, dull murmurings of the doctor’s voice.
He had entered the drawing-room, where, looking extremely beautiful in her négligée habit, and refined by illness, Leo lay upon her couch by the fire, for the spring was cold, and as he entered she lowered her book and smiled.
It was a good augury, and with beating heart Horace North advanced and took her hand – to ask this woman to be his wife.