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Title: The SinnerAuthor: Eliza Humphreys (a.k.a. Rita)* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 1701011h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: October 2017Most recent update: October 2017This eBook was produced by: Maurie and Lyn MulcahyProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg AustraliaLicence which may be viewed online.
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CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
"Though the mills of God grind slowly,
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience stands He waiting,
With exactness grinds He all."
—Longfellow's "Retribution."
THE new nurse stood in her little room in the great hospital, arrayedfor the first time in the unfamiliar dress of her order.
The lilac print gown, the white apron, the little cap, gave a touchof Puritanism to themignonne face and figure. They were infinitelybecoming to the bright colouring of the one, the rounded proportionsof the other. She was a little creature, with an expression of youthand innocence that robbed her of an actual age by several years.In reality twenty-two, she looked scarcely seventeen. There wassomething appealing in the large blue dark-lashed eyes, the full,rather tremulous lips, the smallness and daintiness of the childlikehands that looked too frail and weak to cope with the duties she hadvoluntarily undertaken. Yet there were strength and purpose in brow andchin that belied the first impression of helplessness.
And she was a resolute little person in her way, with a strong senseof life's meaning, an ardent desire to do something in that life thatshould lift her above the idle, the common place, and frivolous of hersex.
It had surprised no one more that the relatives to whose care shehad been intrusted, when Nellie Nugent had declared her intention ofjoining the Nursing Sisters; and in the face of opposition, ridiculeand difficulty had achieved her purpose. The very doctor by whoseinfluence she was in the big London hospital had begun by laughing ather ambition. He had believed that her first lover, her first ball,would have knocked this 'nonsense,' as he termed it, out of the prettylittle head.
But he had been wrong. Steadily, unceasingly, the girl set to workto accomplish what had become a real desire to be of some service tohumanity. And now, after years of waiting, study, and perseverance, shefound herself on the first step of that proposed journey.
She was to work for two years in this hospital—work at the meanest,humblest duties, such as she had seen relegated to servants; to bowher haughty little head to discipline; to undertake any office she wastold, unquestioningly; to discard fine clothes—the dainty prettinessof fashionable dress; and give all her time and care and thought to theservice of strangers and outcasts.
She thought of this as she stood before the glass gazing thoughtfullyat her own reflection.
'I wonder what it will be like?' she said to herself. 'I wonder ifanything important will ever happen? It all feels so strange now. Butit is my own doing. I hope I shall never regret. I feel almost like anun taking the vows. I wonder——'
A knock at the door broke upon the current of surmise. She turned fromthe glass, 'Come in,' she said.
A nurse entered. She was a woman of six or seven and twenty.Dark-skinned, dark-eyed, tall, with a strong, serious-looking face, acontrast in every way to the small, bright creature before her.
'Ah, you are dressed,' she said, in a deep ringing voice, 'and you haveunpacked? That's right. I am glad you are so expeditious. The matronhas asked me to look after you. Would you like to see our ward? You arewith me, you know.'
'Am I? I am glad of that,' said the girl frankly. 'Yes, I am quiteready. I should like to see the ward.'
'We have an hour before supper,' continued the newcomer. 'I mustintroduce myself,' she added, with a frank smile. 'I am SisterGray—Deborah Gray is my name. Yours is Nugent, I know, and you comefrom Dublin, do you not?'
'I do,' said Nellie.
'I hope we shall be friends, I like Irish people so much. I haveknown several in my time. If you ever feel homesick for sound of "thebrogue,"' she added, smilingly, 'you will only have to pay a visit tothe accident ward. There is sure to be one or more of your compatriotsthere. They seem to have a monopoly of broken heads and limbs.'
'Oh, they are dreadful people,' laughed Nellie. 'I am not at allanxious to renew acquaintance with them, I assure you.'
She glanced round the tiny room to see that everything was neatlystored away. The space was almost as limited as in a ship's cabin; thefurniture was of the plainest description.
Then she followed her new acquaintance into the long, bare corridor,and out of the nurse's quarters into the hospital itself.
There were about ten beds in the cool, whitewashed ward. They were alloccupied but one, and the occupants were all men.
Nellie noted that fact with surprise. She had not expected to be put onto the male ward as her first experience of hospital nursing.
Sister Gray moved about from one bed to another, asking questions, orsaying a cheery word to the sufferers.
'There are no bad cases here now,' she said to Nellie. 'But we have hadtwo or three very serious; one fatal, yesterday—typhoid.'
She looked at the empty bed significantly. Nellie felt a sudden chillcome over her. Death, as an abstract thing, is so different to thetragedy of an actual fact. She stood a moment or two by the vacant bedwhile Deborah Gray went on talking to one of the nurses in charge.
They glanced with some curiosity at the new comer. She was so young,and so very pretty. They thought both facts told against any use orproficiency in the profession she had chosen. Some of them put it downas of the 'fads' of modern young ladyism, wearied of ballrooms, or amartyr to slighted affections.
Suddenly the door of the ward opened, and a sister entered hurriedly.
'You have a vacant bed here,' she said. 'Yes, I see, No. 7. Someone isjust coming in. Here, quick,'—and she turned to Nellie:— 'Turn down thesheets. Ah, you are the new nurse! Let me see what you can do? Get thebasin and sponge, and, Sister Gray, show her where the waterproof sheetis.'
The patient was brought in as she spoke. He was wrapped in a blanket,and lying on a trolly, which a man rolled into the ward. MeanwhileNellie had collected the articles the sister mentioned, and broughtthem to the bedside.
'Slip off his shirt and wash him,' was the next order. 'Where's the hotwater? Why didn't you bring that at the same time? There's the tap overthere in the corridor. Dear me, how slow you are.'
Sister Gray came to the girl's assistance, but the head sister insistedon her washing the patient, while she stood over her, critical andimpatient, as was her wont with the novices.
It was a hateful business, Nellie thought, but she had to do it.Nursing takes no count of sex or fine feelings. The man was young, butso wasted and haggard—so dishevelled and ghastly an object—that itwas impossible to guess what he was like.
'Enteric fever,' said the house surgeon, when he had examined thepatient. 'A bad case—neglected, I should say. He was brought from somelow lodging-house in Westminster.' He gave the necessary directions asto medicine and diet, spoke to the nurse as to the expected symptoms,and then left the ward.
Nellie remained standing by the side of the bed. She felt very sad andvery compassionate. The man's hot, restless hands, slender almost toemaciation, moved ceaselessly over the coverlet. His head, from whichthe matted fair locks had been cut, tossed to and fro on the pillows.Disjointed words fell from the parched and blackened lips.
'Come,' whispered Sister Gray, softly; 'you have done all you need forto-night. Here comes the nurse who will take charge of him. We can go.'
'Just one moment,' pleaded the girl, 'let me see him take the drink. Hekeeps moaning for water.'
Sister Gray looked amused.
'You'll never do for here,' she said, 'if you let your sympathies runaway with your duty. The day nurses do nothing after nine o'clock, andconsidering we rise before five, we are fully entitled to the relief.Come along, I must show you where the bandages and things are kept. Thesister in charge will expect you to know all that to-morrow. By the way,is this the first time you ever washed a sick person?'
'Yes,' said the girl, colouring faintly. 'Why?'
'Oh, I thought it must be,' said the other, drily. 'From the way youwent to work. You can't afford the time to be so very gentle in ahospital, my dear.'
Nellie said nothing, only followed her from place to place, noticingthe taps for hot or cold water, the cupboards and presses where all thenecessary articles were stored, marvelling at the beautiful cleanlinessand order of it all.
By that time the hour for supper had arrived, and Deborah Gray took herdown to the airy, cheerful room, where the day nurses were congregated.The meal consisted of tinned meats, salad, and bread and cheese.Syphons of aerated water and jugs of milk stood at intervals down thelong table. Everything was very plain and homely. 'You can have ale orstout,' said Deborah Gray, as she saw Nellie glance hesitatingly at thebottles.
The girl would have given anything for a cup of tea. She had tastednothing since the mid-day luncheon at her aunt's in Hampstead, whereshe had been staying. However, she had not courage to ask for what wasevidently against the rules, and so took some milk and soda-water. Shehad no appetite, and it would have required something more invitingthan bread and cheese or 'Libby' to tempt her to eat on this hot Augustnight. She played with a morsel of bread on her plate, and took in withquick ears and eyes the discussions and faces around the table. Shemarvelled they could all be so merry and so talkative—so readily throwoff the anxieties and horrors of the day—so easily discuss 'cases' andlose sight of the suffering personality the word embodied.
'I see you are wondering at us,' said her new friend, presently. 'Youwill be just the same by-and-by. It doesn't do to let oneself take thislife in too serious a fashion. Why we would wear ourselves out body andmind if we did. This is our hour of recreation and forgetfulness. Wehave done our best; the day's work is over. It is our playtime, if welike to make it so.'
'Have you been a nurse long?' asked Nell.
'Yes,' said Deborah Gray. 'I was at a hospital in Manchester for manyyears. Then I came to London.'
'And, at first?' asked Nell, timidly.
'Oh, at first I thought it was dreadful. I used to cry myself to sleepover the sufferings I witnessed. But I soon learnt the folly of that.Now I can go through anything—operations, accidents, horrors of allsorts, and not "turn a hair" as men say. One has to train one's nerves.Tears are the refuge of amateur nurses whose heartstrings tremble atevery change. We professionals can't afford that luxury. Humanityand science have so much to learn, and gain, that a "case" becomespossessed of quite impersonal interest. You feel its importance for acause more than its horrors as a result. Here, especially,' she added,'we get terrible patients. Such loathsome, degraded, filthy objects arebrought in that one wonders if they are human beings at all.'
'I wonder who that man is that was brought to our ward,' said Nellie,thoughtfully. 'I can't help fancying he is a gentleman. His hands werenot common hands.'
'No. I noticed that. Perhaps he is a gentleman, in very low water, Ishould say, poor fellow. Where did they say he came from?'
'Near Westminster, I believe.'
'Ah, very likely. Poverty has its own fashionable quarters. Were youinterested in him?'
'Well, he was my first patient,' said the girl, smiling.
'I hope,' said Sister Gray, 'that you may not be his last nurse.'
Nellie started; her wide blue eyes looked appealingly at the speaker.
'Oh, you don't think he will die?' she exclaimed.
'I should say there was every chance of it,' was the quiet answer. 'Iknow the symptoms. He was as bad as he could possibly be.'
'He shall not die if I can help it,' said the girl with suddendecision. 'The first case I have had anything to do with here. I shouldthink it awfully unlucky.'
'Ah, you are superstitious, like most of your nation,' said DeborahGray. 'That, also, you will get out of here. It is a fine schoolfor nerves and coolness, and the shattering of all little feminineweaknesses. Not that we are heartless, by any means; but we learn tocultivate common sense and to banish emotions. When you begin to take ascientific interest in your patients it need not lessen your sympathy,but be sure it will weaken it.'
Nell looked at her with wondering curiosity. There was something hardand resolute about the dark, earnest face, and yet the eyes were kind,she thought—too kind to be strangers to the weakness at which shescoffed.
Deborah Gray was, in fact, an enthusiast in the profession she hadadopted. Had she been a man she would have selected the medicalprofession above all others. Being a woman she had made up her mindto be one of the first nurses of the day. Her coolness and skill andnerve had won her notice already among the doctors whose cases she hadundertaken. She was known as entirely reliable in the operating ward,even when much older and more experienced nurses failed. She had hadseveral years' experience in a Manchester hospital before coming tothis famous London one, and she was rather surprised that a novice likeNellie Nugent had managed to get in. But she had taken a strong likingto the pretty Irish girl, and when Deborah Gray took such a liking itgenerally meant she had good reasons for doing so. She was an excellentjudge of character, and if her keen intellect and good sense sometimeserred on the side of hardness to what she termed 'headless noodles,'on the other hand she was very ready to acknowledge the merits of herassociates.
She was a great favourite with the matron and the house surgeon. Thewildest or most frivolous student never chaffed Sister Gray, or treatedher with anything but grave respect. If she was without the feminineattractions of beauty and gentleness, she made up for it by the frank,generous spirit of 'camaraderie' which so many women lack; by herintelligence, and straight-forward plain speaking. One felt she was awoman of purpose, a believer in earnest well-doing; no dreamer or idleror romancist; just a useful woman in her right groove, and thankful shehad found it.
When supper was over she introduced Nell to several of the othernurses, and chatted away in friendly fashion till bedtime.
Then she went up with Nellie to her room. Her own was next to it.
'The lights must be out by half-past ten,' she said, as she bade hergood-night. 'I hope you will be able to sleep. I know it must all seemstrange at first. You will be called before five o'clock. Be as quickas you can dressing, and strip your bed and open the ventilators, andleave your room tidy. You will have to sweep and dust it yourself afterbreakfast. Now good-night. I won't keep you talking.'
They shook hands, and Nell went into her tiny chamber and commencedto undress. It certainly was all very strange, as Deborah Gray hadsaid. Very different to a girl's home life, very different to herrose-coloured dreams of what it would be. These hateful duties, thesebrisk unsympathetic women, these strict rules, the plain unappetisingfood. They were all painful realities, and yet she was glad she hadcarried her point and come here. Her parents were dead, her sisterswere married and gone abroad. Her aunt in Dublin, with whom she hadlived, had a large family of her own, and Nell had always felt the 'onetoo many' there. She had tried governessing, but that had proved ahateful experience, and then she had resolved on becoming a nurse.
And a nurse she was in real earnest, with a two years' novitiate beforeher. She hung up the lilac print dress, and folded the cap and apronneatly and carefully, and began to brush out the long soft coils of herred-brown hair. Her face looked pale and grave, her rosy mouth was setin firm lines of resolve.
'I'll go through with it, I'm determined,' she said. 'It is the bestthing to do with my life, for I shall never marry—now.'
The 'now' held a meaning of its own—the meaning that a girl's heartgives to some idol of clay—dethroned, shattered, yet unforgotten.
A poet's fancy has commemorated the fact that it is better to have'loved and lost' than never to have loved at all, but he says nothingabout having loved unworthily.
There had been no shadow of inconstancy in Nell's bright and trustingspirit, but it had met with poor return. She had loved and fanciedherself beloved; and then had come suspicion—disillusion—a quick,fierce battle with pride—and all was over.
They had parted. He had gone his way, and she—well, she was nowonly Nurse Nugent in a big hospital, with the badge of professionalservitude staring at her from the peg in the wardrobe, and the senseof lost liberty ringing in her ears in the mandate echoing through thelong corridor—'All lights out!'
IT seemed very strange to Nell to be called at a quarter to 5, and tofind herself with breakfast finished, and the day's work begun, at anhour when she had usually been sound asleep. She swept and dusted herlittle room, and arranged a few photographs and books and knick-knacks,to give it a more homely appearance. Then came the return to the wards,and the duties necessary before the doctors came round to visit thepatients.
Her own 'case' was very bad, and the doctor, after seeing him andgiving the necessary instructions, expressed a doubt that he would pullthrough.
The morning sped rapidly on. At a quarter to 1 she left the ward withthe first batch of nurses for dinner. At 1 they had to return to dutyagain.
Every nurse had two hours off during the day. They were expected to doa little classwork or hear a lecture from the matron, and then takesome exercise. Nell would have felt very strange and very puzzled butfor Deborah Gray. She took her in hand from the first, and explainedand helped her with a ready kindness that touched the warm-heartedIrish girl very deeply.
Shortly after nine o'clock all the day nurses had to leave the ward,and those on night duty came in their place. Supper was served betweenhalf-past nine and ten, and Nell found herself absolutely hungry bythat time, and able to enjoy the bread and cheese and crisp coollettuces, as she had never dreamt of doing.
She felt tired and quite ready for bed to-night, and her light wasout before the night sister came on her rounds. She slept soundly anddreamlessly. It seemed to her that she had only closed her eyes whenthe getting-up bell sounded.
The routine of each day was exactly the same, and she soon fellinto it. Her time was fully occupied, and the first week glided bywith a quickness that surprised her. She liked her work, and did itconscientiously and strictly. Watchful eyes were observing her, butthey found no fault save that of inexperience. Meanwhile the fever ranits course, and her patient passed stage after stage to the crisis.Then to the doctor's surprise he rallied and began slowly to mend.
Nell was triumphant. She had hoped even when hope seemed useless.She had dreaded beyond all things that death might claim as his preythis first patient of hers. But now the verdict was given, 'Out ofdanger,' and she knew that good nursing and regular nourishment wereall he required. Her interest in him was purely impersonal, but he hadsignalised her own entrance into the hospital, and was for ever to beassociated with it.
She watched every phase of his recovery with growing interest, fromthe hour when he struggled back from the topsy-turvy world of deliriumto some dim recognition of those about him, until the day when hissunken eyes looked passionate gratitude at her compassionate face, andfaltered thanks for her care of him.
Meanwhile the hot August days dragged themselves on, and Nell began tothink regretfully of the day when he would be discharged as cured. Shealmost wished he would not progress so rapidly.
There were only three more patients in the ward now, and one afternoonshe and Sister Gray were the only nurses in attendance.
The windows were wide open, the blinds were drawn; most of the patientswere slumbering in the drowsy mid-day heat. Nell sat by the side ofher special charge with some work in her hand. He was lying back withclosed eyes; she fancied he was asleep.
The sound of his voice, subdued by weakness, fell on her ear.
'Have I been long here?' he asked.
She looked at him, and saw he was gazing intently at her. She smiled.
'I can tell you to a day or an hour,' she said. 'For you were broughthere the very day I entered on my duties, three weeks ago.'
'Three weeks,' he murmured, 'only three weeks.' There was a longsilence. 'You have been very good to me,' he said at last, very good.I—I hope I was not troublesome—or violent?'
'Oh, no,' she said lightly; 'you were much too weak for that.'
'Was I very ill?' he asked, with some hesitation.
'As bad as you could be,' said the girl. 'I often wonder how you couldhave fallen into such a state. Was there no one to look after you, orcare for you in any way?'
A faint touch of colour came into the pallid cheek.
'No,' he said. 'I am only a waif and stray on the roadway of life. Afriendless, homeless man, with no friends and no ties. I wonder whydeath chose to pass me by. I have nothing to look forward to—nothingto care for, or no one to care for me. What can life mean under suchcircumstances?'
The girl's work had dropped on her lap. Her large soft eyes werefastened on his face with wondering sympathy.
'Is that true, really?' she faltered. 'But you are——'
He smiled bitterly.
'A gentleman, you were going to say. Well, if birth means anything, andeducation does anything, I may lay claim to that title. But a workingman would have a better chance of earning a livelihood than I have. Ican only use my brains, and hands are in larger demand, and a thousandtimes more useful. There is no market price for my wares. I fancy mostof them have gone to light fires or line an editor's wastepaper basket.'
'You are a writer?' she said eagerly.
'I am an unsuccessful journalist,' he said. 'Starvation has been myonly wage as yet—and then illness overtook me—and harpies preyed onme. Everything went for food or medicine, or rent of that wretched holewhere I had found shelter. And that is all I can remember till I seemedto wake from a hell of pain and suffering, and I saw a face tenderand full of pity gazing at me. I have often longed to ask how one soyoung and pretty (I may say that I am so old in years and suffering incomparison to you) came to be a hospital nurse.'
'It was my own wish,' she said. 'I too am adrift on the sea of lifewith no very certain anchorage. I thought I should like this sort ofwork, and so I took it up.'
'You are not English?'
'How soon everyone finds that out! The curse of "the brogue" seems tofollow an Irish person all the world over.'
'It can be no curse to you,' he said. 'Your voice is so sweet and sofull of sympathy. I envy the patients who will succeed me.'
'But you won't go for a long time yet,' she said, quickly. 'You arestill very weak. You are not fit to take up work of any sort. Youmustn't think of such a thing.'
'God bless your kind heart,' he said, a sort of sob rising in histhroat. 'There must be angels still in the world if there are manywomen like you in it.'
'Oh, nonsense!' said Nell, drawing her pretty arched brows in a slightfrown. 'I have done very little. It all came under the head of duty.'
'But duty,' he said, 'does not teach that gentleness of touch and look,that sympathy and patience which you have wasted on such a worthlesswretch as I am!'
'Ah, you must be getting better,' said the girl, demurely. 'You arebeginning to abuse yourself, and get impatient with things generally.That is always a good sign.'
He sighed heavily. He thought how dreary life had been, how utterlydevoid of love or sympathy, or womanly care. He wondered how long itwould be before that fair young face would cease to haunt him, as oflate it had a trick of doing. The result of weakness, he told himself.Weakness and long absence from all gracious and feminine influences.
There were no conventional barriers here. They were simply nurseand patient. They might talk as they pleased. No one listened to ormisjudged them. Idleness and weakness had swept away much of hisnatural reserve. It was a relief to speak to someone of long-enduredtrials, of the misery of hopeless hours burdened by mental activity,yet barren of all expected results.
And such had been Dick Barrymore's fate for many a long year. He wasbut thirty, yet he felt aged and tired and hopeless. The wheel offortune had turned persistently the wrong way for him. He had tried hisbest, but it seemed that other men's 'worst' had had a better chanceof success. His style was not the catchy, claptrap style that goesdown with the public. He was too independent in his views to pleaseeditors—always the most intolerant of any species of professional men.He had given up the struggle in despair, writing 'Failure' across eachreturned MS., where others might have written 'Fame.' And now he wokeup once more as the battle cry of life sounded in a hospital ward. Wokeup and asked himself the old vainCui bono as he watched his nurse'sbusy fingers, and listened to her soft, pretty voice.
A sister, a cousin, a love like that—someone to work for—might haveroused his jaded energies, inspired his wearied brain.
But he had no one. No one at all. And he sighed and turned his face tothe wall. Away from the golden sunlight filtering through the blinds;away even from the dainty figure in its lilac gown and snowy apron, andprayed for death.
She thought he was tired and had fallen asleep. She went on with herwork, and the ward lapsed into its old drowsy calm.
Presently Deborah Gray rose and began to make some tea with her littlespirit-stand and kettle. The only chance the day nurses had of securinga cup of their favourite beverage was in some undisturbed half-hourlike the present, when the patients needed no special attention.
She made a sign to Nell, and the girl folded up her work and went overto the window seat where the cups and tray were standing.
The two nurses talked in whispers. It was very hot; not a breath of airseemed to stir the blind. The room was intensely quiet; the only soundwas the breathing of the patients.
Nell glanced at her own special charge. 'I would give him some tea ifhe were awake,' she said. 'I am sure he would like it.'
'They always like what is bad for them,' said Deborah Gray. 'You'reenough to spoil any patient, Nell.'
She had almost from the first dropped the formal 'Nurse' in addressingher except when they were on duty. Her first interest had developedinto a warm friendliness that was infinitely comforting to the prettyIrish girl.
'But it wouldn't hurt him,' pleaded Nell. 'And the poor fellow is solow and dejected.'
'No, no, my dear,' said Deborah Gray firmly. 'The others would want ittoo, and that would never do. You must learn to curb your sympathies,as I have told you before. It is a good thing this has not been a verybad case. You are much too interested in it as it is.'
'He seems to have been very unfortunate,' said Nell, with a glance atthe quiet figure in the distance. 'He tells me he has no relatives orfriends, and is in very low water. What will become of him when heleaves here?'
'That, again, is a habit you must get out of,' said Deborah Gray.'Thinking what becomes of "discharged cases." Once they leave herewe rarely ever hear of them again. However grateful they seem, thegratitude rarely outlasts the first day of freedom, the return to lifeoutside the hospital walls.'
She put her cup beside Nell's, on the little tray.
'It is time for your patient's arrowroot,' she said. 'I see he isawake.'
Nell went over to the sick man with the nourishment that had beenbrought in. He raised himself on his elbow and took a few spoonfuls outof the cup she held. After a moment he sank back on the pillows.
'You are not so strong as you thought,' she said. 'Let me feed you as Iused to do.'
He shook his head. 'I can't take any more,' he said, and looking upmet the sudden soft anxiety of her eyes. 'Ah, why do you mind; why doyou trouble?' he said. 'If you had left me to die it would have beenbetter. There is no one to miss me.'
'You should not talk like that,' she said, gently, as she put downthe cup on the table beside him and rearranged the pillow. 'It isungrateful. Besides it is not for us to say whether we would live ordie. That is all directed for us, for the best.'
'You dear little Puritan,' he said, with a faint smile. 'It is easy tosee you have not known the full measure of suffering. Yours is the easyfaith of women—bred in sentiment and unknowing evil or temptation.A man looks at life and God and hell with different eyes. Think ofall the teeming millions in this great city; think of the misery, thepoverty, the crime, the vileness that even one street of it—east orwest—may hold, and then ask yourself if it is all for the best. Butthere, do not let us talk of such things. It is not good for you, orwise for me. I have looked at madness too nearly, through the eyes ofdespair, to dwell upon its manifold causes now.'
Nell was silent. She was wondering how anyone so clever could havefallen into such straits. No one had ever spoken to her like this—hadever hinted that the tree of knowledge held more evil fruit thangood—that the pretty platitudes of faith in the higher wisdom were butmeaningless things at best; lip utterances that had no root.
The troubled look deepened on her face; it had grown thinner and paleralready in this close hospital, in these hot, airless days.
He, lying there and watching her, read her clear soul like an openpage. He was skilled in reading men and women—skilled in drawingtheir portraits with the sharp penmanship of scorn. From youth upwardshis soul had been vexed with problems that others had accepted orpassed by. He had been unable to do either. The faculty of probinginto depths, of sounding alike the shallows or the depths in humansouls, had been with him a second nature. It was his manner of usingthis faculty that had made him unpopular, that had barred every avenuethrough which he had adventured in search of fame.
And yet, with the feeble pulse of returning health, the old feelingsawoke, the old scorn began to throb and quiver in his veins. He foundhimself studying this weak, girlish creature, with a searching andyet compassionate understanding of her sex and its frailties. He hadno belief that anything deeper than a whim of the moment had led herto take her present position. She had probably wearied of ballroomflirtations, or perhaps loved unworthily without return, or quarrelledwith her home circle, or craved for notoriety or novelty in thesameness of girlish duties. One or other, or perchance a combinationof all those reasons, had no doubt influenced her into accepting thisplace; and even her interest and sympathy for himself lost something ofits sweetness when he remembered that to her he could only present thenovelty of a first case.
As she turned silently away, as she moved to and fro in the long,bare room, as he watched the sunbeams falling on her chestnut hair,and wavering ever and again about the slender grace of her daintyfigure, he still tried to steel himself against such purely feminineattractiveness.
She was only one in a petticoated crowd; only one of the sex who calledthemselves 'suppressed' whenever insatiable vanity, or ambition preyedupon their jaded passions. He closed his eyes against the charm of herpresence, even as he closed them against the golden light filteringthrough the closed blinds; the warm sunny afternoon light telling ofthe world without, of hurrying footsteps and busy crowds, of the racefor life and all that makes it precious in the eyes of men.
He must go forth again into that crowd, join in the race, pursue thefleeting phantoms of ambition and success.
The sea of despair had cast him up from its black depths. His pulsebeat feebly; but with returning life to the battle strain of necessity.Once more came the cry, 'Gird up thy loins, the day is at hand.'
And yet, like Hezekiah of old, he would fain have turned his face tothe wall and wept.
Deborah Gray and Nell were taking an airing on the top of an omnibusthat went to Putney. The heat was intense, though the sun was obscuredby a thick haze. The roads were dry and dusty, the leaves on thetrees were brown and seared, the grass in the parks looked parched;a hot rainless summer had done its best to rob nature of her townattractions. The air bore the echoes of sighs for sea and countryand mountainside from the poor and the workers of the Great Babylon.Everywhere was the oppressive sense of stifling heat. The very leaveswere still, and the muzzled dogs lay panting on doorstops, and in anychance corner where the shade was to be found.
'It is as hot outside as in,' said Nell, as the omnibus turned intoBrampton road. 'Oh for a breath of the sea; a screen of green leaves ina wood. I never thought I loved trees so well as since I left Ireland.No wonder they call it the Emerald Isle. Everywhere green woods, greenfields, green hedges, no stunted trees and lopped branches such as hereone is always seeing. You have never been there, Debbie, I do wish Icould take you straight off with me for a long holiday. How we wouldenjoy it.'
'You have been just a month at your work,' said Deborah Gray, 'andalready talk of a holiday.'
'A day like this would make anyone talk of it,' said the girl. 'You seeI have never been cooped up in a city in the summer time till now.'
'It must be a little trying; but this weather won't last much longer.There will be a rattling good thunderstorm to-day, and then we shallhave a breathable atmosphere once more.'
'It can't come too soon to please me,' said Nell. 'I feel quite faggedout. I can't sleep, it is so hot. From four o'clock this morning to thetime I got up I was sitting at my window trying to get a breath of coolair.'
'And you certainly eat next to nothing. Do you know, Nell, I often fearyou won't have strength to go on with this life. It is too hard foryou; you haven't the physical strength for it.'
'The doctors said I was organically sound in every respect,' said Nell,indignantly. 'What nonsense. Not strong!—I am as strong as any of you.It is only this hot weather that has knocked me up.' Then she laughedsoftly. 'It sounds so satisfactory—organically strong. Such nicewords, you know.'
'Your constitution had never been taxed when that certificate wasgiven,' said Deborah Gray. 'And besides, you are a fanciful littlecreature; you think more of your patients as individuals than ascases. However, we shall see. I give you six months, and if you loseyour enthusiasm, and cultivate common sense, and don't worry over thesufferings you have to witness, and don't mind a snub from the sistersor a little "cattishness" on the part of the nurses, you may struggleon; but my opinion is you won't. Hospital work is too hard and tootrying for you.'
Nell was silent. The little grain of truth in the plain speech hurther. She hated to think she might be pronounced incompetent; mightfail, might really justify the prophetic forebodings that had been heronly 'God speed' from friends and relatives.
So she remained silent, and Deborah Gray, looking at the pale littleface, found herself tenderly hopeful that something would happen todraw her back from this life. She felt it was not suited to her, norshe to it; but at present there was very little use in saying so. Timewould show who was right.
'So you will lose your patient to-morrow,' she said, presently, with aview to changing the subject. 'Have you any idea what he will do whenhe leaves the hospital?'
'He is going to Dublin,' said Nell, with on odd, little smile.
Deborah Gray looked at her with sudden, sharp attention.
'Do you mean to say you have succeeded?' she asked quickly. 'You nevertold me.'
'No. I wanted to be quite sure first. I told you I had written to mybrother?'
'Yes, the sub-editor of a newspaper, you said.'
'Well, they had a vacancy on their staff. I don't know the technicalname, but it has something to do with reviewing, and what they calluseful "pars." At all events, it is better than starvation. I worked upHarry's interest on behalf of my unfortunate patient, and he has gotthe post. He will go straight to Dublin, and Harry will look after him.He is the most good-natured soul in the world, and would do anythingfor me. So it's all settled.'
'Well, if you are going to start your patients in life as well as nursethem back to it, you will have your hands full,' said Deborah Gray,with a smile at the excited little face. 'You must curb this spirit ofphilanthropy, my child. No wonder your first case has taken so much outof you.'
'It has taken nothing out of me,' declared Nell, stoutly. 'I am as wellas any of you. You will see, when once this heat is over; I shall bequite myself again.'
'We won't argue. It is too hot,' said her friend quietly. 'Even if thesubject were worth arguing about. I hope he may prove grateful, and Ihope he will repay the loan you are to make him.'
Nell turned a scarlet face to that dark, quiet one by her side.
'How do you know? What do you mean?' she exclaimed.
'I don't know. I only conclude that it will be so,' said Deborah Gray,coolly. 'I am sure he has nothing. He was destitute of anything exceptpawn-tickets when his clothes were taken off. Well, I naturally supposehe cannot got to Dublin without a ticket, or live on air until hisfirst month's salary is due. You are young and enthusiastic, and youthink he is a genius, and there is no nobler task in life than that ofassisting genius. I thought so too, once,' she added, with a littletouch of bitterness. 'But I have learnt wisdom since those days, Nell.Am I glad? I often wonder. On the whole I think I almost envy you forbeing able to play fairy godmother. It is more blessed to give than toreceive, we are told. I wonder if you will find it so?'
'Whether I do or not,' said Nell, 'it will make no difference. My onlydifficulty has been in persuading him to take any help, even on thecommon-sense representation that he could not get to the place wherehe would be able to earn means of repayment without incurring theobligation of repayment. It is very hard for a woman to persuade a manto let her help him.'
'I have known some men,' said Deborah, 'who needed very littlepersuasion, or would dispense with it altogether if the woman wished.'
'Ah, that is one of your bitter sarcastic speeches,' said Nell. 'DickBarrymore is not that sort of man, not at all.'
'So he is Dick now,' said Deborah. 'We are getting on I see.'
Nell laughed, and the laugh was too frank and heart-whole to bemisconstrued.
'I knew you would say that,' she said, 'but you are quite wrong. Hetold me his name casually. Of course, I don't call him by it to hisface.'
'There is no reason why you should not,' said Deborah Gray, 'if itpleased you. Drawing-room manners are not absolutely necessary in ahospital ward. I fancy he would not object. His eyes are very eloquent,at times.'
'I would rather you did not talk like that, Debbie,' said the girlearnestly.
'Indeed you are quite wrong in imagining anything of the sort. I haveonly tried to comfort him—to help him a little bit. Surely, that isnot so very extraordinary.'
'You are a good little soul, Nell, and I can't help saying so. But I dohope you won't let your feelings run away with you. Very few men are tobe trusted, and you do look so ridiculously young and innocent,' sheadded, with a faint sigh.
'It seems to me,' said Nell, 'that my appearance is seriously againstme. When I was a governess I was always being told the same thing, andMrs. Martyn, the lady in whose service (I suppose that is the rightword) I was, used to be so disagreeable and so patronising, I felt shedisliked me.'
'Has she a husband?' inquired Deborah Gray.
'Oh, yes. He was very nice, and much fonder of the children than hiswife.'
'Ah,' said Deborah; 'that accounts for her treatment, no doubt.'
'Oh, Debbie, how can you. You don't mean—What a bad opinion of humannature you seem to have!'
'My experience of it has not shown me its best side perhaps,' saidDeborah, quietly.
She looked away through the hot haze of sunshine. Fleeting images ofhalf-forgotten scenes crossed and recrossed each other in her mind.A wider gulf than actual years separated her from this girl by herside. Her eyes burnt with a sombre fire. The sharp sting of memorywas piercing through her apparent composure and one unhealed woundthrobbed painfully. Nell did not interrupt that silence. The goldenrule of friendship is the knowledge of when to speak, and when to holdone's tongue. Nell was beginning to know Deborah Gray very well, and torecognise that she had dark moods and moments best left undisturbed.She never dreamt of asking their cause or their meaning. Some instincttold her that she would never hear them, unless some day confessionpresented itself in the form of relief to the self-controlled woman.
She admired her with enthusiasm. She recognised in her the strengthand helpfulness that she herself lacked. The difference between themwas in itself an attraction. Nell was inclined to be enthusiastic fromimpulse, and to endow those she loved with every possible virtue.Deborah Gray recognised this very quickly, and always checked atoo-lavish display of feeling. She did not believe very much in theaffection or the admiration of one woman for another. All forms of"gush" or emotion were hateful to her. She had trained herself tocoolness, and was somewhat scornful of her sex's constant self-betrayal.
The bitterness of an actual experience is yet less bitter than thedistrust it has awakened. It hurt Deborah Gray often to check a naturalimpulse to be generous or trustful, and yet she had checked it againand again. She said sharp little things to herself respecting suchimpulses; she kept watch and guard over any errant feeling; she prayedfor calmness as other women pray for love. Her ideal of happiness wasa composure that could not be ruffled by breath of excitement, ordisturbed by external influences.
When she turned again to Nell and spoke, they had almost reached theirdestination. They changed omnibuses and came back by the same route.In those hot summer days it was their favourite way of taking the air.It was cheap and it was restful, and it gave them a wide knowledge ofstreets and districts throughout London. On the return journey, Deborahskilfully evaded dangerous topics. She encouraged Nell to talk of herhome in Ireland, her early girlhood, of the people and their ways.That bright girlish chatter always amused her. It was like a rippleof sunlight on the gloom of their hospital life. Nell had the Irishfaculty of seeing the humorous side of things and of people. Her eyewas quick to detect comicalities where others swept by in indifference.But to-day she was conscious of a little sense of fatigue as she rattledon. There was more of effort than real amusement in her descriptions.She talked for talking's sake, and because she knew Debbie wished herto talk. It was a curious feeling, and it impressed her. The littlestream of light and frivolous words was checked abruptly.
'How I talk,' she exclaimed, with sudden impatience. 'And what nonsenseit is! Why do you let me?'
'Nonsense is good for youth and natural to it,' said Deborah.
'Youth, youth! How you do harp on that. I am not young, I tell you. Itseems years and years ago since I was a girl—a girl who cared for thefit of her frocks, and to whom a dance meant rapture. I feel now as ifI should never dance again.'
'This is hardly the weather, or the place, to make it an attractiveprospect,' said Deborah, gravely. 'But I should not like to put you tothe test when the surroundings were suitable.'
'You think I am not to be relied on! I know you do, Debbie. I have ahumiliating consciousness of the fact. I wonder if you are right. Iknow I am not a bit the sort of person I meant to be; yet I began well.'
'We all do,' said Deborah Gray. 'Come, let us go in now; our time isn'tup, but this heat is cruel. You look quite white and fagged, child.'
They passed up the steps and into the wide, cool hall. A man was there,talking to the house surgeon. An elderly man, with keen, sharp-cutfeatures and iron-gray hair. His clothes had that foreign 'cut' whichbespeaks the traveller.
The surgeon turned to the two nurses as they entered.
'Ah,' he said, 'this is the young lady who had charge of the case.Nurse Nugent, this gentleman is a relative of your patient, Barrymore,ward seven. He tells me he has been searching London for trace of him,and only to-day discovered that he had been brought to this hospital.'
Nell turned to the stranger. He lifted his soft felt hat.
'Richard Barrymore is my nephew,' he said. 'I have just returned fromColorado. His mother was my sister. I have lost sight of them for tenyears. I came home a month ago, and all this time I've been tracingthis nephew of mine. A nice hunt I've had, and in mighty queer places.He's been very ill, I hear.'
'Very ill,' said Nell, gravely. 'But he is better. He is to leave usto-morrow.'
'Could I see him? I know it's not visiting day, and all that, butperhaps you'd make an exception in my favour?'
The stranger spoke with a slight American accent. His manners weresomewhat brusque, but Nell liked his face, and his eyes were kind, shethought.
'Oh, of course, of course, under the circumstances,' said the doctor;'and as the patient has really recovered, we may say. Step into myroom, and I will send for your nephew. Nurse, perhaps you'll tell himas you are going up the ward.'
'Shall I mention your name?' asked Nell, turning towards the stranger.
'Yes, there's no objection. He has probably forgotten me. I've not seenhim since he was quite a lad. Here's my card,' he added, handing herone, and taking in with keen eyes the grace of the little figure—thebeauty of the small delicately coloured face. 'What a child to be anurse. Looks like a bit of Dresden china,' he said somewhat gruffly, asthe two nurses went up the broad staircase.
'She looks young, but she is older than her looks; a clever littlething, too,' said the doctor approvingly.
'She's one of the new-fangled lady nurses, I suppose,' said GeoffreyMasterman. 'I hear there's quite a crank about it. Girls all crazy tobe one because the dress is picturesque, and they look like Madonnas.Stuff and nonsense! What are their mothers about, I wonder.'
'The mothers of the present day,' said the doctor, 'have littleinfluence with their children. They are all too enlightened to heedwarnings or believe in an older experience.'
'I wonder what this precious nephew of mine has made of his life,'observed Geoffrey Masterman. 'He was always a bit cocksure as a boy, Iremember. His mother, poor soul, spoilt him a bit. She thought therehad never been a boy so gifted and intelligent, and so morally perfect.It is those wonderful boys who always go to the wall.'
He put his hands in his pockets and strolled up and down the room,waiting for the appearance of the 'wonderful boy,' who had achievedmanhood in those years of absence and fortune seeking.
When the door opened, and Dick entered, he stopped and stared as if hehad seen a ghost.
'Good heavens, boy! How you've changed,' he exclaimed. 'And how likeyou are to your poor mother.'
He took the thin, emaciated hands in his own, and wrung them with aforce of affection that made his nephew wince. His eyes took in thesharp outlines of the features, the worn, thin frame on which theshabby clothes hung loosely.
A queer, choking sensation rose in his throat. He thought of the deadmother, who had so loved and believed in her son. Perhaps death hadbeen kinder in closing those adoring eyes to a change so heart-breaking.
'I'm very glad to see you, Uncle Geoffrey,' said Dick, presently. 'Iknow I look an awful scarecrow. Please don't look so distressed; I'vebeen very ill, you know.'
'So I hear,' said Geoffrey Masterman, clearing his throat, andbeginning his restless walk once more.
The doctor went out of the room and left the two men together.
It was an awkward moment for both.
Geoffrey Masterman's conscience rebuked him for years of neglect andsilence, while this, his only near relative, had been fighting thebattle of life. He had promised his sister to look after her boy.He had broken that promise. He had been far too much engrossed inamassing fortune—far too eager in the pursuit of solid investmentsand profitable speculations, to think of the youth, strugglingsingle-handed with the giants of poverty and despair.
A wave of remorse swept over him. He was the possessor of millions ofdollars. He had silver mines and oil wells, and railway shares, andwestern mortgages, and this man, his next-of-kin, had been broughtpenniless and dying to a public hospital.
He paused opposite Dick. He gave a swift, shamed glance at the pale,thin face.
'Dick, my boy,' he said abruptly, 'I'm afraid you've had a tough fightfor it. I wish I had known. Why didn't you write to me?'
'I didn't know where you were. America is rather a vague address, youknow.'
'True, boy, true. It was my fault. I have been forgetful. But you wereat college. I thought you had a grand career before you. What hashappened? Come, sit down and tell me.'
And briefly, and with no undue dwelling on the miseries and hardshipshe had endured, Dick Barrymore related the same story that he hadpoured out in a moment of weakness to his pretty nurse. His veryreticence about his own sufferings and his own feelings touched theolder man as no complaint would have done.
The springs of life had run down very low. The tired face, the tiredvoice, the spiritless patience, these were the things with which youngmanhood should have naught to do. They were things Geoffrey Mastermanhad never known, and in some new vague way they hurt him. He sat bythe table, one restless hand turning the leaves of a medical book, theother shading his face. When he spoke at last his voice was strangelyquiet.
'It has been hard for you—terribly hard. But that's all over now. I'vecome back in the nick of time, it seems to me. You're leaving here,they said. What—had you any plans?'
'Yes.' The white face brightened, a softer light came into the brown,sunken eyes. 'I have found a friend here who has been very good to me.It is through her influence I have secured employment again.'
'Here? A woman then?'
'Yes—the woman who has nursed me back to life.'
'What!' and Geoffrey Masterman sprang up excitedly. 'That littledolly-faced creature I saw. Do you mean to say you call her a friend.That you would let her help you!'
'Why not?' asked Dick, simply. 'It is a case of "needs must." Throughher I have got a post on an Irish newspaper, and I am to startto-morrow for Dublin. You have no idea how kind she has been—all shehas done for me.'
His voice broke. He was still so weak that any emotion mastered hisordinary self-control. 'I can never be grateful enough,' he went onpresently. 'But for her I should have died. To her I owe not only life,but the chance to make something of it still.'
'Humph!' said his uncle, gruffly. 'So that's it, eh? Those prettynurses are the devil for getting round men in their weak moments.Catch me ever having one. Well, well, my boy, this was all right andsquare as long as you were ill and friendless, as you say. But that'sall altered now. I'll make the pretty nurse a handsome present to buyherself a gown, or some woman's fallals with, and you and I——'
'My dear uncle!' gasped Dick. 'For goodness sake don't insult this girlby offering her money! She's a lady as—as my mother was. She has onlytaken up nursing out of tender-hearted sympathy with the poor suffererswho are brought to these hospitals. She is going to devote her life totheir service. It is very noble of her, and very self-denying.'
'Yes,' said Geoffrey Masterman, dryly, 'it is. How old is she, thisnoble young martyr? About seventeen, I should say, from her looks.'
'Oh, she is much older than that,' said Dick, 'and quite a woman in herways—her thoughtfulness and delicacy and sympathy.'
Geoffrey Masterman looked at him with grim amusement.
'It strikes me,' he said, 'that you are leaving one disease behindyou here, and taking away another. Heart complaint, I fancy, broughton by sympathy, and studying a woman's worth in the performance ofhospital duty. It won't do, my boy. It won't do. You must come awaywith me. We'll go to Switzerland, Italy, Russia, anywhere you please,and you'll pick up your health, and I'll look after you for the future.I've no son, Dick, and I shall never marry now. All I have shall beyours, my boy, and I'll put everything ship-shape at once. You can findplenty of work as my secretary, if you must work, and you can writeyour books, or whatever it is youdo write, unhampered by the rapacityof publishers, or the ignorance or bad taste of the public at large.Come, cheer up. Don't pull a long face like that. Your troubles areover, and you shall live life as a young man ought to live it. But nophilandering, mind! no hankering after pretty nurses, or nonsense ofthat sort. You shall travel, you shall enjoy the good things of thisworld, you shall get your grip on mankind in general, and make themsmart for past insolence. You can do it, I know. I read power in yourface, sarcasm on your lip. I like you, Dick, and I shall be proud ofyou, I know. I'm not sorry that you've had this tussle with Fate, thatyou've learnt the meaning of hardship. One takes these things betteryoung, believe me.'
He stopped at last, and Dick looked up at his excited face.
'You are very good,' he said, drawing a deep breath, 'very good. Ican't refuse your generous offer. But I am fond of my independence,uncle, and I can't live a life of idleness.'
Geoffrey Masterman laughed.
'I'm not asking you to do that. I'll find you work enough, never fear.'
'But what about this appointment,' continued Dick. 'I have accepted it,and they expect me to-morrow. I hardly like to put them off. Besides,Miss Nugent took so much trouble——'
'Good little soul!' said Geoffrey Masterman, with an approving nod.'Well, you must write and say your circumstances have altered, andyou are unable to accept the appointment. Why, you only look fit fornursing and coddling still. Well, it's my turn to look after you.You'll just come straight away with me, and see if I don't make adifferent man of you before another month's out. Is there,'—andhis hand went to his pocket in a fashion that was the outcome of anoverflowing purse and a consciousness of many possessions—'Is thereanything to pay before you leave?'
Dick coloured hotly.
'No, of course not,' he said. 'Hospitals like these are free. But youcan give a donation to the building if you like. I should suggest acheque, or a yearly subscription, if you prefer it.'
'Very well. I'll write out a cheque, and you go and get your trapstogether, Dick, and we'll say goodbye to this place for ever I hope.'
'I've no "traps," except what you see me in,' said Dick. 'I was broughthere without my own knowledge. I expect that the few things I leftbehind have been sold to pay the rent of my room. But I'll go upstairsand say goodbye to the nurses, and then I'm quite ready to come withyou, uncle. By the way, I've no hat.'
'What's to be done? Couldn't you borrow one from the students or one ofthe doctors?'
'I will ask the house surgeon,' said Dick. 'Perhaps, on the strength ofyour cheque, uncle, they will be charitable enough to lend me a headcovering.'
'If we were in America it wouldn't matter,' observed GeoffreyMasterman, 'but they're so almighty respectable and particular in thiscountry!'
'They read a man's character in London by the cut of his coat,' saidDick, bitterly. 'I have learnt that long ago, Uncle Geoffrey. But herecomes Dr. Mowbray. Let us put our case to him.'
A case backed by a millionaire's cheque, the romance of a returneduncle, and a rescued nephew, appealed strongly to the charitable sideof the house surgeon.
It was altogether so extraordinary, so unprecedented, so much more likethe chapter of a novel than the prose of reality. Of course, a hatcould be supplied to the now discharged patient, whose gratitude andmemory were set to the tune of a hundred pounds. And then Dick went upto the ward to say goodbye to Nell and Deborah Gray, and to thank themfor the care and attention of the past weeks.
He was very quiet. He seemed in no way elated at this sudden stroke offortune. Nell was a thousand times more excited over it than he was. Itseemed to her the most wonderful story she had ever heard.
He held herlittle hand a long time; he was trying to summon courage to tell her ofhis passionate gratitude; his grateful remembrance, but the words wouldnot come. He resolved to write to her. He faltered out a few brokenwords that besought permission to do so, and then a mist seemed to comebefore his eyes, and the ward and the white beds, and the little figurehe had learnt to know so well, all reeled and swam hazily before him.
He released her hand and braced himself up, and walked away down thelong room, out of the door, with slow, unsteady steps. She stood therewatching him, and then went silently over to the window, and gazed outat the street below. A cab was waiting. She saw him enter, followed byhis uncle. The door closed, the horse sprang forward. Her lips partedas if to say 'goodbye,' but no word escaped.
She turned away. In all the ward she seemed conscious of nothing butthat one empty bed. Mechanically, she went up and smoothed the pillows;her hand lingered over the snowy coverlet.
She heard a voice speaking to her, somewhat sharply. 'Strip that bed,nurse, and get it ready. It is sure to be wanted soon.'
It was the voice of the head sister. And then Nell remembered she wasonly a hospital nurse, whose first patient had been discharged—cured.
Nell had been nine months in the hospital. She had nursed many 'cases'since that memorable first one—had seen all that illness and accidentcan do with poor frail human bodies—had attended men, women, andchildren, and still felt enthusiastic about her work. But each monthtaxed her strength more severely, and watchful eyes noted it. She hadlost the pretty roundness of face and figure; the soft colour in hercheeks had faded into a delicate pallor. Her eyes looked larger andmore wistful than ever under their thick black lashes.
In these nine months she had had but a fortnight's holiday, which onewet week and a bad crossing had done their best to spoil. She came backfrom Dublin looking worse than when she went, and Deborah Gray toldher so bluntly the first moment they were alone. The girl had stoutlydenied any symptoms of illness, or even fatigue. The summer had beentrying she said, and the winter equally so, and she was not used tofogs, or the hard-freezing cold that sometimes visits London. There hadbeen always an excuse handy.
It was April now. The sun had vouchsafed its presence once more. Thetrees were putting forth tender buds, and the chestnuts were already inblossom. The air was soft and balmy; even London looked less ugly anddreary beneath the soft blueness of the sky, and in the primrose-tintedsunsets. The park was thronged with carriages, and the treadmill offashion had claimed its usual crowd of martyrs. The streets were fullof endless noise, and it seemed to Nell that the days were endlesslylong and wearisome. Yet not even to herself would she acknowledge shewas failing—that she had overrated her powers of endurance, and wasphysically unfitted for the profession she had desired to follow.
'You are not equal to it, Nell. You will have to give it up,' said herfriend Deborah Gray, one morning, as they were taking their regulationwalk. 'I heard the matron and Dr. Mowbray talking about you yesterday.I am sure it means a hint that you have misjudged your capacity, notyour willingness, or your ability for the duties, but I said from thefirst the life was too hard. And you have not yet got over that badhabit of suffering with your patients, as well as sympathising withthem. You have worn yourself out in less than a year, and you would bedead at the end of another.'
Nell was silent; she could not deny the truth of her friend's words,though they were unwelcome. She gave a little sigh as she lifted herface to the cool soft breeze. They were in St. James's Park, and amoment before she had thought how bright and fair it all looked. Nowa sudden sense of depression seized her. The sun seemed hazy, and thepale grey clouds took a wintry hue, against the blueness of the sky.
A sense of failure oppressed her in this mood, as it had oppressed herin other days, when the resolve to achieve or dare something had beencombated by physical incapacity or mental irresolution. Life was hardon her. She was doomed to be one of the unlucky ones of this world.For ever striving—for ever failing. And she did not like to fail. Shehated to feel herself beaten.
Deborah Gray, wondering at her silence, looked at her. She saw her lipswere quivering, and that her face had grown very white.
'Don't take it to heart so, dear child,' she said gently. 'There areother things in the world for you to do. After all, nursing is onlyone of the many feminine resources of modern women. Thank goodness weneed no longer sit with folded hands waiting for some man to throw thehandkerchief of his choice at our feet. The world is our oyster as muchas his. No labour, or trade, or profession is denied to us if we chooseto work. If we fail in one we can take up another. We are not compelledto repress ourselves, and sink into the mere child-bearing half ofhumanity. Try something else, Nell, and don't look so down-hearted.'
'What else can I try?' said the girl, despondently. 'I told you of myventure at governessing—I won't go in for that again. I've no artisticfaculties marked enough to repay development. I can draw a little, andpaint a little, but that's all. If I could put my thoughts into wordsI might write a book, but it needs something more than words to make abook readable. I love music passionately, but I am no executant, and myvoice is hardly equal to Irish ballads. I don't know what will becomeof me, Debbie, if this fails. I set my heart upon it.'
'Always an unwise thing to do, my dear.'
'I am sure of that, but all the same I did it.'
'You might try private nursing,' suggested Deborah Gray. 'You have hada good deal of experience here, though you were never much good in theoperation cases, or you might get into one of the children's hospitalsin some provincial town. The work would not be so hard, and you arequite up to it.'
'You think, then, that I shall be told to leave here,' said Nell,gloomily.
'I am afraid so. I have heard two or three hints to that effect. Butcheer up, my dear, all doors are not closed because of one. Somethingwill turn up; depend upon it.'
Nell said nothing. She knew in her own mind that her friend wasright—that she was not strong enough for the work demanded. But shehad hoped to struggle on for the probationer's time of service atleast. She hated the idea of going back to Dublin. How they wouldtriumph. All those friends who had prophesied failure, the brother whohad set himself against the scheme from the first!
The soft air swept over her temples, and lifted the little delicatetendrils of hair that curled naturally about her smooth brow. The greenfreshness of the young year seemed to breathe of hope and joy.
Some memory was at work within her heart; some words echoing withlatent tenderness that she had left unanswered. A fragment of aletter—the only letter she had ever received from Dick Barrymore.
'If it ever lies in my power to serve you in any way, command me. Iowe my life to you, and the debt will lie heavy upon me until deeds,not words, can repay it in some degree. It seems to me that we couldnot have met only to part. That life holds something more for us. Idare not ask you to write. You may think I am presuming on your pastgoodness and interest. I can only repeat that I shall never forget you,and that I would do anything in the world to serve you.'
That letter lay in a little feather pocketbook. She had read it often,and yet she had not answered it. Why, she scarcely knew. He was richnow. He might be famous. Their paths in life had diverged. She wouldnot have him think that she put forth any claim to be remembered. Hadhe been poor—struggling, friendless—it would have been different.
But to-day its memory recurred to her. She knew he would serve her bywealth, by influence, by any means that were in his power. Why shouldshe not ask him? Geoffrey Masterman was a rich man. He must haveinnumerable friends. Among them all might she not get a companionship,or secretaryship; something that would uphold her independence.
'How quiet you are. What are you debating in your mind?' asked DeborahGray, suddenly.
Nell started.
'I was only thinking what I should do if I got my congé,' she said. 'Doyou remember that Mr. Barrymore, whose rich uncle turned up in such anopportune manner?'
'Remember the "Romance of the Ward!"' exclaimed Deborah. 'I shouldthink so. Why, it was a perfect three-volume novel of incident. Whatabout him? Did you ever write? You said you would not, and I thoughtyou very foolish. Perhaps you changed your mind?'
'No,' said Nell. 'I never wrote. I thought it would look as if——'
She stopped, colouring hotly.
'I know,' said Deborah, with a quiet smile, 'as if you wanted him toremember you. And I told you that you were a foolish little thing. Thata friend at court is always advisable, and that gratitude in a man isso rare a virtue it deserved to be cultivated.'
'I was thinking his uncle, Mr. Geoffrey Masterman, must have a greatdeal of influence. Supposing I wrote to him.'
'Certainly. Why not? Rich and influential people are expected tobenefit their less-favoured brethren. Do you know his address?'
'I have that letter still. I suppose the same address would find them.'
'You might try, of course. But don't be in too great a hurry. You arenot dismissed yet, you know. I've often had a fancy about you, Nell,'she went on as they turned out of the park. 'I think you are destinedto get more out of life than most girls. I mean, that it won't becommonplace or uneventful. Even your short experience here has beensignalised by a romantic experience. None of the other nurses, myselfincluded, have ever got beyond the ordinary, troublesome, vagabondishpatients. You are quite distinguished. Perhaps you don't know it, butyou are. Now, it would only be in the natural sequence of things, ifthe rich and grateful uncle helps you, and the prospectively richand equally grateful nephew falls in love with you. You might giveyour wedding an air of distinction by asking a bevy of nurses to itas bridesmaids and guests. The papers would be full of it, and thehospital would become more famous than it is.'
Nell laughed.
'I didn't give you credit for so much imagination, Debbie,' she said.'It is a very pretty little romance, as you put it, but likely toremain one, as far as the principals are concerned.'
'The unexpected always happens,' said Deborah Gray. 'I have seen morewildly improbable things than this prophecy of mine come true. Youknow, Nell, it is all very well for plain women—unattractive women,disappointed women, to take up missions and turn their backs on thesofter joys of life; but for a girl like you it has always seemed to mea little bit absurd. You are not the sort of female thing that men passby or ignore. You will not be allowed to follow out your own conceptionof a woman's duties. Men won't let you: you are too pretty and toofeminine altogether. Love and marriage will play the chief part in yourlife, take my word for it.'
Nell shook her pretty brown head.
'Oh, no,' she said; 'you are wrong. I am sure of it. I put away allthought of marriage long ago.'
'Because one man played you false!' said Deborah Gray, bitterly. 'Andyou found him out, and thought your heart was broken. But you know awoman does not always marry the man she loves. It sometimes happens,and I often think it is better for the woman, that she marries the manwho loves her.'
Nell was silent.
'It sounds well enough,' she said at last, 'if it only provedsatisfactory——but a one-sided union, Debbie, must turn out a failurein the end. I should not like to risk it.'
'When the hour comes,' said Deborah, 'and the man, you will forgetthere is any risk in the matter. A woman often loves her own ideal oflove in the lover she accepts. The higher the ideal the worse for him.But a man loves her—the woman herself—so he is generally too strongfor her, and she takes him because she must, because he overwhelms her,he won't let her think.'
'Why, Debbie, I can hardly believe it is you talking. I fancied younever thought of such things as love, and romance, and all that.'
'"All that" is a comprehensive phrase, Nell. I have thought of suchthings. I suppose no woman can help it some time or other.'
She lifted her face, and looked up at the bright sky and the driftingfleecy clouds.
'It is as well not to think of them too often,' she said. 'I hate thespringtime, Nell! It makes one feel so old—old and sad, and lonely. Itmust have been a hundred years ago that I was a girl like you!'
There was something in her face so sad and desperate that it frightenedNell. But suddenly Deborah calmed herself. Her dark face took back itsusual grave composure.
'I have been talking nonsense,' she said. 'Come, let us forget allthis. After all, discipline is a grand thing, Nell. I don't wonder menbecome soldiers.'
They spoke no more until they reached the hospital gates, and went upthe broad stone steps.
As Nell was turning to the nurses' quarters a sister stopped her.
'The matron wishes to see you, Nurse Nugent,' she said. 'Will you go toher room as soon as you have changed your dress?'
Nell's heart sank within her. Some instinct told her the meaning ofthat summons.
A special message from the matron to any nurse or sister was alwaysominous. It meant either rebuke or dismissal. Nell's conscience wasclear on the matter of fines, or broken rules, or neglected duties.Therefore, she feared the worst, for which Deborah Gray had, in somemeasure, prepared her.
The matron received her very kindly. She was a stately person, with anair of dignity that would have done credit to a duchess. She bade Nellsit down, and noting how pale she was, and how her hands shook, shepoured her out a glass of wine and made her drink it.
'Don't look so nervous, my child,' she said. 'I only want to tell yousomething that Dr. Mowbray said. I think it is better you should knowat once. He thinks that hospital work is too hard for you.'
She opened a note-book on the table beside her, and turned back to adate. 'Two weeks ago,' she said, 'you fainted in the operating-room.Yesterday you did the same thing in your own room. Yes, yes'—as Nellbegan to protest—'I know what you would say. The operation was a veryhorrible one, and the sudden heat yesterday upset you, but my dearchild, a good nurse must have no nerves, and she must not be upset. Toher, no case is horrible or repellent, if it requires attention andlays any demand on skill. I know you are very young, and that this isyour first experience, but the house-surgeon has very keen eyes, andhis judgment is rarely at fault. You will never be able to bear thestrain of another year here. Remember how ill you were in the winter.You have not quite lost your cough yet. As for night duty, we wouldnot think of giving it to you. I feel, therefore, I ought to tell youplainly that you must not continue this life. I don't know of yourreasons for taking it up. You were recommended by a first-rate Dublinphysician, and certainly you have deserved his recommendation. But itwould be cruel to let you wear out your constitution until a breakdownwas inevitable. Therefore, I consider it my duty to speak.'
'You mean then,' said Nell, in a weak, unsteady voice, 'that I amdismissed from here.'
'Don't put it like that, my child,' said the matron kindly. 'We wouldgladly keep you. I know you love your work, and you are a generalfavourite with patients and sisters alike. No, it is no case ofdismissal. Only we advise you to give up your duty before the strainbecomes too heavy. Take a long holiday. Brace yourself up; forget allthe horrors and disagreeables of nursing life, and then, well, you willlook like yourself—the bright, fresh little girl who came to me fromIreland nine months ago. Look in the glass there. Had that girl palecheeks and sunken eyes like the picture you see?'
Nell was obliged to confess she had not. She stood there, looking atthe changed reflection; the hand resting on the table trembled like aleaf. She felt it would be childish to cry, but she longed to do it,the disappointment was so keen. She had given up pleasures, society,enjoyments, all for nothing. She had trained herself to laboriousduties and distasteful work, all for nothing. She had put her hand tothe plough, but was forced to look back whether she would or no. Theprospect of a return to ordinary life did not please her. The pulseof throbbing youth had ceased to warm her blood and quicken her heartbeats. The springtime had no glad music in its voice. She could haveechoed Deborah Gray's words, 'I feel so old, so old!'
But she had only run down. She was only tired and weak and unnerved.She sat down again and clasped her hands tight to still their foolishtremor.
'Do you think,' she said, suddenly, 'that I could take privatenursing if it came in my way? There must be plenty of old ladies, ofinexperienced mothers. Could I not get something of that sort, with arecommendation from here?'
The matron shook her head doubtfully. 'We could not, of course, giveyou a regular nurse's certificate, because you have not even stayeda probationer's time, leaving the year of regular nursing out of thequestion. But I have no doubt Dr. Mowbray would speak for you, if youasked him. I see you still harp on the one string. Would you not prefersome lighter or more congenial occupation?'
'No,' said Nell. 'I have tried governessing. That was hateful, and Ishouldn't like to be in an office or a shop.'
'But why must you do anything?' asked the matron kindly. 'You arenot the sort of girl to buffet with the storms of life. Have you norelatives who would give you a home?'
'Oh, yes,' said Nell, flushing, hotly. 'But I prefer to be independent.I have a little money, very little, just enough to dress on. But I wantto do something with my life, not to live in idleness and uselessness!'
'You are unlike most girls of your age. They only care for dress,amusement, lovers. It seems strange, when I look at you, that youshould voluntarily put away those things out of your life!'
'The scales dropped from my eyes long ago,' said Nell, bitterly.'I have seen too much of men's selfishness and women's misery, andthe wreck that marriage makes of lives. I don't want a practicalexperience. So it is that work of some sort has become an actualnecessity.'
'If I try and find something for you to do, will you promise me togive yourself six months' rest and quiet? Go to some little seasideplace. Bathe, walk, idle, lie on the sands and watch the waves. Giveyourself thorough rest of body and mind. Then, when health comes back,and life swings on an even balance once more, write to me, and if youare still of the same mind, if nursing is your one ambition, I willsee what I can do. I have a friend who has established a children'shospital—founded it, carried it on by her own unaided exertions. Ifancy she might have a vacancy for you. The hospital is at Southampton.I will make a note of it; and now, time is up. I must send you away.'
'When do you wish me to leave—altogether?' asked Nell, as she rose.
'I think for your own sake it had better be soon—say the end of thisweek.'
'Very well, I will go. You have been very kind,' she added, her voicehalf-choked by emotion. 'I shall never forget the time I have passedhere. I am only sorry I turned out so useless!'
'No, my dear, not useless; pray don't think that. Only you overtaxedyour strength, and we could not have it on our conscience to try it anylonger.'
She took the girl's small hands in both her own and kissed her kindlyon the brow.
'There, cheer up,' she said. 'Don't think you have failed because ofthis. You will have plenty of opportunities of distinguishing yourselfin other ways. Write home, and make your arrangements, and then let meknow when you leave. I will tell Sister Adams that you are to have nomore heavy duty in your ward.'
Then she opened the door and Nell found herself stumbling along thefamiliar passages, her eyes half blind with tears.
'Another failure,' she thought. 'Another turned down page in the bookof life. . . . What will be written on the next?'
* * * * * *
Nell had never thought of herself as a popular person in the bighospital with its staff of nurses—some learned and apt as the doctorsthemselves—its busy students—its numerous surgeons, and visitingphysicians. She was surprised during the next few days at the regrets,the kindness, the parting gifts, which met her perpetually.
She almost broke down when the last day came, when she rose and dressedin the old commonplace garments of the ordinary girl, and put asidethe lilac gowns and pretty caps and aprons of which she had grown sofond. It was very trying to make the round of the wards. To look atthe pale faces of the convalescents, the suffering or disfigured onesof the patients; to turn her back on the nurses' home, the familiarclassroom, even the dreaded ward where the operations took place.
She had never known how attached she really was to the life andeverything associated with it, until she was obliged to bid goodbyeto it all. Her eyes were swollen with weeping. She looked the mostforlorn little object possible, as she stood by Deborah Gray's side inthe nurses' sitting-room, and farewells all said at last, her box andherself only awaiting the hour of departure.
'Now, this is all very foolish and feminine and useless, Nell,' saidDeborah, in her clear, firm tones. 'Tears never did any good yet. Whena thing is inevitable, put a brave face on it, set your teeth firm, andgo through with it. That's my parting advice. With regard to our twoselves, nothing is altered. I am not going to forget you, or lose sightof you. We are friends for better or worse, come what may. Excuse myquoting the marriage service, but it came in appropriately—for once.Now dry your eyes and listen. I am going to give you some practicaladvice.'
Nell sat down. Her lips quivered with a faint smile. She shook thetears off her heavy lashes; her small, restless hands were alternatelysmoothing and rolling up the grey kid glove that matched her travellingdress.
'Well,' she said. 'I am listening.'
'I have a feeling—an instinct rather—that your coming here was forsome definite purpose,' said her friend slowly. 'A purpose that youhave yet to learn. I have Scotch blood in my veins, on the distaffside, Nell, and they say my mother had the gift of second sight. Bethat as it may, there are times and occasions when things are "bornein" upon me. I see in a flash what is to happen. I don't feel this witheverybody, mind you, only just in some special case. Yours is one,Nell. I know we were meant to meet and be friends. I know also thatthere is a time of trouble and difficulty coming for you, brightenednow and then by a great happiness. The happiness is round your path,if you can understand. You may take it or refuse it, but it makes lifeeasier and better for you. Now, my dear, forewarned is forearmed.Exercise your judgment and be cautious in your friendships. If, asI fancy, an opportunity comes for you to make practical use of yourtraining here, remember your old habits, and keep to the rules. I seemcompelled to tell you this. I can't give any reason.'
She put her hand to her head and closed her eyes.
Nell watched her wonderingly. In all their hours of intimacy andconfidence she had never known her to look or speak as she had done now.
'That is all,' she continued, and her hand dropped, and her faceresumed its usual composure. 'Now be a good child, and don't fret anymore. The life you go to will be infinitely more to your liking thanthis. Take a good rest, brace up nerves and energies. Above all writeto me as often as you can, and tell me everything about yourself thatyou care to tell.'
She took up a parcel that had been lying on the table.
'I want you,' she said, 'to take this as a little parting remembrance.It is nothing particular. It is only a book for notes and entries,with this peculiarity. It is leather-bound, and has a lock and key.It may be useful, or it may not. But if ever you feel inclined to beconfidential on paper, Nell, it will hold your secrets safely.'
Nell took the square brown paper parcel with murmured thanks. It didnot strike her at the time that it would be a very useful present.Keeping a diary was the very last thing she had ever contemplated, butthen, one does not tell a friend that a gift is not likely to be put toits intended use.
'I am going with you to the station,' continued Deborah. 'I took myhours off on purpose to suit your departure.'
'How good of you. I am so glad. And your next holiday, Debbie. You willcome to me? You promised that.'
'I will certainly come, if possible. I should like to see Ireland. Ishall get my leave in June.'
'We won't stay in Dublin,' said Nell, all eagerness and enthusiasm oncemore. 'We will go to some quiet place by the sea, and have a real goodtime, all to ourselves. The coast of Ireland is lovely. You will likeit, I know, Debbie.'
'I am sure I shall,' said Deborah Gray. 'We workers got the fullmeaning of enjoyment out of our holidays, that is certain. And mindyou, Nell, you are to do nothing but rest. Don't trouble about gettinganything to do. Your work will come to you when the day and the hourare ripe for it. Remember that.'
'Are you really a seeress, Debbie?' asked the girl, smiling faintly.
'Never mind what I am. Time and the future will prove the correctnessof my prophecies.'
'You have been one thing to me at all events,' said Nell. 'A truefriend. A tower of strength when I was weak and foolish. There arepeople one meets—I am sure you know what I mean, Debbie—who seem tomake constant demands on one's time and patience, and sympathy. Andthere are others who just give all that, and strength, too, withoutseeming to know they give it.'
'I understand,' said Deborah Gray, and the blood came warmly into herdark, clear skin. 'But don't say pretty things to me, my dear. I amdistrustful by nature, and I know my own failings well enough.'
'If I were a man,' said Nell, suddenly, 'how I should love you!'
The colour left Deborah Gray's face. She turned aside and busiedherself with the dressing-bag that Nell had brought down in her hand.
'The book will just go in here,' she said, 'and I think it is time tocall a cab. For goodness sake, don't cry, Nell!' she added, almostfiercely. 'I hate to see tears. They remind me that I am only a woman,after all.'
But it was in Nell's eyes that the self-betraying drops were standingas the two women went out of the familiar room and entered the waitingvehicle, while scores of white-capped heads and waving hands gave alast farewell from the windows of the great building.
On the north-west shores of Bantry Bay lies a fairy valley. It issurrounded by wild hills, bare and broken and irregular, and theapproach to it is so desolate and dreary that when blue water and fairyislets and leafy woods burst suddenly upon one, it looks as if Naturehad been trying her hand at a transformation scene.
The coach from Bantry was dashing along in the sunset of a Juneevening, laden with passengers and luggage. The horses trotted swiftlydown the leafy road, where dusky branches of yew, and arbutus, andholly shut out the westering light. It was very still and very lovelyin the heart of those deep woods, and the noise of the tramping hoofsand cracking whip seemed a desecration of their exquisite solitude.
Then, suddenly, the road widened and opened out on either side. Onthe left, hemmed in by purple mountains, and flooded now by the goldof sunset, spread a wide, blue bay, crowned with tiny islands; on theright, sheltered by tall firs, and bowered in a luxuriant foliage ofshrubs and flowering plants, stood a long, white building with a glassporch. It was the first of the three hotels in Glengariff, for thatwas the name of the fairy valley, with its Alpine scenery and itssemi-tropical climate.
The tempered breezes of the Atlantic swept in from the Gulf Stream. Thespacious stretching mountains sheltered it from summer heat and wintercold. It looked as if Nature loved it, and had given it for dower herfairest gifts of wood and stream and mountain; of cool, green depths,where waterfalls and torrents fell and foamed, of lovely air andever-changing skies.
Two of the passengers on the couch were so lost in wonder and delightthat they forgot to dismount. It needed a reminder in the polite Irishfashion to bring them down to the commonplace level of the waitingladder.
'Wasn't it Roche's, you said, miss? Shure, we're waiting for ye theseten minutes, and yer baggage is out on the steps beyant!'
One of the women started.
'Come, Nell,' she said. 'What are we dreaming about? And how manyseconds go to an Irish ten minutes?'
'About sixty, I fancy,' said the other passenger, as she proceeded tofollow her companion, crab-fashion, down the stepladder.
There were some people in the glass porch, which was open on one side,furnished with basket chairs and a table or two, and bright with tallfuchsias and hydrangeas that stood about in earthenware pots.
The voice of the ubiquitous American was audible 'guessing' and'considering' and generally making itself noticeable in the person ofa tweed-clad woman of ample proportions and wonderful headgear, and astill ampler tweed-clad man whose stature and corpulence were a livingcontradiction of the national characteristics of his race.
'Our room is ordered,' said Nell, for Nell it was who had arrived, tothe hotel proprietor as he advanced. 'Miss Nugent and Miss Gray. Wetelegraphed from Cork.'
The courteous manager remembered the names. Yes, a room had beenreserved. He hoped the ladies would find it comfortable. The hotel wasvery full, just now. He had scarcely a room free. He touched the bell,and ordered their baggage to be taken upstairs, and told a chambermaidto show them the way.
When they reached their room, at the end of a long corridor, they gavean exclamation of delight. Two windows were open to the mountainsand the bay. A flood of amethyst and golden light made radiantall the circling heights; below, the densely purple shadows lostthemselves amidst piled masses of rugged rocks and the thickness ofshrubs. Everywhere the light glowed and fell—translucent, changeful,wondrous—for never yet was alchemist who could boast of such prodigalskill as the sun at setting time when he lingers behind some favouredmountain crest.
'Oh, isn't it heavenly,' cried Nell, as she gazed and gazed inever-increasing wonder. 'I never saw anything so beautiful! Oh, Debbie,aren't you glad we came, and you wanted to stay at Bantry? . . . Oh, tofancy we might have missed—this!'
The comprehensive sweep of her hands spoke volumes.
'How many more Ohs, to make up the sum of your rapture, Nell?' saidDeborah Gray, in her quiet, deep voice, but her eyes were eloquent andappreciative as Nell's own.
It was her holiday. The promised holiday to which they had both lookedforward. The one from the stifling city, and the crowded hospital, theother from the shabby Dublin lodgings where she had been living withher brother, taking a day at Kingstown or Bray as her only change.
But the sacrifices made, the little economies, the carefully savedpocket money, were all forgotten in this glorious moment. Here theywere, in an earthly paradise, the treasures of the sea and islet andmountain at their feet; the warm sweet summer days of idleness andrepose at last their own.
'Oh, I am so happy! So happy!' cried the girl at last, lifting herradiant eyes to the quiet face beside her. 'One is glad to be alive, tobe human in such a scene as this. Debbie, why don't you speak? Can'tyou get up a little enthusiasm, for once?'
'Perhaps I feel it as strongly as you do, Nell, but I can't express it.One often feels that words have a poverty-stricken effect when one isvery deeply moved. So I take refuge in silence.'
'But you are not disappointed? You are glad you came?'
'More glad than I can tell you.'
'And for two long, lovely weeks we shall look at this!' continued Nell.'Feast our eyes and senses to our hearts' content. I wonder what sortof people are staying here,' she added suddenly. 'I heard the voiceof an American cousin in the porch. I hope she won't want to know us.I believe Americans always do want to know everybody, though, whenthey're travelling.'
'Oh, we can easily avoid them,' said Deborah Gray, as she left thewindow and went over to the toilet table to remove her hat. She hadleft her nursing dress behind her, and Nell thought she did not looknearly as well in orthodox travelling gear.
The girl still hung out of the window, unable to tear herself from thelovely view. She did not mind being hot or dusty, or remember thatthey had had a long day's travelling on no better provisions thana few sandwiches and a glass of lemonade. Food seemed a coarse andcommonplace thing beside this changeful splendour of the mountains,this opal light on the stirless waters, this fragrant dusk of woodsthat held all the breath and beauty of summer in their leafy depths.
'I don't want to disturb you,' said Deborah Gray, at last. 'But may Iask if you intend to dine off a view to-night? Thetable d'hôte islong over, but I must remind you that a cold chicken and accessoriesare awaiting us in the dining-room.'
Nell gave a long sigh and left the window.
'Oh, dear, you are quite ready,' she exclaimed, as she noted Deborah'sneatly-coiled hair and clean collar, and the fresh tints that coldwater and soap had given to her dusky face.
'Of course, I am,' laughed Deborah, 'and you, I see, have got out ofall your good habits already.'
'I won't be five minutes, really,' said Nell, 'and I'll make you apresent of them. So go to the window, and thank the gods you have eyesto see and a heart to appreciate such a scene.'
'All the same, I am very hungry,' said Deborah, with a smile.
'Goth and Vandal! Why, the very thought of eating is a sacrilege!'
'I am afraid the hotel would fare badly if everyone who came hereshared that opinion,' said Deborah Gray.
Yet, for all her jesting, she appreciated the beauty before her askeenly as Nell herself. The first flash and brilliance of the sunsetwere fading now. The mountains had a warm, violet tint that deepenedand changed to brown as the twilight shadows crept down the rockyslopes. The steep pathways were bordered with geraniums and wildfuchsia, and the lovely coral blossoms of the escallonia. A stretch ofgreen lawn fronted the building, on which some cows were grazing. Frombelow came the sound of voices, the bark of a dog, a ripple of girlishlaughter. Figures passed to and fro, under the trees, discussing plansfor the morrow. It was an idyllic scene. Deborah Gray knew that in herchamber of memories none half so lovely or so full of restful peace hadever found a place.
When Nell had washed the dust of the journey from her face andhands, and smoothed her ruddy chestnut hair, they went down into thedining-room. A considerate waiter had laid a table for two in a windowrecess that looked out on to the garden. The window stood open, thesoft, balmy air blew in, laden with the breath of aromatic shrubs. Ashaded lamp threw a rosy tinge on the white cloth and on the flowers intheir slender glasses, on the dainty arrangements which made even fowland salad, and bread and fruit look more poetic than mere food oftendoes.
There was no one else in the dining-room. They ate, and drank, andchatted, and laughed over the incidents of the journey with a sense ofperfect freedom and perfect enjoyment.
After all, there are things in a girl's life which a man would onlyspoil for her. That sense of utter unconcern, of heart-whole enjoyment,of perfect content with the hour, and what it brings. These were Nell'sown, at last. She acknowledged to herself they were good and desirablethings, and that she was the better for their possession.
When they had finished their meal they went out, and found a paththat led them to the water's edge. The fairy islands lay before them,sleeping under the liquid gleam of moonlight. The splash of the ebbingtide on the pebbly strand was the only sound in the perfect stillness.
They seated themselves on the bank, where the great tree roots had madea natural seat. It was not a time to speak. It was just one of thoseblessed restful pauses that fate vouchsafes sometimes to tired mortals.
These two women had known what it was to be tired—very, very tired.They acknowledged in this moment that it was worth while to have knownand suffered for that feeling. How could they so well appreciate thepresent peace were it not for past toil?
It might have been a long or short time they had sat there, sayingnothing, only dreaming and resting as the quiet stars came out inclustering group's, and the moonlight grew slowly brighter above thepurple blackness of the mountains. In such a moment one takes no countof passing moments. It is enough just to be and to dream.
A step, crushing the dry twigs and uneven stones on the path behindthem, roused them at last. Their solitude was to be disturbedevidently. They sat still; their dark blue linen dresses were notdistinguishable from the bracken and undergrowth; their hats lay ontheir laps. The step came steadily on. There was a sound of softwhistling, and a light cane idly switched the low-stretching boughs oneither side. Then a man came suddenly upon those two still figures, sosuddenly that his foot trod on Nell's skirt before he even saw therewas a woman's dress in his way.
He stopped short with a murmured apology. Nell glanced up, and a gleamof moonlight fell on her uncovered head, and lit up the blue eyesbeneath their delicate arched brows.
There was a faint cry of wonder—an exclamation—and then she sprang toher feet.
The stranger was Dick Barrymore.
He recognised her in a moment, though it was the first time he had seenher without the nurse's cap covering her pretty chestnut hair. As theyshook hands, and uttered 'wonders' at so strange a meeting, DeborahGray also rose to meet him. Then came the inevitable and commonplaceexplanations.
It appeared that Dick and his uncle were staying at Killarney, but hadcome up to Glengariff for a couple of days, having heard that it wasso expected of the tourist. They had been 'doing Ireland' for the lasttwo months, beginning at the Giant's Causeway, and so working on to thesouth and south-west coast.
After that explanation there was a little embarrassed silence whilethey mentally studied each other under the clear moon rays and notedthe changes that these past months had made.
Dick had certainly altered for the better. His face had recoveredcolour and flesh; the fair hair curled close about his temples, and thesoft, thick moustache set off the somewhat stern mouth and sharply-cutfeatures. The well-moulded chin was no longer disfigured by a beard, aswhen Nell had last seen it. His figure was well-clad, and he carriedhimself with the ease and grace of recovered strength. She forgot herembarrassment as she made mental notes of those improvements, and spokeof the change with candid approval.
'And you?' he said. 'Are you still in the hospital?'
'Oh, no, I have left,' said Nell. 'They said I was not strong enoughfor the work, so I am taking a rest. My friend, Miss Gray, is payingher respects to my country for the first time, and we have comehere for our holiday. Isn't it strange that we should all have metagain—and in such a manner?'
'It is strange,' he said, 'but very pleasant. I have often hoped to seeyou again, Miss Nugent. I—I often wondered if you got my letter.'
'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I got it.'
'You never answered it,' he said, reproachfully, and in a slightlylowered voice.
'I was very busy,' she said, 'at the time. The ward was full, and theywere all bad cases. Besides, I did not think you would care to hear.There was nothing to interest you in what I could write.'
He was silent, but his eyes took up the reproach of his voice, andDeborah Gray suddenly felt herself reminded of an old proverb,respecting the one too many.
'And so you are staying here,' he went on, presently. 'At Roche's, Isuppose. We are at the other one, lower down. My uncle would go there,though I wanted him to come here. It has such a lovely situation.Eccles is on the road. It is supposed to be the crack hotel, and myuncle has a weakness for "crack hotels." In that respect he is quiteAmerican. For my part I would always avoid them. They mean highcharges, crowds, and inattention.'
He was talking now for the sake of talking, conscious all the time ofthe slight figure so close to him, of the large soft eyes that restedon his face, of every movement of the small restless hands, swayingthe white sailor hat to and fro by its elastic fastening. He hadnever known how much he had longed to see her again until this suddenmeeting. The feeling which swept over him was one that her nearness andher laughing speeches intensified each moment. She looked so small anddelicate and fragile in this pale light that his heart seemed to go outand gather her up in a warm protecting embrace, as one would gather achild in one's arms who was lonely and troubled and unloved.
'I think,' he said at last, 'you must have needed a holiday. You arevery much changed.'
'I wonder what you would have said if you had seen me when I left thehospital?' laughed Nell. 'My brother thought it was my ghost when hesaw me coming off the steamer. But now I am quite strong and well. Idon't need any pity, I assure you.'
There was another pause, and Deborah Gray came to the rescue andsuggested it was getting late and they ought to be returning.
'It is cruel to shut oneself out from such a lovely night and scene,'pouted Nell; but, all the same, she turned, and he with them, and theywalked slowly up the steep path and through the wooded grounds untilthe lights from the hotel came into view.
Dick Barrymore felt he had no excuse for lingering. He stood—where hisown road branched off—half afraid of the question trembling on hislips.
Nell took it off for him quite naturally, with a careless grace thatmade it seem a very ordinary one indeed.
'I suppose we shall see you again,' she said, 'as we arefellow-travellers, and so near one another. I have a longing to be onthe water, to float all day among those islands. I suppose it is to bemanaged.'
'Certainly,' he said with surprising eagerness. 'It is our programmealso for to-morrow. Would you object to sharing our boat with us. Wehave an excellent man; he knows every place and point of interestabout?'
'We pride ourselves on our independence,' said Nell; 'but we may aswell waive objections for once. What say you, Debbie?'
And Debbie smiled, and said exactly what was expected of her.
There was not a very prolonged discussion between the two friendsrespecting this meeting, even though there was every temptationafforded it by that sharing of the same room, and that quarter of anhour of hair-brushing which is so conducive to feminine confidence.
But Deborah Gray was a wise woman in her way. She let Nell say justas much as she pleased, and made very few comments herself. All thesame she foresaw that this expected holiday would be shared by a thirdperson, and its hours engrossed by a new claimant for Nell's attention.
Still, she had come out to enjoy it, and she meant to do so, even ifthe proverb of which she had already been reminded were verified. Soshe laid her head on her pillow and looked at Nell in her little whitebed opposite, and smiled the smile of one who knows life and the waysof women, and closed her eyes in satisfied drowsiness, and slept as shehad rarely slept for many a month.
They had promised each other to wake early and be out and down to thewaterside before breakfast, but when Nell did wake she saw the blindswaying up and down to the persuasion of a gusty, chilling wind, thatswept in through the open window, and her dismayed glance as she pulledit aside took in a changed and most melancholy scene. The mountain topswere shrouded in grey mist, the sky was grey, the atmosphere was grey,the trees stood out in blurred masses, their branches weighed down byheavy moisture.
A group of patient cows huddled together under the firs, a crowdof noisy poultry wended their way across the wet grass, the fairyislets were blotted out altogether. It was a weeping, mournful,misten-shrouded Glengariff that lay in its mantle of haze swept everand again by a cold and chilling wind, that seemed to have strayed backfrom some winter quarter by mistake.
Nell glanced at Deborah Gray, and saw she was asleep, so she crept hackto her own bed again, comforting herself with the thought that it wasbut six o'clock, and the weather might change by breakfast time. Butwhen breakfast time came, and they went down into the long dining-room,already crowded with hungry feeders, the prospect was even worse.The rain fell in a steady, continuous downpour, the thick haze stillobscured the prospect, and the weather-wise among tourists and visitorswho knew the ways of Glengariff, were uttering dismal propheciesbetween mouthfuls of fried sole and hot coffee.
The two friends found the same table laid ready for them, and thecheerful waiter answered their anxious inquiries with all an Irishman'shopefulness.
'It won't last, miss, never fear. It mayn't be fine altogether, butjust a bit hazy.'
Then he whisked off the cover from a delicately-fried sole, and broughtthem their own teapot and supplies of toast and egg and marmaladeenough to atone for any amount of bad weather. Nell ate and drankwith an appetite that spoke of mountain air and recovered health. Herspirits rose. She began to take notes of their fellow-travellers, andamused Deborah with her criticisms. At last her attention was attractedby a table adjoining their own. It also stood in a window, it also wasprepared for two, and a waiter hovered round giving a final touch toits arrangements, and evidently waiting a given signal to bring in thebreakfast.
'I wonder who will come there,' said Nell, with a careless nod in itsdirection.
'Why wonder about it?' said Deborah Gray. 'You will see for yourselfin a moment. A honeymoon, I should say, judging from the waiter'sattention. Newly-married men are apt to be reckless in respect of tips.'
'It might be two lone females like ourselves,' said Nell.
'I fancy not,' said Deborah. 'I think it will be a man and a woman!'
Her back was to the door. Nell, from her point of view, had the tableon her right, the door on her left. Almost as Deborah spoke, she sawtwo people enter. The man struck her as being the handsomest man hereyes had ever rested upon. He was very tall, he had the dark, richcolouring, the clear cut features, that mark the Spanish race, and isoften seen in some districts of Ireland. He moved with an easy gracethat had something foreign about it; a grace that the stare of some twoscore eyes could not discompose in the slightest degree. He walked upto the vacant table, drew out a chair, and stood waiting for the slowerapproach of the lady following him. She walked feebly. She had theunhealthy pallor and languid eyes of ill health. Whatever beauty shehad once possessed had been wrested from her by suffering, and marredby the weariness of pain.
Her features were sharp—the mouth betrayed intense melancholy. Herhair, soft and abundant as it was, had no gloss or richness of tint.It was of a pale, dull fairness, and her blue grey eyes were renderedalmost expressionless by lashes as neutral tinted as the hair.
The contrast between the two was almost startling. The vivid tints, theglow of health and strength on the one face, the wistful attenuatedfeebleness of the other.
Deborah Gray's keen, professional eye took in the invalid's generalappearance with interest. She merely glanced at the man, and as quicklylooked away.
'Not a honeymoon, after all,' said Nell, in a low voice; 'only ordinaryman and wife.'
'Man and wife, certainly,' said Deborah Gray, equally low, 'butnot—ordinary.'
'Don't tell me you are seeing visions, and reading fates,' said Nell.'I shall begin to be afraid of you, Debbie, my dear.'
So lightly do we jest with fate; so dimly do we see even one inch ofthat road of the future stretching before us, leading to issues strangeand mystic, and unguessed of, as the hand of Time points onward.
The man took his place after the lady had seated herself. Then hissplendid dark eyes turned to the adjoining table and its occupants. Heread the undisguised admiration in Nell's innocent face; but DeborahGray's was like a mask—hard, impassive, inscrutable. His olive skintook a warmer shade of colour. There was just the faintest contractionof the features, scarcely more than a shadow on glass. No one noted it,save, perhaps, Deborah Gray herself. She turned slightly away, and,raising the teapot, poured herself out another cup of tea. Her hand wasperfectly steady, but the blood surged from her heart to her temples,and the whole room seemed to sway before her.
Nell went on with her gay chatter, but it seemed as if her voice camefrom some far distance. There was a hustle of people rising, the noiseof tourists' heavy boots, the sharp accents of the American voicesproclaiming disappointment at spoiled plans. Then suddenly the oldinstinct of self-repression came to her aid. Her voice was steady asever as she answered some question of Nell's. She finished her tea asif perfectly unconscious of the furtive glances that from time to timebridged the space between the two tables—a space that, multiplied byyears of severance, lay for ever between two lives.
There was a general move into the porch, and Nell and her friend foundthemselves there also. The American lady, who seemed to live in herhat, had taken possession of one of the basket chairs. She spoke hermind out on many points with that frankness peculiar to her interestingnation. Her husband was occupied with a toothpick, and made anappreciative audience. The tourists were determined to face the weatheron bicycles, and no one raised any objection to their doing so. Nell'sanxious glances still turned skywards. Now and then the haze liftedunder some attacking shaft of sunlight, and showed the bay was anexisting fact; she had begun to doubt it, but the momentary brightnesswas only briefly tantalising, and the mist took swift revenge byenwrapping the scene in yet more impenetrable mystery.
Disconsolate eyes turned from point to point of the hazy landscape,trying to see hopeful signs from those momentary gleams, or detect themin a change of wind, or hear them in the crowing of a cock, which hasbeen known at times to foretell good weather.
A lady with rheumatic ankles and list shoes, who also occupied a basketchair, took a gloomy view of the situation. She had been staying at thehotel for a week, and there had been five such days as this already. Apretty boy, spending a holiday here with a maiden aunt, tried to give acheerful tone to the conversation by relating histories of worse daysand worse weather, during which he appeared to have killed time in away more satisfactory to himself than to the maiden relative. Nellappropriated him and his conversation with alacrity. They seemed themost cheerful things about, and she did not wish to lose her holidayspirits. The boy thought that it might clear up for an hour or two inthe course of the day, upon which Nell accepted readily his invitationto go off and play a sort of parlour Badminton of his own invention, inthe deserted billiard-room.
Deborah Gray did not go with them. Instead, she went swiftly up thestairs to her room, and then locked the door and sank into a chairby the window. Her eyes were glowing with a fierce light. Her wholeframe was trembling with suppressed passion. Words broke from herunconsciously.
'So it was forher I was thrown over—for her and her money! Poor soul,what a sorry bargain she made! And he—I saw he remembered me. God! howsmall the world is after all! Couldn't we two have been kept apart?'
Her hands clenched on the soft linen of her gown, her breast washeaving with a passion of resentment.
'She looks ill—dying, I should say. Dying, after six years of marriedlife. And what hopeless sorrow in her face—poor soul, poor soul, Ineed not surely envy her!'
She rose abruptly, and began to move about the room.
'What can I do?' she cried hoarsely. 'If I wish to leave, Nell willthink it so strange, especially as I can give no reason, and yet, topretend he is a stranger, that is hard. Would he have spoken, I wonder,had I given him the chance? No, I fancy not. He must be glad enough toavoid me, if he has a conscience at all. What was it he used to callme—a woman with a head and no heart? No heart! My God, if only I hadhad none for him to win and break, and cast aside, as a worthless toy!If only I could forget as he has forgotten!'
It was no longer Deborah Gray, the quiet, composed nurse, the womanof iron nerve and no emotions, who paced to and fro in that lockedchamber. It was a woman fighting a battle fierce and ominous, withherself and with the past.
It said much for her strength of will that she did not cry out or giveexternal sign of the hysterical passion that rent her very soul—thatno tear fell from her flaming eyes, nor sob, nor sigh, escaped herquivering lips. The years of discipline and self-repression came toher aid. She calmed herself just as she would have tried to calm aturbulent patient, a despairing mourner.
From the corridor beyond came the sound of high-pitched voices, thecurious drawl that has its distinctive use in smart sayings. She ceasedher restless pacing, and went over to the window and knelt down,leaning her arms on the sill.
There was a little rift of light in the clouds, above the CahaRange—but to right and left they lay in heavy masses. The rain stillpattered on the gravel roadway and glistened on the heavy foliage. Someducks were solemnly pacing to and fro the wet sward and quacking theirappreciation of unwary worms, or taking occasional baths in the littlepools beneath the clumps of pampas grass.
'Shall I put on a waterproof and go out?' thought Deborah. 'I feelstifling, and rain never hurts me. . . If I could but escape Nell!'
She rose and took her cloak from the peg where it hung, and put atweed travelling cap on her head, then softly opened the door and wentdownstairs. She knew she must pass through the porch to get out, butshe trusted that Nell and the pretty boy were still at their game.Whether they were or not, at least Nell was not visible. She hurriedthrough the doorway and down the steps, taking no notice of the peopleshe passed. She drew the hood of her waterproof over her head, andwalked straight on, down the wet drive, under the drenched and soddenboughs. A few paces further on she came face to face with a man alsowaterproofed, and holding an umbrella over himself.
It was Dick Barrymore.
She stopped in sudden dismay.
'Oh, are you going to the hotel?' she cried. 'Surely you don't expectus to carry out your programme in this weather?'
'No, that's just it,' said the young man, glancing round to see if shewere alone. 'I was coming to say it must be put off till to-morrow. Theytell me it never rains two days running like this. Are you going for awalk?'
'I am, but you will find Miss Nugent in the hotel, in thebilliard-room, I believe,' said Deborah. 'She doesn't know I'm out.I don't wish her to get wet,' she added, diplomatically, 'but I'm sostrong; rain never hurts me.'
'Oh, I'll prevent her going out,' he said, eagerly. 'My uncle wascoming over to call on you both,' he added. 'But he thought he wouldgive the weather a chance of improving, but I was to ask you if you andMiss Nugent would come for a drive after luncheon, if it did clear. Wethought of going to the Bantry shooting lodge. It is charming, we hear,and just a nice distance. Do say you'll come.'
'I have no objection,' said Deborah, 'if Nell wishes?'
'May I tell her so?'
'Certainly, but the weather has something to say in the matter as well.'
'Oh, I have hopes of the weather,' he said, laughing. 'I suppose youare going to the village?' he added, as Deborah seemed inclined to moveforward.
She nodded, and with a hasty goodbye passed on.
'He will entertain Nell. Nothing could be better,' she said to herself.'And she won't miss me. I can fight my "seven devils" out of me as Iplease.'
She turned aside, attracted by the sound of water foaming and dashingover a rocky bed. The path that led to it was stony and narrow, thewet boughs struck her face and showered their glittering moisture overher hair. She felt nothing, heeded nothing, saw nothing. Only her eyesburnt like a flame beneath their dusky brows, and the fierce beats ofher heart almost stifled her. The throbbing of an unhealed wound hurther with almost physical pain. After seven years of peace that woundcould still remind her of its giver.
She stumbled on, led instinctively by the sound of the one thing innature that seemed in harmony with her mood. She reached it at last.A torrent falling and dashing over great rocky boulders, a cascade ofimpotent wrath that foamed and raged, dashed itself wildly againstopposing barriers, as puny human wills oft dash themselves against theiron barriers of Fate.
She stood there, and gazed down, a human embodiment of passion as vainand useless as those seething waters, rushing with overlapping haste tothe cold and quiet heart of a distant river. The birds twittered above,amidst the quick patter of the rain and the chill breath of the wind.Naught cared they for the agony of a human soul fighting out its battleof womanly pride and womanly love. Naught knew they of the dumb agonythat rent that motionless figure, as with pangs of childbirth. Shecovered her face with her hands, and a groan of anguish escaped her.Then the iron hands of misery broke, and a rain of hot tears showeredfrom her hidden eyes.
'Once I cursed life and him,' she moaned. 'Oh God! Am I still such aweak fool that the mere sight of him can make me regret!'
THE 'parlour Badminton,' which was only a form of battledoor andshuttlecock, was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a waiter,who brought in a card for 'Miss Nugent,' and informed her that agentleman was waiting to see her in the drawing-room.
Nell looked at it and laid down her bat. 'I must go,' she said to thepretty boy. 'We'll finish our game some other time.'
'Oh, of course, I know what that means,' he made answer. 'I've gotsisters, you know.'
Nell did not express any great surprise at the announcement.
'Where is the drawing-room?' she asked. 'I haven't been there.'
'Oh, I'll show you,' he said, and vaulted over the table in a fashionthat would have horrified the head waiter. Having disposed in thisfashion of a little superfluous energy, he conducted her to theapartment in question, and took notes of the looks and height andappearance generally of the visitor.
'Spooney on her, I suppose,' he thought. 'Such a nice girl, too. Ihoped she had none of that nonsense about her.'
He put his hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers and whistledsoftly as he moved over to a table and began turning over thevarious books that littered it. He had a holiday task to do, andthis opportunity was as good as one might reasonably expect. Thedrawing-room was free to everyone.
Meanwhile, Dick Barrymore was explaining to Nell what he had alreadycommunicated to Deborah Gray.
Nell glanced sharply at the window.
'Do you mean to say Debbie has gone out in this rain?' she exclaimed.
'I met her on the way to the village,' said Dick, genially, unconsciousof any deviation from the path of truth. 'She didn't seem to mind therain at all.'
'She's not like me, then,' said Nell, with which he secretly agreed.'I hate rain like a cat,' she continued. 'Oh, why couldn't the weatherkeep like yesterday? When one has only a little time for a holiday itseems so hard to have to waste even an hour indoors. And poor Debbie;in two weeks she has to return to work. I did so hope she wouldn't havea sight of "Erin's weeping skies" during the time.'
'It is hard,' said Dick, sympathisingly. 'And will you spend the twoweeks here, entirely? Surely you will run over to Killarney before youreturn?'
Nell looked doubtful, 'We are not fond of rushing about,' she said. 'Wewant a thorough good "idle," if you can understand.'
'I think I can,' he said. He thought she looked even more fragile inthe morning light than on the previous evening.
'Rest and quiet,' she went on, 'are more desirable things to us thanany sight-seeing. Debbie has had a very hard time of it this last year.I think she does too much, but she is so strong and resolute it is nouse speaking to her.'
'She looks it,' he agreed.
'But she is a dear thing,' continued Nell, eagerly. 'And so clever andso good.'
'She is fortunate in having a friend who believes in her,' he said,with a quiet smile.
'Don't you think every one would believe in her? There is something sostraight and true about her. None of the shifty, mean little ways ofordinary women.'
He laughed. 'I hope,' he said, 'that you do not call yourself anordinary woman?'
'Indeed I do,' said Nell.
'And have you shifty, little ways?'
It was her turn to laugh.
'I daresay I have,' she said. 'I have not considered myself yet,seriously. But when I do I have no doubt I shall find that I am not atall as nice as I would like people to suppose.'
He looked at her with eyes that plainly said he, at least, was one ofthe people who believed her 'nice.'
'And when do you propose beginning the task?' he asked, presently.
'Of considering myself? I hardly know. I am thinking of doing anautobiography—only there's so little to put in as yet. You are aliterary person, are you not? Would you advise me to write it, or shallI wait a little longer and see if life has any nice little tragic woesfor me? I think people like to read about the woes of their fellows,don't they? It makes them more patient with their own troubles "in thatstate of life," as the catechism has it.'
'I hope,' he said, 'you will never have any "tragic woes." They may beall very well to read about, but as actual experiences they are notpleasant.'
She looked at him quickly. 'Ah,' she said, 'I forgot that you——'
'That I have had some actual experience,' he said; 'Yes, but I wish youhad forgotten it altogether.'
'But now,' she said, 'all that is over. Did it ever strike you thatthere was something dramatic about the way in which your uncle turnedup. It has been the romance of the hospital you know.'
'I did not know,' he said, and the colour came into his face. 'But itcertainly was opportune, as well as dramatic. He has been very goodto me. It is the heaven of an author's ambition to be able to writefreely and fearlessly of what he feels is right, without respect ofpublishers' opinions, or critics' banal twaddle, and without the cur ofnecessity forever snapping at his heels.'
'And have you written anything this last year?' she asked.
'Yes, a book which is not published yet. It has been written leisurelyand carefully. It was long before it pleased me. I do not expect it toachieve popularity. The writers who are popular are rarely the thinkersand scholars of literature, but they are the money-makers, which isperhaps better for them. The world likes to be amused, or shocked.It doesn't want to think. The most popular book of last season wasone that dealt with the most sacred of human subjects, and dealt withit as a schoolgirl writes an essay. The daring of the idea, and thefeebleness of the treatment, aroused a storm of universal indignation.Then, everyone wanted to read the book and judge it for themselves,and the author smiled complacently over a royalty account, and agreedwith Carlyle as to the millions, mostly fools, who make up the sum ofpopularity.'
'I am ashamed to say I have read very little modern literature,' saidNell. 'You see, we are badly off for libraries in Ireland. Smith andMudie know us not, and pocket-money does not often stretch even tocheap editions.'
'I will lend you as many books as you please,' said Dick. 'I havecases of them stored away. Even in my extremity, they were of such, anunsaleable class that lodging-house harpies let them be.'
'But I don't like dry books,' exclaimed Nell. 'I am not a bit clever,or that sort of thing. Debbie is, but she says she has no time forreading.'
'I suppose not,' he said vaguely. 'And that reminds me. You—you havegiven up the nursing life altogether, have you not?'
'It has given up me,' said Nell, 'for a time, but I hope to take it upagain—not hospital work. I am afraid that it is a little too hard,but I should like a little private nursing. Do you know,' she added,blushing a little. 'I had quite made up my mind to write to your uncleand ask him if he could help me to anything? He must have so manyfriends. I thought he might know some nice old lady or gentleman whowanted to be taken care of, embrocated and flannelled, and given hotwater bottles, and nice nourishing things to eat and drink, and havecheerful companionship. Do you think I should be equal to cheerfulcompanionship? Debbie says I would.'
He smiled rather sadly. 'I am quite sure of it,' he said. 'And my unclewould be only too willing to help you, if you really mean it.'
'Oh, I do mean it. I am quite serious,' said Nell. 'I don't believein idleness for women. Men, of course, are different. They canachieve great things in the way of cigarette smoking and whiskies andsodas, not to speak of tennis and racing and betting. But a womanisn't capable of killing time so harmlessly. She generally gets intomischief. Dr. Watts understood all about that when he wrote of Satanand idle hands. I don't approve of idle hands, so I want to find a usefor them before they get into mischief.'
It was very hard to look at the tempting face, the laughing lips, thelong lashes that swept those delicate, creamy cheeks, in sudden, demurecoquetry, and not say what his heart burned and longed to say—not tellher that use for the idle hands, for herself—was there at her side totake or leave as she chose, for it hurt him to think of this fragilelittle creature battling with the world, and its sins and shams andtemptations, while a man's strong arms could shield her, and a man'sheart lay at her feet.
She chattered on, unconscious of what was passing in his mind, givinghim little sketches of her life and surroundings, telling him of herchildhood, her school life. 'It is all so far away now,' she concluded,'and yet it all came back as if it were but yesterday when I saw thatboy and played battledore with him. So much has happened——'
She stopped, and a flood of crimson rose to her face and dyed her verytemples.
He saw that betraying flush, and his heart grew heavy. A girl doesnot blush and tremble at a memory—for nothing. So much had happened,she had said. Amongst all the 'happenings' was there one special andsupreme event? One thing to which memory returned with lingeringfondness? He had no right to ask, but he longed to do so. The prettyboy suddenly banged his book down on the table and sauntered out of theroom whistling. He thought this was very slow sort of talk, and wishedthat the fellow with the moustache would take himself off and leavethat jolly girl free to talk to him.
Dick glanced at the window. The rain had ceased falling, the sky lookedbrighter, and the clouds were less heavy.
'I believe,' he said, 'it is going to clear after all, and we can haveour drive. You don't object to outside cars I suppose.'
'I? Good gracious, no! They are second nature to me. It is very kind ofyour uncle to ask us,' she continued. 'Are you sure we won't be in theway? I mean that perhaps he is only doing this because——'
She stopped, floundering hopelessly among the sea of words. Nell hada knack of saying inopportune things, and she was on the brink ofdisgracing herself at the present moment.
'I am sure that my uncle will be very pleased to renew acquaintancewith you,' said Dick, coming to the rescue; 'and you won't be inour way at all. Far from it. You will confer a favour on us by yourpresence. As for yourself, you know I am your debtor for life. I toldyou so, and I meant it.'
'You overrate my services, indeed,' said Nell. 'After all, it was thedoctor who saved your life—not I.'
'I prefer,' he said, 'to think it was you. It took something more thana particular dose of medicine or form of diet to pull me up again. Ihave many memories of that time, in which no doctor finds a place, onlythe patience and care and continuous watchfulness of my little nurse.'
There was such tenderness in his eyes and voice that Nell felt alarmed.She had kept men at a distance so long that she disliked any attempt ontheir part to bridge her indifference. For sake of one she distrustedall. She had no heart-hunger now, no desire to be loved, no craving forthe renewal of joys that once had seemed sacred and eternal. Love hadkissed her out of the sleep of ignorance, and there was no possiblereturn. It had cheated her of her happy innocent beliefs, but alsoit had left her with a grip on the realities of life, and a supremedisdain for its romance. Dick saw her face grow cold and almost hard.She turned abruptly away and went over to the window and threw it open.
'I believe it is going to clear up after all,' she said. 'I can see thetops of the mountains quite distinctly.'
He followed her and looked out also. At the same moment the mist wasswept aside as by an unseen hand—woods were smitten with sunshine,the raindrops sparkled like jewels on the moist boughs and the smoothsward. Lovely tints of purple and gold melted and parted on the heightsas the clouds rolled further and further away. The sea burst suddenlyinto view, with the clear deep brilliance of a sapphire, and the rockyislets basked in warmth and sunlight once again. Nell clapped her handswith a child's delight, and sprang through the low, open window on tothe gravel drive.
'It was worth all the rain to see this follow it,' she cried. 'All thewatching and waiting of this long, miserable morning?'
Which again may have been one of her unfortunate speeches, but wascertainly not complimentary to the young man who had spent the greaterpart of the 'long, miserable morning' in her company.
But evidently he was not sensitive or thin-skinned, for he only smiledat her delight, and suggested she should put on her hat, and walk alittle way towards the village to meet her friend. Nell had not theslightest objection, and ran up to her room for thicker shoes and hersailor hat.
In a few minutes she came down.
'We have to pass my hotel,' he said, 'to get to the village. Perhapsyou will see my uncle.'
Nell did not specially care about such arencontre. Her ownremembrance of Geoffrey Masterman was not especially agreeable one. Shehad thought him rough and unpolished, and full of his own importance.Still, he had been very good to his nephew, and he might improve onacquaintance.
Dick opened the gate at the end of the leafy avenue, and they came outon to the main road, and went on past the Belle Vue, which stood on aknoll between the two principal hotels, its gardens gay with flowersand foliage, and its windows commanding the wide seascape looked by theIniskisk and Esk and Sheehy Ranges that ran from Kerry to Bantry.
Warned by his late alarm, Dick kept the conversation on purelyimpersonal topics, and Nell, enchanted by the change of weather, was inwild spirits, and drank in great gulps of the radiant exhilarating airas she almost danced along the road.
She looked so young and fresh and childlike that he was lost inadmiration, but he kept his tongue within bounds. He did not wish tooffend her. It was happiness enough to be within sight and touch of heragain. He blessed the fate that had let him to this spot, and wonderedif he could possibly persuade his uncle to remain as long as Nellremained.
What an odd, tantalising little thing she was! A combination of child,girl, woman—a creature to be taken seriously or not as her mood was,but fascinating to him beyond all others of her sex. Why it shouldbe so he could not say, for men are clever enough at arguing andexplaining, until just the one woman comes along who defies either tobe explained or argued about.
No wiser, no better, no prettier, no more angelic than scores of otherwomen, yet she alone possesses the power to make a man think her allof these. She alone has the glamour he cannot withstand, the power tohurt or bless, to wound or delight, to reach some deeper spring in hisnature than yet has been touched; to lift his soul or abase it, just ashe is the worthier or the worse for his love.
And Dick Barrymore, walking along that white shady road, and watchingthe glint of the sunshine on Nell's chestnut hair, knew in his heart ofhearts that the glamour and the spell were upon him at last; that thisgirl had quickened a pulse of his being none other of her sex had everstirred.
She was no visionary nursling of his fancy; she was not the ideal ofhis youthful dreams; she was but a girl, with a girl's little faults,and failings, and weakness, but to himthe girl, in all the worldof girls: the loving, lovable, wilful, tender little creature on whomhis gaze had fallen in wondering gratitude, when the fever mists ofsickness had cleared off from his brain, and he had known that lifeclaimed him once more as its own.
When Nell returned to the hotel the luncheon bell was ringing. She hadnot met Deborah Gray anywhere in the village, which was small enough torender avoidance almost impossible. Dick Barrymore had accompanied her,and they had gone as far as the Catholic chapel, and even given a lookin at its dilapidated and peculiarly ugly interior, in case Deborahmight be there. On their way back past Eccles, they had met GeoffreyMasterman, and he had been most genial and pleasant to his nephew'spretty companion. The drive to the Bantry Lodge had been quite decidedon, and in order to atone for the wet morning, they were to startdirectly after luncheon.
Nell went back to Roche's in a state of wonderment as to Deborah'sdesertion and ran up to their room to look for her. She was there,changing her dress and shoes, and in answer to Nell's exclamationsmerely said she had gone to see the waterfall.
She was her old, composed, serious self now. There was no trace of theterrible emotion of the morning, except in the dark circles round hereyes, and an unwonted feverish flush in the usually sallow cheeks. Nellchattered gaily of her meeting with 'Uncle Geoffrey,' as she persistedin calling him, and of the proposed drive, while Deborah Gray made herhurried toilet.
Then they went down for luncheon. They had the same table again, butDeborah changed her place, and sat now with her back to that onethey had remarked in the morning. The delicate lady and the handsomeman were already in their places, and Nell, between intervals ofreplenished plates, noted them with renewed interest.
The lady scarcely touched anything. Her husband, on the contrary, ateand drank with keen enjoyment of the good fare, assisted by an equallyexcellent digestion. Nell found herself once more compassionating thefeeble anæmic-looking creature whom melancholy and suffering seemedto have marked for their own. The rude health and hearty appetite ofthe man annoyed her, though she felt such annoyance was illogical anduncalled for. Before luncheon was over, he left his place, and went outof the room, as if he had forgotten something. The lady leaned back inher chair, and her eyes turned languidly to the adjoining table. Theymet Nell's compassionate gaze, and seemed attracted by it.
Suddenly she leaned towards her. 'Would you be so kind,' she saidfaintly, 'As to give me a glass of water? There is none on our table.'
'Oh, with pleasure,' said the girl, quickly. She took up their ownwater bottle and went across with it.
The lady had turned deadly white. She half-reclined in the chair, andher hand pressed her side as if to still some attacking pain.
'I am afraid you are suffering,' said Nell, her professional instinctsaroused by evidence of illness. The lady signed her to pour out somewater, and drank it thirstily. A small tumbler of untasted claret stoodby her plate, but she pushed it aside.
'Yes,' she said huskily. 'I suffer terribly, terribly, but this willpass. It is only a spasm. My husband has gone to get me my medicine. Ishall be all right in a moment.'
Nell still lingered, her face betraying grave concern. Deborah Grayturned, glanced at the grey pallor of the sick woman's face, thenonce more devoted herself to the duties of the table. But the colourleft her own face, too, and the contents of her plate were untasted.In another moment the lady seemed to recover. She sat upright, anddeclared the pain had gone, and her eyes lost their dull, blank look.She held out a feeble hand to Nell.
'Thank you, so much,' she said, gratefully, 'but please return to yourluncheon. I am all right again really. I often get these attacks. Theypass off. It is only a spasm.'
'You ought to see a doctor,' said Nell, bluntly. 'A mere spasm wouldnot affect you so seriously.'
The lady smiled. There was something proud and yet tender in the smilethat made it infinitely pathetic on such pale lips.
'My husbandis a doctor,' she said, 'I have every confidence in him.'
'Oh, I beg pardon,' said Nell, colouring hotly, 'I did not know, andI made the suggestion because I have had a great deal to do with sickpeople. I have been a hospital nurse, and so I know real illness when Isee it.'
'A nurse—you!' exclaimed the invalid. 'Why, I thought you were a mereschoolgirl.'
In her heart she had really put Nell down as such, and given herDeborah Gray as a governess.
Nell began to feel that her youthful appearance was spoiling hersuccess in life. If thinking or wishing would have added a cubit to herstature, or a wrinkle or two to her smooth brow, she would have addeda good five years on to her actual age. It was hard to be ambitiousof dignity, and find that desire thwarted by want of inches, and thechildish innocence of two soft blue eyes.
'Oh, no!' she answered gravely, as that complimentary insult reachedher ears. 'It is a good eight years since I said farewell to theschoolroom; but I see your husband coming,' she added, hastily, 'so Iwill leave you.'
They exchanged bows, and Nell returned to her own table, explaining ina low tone to Deborah Gray the incident that had occurred.
Deborah made but brief comment on it. She seemed, in fact, so cold andindifferent that Nell felt rather aggrieved. In a few moments they hadfinished their luncheon, and then they left the room, Deborah Gray withher back rigorously turned to that neighbouring table, Nell, with ashy, interested glance at the now recovered invalid.
Once out of the room her tongue waxed communicative.
'Her husband's a doctor. Only fancy, Debbie! Such a handsome man. Ishould feel awfully jealous of his female patients, if I were his wife.I wonder what his name is. I thought he was a foreigner, didn't you?She is English, I fancy.'
They made their way up the broad staircase to prepare for the drive,Deborah grim and monosyllabic, Nell overflowing with chatter andspeculations as she twisted up her coils of hair and adjusted the straw'sailor.'
'The gods are going to be good to us, I think,' she said, laughingly.'A male escort, and a rich escort, are by no means undesirable things!And our purses are none too well equipped for a holiday jaunt, eh,Debbie? I am going to speak seriously to Uncle Geoffrey to-day aboutgetting me a situation. That is the right word, isn't it? The womanwho works is always on a par with the lady who keeps registry officesgoing. I have still hopes of the nice old dowager who will wanther foot-warmers and her knitting put right, and to be cheerfullyaccompanied down the vale of years. I wonder if Uncle Geoffrey knowsher?'
'Your tongue will slip into calling him that to his face,' said DeborahGray. 'And then there will be complications.'
'Not a bit of it,' said Nell. 'He thinks I am a gay and giddy child. Hewould put such a slip down to youthful spirits.'
'And the nephew?' asked Deborah Gray.
'Oh, he doesn't count for much,' said Nell, coldly. 'Perhaps he isstudying me as a type for one of his books. Fancy knowing a reallive author, Debbie! You ought to be so proud. Do you know——' shebroke off suddenly, turning from the glass as she spoke and holdingthe hatpin out dramatically. 'Do you know, Debbie, my dear, life isbeginning to get positively interesting. There is an odour of thedomestic drama about it with all those unexpected meetings, and theturning up of rich uncles and the fame of literary nephews! Not tomention a handsome doctor, who looks like a hero of romance, and aninvalid wife who is already attached to me by ties of gratitude.'
'Put on your hat, and don't talk so much nonsense,' said Deborah Gray,sharply. 'Americans are proverbially punctual, and I hear wheels.'
'Gracious, are they here already?' exclaimed Nell, stabbing the haton to a coil of bright hair with the long pin. 'But don't call UncleGeoffrey an American, Debbie. He isn't any thing of the sort. He's anative of Great Britain, and has all the national virtues. Oh, I wishhe would make me his heiress. . . . How lovely it must be to be rich,regular rich. Never to have to bother about anything. To go where youlike, live as you like, and money rolling in like a golden stream everyday of the year! Debbie, find my gloves for me, like an angel; and dolook out and see if they are really there!'
'They really are,' said Deborah Gray. 'Uncle Geoffrey is sitting on thecar, and the nephew is pacing to and fro before the porch. Come along,child. Here are your gloves.'
AN outside car is not the most elegant-looking equipage in the world,but it is decidedly convenient, and delightful, too, when you getused to it, and have acquired the art of balancing yourself on a sortof knife-board. In comparison with its sister vehicle, however, the'jingle' or covered car, it is elegance itself.
How it could ever have entered the brain of man—even of anIrishman—to invent such a monstrosity is a thing not to be understoodof the common or civilised mind. It can boast successfully of beingthe ugliest and most comfortless conveyance that ever ran on wheels.But the 'jingle' doesn't even run. It jolts and it crawls. It has ahearse-like and dismal appearance, and a covering of black oilskin,which falls, curtain fashion, before the opening. The opening isneither at the side nor the front, but the back, for the 'jingle'is nothing if not original! It is in fact, a vehicle that must havebeen the invention of a nightmare perpetuated by a practical joke. Ithas neither sense, nor beauty, nor comfort, nor speed, and has beenpatented by Irish jarvies as peculiarly their own. It is the scoffand laughing-stock of every sane and reasonable visitor who has 'doneIreland,' and will probably be handed down to posterity as one of thewonders of the world!
The 'outside,' however, is rather a pleasant little convenience, whenthe springs are all right, and you have a decent horse to trot along init. It has the advantage of being small, and yet can accommodate fourpeople and a driver without incommoding any of them. And if two out ofthe four happen to be a man and a maid, throwing an eye of favour atone another, the car is mighty convenient for a whispered word, or theprotection of an arm, or any other little device that Cupid inspires.
When you once get used to a car you are apt to err on the side ofenthusiasm and take one at all times and seasons, and glory in it. Thiswas what Geoffrey Masterman had done. He had begun by abusing and endedby loving the little vehicles. He was blind to the attractions of anyother thing on wheels, and had ordered a private one to be made forhimself in Dublin, which was to astonish the English folk on his return.
Deborah Gray had never set foot in, or rather on, an outside car tillshe arrived in Dublin; but she was one of those alert, supple people,who readily learn the 'balancing trick,' though she still found adifficulty in dismounting. That, indeed, is the great art of 'outsidecar-ing, and requires much practice and agility.
She found herself sitting by Geoffrey Masterman's side and spinningalong a smooth shady road, fragrant with scent of rain-washed trees,and mossy banks of wild flowers.
Everywhere was the sound of water; rippling over stony pebbles by thewayside—growing fuller-toned as it rose to the dignity of a stream,dashing down from some steep, rocky height, gaining force and swiftnessas fed by babbling runnels and overflow of hidden brooks it tore likea torrent over rocky boulders, taking the width and importance ofa miniature river as it flowed under Cromwell's bridge, everywheredashing, laughing, leaping with joy of the bright sunshine and thebreath of flowers, and all the lovely, simple, fragrant things thatdecked the woods and valleys. But lovelier even than the shining waterwas the rich, cool green of the never-ending trees. Unspoilt by time,unchecked by man, the glorious woods rose triumphant on every side.Such wealth of foliage, such exquisite colouring, such arcades andavenues of dark, delicious shade were surely things to boast of, didany of these heedless, indifferent, poverty-steeped dwellers in theirmidst care to boast or even notice one-half the beauty that lies attheir very doors. But their instincts are against it. They prefer tobeg.
Nell was in radiant spirits. She knew but little of Irish scenery. Mostof her life had been spent in Dublin, and an occasional trip to Bray orKingstown had alone varied it. She loved nature with enthusiasm, andsuch a place as this was enough to arouse every feeling of admirationand delight that heart could hold. Dick Barrymore was fully asappreciative as herself if somewhat less inclined to interjections andrapture at each new point of beauty.
The car stopped at last. They got down and crossed a miniature bridge,and found themselves in the grounds of a hunting lodge built somethingin the style of a Swiss chalet. They were shown over it by a caretakerwho lived there. Nell was enchanted with the quaint rooms, the old, oldfurniture, the faded hangings, and curious presses. From every windowone caught sight of the circling mountains—some bald and rocky andtreeless, others green clad and verdant, gathering light and shadowfrom the clouds as they sailed past their lofty crests, now purple,now golden, now dark green, now of that lovely hazy violet the heatherlends to all it covers.
'What an ideal place to live in!' exclaimed Nell.
'A poor place enough for a lord!' exclaimed Geoffrey Masterman,who, with his Colorado wealth, would have erected a very differentsort of building if he had had the chance. Something probably likeWindsor Castle and Welbeck Abbey combined, with a dash of Lismore byway of local colour. Wealth and artistic tastes can achieve even theimpossible in the mind of the Colorado millionaire. He walked aboutwith Nell, listening to her light comments and airy nonsense, whichseemed to afford him considerable amusement. He was studying her withkeen interest as the typical Irish girl of whom one had heard. Hewondered if she was typical. But he acknowledged she was at all eventsinteresting.
'You take life very easily, I suppose,' he said, as they stood bya table, covered with knick-knacks and curiosities, in the quaintlow-ceilinged drawing-room.
'Very,' said Nell, demurely. 'All Irish people do. It is a way we have.Providence has given us light hearts, so as to balance light pockets.It is an Irish boast, you know, to be "as poor as any gentleman in theland."'
'It is a sadly mismanaged country,' he said, in a magisterial voice.
'Everyone says that,' agreed Nell. 'Perhaps having come from a free andenlightened land, which has robbed us of a quarter of our population,you have something to suggest as to how it ought to be managed.'
He looked at her sharply. He had a fancy she was laughing at him,but he told himself she was such a cool little minx that he did notmind that very much. 'I may, some day,' he said. 'When I get intoParliament. But I suppose even if they knew it was to their bestinterests to elect me they wouldn't do it.'
'Unless you could persuade them it was to their worst,' said Nell,demurely. 'They are like their own pigs, you know. You must alwaysappear to drive them where they don't wish to go. Then they oblige youby turning in the desired direction.'
He dropped that point, and took up another, which had appealed to himas a grievance. 'To think of all this fine property,' he said, 'and nodirect heir. The old name gone. All left for a mere college lad to makeducks and drakes of as he pleases.'
'He might make a better use of it than older and more experiencedowners have done,' said Nell, as she moved away to look at somecarvings on the wall.
'I believe in race,' said Geoffrey Masterman, thrusting his hands inhis pockets and following her. 'It has its advantages, its precedents,its attributes. Look at the English aristocracy, now!'
'I never found them much worth looking at——' said Nell, 'in the parkor club windows. I never had the privilege of a nearer inspection. Asfar as beauty goes, we Irish can give them long odds, I fancy, and beatthem. Whenever I saw a particularly ugly woman in a carriage in theRow, I always was told she was a duchess. As for the men——'
She paused eloquently.
'Well, well,' said Geoffrey Masterman, 'good looks don't always go withgood birth, I acknowledge. As a mere question of beauty, I confess Ihave seen more in your potato fields than in the English parks. But thepatrician element cannot filter through the soil.'
'A very good thing, too!' said Nell. 'If one may judge from what thepatrician element does in its natural reservoirs.'
'What did you do with your tongue when you were a nurse?' askedGeoffrey Masterman, with a good-humoured smile.
'Kept it where it ought to be, I suppose,' she said. 'That is why Ihave so much lost time to make up for!'
* * * * * * *
'I like that little Irish friend of yours,' observed Geoffrey Mastermanto his nephew that evening, as they sat over their claret at their owntable. 'I am glad she has given up that nursing fad. I found out a lotabout her from her friend. Sensible womanthat, my boy; got a good headon her shoulders. The little Nugent girl comes of good family, I find.'
'I always told you she was a lady,' said Dick, quietly.
'Well, I guess I couldn't understand a lady making a servant of herselfwhile there was anything better to do,' said his uncle. 'However, Isuppose she is badly off, poor little thing. She told me she wanted toget something to do—companionship or something. It seems a shame sheshould have to earn her living, but I like her independent spirit allthe same.'
He drained his claret glass and set it down.
'If she was in Colorado, now,' he said, 'she could marry anyone.'
'Does it occur to you at all,' asked Dick, 'that she is not the sort ofgirl who is ready to marry—anyone?'
'Eh? What do you mean? No, it certainly did not strike me that she wasa prude, or very exclusive, or that sort of thing. I should think shewould be glad to marry and have a home of her own. It would be betterfor her, too, than knocking about the world among strangers.'
'But then,' said Dick, 'she would lose that very independence for whichyou praised her.'
Geoffrey Masterman's shrewd eyes twinkled.
'She will never lose that,' he said. 'She will always be able to keepher husband in his place. She has plenty of assurance.'
'You seem,' said Dick, 'to have been making a character-study of her. Iam glad you found her interesting.'
'Oh, yes. She couldn't help being that,' he said. 'It was something shesaid in the lodge that made me ask her to ride back with me. I saw youdidn't like it, but fair play is a jewel, you know, my boy, and MissGrey is a downright clever, capable woman.'
'I never said she wasn't,' said Dick. He had very much resented thatchange of partners for the homeward drive, and Deborah Gray had beenvery silent, and looked troubled, and he had been tantalised by hearingNell's merry chatter on the other side of the car, and seeing hisuncle's enjoyment of it.
He wished that she had not such a pretty trick of making the bestof herself to everyone, and yet he was not sorry that his uncle hadchanged his opinion of her. But he did not find it easy to talk abouther to him.
He liked to think about her to himself, to picture her looks and ways,the quick, little turn of her head, the restlessness of the smallhands, the changing tones of her voice with its faint touch of anaccent, the lithe rounded grace of her figure, the little tricks ofgesture which were so characteristic of her when animated. Even herdress. He had never noted much about women's dress. In his books theywere only touched on as the colouring of a portrait, never a detail.But Nell's cool, blue linen, and Nell's sailor hat, even her littlebrown shoes, swaying to and fro as the car jerked or spun along; allthese were a distinct impression on his memory. The very perfume of arose in her belt haunted him as the scent of no other flower had everhad power to do. And yet he knew, as well as if he had heard her coollittle voice telling it, that she troubled herself not one whit abouthim!
Perhaps that was the reason why he found the road to Roche's the mostfavourable for a stroll and a cigar. Perhaps, too, that was the reasonwhy he experienced such a sense of relief when Geoffrey Mastermandeclared himself disinclined for a walk.
He certainly only waited to be out of sight of the hotel beforequickening his steps, and though he had assuredly no right to behaunting the beautiful grounds of the rival hotel, it was in thesegrounds he found himself as the moon was rising above the mountainheights. He walked on and on, guided by some instinct that onlylovers know. Something had been revealed to him in that drive thatwas as startling as most sudden revelations are. It was only that hecould be jealous, jealous even of the man who had been his saviourand benefactor, if it was a girl's whim that he should experience soignoble a feeling. He did not find the situation or the feeling apleasant one. Perhaps that was the reason he paused under the trees andtook his cigar out of his mouth and gave himself up to one long momentof deliberate reflection.
'If I see her again I shall only let her make a fool of me again,' soran his thoughts. 'I know they are there by the water. I can hear hervoice. Perhaps I had better return.'
And to give himself a better chance of returning he, too, went down tothe water.
'It is such a lovely night,' he found himself saying, in explanationof what might seem an intrusion on the two sauntering figures he hadreached. 'I thought it just possible that you might like a boat, and Iknow a man here who has an excellent one. He is not one of the hotelfellows, and it is really doing him a kindness to give him employment.'
Now when inclination and charity point in the same direction thereis little use in arguing about the wisdom or propriety of a coursesuggested.
The boat was secured, and in a few moments more they were all floatingover the lovely bay, and among the fairy islands, every one of whichhad a name or a story, and every such name and story had to be relatedto the voyagers, and proved so interesting that time became a purelyimmaterial factor in the matter. The hotel Mrs. Grundys, however, whowere sipping 'soda and something' in the glass porch, gave significantcoughs, and made loud announcements of the hour being close onmidnight, when at length two sailor-hatted young persons saunteredback to the said hotel, escorted by a young man who, it was known, hadcalled that morning, and gone for a drive with them that afternoon.
'Very strange conduct, indeed,' said Mrs. Grundy, for even in Irelandthe good lady still wears her spectacles and has her say, and sees morethan she has any right to see, indeed more than really exists.
THE weather next morning was all that was delightful and desirable.Warm floods of light greeted Nell's sleepy eyes as at last they openedto the fact of daylight. Birds were singing amongst the glisteningboughs, butterflies, born of the sun, fluttered over the fuschiatrees and the escallonia; roses nodded from the wall. The ducks tooka morning dip in the dewy grass on their way to a stream beyond; thegeraniums and nasturtiums raised their heads of scarlet and gold oneither side of the smooth greensward.
Nell, with the bloom of slumber still on her face, and the light ofdreams and content in her eyes, stood by the open window, and smiledgood morrow to the beautiful scene. There was nothing to trouble her.She had no heartache, no special longings, except that the day mightbear out its promise. She was in that mood where the mere fact ofexistence is a thing to be thankful for, and her impulse was to foldher hands and bow her pretty chestnut head there in the warm sunlight,and say her morning prayer with a thankful heart.
It was not a bad beginning for the day. It showed that more of theinnocence than the mystery of life still lurked in her mind. She didnot question or reason about the feeling that swept over her. Shesimply obeyed it, and feeling at peace with herself and all mankind,called out with jubilant voice to Deborah Gray, to wake and share thelovely prospect also.
They were down, and had ordered breakfast, and taken it, too, beforeany of the other visitors appeared. Deborah Gray had been nervouslyanxious to have the meal served, early as it was, and refused to gobeyond the immediate neighbourhood until they had had it. If Nell hadbeen in less radiant spirits, she might have noticed a certain troublednervousness and anxiety about her friend that were unusual. But she wastoo full of their plans for the day, and in making jesting speechesabout the 'man from Colorado,' as she called him, to take much heed ofDeborah Gray's silence. She never talked much at the best of times, soNell saw nothing very unusual in her gravity this morning.
She took the kindly waiter into her confidence about the proposedexcursion, and heard from him that there was every probability theweather would maintain its promise. They might spend the whole day onthe water if they wished without fear of rain or storm.
'I must land on an island, Debbie,' she said, presently. 'It has beenthe dream of my life to be on one whose circumference lay within thecircling possibility of an hour's walk! We'll have luncheon on one ofthem and imagine ourselves Crusoes. I will give you full permission toflirt with Dick Barrymore. I want Uncle Geoffrey for myself.'
'There is just a possibility,' said Deborah Gray, 'that Dick Barrymoremight not care to flirt with me, even if I had the art, which I havenot, and that Uncle Geoffrey might not want you.'
'Oh, he likes me very much,' said Nell, with engaging candour. 'I spokenice words to him yesterday, and asked his advice, and I think thatflattered him. He is anxious to serve me if he can; so I live in hopesof the old dowager and the "cheerful companionship" still.'
'It strikes me,' said Deborah Gray, 'that you can have something betterthan old dowagers and companionship if you wish. And I should stronglyadvise you to think about it. You are much more fitted for the ordinaryfate of womanhood—just marriage and mothering—than the independentknockabout one you crave.'
Nell looked as unconscious as a child. 'He would be a little—old, Ifancy,' she said, 'and he is almost too rich. I should feel terrifiedof the responsibility. He wants everything on such a magnificent scale,I don't feel equal to it.'
'You know quite well,' said Deborah, 'that I was not thinking of the"man from Colorado." I was only looking forward to a very natural andvery suitable conclusion to the hospital romance.'
'It would occur in a novel,' said Nell, 'as the inevitable result. Butlife isn't usually three volumes of incident with a happy termination.'
'No,' said Deborah Gray, her eyes darkening swiftly. 'No, Nell, you areright. The termination is generally the worst part of it.'
She rose and pushed back her chair. 'Come,' she said, 'Let us go out.It is a pity to waste an hour of such weather.'
'Our friends are not down yet, I see,' observed Nell, with a glance atthe next table. 'I hope the poor thing is better. I wonder what is thematter with her—I wonder if her husband is treating her properly. Iwish I had asked his name. I suppose she is too ill to go anywhere, ordo anything. Thank goodness, Debbie, we are well and strong, even ifwe lack this world's goods.' They passed through the glass porch, andcrossed the gravel space, and began to pace the level grass sward.
'I hear there is a celebrated waterfall here,' said Nell suddenly. 'Letus pay it a visit. We have plenty of time before we need start for theboat.'
A shadow of pain swept across Deborah Gray's face. 'Oh, not there!'she cried with sudden passion, 'I mean,' looking away from Nell'sastonished face—'I mean it isn't anything in particular. I was thereyesterday. It is only a stream, and the impediment of a few rocks giveit the importance of a cascade. Let us walk under the trees—it is sopleasant.'
So they turned and walked under the trees, and presently the prettyboy, spying them from the open windows of the dining-room, came rushingout with a whoop and a shout of greeting, and gave Nell a boisterouschallenge to race him up the road.
They set off, leaving Deborah Gray behind.
It struck her suddenly, and with that sense of keen pain which thefirst hint of time's changes gives a woman, that she was years olderthan this boy and girl—older in feeling, in sorrow, in experience.
She stood under the trees and watched Nell's flying feet, distancingthe boy with ease, and the sound of their laughter came back to her onthe clear, sunny air.
'And for me all that is over!' cried her heart. 'I and youth have saidgoodbye for ever. I have no ties, no human thing to love me exceptperhaps this girl, and she will soon have other loves, other duties.She is not destined to live lonely and uncared for. She takes thesunshine with her wherever she goes, and men love sunshine. I—I bringonly shade and gloom!'
She turned aside, swinging round with an abrupt, swift movement.Advancing towards her was the handsome husband of the invalid aboutwhom Nell was so interested.
They were face to face, but she staggered back a step, and then made asif to pass him.
'Stop!' he said. 'Stop one moment. Why should you pretend not to knowme?'
All the scorn and horror of her strong nature seemed to leap into hereyes as he spoke. He watched her through half-closed lids, and readthat hatred and horror as he would have read a written page.
'I know,' he said, 'you have every right to be offended, justlyoffended; but it is all so long ago. Surely you have not harbouredresentment all these years.'
She looked at him steadily.
'Why did you stop me? What have you to say?' she asked. The stingingcontempt of her tone made the blood rise to his face.
'I thought—I hoped,' he said, 'that you might have forgiven me. Afterall I could not help myself—altogether.'
'I am not asking you to explain or apologise,' she said. 'I simply wishto forget I ever knew you. I consider your attempt to speak to me onlyanother insult added to the many I have received at your hands.'
'What d——d nonsense!' he cried fiercely. 'I beg your pardon. I mean, Inever, to my knowledge, insulted you—never with intention. There is nowoman living for whom I have such respect as yourself. When I saw youagain—well, it seemed impossible to act the part of stranger. I feltI must ask you to shake hands and say you'd forgiven me. After all,Deborah, you were fond of me once.'
'To my eternal shame and misery!' she said. 'Now, listen, JamesLangrishe. I am no hypocrite—you know that. If I have a fault itcertainly is not weakness. You slew my faith in all that was good andpure and virtuous. I swore when I learnt of your treachery that I wouldnever forgive you. I mean to keep that oath. Now——will you let me pass?'
'One moment,' he pleaded in a shamed, uncertain way. The voice of theboy was audible now. He could see the two figures approaching. 'I wantto tell you,' he went on hurriedly, 'that my wife is very ill. I—Iam uneasy about her. She is too weak this morning to leave her bed.It appears that your friend told her yesterday she had been a nurse.She has taken a desperate fancy to her. Would she go to her for a fewmoments, just out of charity. There is no woman in the place I couldask, or she would care to have, but just that bright little creature.'
A flood of scarlet swept Deborah Gray's face from cheek to brow.
'My friend is there,' she said with a backward glance; 'make your ownrequest to her!' and with a sudden, swift movement she passed on.
Nell saw the doctor approaching, and saw also that he had been speakingto Deborah Gray. He came towards her with evident embarrassment, andraised his hat. 'I have your friend's permission to ask a favour ofyou, Miss Nugent,' he said. 'Yesterday you were kind enough to be ofsome assistance to my wife. This morning she is weak and fancifulas—as invalids are. She has a great desire to see you. Would you addto your kindness of yesterday the additional one of complying with asick person's whim? Your presence for a few moments would, I think,cheer her up.'
'Of course I will go to her, gladly,' said Nell. 'I have an engagement,however, at ten o'clock,' she added.
'It wants half an hour of that time,' he said. 'I am most grateful foryour acquiescence.'
'I am only too happy to assist anyone who is ill or suffering,' saidNell, walking along beside him, and marvelling at Deborah Gray's suddendisappearance. 'I feel so sorry for them, and I have seen so much ofillness.'
'I hear you have been a nurse,' he said presently. 'You look very youngto have occupied so responsible an office. Excuse my frankness, but Iam a medical man and, therefore privileged.'
He put a few professional and medical questions to her which Nellpromptly answered. He had a knack of winning confidence—a breezycharm of manner that ably seconded the attractiveness of his personalappearance. They were talking as confidentially and readily as oldfriends when they reached the hotel. He took Nell at once to his wife'sroom and ushered her in himself.
The girl's quick eye noted in a moment that the poor lady was veryill. Her face wore the same unhealthy pallor of yesterday. A waxenwhiteness, which even the lips shared. She seemed too languid and spenteven to raise her head from the pillow. The blinds were drawn, and inthe subdued light her corpse-like appearance almost frightened Nell.She approached. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed watching her asshe bent over the suffering woman and took her hand.
'I am sorry you are not well,' she said gently. 'Is there anything Ican do for you. Are you in pain?'
'Not now,' came the faint answer, 'but all night—that terrible gnawingpain. It wears me out—it wears me out.'
Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. Nell saw that she was reallyvery ill. She laid her small cool hand on the hot forehead, andmurmured words of sympathy. The doctor went over to one of the windowsand opened it, and then moved restlessly about the room.
Nell asked what was the cause of this suffering, but the poor soulherself seemed quite ignorant of the matter. She only said it had beengoing on for a few months past—that her husband had brought her herefor a change of air. They had been a week at Glengariff, but she feltworse if anything. 'And Dr. Langrishe must return to-morrow,' she said,'and I feel quite unfit for the journey.'
'Is there no one who could come to you and look after you?' asked Nell.'You are not fit to be left alone.'
She shook her head feebly. 'No,' she said. 'Only servants. I have onesister, but she has lately married and gone abroad. My mother is oldand feeble; she lives far away from here, in the North of England.My home is at Youghal. My husband has a practice there. I have livedthere ever since I was married. He must go back, he has his patients toattend to. I sent for you because after what you said, I hoped—I meanI thought—you might possibly care to look after me. I need a nurse,but I do not like strangers—I am fanciful. You were so kind, I wasdrawn to you at once.'
Her sentences were broken by panting breaths. All Nell's tendersympathies went out to her with a rush of mingled feelings. Here washer chance of private nursing. It seemed just the very thing she haddesired.
'Do you mean,' she said eagerly, 'that you would like me to nurse youprofessionally? Do you—I mean would your husband think me experiencedenough?'
'He never thwarts me in any way,' she said, with a wistful glance atthe restless figure pacing to and fro between the two windows. 'Andas I told you I am fanciful. I feel as if I should get a hold onlife again with someone bright and cheerful about me. And I am not ahard patient,' she went on plaintively. 'There are days when I needno looking after at all, when you would be free to do anything youpleased. I—I hope I am not offending you by the suggestion?'
'Offending?' Nell's large, blue eyes looked amused, surprised. 'Indeed,it is the very thing I have been hoping and longing for ever since Ileft the hospital. Still, I think I had better talk the matter overwith your husband. He would require references as to my capabilities.I can give them readily. The house surgeon of the hospital would speakfor me, and Dr. Dehayes, of Dublin, also.'
'I don't want anyone to speak for you except my own instincts,' saidthe sick woman faintly. 'But, all the same, you had better talk my caseover with Dr. Langrishe, and tell me when you could come to me.'
'You want someone at once?' said Nell. 'I am here for a holiday witha friend, and to-day we are engaged for a water picnic. If you couldmanage till to-morrow, though, I would gladly begin duty. Perhaps, asyour husband is here——'
She looked over at the doctor. He must have heard the conversation, shethought.
He advanced to the bed. 'Well?' he said, and glanced from one to theother with his dark, strange eyes.
'You know, I suppose,' said Nell, 'what your wife wishes?'
'Yes,' he said, 'but not what you intend.'
She told him briefly what she had already told Mrs. Langrishe, and helistened attentively, his eyelids lowered in that furtive fashion ofhis and his long slender fingers playing restlessly with his watchchain.
'I think there is nothing to say but "Yes,"' he said, as she finishedspeaking. 'I can do anything that is necessary to-day, and I will giveyou full instructions before I leave. I think it would not be advisablefor her to return home just yet. I am in hopes that the air here willdo wonders for her, once she rallies. She is a bad subject for pain,'he went on, lightly. 'Soon goes down—eh, Mary, my dear? But, with abright, cheery companion, she will soon be all right again. There isnothing radically wrong, as I tell her; and she has always been a veryhealthy woman, and comes of a very healthy stock.'
'Yes,' said the invalid. 'My mother is nearly seventy.'
'And I hope you will live to be seventy, too,' said Nell, cheerfully.
Dr. Langrishe's eyes gave a sudden odd flash under their drooped lids.He turned away, and neither nurse's nor patient's ears were sharpenough to hear that muttered 'God forbid!' that fell from his lips.
Whatever Nell's satisfaction may have been at securing employmentjust after her own heart, there was little doubt that no other memberof the boating party shared it.
Deborah Gray was both astonished andannoyed. Dick Barrymore shared the same feeling, and Geoffrey Mastermanwas a little put out at having the ground of good intentions cut fromunder his own feet, and becoming a witness instead of a bestower ofthe girl's fresh effort at independence. So the boating party was lesshilarious than the drive, and Nell's bright laugh and jests raised nocorresponding merriment.
The elements of change were already at work.It was in vain she assured Deborah Gray that their holiday would notbe spoilt, that the duties were light enough to give her plenty ofliberty. A cloud of gloom rested on that dark, quiet face, a sombreshadow lurked in the deep eyes. Constraint and fear and nervous anxietymarked Deborah Gray for their own from the moment that her friendannounced her intention of becoming an inmate of James Langrishe'shouse.
The morning was at its fairest. The golden sunshine poured itselflavishly over the blue waters and the lovely curves and bends of thebay. It lit up the mountains with a new and gorgeous splendour, asit touched their rifted peaks from which even the faintest cloud wasbanished. They landed at Garnish Island for luncheon, which GeoffreyMasterman had ordered from the hotel, and which was contained in thebaskets that the boatman carried for them to their selected spot.
The island boasted one dwelling—a stone cabin, with the usualodoriferous plot of manure, before the door, and the usual freedomof the home bestowed on dogs, pigs, and poultry in common with thefamily. A small plot of cultivated ground grew cabbages and potatoes,and grain. The blue water lay before the sloping pathway, and on thesteep above rose a ruined Martello tower—its walls broken, and greyand storm-beaten, the long lush grass growing ankle-deep around it. Arocky, broken stairway led to its interior, up which Nell insisted onclimbing. Deborah Gray and Geoffrey Masterman declined to risk theirlimbs in any such foolhardy enterprise. The view from the walls (whichhad served as fortifications since 1796, when the French attempted toinvade Ireland, and appointed Bantry Bay as their rendezvous), was goodenough for them they declared.
But Nell mounted successfully to the top of the tower, and was rewardedby a sight of the full bay and harbour, lying placid and calm as alake, studded with isles and islets—the shores crowned here and therewith a ruined castle or Martello tower, a thousand different hues andshades playing over the drooping foliage, the brown and broken rocks,the rippling water, caught here and there as in a basin, and wellcontent to stay, forgotten by the tide. The bare and rocky mountainslocked all this wide sweep of waters into a secure and perfect harbour.The largest ship might there find safe anchorage, and bid defiance toAtlantic storms. The 'white strand' might well send challenge far andwide to show its equal in beauty of land or sea.
The two who stood on the old tower's roof, gazing at the scene, wereperfectly silent. There are times when words only humiliate feeling bytheir inability to express it. Love, sorrow, and appreciation aloneknow the full eloquence of silence.
Nell spoke first, for the Irish tongue is always intolerant of longspeechlessness. She said softly. 'When you write another book I wishyou would paint——that. I should like it to live in words so that I mightcome back to it again.'
He turned, and his eyes glowed suddenly.
'If I can find words,' he said, 'I will do it, but it would need morethan a poet's pen, a painter's brush, to give life and meaning to sucha scene.'
Nell leaned forward and gazed down into the clear depths of liquidsapphire at the base of the rocks.
'Take care!' he cried, warningly, and involuntarily his arm clasped herwaist and drew her back. His face paled. 'That was dangerous, and thisold tower is unsafe, too.'
'It is lovely,' she said. 'Do you know, I have a perfect passionfor being on heights. I can quite understand a man's craze formountaineering—always going higher and higher, away from earth, nearerand nearer the sky, leaving commonplace things behind.'
'Houses,' he said, 'for instance, and food.'
'Ah, you are laughing at me, and that is unkind. It is my misfortunenever to be able to express myself properly, but I thought you mightunderstand?'
'I do,' he said penitently. 'Pray forgive me. I know quite well whatyou mean. I have felt it myself. After all, the things best worthspeaking of are those we cannot express. Our deepest feelings evadewords and leave us only tears, or silence. Nature will lift us verynear to heaven if we care to climb, and tell us many beautiful thingsif we care to listen, but, unfortunately, the world has tired our limbsand dulled our ears before we realise what we have lost.'
'When you speak like that,' said Nell quickly, 'I can quite understandyour writing books. Sometimes, you know, it is difficult to believe youare that formidable person, an author. Perhaps it is as well, though,for I should be frightened to speak if I thought you were very learnedand very clever, and always criticising poor ordinary people who arenot.'
He laughed at this candid summing up of his own qualifications.
'I hope,' he said, 'you are not classing yourself amongst the poor,ordinary people.'
'I? Indeed, yes. I am a most ordinary person.'
'You are clever enough,' he said, 'in your own way, and you could neverbe ordinary.'
'Now, you are giving me the "sweet incense of flattery,"' she said.'And to my small mind and craving ambition no flattery is so sweet asto hear that anyone considers me clever. But I don't mind letting youinto a secret, if you promise you won't tell Deborah.'
'I promise,' he said, watching the demure childish gravity of her facewith attentive eyes.
'Well, then,' she said, 'I amnot clever. Not one little atom. I wasthe stupidest girl in my class, and when I left school I gave myselfup to the hollow mockery of the world, and forgot everything I hadlearnt with the greatest ease. It was the same at the hospital. Icouldn't master the Latin names of things, and the simplest lecture ofthe matron was as Euclid's problems to me. But I have kept my secretfairly well. Whenever conversation gets above my head, I listen andagree. When people can't possibly argue with you, they go on talking.Of course, I have made no pretence with you. I knew from the first itwould be useless. A writer must be a student of character, and able tosee through the small pretences of a mere woman. That is why I am socandid. A few people believe in me, I know. Deborah does, but then,she is fond of me myself, not of what I lack. She is clever, if youlike—clever enough for both of us. Now, never say again I have a shredof vanity, for I have stripped myself bare before you, and I neverprepared you for the shock.'
'I am not at all shocked,' he said. 'It is fortunate that very few ofus see ourselves as we are. Men and women go quite contentedly down thevoid of life, believing in each other to the last, and yet they are nota bit like what they believe each other to be.'
'Well, my eyes aren't bandaged,' said Nell gaily, 'and if they serveme right now, I think our friends below are signalling to us. Shall weattempt the perilous staircase once more?'
'I would a thousand times rather stay here and talk to you,' he said,'but——'
'Yes,' she said, smiling up at him with the most charming and ingenuousof smiles. 'There's always a 'but,' isn't there?'
'I am so sorry,' he went on, detaining her at the point of descent,'that you are giving up your holiday. If I were your brother—oranything of that sort—I would forbid you doing such an injustice toyourself, as well as such unkindness to others.'
'I think,' she said, laughing, 'it is just as well you are not mybrother, or "anything of that sort." We would quarrel dreadfully, and Ishould still have my own way. I generally do.'
'It is not good for you,' he said, 'or any woman always to have theirown way. In this present instance, it seems to me bad. For I do notlike your "Dr. Fell." I candidly tell you so.'
'He is very handsome,' said Nell, demurely. 'And I have always remarkedthat men distrust the good-looking of their own sex, as much as theybelieve in the skin-deep beauty of ours.'
'Ah,' he said, 'you are very clever, little Nurse Nell, say what youplease to the contrary! Let us go down. You must give me your hand ifyou don't mind?'
'Not in the least,' she said. 'A broken neck is not at all to my tasteat this early and interesting stage of my career.'
'What have you two been doing up on that tower all this time?'exclaimed Geoffrey Masterman, as they emerged through the low doorway.
'I think,' said Nell, 'that your nephew was taking notes for a new bookhe purposes writing, and I defied him to do justice to the scene inmere words. So we had an argument.'
'What?' he said, laughing at her serious face. 'You don't mean that youcan do that sort of thing?'
'I gave it my best endeavours,' she answered. 'But I am afraid I wasnot convincing.'
She sat down on the low rough wall and looked seawards.
'Doesn't it seem strange,' she said, abruptly. 'To think of the poordead and gone people who must have lived here, and looked at that samesea, and watched the flocks of gulls, rocking themselves on that bluewater, and screaming round that rocky island? I never come to this sortof place,' she went on dreamily, 'but I feel I want to know all aboutthe former inhabitants—who they were, what they did, whether they knowwhat is going on in the very spot where they suffered, and struggled,and died?'
Geoffrey Masterman looked at her with a curious sense of surprise.
'I shouldn't suppose you ever thought of melancholy things like those,'he said.
'Oh, I am not always frivolous,' said Nell. 'I do think, sometimes.But I always feel a fool when I attempt to express myself. So I findit easier to laugh. I have an uncle who always says of me, "Nell woulddo very well if she had her words right." That is my weak point, yousee. "I never got my words right." If ever I do, I shall blossom intoa modern Corinna. How astonished everyone would be. But I am afraid Ishould have to go to school again for that,' she added with a sigh.
'Life is a better education than any school,' said Deborah Gray.
'That is one of your horrid "grim" speeches,' laughed Nell. 'I don't wantthat sort of education, thank you. It means suffering, and trouble, andresignation and all that. I only want to be happy.'
'Only! You don't ask much,' said Geoffrey Masterman, looking at herwith a glance, half admiring, half curious.
'No,' she said quickly, 'I don't. I think I wouldn't mind living onan island like this with—with—just one or two nice friends and anhospital within easy reach of me, when I felt inclined to be of use. Itdoesn't sound a very lofty ideal, I'm afraid,' and she laughed softly,as she glanced at their faces, 'but it's all I can boast of. Now, shallwe return to the boat? Our ferryman is a mine of information. I havebeen regretting that I did not bring a note-book with me.'
'I am sure you wouldn't have written a word in it if you had,' saidGeoffrey Masterman, as he walked by her side over the long swayinggrasses.
'Indeed, I would. I have great literary ambitions of my own. I shouldlike to write down everything that occurs, and everything that has beenimportant, and the places that I have seen, and the things that I havedone. Whenever I have read a book where the heroine kept a diary Ihave been envious of her. But then, I suppose nothing would happen tome like to the heroine. If I thought life would get dramatic I shouldbegin to put down its incidents at once.'
'You might begin a diary,' he said, jestingly, 'by saying that you metme, and that we came here.'
'I might,' she said. 'But in years to come, when I am a white-cappedold maiden aunt, do you think I should look back on those two incidentsas important?'
'They might lead to important consequences, and then, you know, onemust have a starting point.'
She stood still for a moment—strangely still, as if struck bysomething graver than a mere random thought. Her eyes turned to wherethe long white hotel buildings stood on the mainland—outlined bydark belts of fir and beech and elm. Her laughing face grew strangelystill. There was something almost solemn in the look of the wide blueeyes. One of those upper windows was open. She fancied that a whiteblind swayed softly to and fro. The memory of that colourless face onthe pillow came back to her with startling distinctness. Had it somemeaning apart and distinct from the mere ordinary chance of theirmeeting at the same hotel? Was there already behind that waving blindsome unseen Fate drawing her unconsciously towards mysterious issues?She had never experienced a feeling so strange. She turned cold andfaint beneath the warm sunshine. The blue gleaming waters seemed towaver hazily before her eyes. With an effort she shook off the feeling.
'A starting point!' That was what Geoffrey Masterman had said. Astarting point from which might spring good or evil, weal or woe,suffering or sin?
Her sudden gravity surprised her companion. He looked curiously at herpaling face and set lips.
'What is the matter, my dear?' he said kindly. 'Has anything startledyou?'
'No,' she said, with a sudden effort. 'There is nothing the matterreally. It was only a fancy.'
She smiled up at him and stepped into the waiting boat.
'It is my last day of liberty,' she said. 'I must make the most of it.Patrick O'Leary, take us as far as ever you can. I want to forget thereis such a thing as land, or any worries, or any duties, or anything butjust this perfect day.'
'And I,' said Dick, so softly that she alone heard him, 'want to forgeteverything but what has made the day perfect—for me!'
True to her word, Nell began her work next morning in regularprofessional fashion. She had an interview with Dr. Langrishe in whichher salary and required duties were duly set forth. He again statedthat his wife needed cheerful companionship more than a sick-nurse—tobe roused and occupied and not permitted to brood over her sufferings.He was reticent, however, on the exact nature of her case, whichhe elaborated with Latin words and professional phrases, ratherbewildering to Nell. She felt, however, no qualms in undertaking it, asthe husband would always be at hand to refer to.
Having seen her patient comfortably settled for the morning, andreceived Dr. Langrishe's directions as to her medicine and diet, Nellwitnessed his departure without any misgivings. If Mrs. Langrisheimproved they were to remain at Glengariff for another fortnight, butif she seemed desirous of returning home Nell was to inform her husbandof the fact, and then accompany her to Youghal.
Mrs. Langrishe from the first seemed determined to treat the girl as afriend. When her husband had left them she insisted on getting up, andbeing dressed and established on a couch by the window, which sharedthe same charming view as did Nell's and Deborah Gray's room. Then shebegged Nell to take the afternoon for herself, declaring she wantednothing but her books, and would probably sleep until five o'clock.She seemed so much better, that Nell took advantage of her permission,and spent the afternoon with her friend, roaming about the grounds.Naturally she talked a great deal about her patient, and it surprisedher that Deborah was so cold and unsympathetic in the matter.
'One would think, Debbie,' she said reproachfully, 'that you were angrywith me for taking this chance, just as if it wasn't the very thing Iwanted, the very thing we've discussed over and over again. And, afterall, it doesn't interfere with our holiday very much. I can have everyafternoon with you, and all our meals together. Mrs. Langrishe isawfully considerate. If she is as well to-morrow as to-day she will bedownstairs, and next day will have a drive. She begged me to ask you tocome with us. You will, won't you, Debbie?'
'No,' said Deborah Gray, coldly. 'I prefer not. I think it is betteryou and your patient keep to yourselves.'
'I think you are very unkind,' pouted Nell. 'One would think you didnot approve of my new undertaking. Yet we have discussed something ofthe kind often and often.'
Suddenly she looked at the dark, quiet face.
'You don't know anything against them, do you, Debbie?' she asked.
'I? How could I?' said Deborah.
'Then it is just one of your prejudices,' said Nell. 'And I shan't payany attention to it. Dick Barrymore calls him "Dr. Fell." I think itis too bad of you both to try and discourage me at the outset of mycareer.'
'I have no wish to discourage you,' said Deborah Gray, 'Far from it.But the truth is, I do not like Dr. Langrishe. He is not a man toinspire trust, or—or respect. You must take the feeling for what it isworth. I cannot help it.'
'I thought him very nice,' said Nell, slowly. 'He is very handsome, andhis wife adores him!'
Deborah Gray's lip quivered slightly.
'The men women adore are not always the best of their sex,' she said.
'But a wife,' said Nell. 'That is different. She could not be blind tofaults or vices after seven years of marriage.'
'Some men are very clever,' said Deborah Gray, 'and some wives preferto keep their eyes bandaged from the hour they leave the altar. Yousurely don't require to be told that even those most closely relatedto us are the greatest strangers to our real selves. A wall ofuncomprehension can stand for ever between two lives!'
'I think I would rather live with the wall between us,' said Nell,'than know the man I loved was not what I believed him to be.'
'Then you and Mrs. Langrishe ought to suit one another admirably.'
'I hope we shall,' said Nell. 'I, at least, go to her unbiassed by anyprejudice.'
'When she is in her own home, and amidst her own surroundings,'said Deborah Gray, 'you may have cause to change your opinion ofher domestic happiness. To me, she seems a woman worn and tried bysorrow—more even than by physical suffering.'
They walked a few steps in silence. Then Deborah Gray went on: 'Youhave not told me,' she said, 'what her complaint is.'
'No,' said Nell; 'because I don't know myself. The doctor didn'tspecialise it. She thinks it is a bad form of indigestion, because shealways suffers so after eating any food. Then she is lonely and lowspirited. I think she must live very much to herself. But I shall beable to judge better when I see her in her own home, amidst her ownsurroundings.'
''And you will write and tell me all about them, won't you?' saidDeborah, with unwonted eagerness. 'I shall be so interested.'
'Of course I will,' said the girl, lightly. 'If only to show you thatyour prejudices are altogether wrong, and that the doctor and his wifeare a most exemplary couple. By the way, I wonder what sort of placeYoughal is? I know there is a barracks about, and where the militaryare you may expect some distraction.'
They had walked back in the direction of Roche's. As they approachedNell gave a sudden exclamation: 'Why, isn't that Dick Barrymore? Andwhat on earth has he got beside him?'
'A bicycle,' exclaimed Deborah Gray. 'A lady's one, too, I am sure.Why, Nell?'
She laughed, but Nell coloured hotly, remembering certain inadvertentwords spoken to Uncle Geoffrey. As they neared the broad gravel sweepDick came eagerly forward.
'I have been waiting here for some time,' he said. 'Miss Nugent, I amcommissioned by my uncle to beg your acceptance of this machine. Hehas been desirous of making you some little present for all your careand kindness to me in the hospital. And he thought a bicycle would beuseful, especially after nursing duties. I can teach you to ride itwhile you are here,' he added, hurriedly.
'Oh,' exclaimed Nell, flushing like a rose. 'How kind, how good of him!I really don't know what to say. I don't deserve such a present forjust simply doing my duty. Oh, Debbie, isn't it lovely? And I've beendying to have a bicycle for ever so long!'
'He ordered this to be made some time ago,' said Dick. 'It isan Enfield, and they had so many orders it took a long time. Hetelegraphed to have it sent on here, and it arrived this morning. I amso glad you like it. When will you have your first lesson?'
'Now—at once, if you can give it me!' cried Nell, eagerly. 'I'm offduty for a while; but first I'll just run up and tell my patient thatI'm in the neighbourhood, and——'
Deborah Gray laid a detaining hand on her arm. 'Wait,' she said; 'I'llgo with you, and if Mrs. Langrishe has no objections, I'll sit with herwhile you are absent. You have been away two hours already.'
'You are a darling,' said Nell, warmly, 'and it will be a weight off mymind. I won't be five minutes,' she added to Dick, as she ran up thesteps and entered the porch followed by Deborah Gray.
All the way to her patient's room she rhapsodised over Uncle Geoffrey'spresent, and her luck in getting what her heart had been set upon forthe last year. When they reached the door of Mrs. Langrishe's room sheopened it very softly and looked in.
She was lying on the pillows, her face turned to the window. As Nelland Deborah approached they saw that a broken medicine bottle lay onthe floor by the couch. It had evidently fallen from the table on whichlay the books and papers of the invalid. The contents were spilt allover the carpet.
Nell's exclamation roused Mrs. Langrishe. She turned and looked round.
'You have upset your medicine,' exclaimed Nell, 'and not a chemist inthe place. What are we to do now?'
'I am very sorry,' she said. 'It was an accident. I happened to pushone of those papers from me, forgetting that I had told you to put thebottle there. It was knocked down, and is smashed, I suppose? You mustwrite to Dr. Langrishe for some more. He always makes it up himself. Ihave no prescription. So the absence of a chemist doesn't matter.'
'But what will you do till you get some more?' asked Deborah Gray.'This loss might seriously affect you.'
'I must risk it,' she said. 'You are the friend of Miss Nugent's, areyou not? A nurse also, she told me.'
'Yes,' said Deborah, 'we were in the same hospital. I have come to askyou to let me sit with you for an hour while Nell is having a bicyclelesson.'
'Bicycling? Do you do that?' said the invalid, with a faint smile.
'I have just had a present of one,' said Nell. 'And I am going to havemy first lesson, if you permit.'
She was picking up the broken glass as she spoke, and then busiedherself in wiping up the liquid on the carpet.
Deborah Gray stood at the foot of the couch, her calm, steady gaze onthe sick woman's face.
'I hope you will enjoy it,' said Mrs. Langrishe. 'For my part I don'tlike to see women bicycling. But it is a craze that threatens to becomeuniversal. I suppose we shall get used to it. By all means, my dear,run off and take your lesson. Only don't break any of your bones, orwhat should I do?'
Nell laughed merrily. 'Oh! no fear of that,' she said. 'I have an ableinstructor. Now tell me first, won't you have some tea before I go? Ican order it on my way downstairs, and Debbie will pour it out for you.It's a pity you couldn't exchange us, Mrs. Langrishe. She's worth fiftyof me!'
The invalid smiled wistfully up at the bright face.
'I am very well content,' she said, 'with my choice.'
Deborah Gray said nothing, only removed her hat and sat down nearthe window. 'We shall be able to see you practising from here,' sheremarked at last. 'I'd advise the grass. It will be safer. There's anice little level bit down there to the right.'
Mrs. Langrishe looked out eagerly.
'I shall be quite glad of the amusement,' she said. 'But pray becareful.'
Her pale face had a slight flush. She looked better and brighter thanthey had ever seen her look. Nell hurried off to order the tea, andDeborah Gray raised the pillows and cushions so as to give the invalida better view.
Presently they saw her come out and join Dick Barrymore, and the twoproceeded to the place Deborah had suggested as being 'soft' for a fall.
'Who is that young man?' asked Mrs. Langrishe.
Deborah Gray explained the hospital romance and its consequences. Thesick woman listened eagerly. 'He seems very attentive,' she said. 'Iwonder if he is in love with her?'
'I am afraid he is on the road to it, at all events,' said Deborah.
'And she?'
'Oh, Nell cares nothing about him, or any man. She is quiteheart-whole.'
'She is a dear little thing. I took a strong liking to her from thefirst. I am rather a lonely woman, Miss Gray. I have no children toengross me, and my husband has his practice to attend to, and ismuch occupied. My health prevents me seeing many people, so I am agreat deal alone. Besides, I don't get on well with Irish people.I'm afraid I don't understand them. They are so boisterous and sodreadfully talkative; and it isn't as if the talk was interesting,except to themselves. It mainly consists of personalities, or what Icall "tracing." Histories relative to their friends and their friends'friends; incidents in the lives and families of people of whom Ihave never even heard. I am an Englishwoman, you know, and my firstexperience of an Irish person was my own husband.' She paused, anda fond, proud smile hovered over her lips. 'I judged his country byhimself, I suppose, so I was bound to be disappointed. I have met nomen like him, and I am afraid the women don't find me interesting. Yousee, I don't hunt, I don't play tennis, and I don't care for gossip. Infact I have no popular virtues. We have a neighbour now, a widow, LadyFfolliott——'
She hesitated, glanced out of the window at the two figures moving insight, then went on: 'A widow, who is very beautiful and very popular.She does everything. She is the leader of society in the place. Suchsociety as there is! Most of the good old families have died out, ordeparted to more congenial regions. I don't blame them. Youghal is asmall, dull, God-forsaken place—ugly, dreary, poverty-stricken. Itsonly industry is quarrying and pottery manufacture and fishing. As forsociety, it plays tennis for six months and "talks" it for the othersix. I am afraid your little friend will find it very dull.'
'A nurse,' said Deborah Gray, 'does not expect her life to be excitingor convivial.'
'But I don't look upon her in that light. I wish her to be a companionto me. She will have a sitting-room of her own, where she can practise,read, work; do what she likes. She will have the pony carriage at herdisposal, also, for I am too nervous to drive; and she tells me she isused to it. I hope she will be happy. I will try my best to make herso.'
'You are very good,' said Deborah Gray, moved to sudden gratitude, andno longer wondering at Nell's elation. 'I am sure she will be happy;she is easily contented, and she has a very sweet temper. We all missedher dreadfully at the hospital, but she was not strong enough for thework. But with you it will be different. I should think she would suityou admirably.'
'How does the lesson go on?' asked Mrs. Langrishe, sinking back on thepillow as if fatigued.
'She is learning to get on and off. She seems very quick at it. I fancyshe will soon be able to ride.'
'That, too, will be useful to her,' said Mrs. Langrishe. 'The roadsabout Youghal are excellent, and she can spin down to the sea everymorning for a dip. She told me she loved bathing. It is excellent thereand so safe.'
'It seems to me she is going to you as a visitor, not as a professionalnurse,' said Deborah Gray with a smile. 'No wonder she is so eagerabout it.'
'She is coming to me as a friend I hope,' said Mrs. Langrishe gravely.'I need one, I assure you. That dear little bright face will be likesunshine in our gloomy old house.'
'Here is the tea,' said Deborah, rising suddenly to clear off thepapers from the table.
In her heart she was saying: 'She is not happy—she is not happy. Hedoes not love her!'
Nell came in an hour later, radiant and flushed, and elated at havingmastered the first great difficulty of bicycling—mounting and gettingoff. She found Mrs. Langrishe in quite good spirits, rested andrefreshed by her afternoon nap and her tea.
The three women sat on for some time talking. There was no doubt thatMrs. Langrishe was better, wonderfully better. And when dinner-timecame she declared herself positively hungry. Nell had her own dinnersent up, so that she might see after her patient, and was surprised atthe improvement in her appetite.
'When did you generally take that medicine?' she asked her suddenly.
'Immediately before meals, or when I had an attack of pain.'
Nell remembered that she had had two meals to-day without any medicine,and had complained of no pain. She began to wonder if after allDr. Langrishe was treating her rightly. She did not mention such asuspicion to the loyal wife, but it entered her own mind, and remainedthere.
The post had gone out before Mrs. Langrishe remembered that she hadnot written to her husband, or told him of the broken medicine bottle.It would mean another day without it, and she seemed somewhat nervous.Nell cheered her valiantly, and when she went to bed gave her a fewdrops of chlorodyne, which Deborah Gray had in her bag. That night Nellslept in the adjoining dressing-room, which had a door of communicationinto the large bedchamber occupied by the invalid. She was a verylight sleeper, and on this night was peculiarly alert. Once or twiceshe stole softly to her patient's side, and on each occasion found hersleeping quietly and profoundly, nor did she awake next morning tilleight o'clock, by which time Nell had bathed and dressed, and was readyto look after her the moment she needed it.
Instead of the usual languid sufferer, it was a bright hopeful woman,who sat up in the bed and gave brisk assurance of her well-being.The change was astonishing. No pain—no symptoms such as of late haddistressed her—nothing but the slight weakness of reaction. Nell gaveher her breakfast with wondering and delighted eagerness. The changewas so astonishing it almost frightened her. All that day she continuedto improve. She walked to the sofa without assistance, and onceestablished at her favourite window, insisted on Nell going out.
The girl sought Deborah Gray, and brought her in to read theimprovement for herself. She was as much astonished as Nell.
'I wish,' she said, 'you had the prescription of that medicine you weretaking. I can't help fancying it did not suit you.'
Mrs. Langrishe flushed hotly.
'My husband is one of the cleverest medical men of the day,' she said.'I have every confidence in his treatment.'
'Have you never had any advice but his?' asked Nell.
'No. I should not think of such a thing. He has always been the bestand kindest of husbands, and, as I said before, his skill is wellknown. He does not practice for a livelihood, but because he loves hisprofession. The poor adore him. He gives them his services for nothing.As for me, I would trust no one else. He knows my constitution: heunderstands me as no stranger could.'
'All the same,' thought Deborah Gray, 'you are a different womanwithout his medicine.'
The two friends went out into the grounds, leaving Mrs. Langrishe towrite to her husband and explain the accident to the medicine. Theywere soon joined by Dick Barrymore, who came to give Nell anotherlesson. This morning she got on amazingly. She had learnt to balanceherself and propel her machine a few yards by herself before he lefther.
'I shall ride down to your hotel to thank your uncle this afternoon,'she said. 'I believe I could do it.'
'Yes,' he said, 'I believe you could. But what if you meet any vehicle?Remember that you have not had to pass anything in the road; that isthe test of bicycling. You had better let me come round and take careof you.'
'I think so too,' said Deborah Gray.
'I hope you gave my letter to your uncle,' exclaimed Nell, suddenly, asshe walked her machine up the slope.
'Of course I did. And he said you were too grateful for so dangerous agift. He anticipates an accident.'
She laughed.
'I did not credit him with such a bad motive. But I would risk ahundred accidents for the pleasure of this beautiful machine.'
'In a week,' said Dick, 'you will be able to ride perfectly. What timethis afternoon shall I come?'
'That depends on how Mrs. Langrishe is.'
'My dear child,' said Deborah Gray, 'don't worry about her. She isalmost well, and if she likes I will sit with her. I have been outof doors since 6 o'clock this morning. I shall be glad of a quietafternoon.'
Dick Barrymore looked gratefully at the dark, kind face. Deborah Grayhad made him her friend for life.
* * * * * * *
The improvement in Mrs. Langrishe's health was steadily maintained. Onthe next day she was well enough to come downstairs and sit out in thegrounds in a basket chair. The succeeding afternoon she and Nell wentfor a drive. Deborah Gray refused to join them. She wanted one of herlong tramps by herself, she said.
It surprised Nell that Geoffrey Masterman and his nephew still remainedon at Glengariff. But the 'man from Colorado' declared himselfenchanted with the place, and gave no hint of pursuing his travels. Asfor Dick, he was only too well pleased to be within sight or sound ofNell. He could not disguise from himself the attraction she had forhim, though her very friendliness and nonchalant manner of treatinghim plainly showed that her own regard was but a friendly one. But themoth loves the flame, even when its scorched wings proclaim the follyof close proximity. It was so pleasant to think that some time of eachday would be spent with her—so pleasant to watch her graceful littlefigure as the bicycle lessons progressed, so pleasant to talk, orlisten to her talking.
She was radiantly happy just now. A wave of good luck seemed to havelifted her on a calm sea at last. She blessed the day she had come toGlengariff. She loved the place, she loved her work, she took Roche'sand all its guests and belongings into the warm embrace of her ferventgratitude, she grew warmly attached to Mrs. Langrishe, the more soas her pride in her first improvement was grounded on daily renewedhopefulness. She had discarded the medicine altogether, for by the timeit arrived her patient was so well it was not needed. She ate well,slept well, and now rarely complained of that terrible pain which hadbeen used to attack her. At the end of a week she could walk out intothe grounds, and take daily drives. If the improvement lasted, therewas every hope of her returning home in a fortnight's time perfectlywell.
'I hardly think you will need a nurse after all,' said Nell oneevening, when she was pacing up and down the grass plot in front of thehotel with the convalescent leaning on her arm. 'I feel like a fraud,going back with you. Your husband will turn me out.'
Mrs. Langrishe laughed.
'I shall need you, don't be uneasy,' she said. 'If you can't make apatient of me, I shall make a companion of you. I couldn't part withyou now, Nell.'
She never called her by the formal Miss Nugent. It was a curious factthat while no one ever thought of relaxing into 'Deborah' from 'MissGray,' almost everyone who knew Nell felt instinctively compelled tocall her by her Christian diminutive.
'It is all the fault of my want of inches,' she said to Dick, who hadjoined them, as he frequently did. 'I can't be dignified, and I amalways expecting to be chucked under the chin or patted on the head. Noone would dream of taking such a liberty with Deborah; but then I'm notDeborah.'
'For which I am profoundly grateful,' he said.
'That is not a polite speech; but I suppose it is well intentioned, andit is not worth while quarrelling as we part so soon. Did I tell youMrs. Langrishe and I start for Killarney on Thursday? We shall staythere one or two days, then go to Cork, rest a night at the Imperial,and run down to Youghal next day.'
'My uncle and I,' said Dick, 'are also returning to Killarney onThursday.'
Mrs. Langrishe looked at him quickly. A smile hovered at the corners ofher mouth.
'Are you really? That is singular. I suppose you will do the journey onyour bicycle?'
'No, on the coach. I must make the most of my opportunities of seeingthe scenery.'
Mrs. Langrishe suddenly thought she would like to rest in the porch,and left them to continue their promenade alone. They watched her mountthe steps and take one of the basket chairs scattered about. The ladywith gouty foot began to talk to her.
'I hope,' said Nell, as they moved on, 'that Mrs. Langrishe will beable to stand the journey. Isn't it wonderful the way she has improved?'
'I think you have a way with your patients,' he said, 'that is betterthan drugs and doctors.'
'I wish I could patent it,' she said, laughing. 'I might make anice little fortune. A shilling and three half-pence a bottle, withGovernment stamp,Nurse Nugent's Patent Cure.'
He smiled, somewhat sadly.
'I suppose,' he said, 'it is no use telling you how much I shall missyou?'
'If it is any relief, you may do so,' she said. 'Though I fail to seewhere the use comes in.'
'You look such a soft, sweet little woman, Nurse Nell, to have such ahard heart.'
'I am not aware it is hard, but I don't care for sentimental speeches,as I have told you before.'
He sighed and walked on in silence for a few moments.
'You have no idea how long you will be staying with these people?' heasked presently.
'Not the least,' said Nell. 'I am engaged at a yearly salary, and if Igive satisfaction I shall probably remain on.'
'It hurts me to hear you talk like that,' he said quickly. 'I supposethat is why you do it. Nothing pleases a woman so much as to know sheis giving pain to a man.'
'Are those the sort of things you say in your books?' asked Nell.
'I say nothing in my books that life has not taught me, or I have notproved to be true.'
'What a horrid experience you must have had, then,' she said. 'And whatterrible people you must have known. Vampires and women with pasts, andwho did the things they ought not to have done. I hope you will neverput me in a book. I shouldn't like it at all.'
'The book in which I have put you,' he said, gravely, 'will never beprinted. It is only a short story that it contains, but it seems all ofmy life to me. The book is closed; and locked away in my heart, littleNurse Nell. It can only be released and read by—yourself.'
The bright colour left her cheek, and for once her smile and words werenot ready to answer him. When she did speak it was with a sudden senseof anger, for which he was not prepared.
'I have tried to make you understand,' she said, 'that I cannot hearspeeches like—like that. I don't want to believe you mean them. If youdid——'
'Yes?' he said, turning rather white as he met her angry eyes. 'If Idid——'
'Then it would certainly end all our friendship. Is that plain enough.'
'Yes, it is very plain indeed, and very cruel.'
'I can't help it. If it would make you understand me any better I wouldtell you that I can never care for any man in any way but just as—afriend. The moment there is any sentiment or nonsense of that sort Ihate them. I can't help it, I don't believe in them.'
'Because one has been treacherous,' he said. 'You hinted as much to meonce. But I know more of life—of men—and perhaps of women than youdo. I know that your heart won't always be obdurate, and visit the sinsof one upon the heads of all. So I will be patient, Nell, and bide mytime. For the present, say you forgive me. Don't send me away utterlymiserable from dear Glengariff.'
She half smiled.
'It is a dear place,' she said. 'One can't even be unamiable here. I amso sorry to go away.'
A soft troubled breath escaped her as she looked around at familiarlandmarks.
'I wonder,' she said, 'if I shall ever come back here? That is theworst of going to a place and getting fond of it. You want to come backagain, and you never can, just in the same way.'
'No,' he said, sadly. 'Never, just in the same way. It would comfortone to feel that the way might be a better or a happier one, but wecan't know even that.'
Silence fell upon them once more. The shadows of the trees creptduskily over Nell's bright hair. She looked up at last, a slight flushon her cheeks, a curious little smile on her lips. 'Well, as it willsoon be goodbye,' she said, 'I won't quarrel. I am afraid I was badtempered just now. You don't deserve it, for you have been very good tome, and so has your uncle. So I promise to be nice and amiable while weare here. Does that satisfy you?'
She looked so fair, and young, and sweet, that he longed to take herin his arms and pour out the long pent-up passion of his heart on herlips, let her be ever so angry. But he checked himself by a strongeffort.
'Anything,' he said, 'will satisfy me that you are good enough to give.'
She held out her hand, and he took it and held it for a moment, lettinghis eyes say what she had forbidden his lips to utter.
NELL'S DIARY.
Knockminoss House, Youghal, July 7.
A formidable task has been set me by my friend, Deborah Gray. Noneother than to keep a diary of all events that happen until we meetagain!
We had spent a long-promised holiday together at Glengariff, inthe south-west of Ireland, and then I undertook the charge of Mrs.Langrishe, an invalid lady who was good enough to take a fancy to mynot very useful and insignificant self. It is a week since Debbieleft, and yesterday we arrived here, after journeying by easy stagesto Killarney and Cork. Mrs. Langrishe bore the journey admirably, andarrived at Youghal looking so well that I felt proud to reintroduce herto her husband in the character of a convalescent, instead of that ofthe wretched invalid I had first taken charge of. A carriage met us atthe station, and a cart for the luggage. (What an advantage it is to berich, and how delightfully easy it makes life!)
I looked out eagerly as we drove along by the sea, which spreads wideand blue before you as you come out of the little station. A stone wallprotects the Strand, and the houses built along the road leading to thetown. I am not good at description. I only know we passed a lighthouse,which was open to the harbour, and faced south and south-west, andwhose light, I was told by the doctor, could be seen out at sea at adistance of two leagues. Then came a street, with tall, old houseson the left, and a modern and pleasant looking hotel on the right. Alittle further down stood the Presentation Convent, a Gothic builtedifice of imposing appearance. I saw solitary figures of nuns in theirblack dresses and strange headgear pacing to and fro the narrow paths,which had been made on the sloping hills behind the convent itself. Thecarriage then turned into the main street of Youghal. A narrow, dirtystreet it was. On either side were low, miserable hovels, with swarmsof children, half-fed and filthy, playing in the gutters or clamouringround shop doors. Women with shawls about their heads, in ragged gowns,and with worn and haggard faces and unkempt hair, stood about ingroups, wasting in that eternal Irish gossip the time that would havecleaned and tidied their houses, their children, and themselves.
The hot July sunset lit up the squalor and dirt that had set theirstamp on every side. Only a few decent shops stood out from thewretched buildings in the neighbourhood of the old clock tower. Thetown itself lay under the shadow of a steep hill, and its one miserablestreet straggled on for about a mile, till it reached a wider roadbeyond quay and harbour, leading to the bridge which spanned the river.
We turned suddenly to the left, and the horses mounted slowly up asteep, uneven road. We drove on for a long time. There were no housesin sight—fields and woods were all I could see in the fading light ofthe west.
'We are home now,' said Mrs. Langrishe, with a sigh of relief.
I saw the carriage pass through an old stone gateway, past a lodge, atwhich an old woman with a wrinkled, evil-looking face was standing,dropping curtseys. Then we passed quickly up a short avenue, so closeand thickly set with trees that the last glow of sunset was completelyshut out, and we were plunged into a sudden twilight. The avenue endedbefore a grey stone house, built as so many houses in Ireland are,with a square frontage, unrelieved by any architectural fancy. But itfaced south, and before my delighted eyes spread the vast blue of theAtlantic.
The ground on which I stood was a plain stretch of grass, ending witha wire fence that shut it off from a sort of plantation. On eitherside the house was shut in by trees densely packed. Accustomed as myIrish eyes were to the luxuriant foliage that is so marked a featureof Irish scenery, I yet fancied that there was too much wooding aboutKnockminoss to be healthy. It seemed to suffocate the place. In thishot stirless night no breath of air reached us. The house had adesolate set-apart look, it seemed to me. Its only redeeming featurewas that wide sweep of sea view, far off as it was.
I had very little time, however, to make observations. Mrs. Langrishehad entered the house and called to me to follow her. She was standingin a low square hall, which struck me as singularly gloomy. It washandsomely furnished, but in a cold, stiff, formal fashion, that mymodern eyes did not approve. Out of this hall led the dining-room anddrawing-room. At the back, was a library and a small study, used byDr. Langrishe as a consulting room. The kitchen regions spread furtherinto the rear. A very wide staircase, with shallow steps and carved oakbalustrade, led to the bedrooms. The house was only two storeys high.The servants' rooms were above the kitchens, and led to by a separatestaircase.
Mrs. Langrishe pointed out the various rooms as we went up the stairs.The doors were all open. The dining-room was lit, and the table laidfor dinner. We went first into a lovely pink and white bedroom. Thewindows open to the same broad sweep of sea and curve of coast that Ihad so admired.
'This is my bedroom,' she said. 'Next to it is my husband'sdressing-room and a bathroom. On this side is my own little boudoir,where I usually spend mornings. Your rooms, Nell, are on the otherside. You won't have such a good view. Your windows look down on thegarden and orchard, but you get a side glimpse of the sea that you areso in love with.'
She came nearer to me, and we both stood looking out to the bluewaters—the small rocky island capped by its white lighthouse, and thebold headland that sheltered Ballycotton Bay.
'Ah!' she said, with a sigh, 'if you only knew how good it is to lookon all this once more with eyes of health. I was so wretched when Ilooked on it last. The years had begun with me, Nell, when I could onlysay, "I have no pleasure in them." Thank God, all is changed now. ThankGod!'
I saw her lips move—her eyes grew dim with grateful feeling. I saidnothing. It is always my fate to feel like a fool in presence of anystrong emotion on the part of anyone else. I suppose I look it, too.Fortunately it has not been my fate to have a mirror at hand at suchmoments!
When she had recovered from her agitation, she took me to myown room—or rather rooms—for there were two. A large, airy bedroom,plainly, but comfortably furnished, and a sweet little sitting-roomadjoining it—a nest of cosy, beautiful things, low chairs, tables,screens, a piano, bookcases round the walls, china, flowers—all thatmy eyes delighted in, set in subdued harmonies of terracotta and dull,olive green. I gave vent to raptures and exclamations.
'You surely did not do all this for me!' I said. She smiled.
'I ordered it to be done,' she said. 'It was a pleasure to think it outand plan it! I am a rich woman, Nell, and I am at a loss often to knowwhat to do with my money. It was quite a godsend to have a new use forit, I assure you.'
A sort of shadow crept over her face.
'Once,' she said, 'I had planned these rooms for my own little girl.This was all white then, Nell, white like herself, my little fadedlily; but you see it was not to be. I lost her five years ago. It hasbeen my life's great sorrow. I did not tell you before. I rarely speakof it. A loss like that, Nell, one never quite gets over. It is a woundthat bleeds inwardly, and slowly. It never really heals. I think noother child will ever call me mother. Sometimes I hope not, for sake ofthis one memory.'
She looked round. I saw her face brighten.
'It is all different now,' she said, 'and it looks to me like yourself,Nell, bright and sunny, and full of rich colouring. It will suit you.I hope you will be happy, dear child. I hope you will believe that Ibring you here as my friend. I have often longed for one. I have beenlonely, sad, depressed, but though I know many women, few appeal tome. You did at once. Don't fancy I am saying this for the mere sake ofsaying it. I mean it. You will see I mean it.'
I stammered out some hasty words. What could I say, but that I was herfriend, that I hoped I should be so always. For I had grown very fondof this poor woman, and I felt a strong pity for her. I fancy—butthere, I am not sitting here to waste my pages on fancies. They are tocontain actual, real records.
Now that my first evening is over at Knockminoss, what shall I writeof it? The handsome doctor was charming at dinner. He talked to hiswife and myself impartially. He seemed astonished at the improvementin her, at her appetite, her colour, her animation. I thought I hadnever seen her look so well. She had put on a pale pink blouse of somefilmy material, through which her neck and arms showed with becomingdiscretion. She was a thin woman, and chiffon and gauze were dear toher heart.
Her hair, which I had lately taken to dressing for her, was no longerdull and lustreless. It shone with a natural healthy gloss, due, Iflatter myself, to my care, and was twisted in a soft loose coil atthe back of her well-shaped head. On the whole I felt very proud of mycharge, and expected more gratification from the doctor than he showed.But perhaps he is not a demonstrative man. As for her, poor soul,she adores him. Anyone can see that—he best of all. It is foolish,I think, to show her love so plainly, but then one is always so muchwiser for others than for oneself!
After dinner we all sat out on the great grass plot. (It is not alawn, just a gradual, smooth, wide slope, unbroken by flower-bed orshrub.) It was intensely hot, but the sky was bright, though the moonwas only in her first quarter and the stars were scarcely visible. Dr.Langrishe strolled to and fro, smoking a cigar. His wife and I talkedat intervals. I wanted to go in and unpack, but she would not let me.
'It is too hot to do anything indoor,' she said; 'do stay out.'
I learnt that there was a short cut down to the sea, and that they hada bathing-box of their own, which I might use. I promised myself anearly swim to-morrow morning.
'Isn't this house a long way from the town?' I asked suddenly. 'I meanfor a doctor. Suppose your husband was wanted suddenly——'
'Oh,' she said, 'he has a special sort of practice. Besides, he doesnot depend entirely on that. He has private means. There are otherdoctors in the town. He would never have lived there. In emergencycases they are always at hand. But in case of an operation, or anythingcritical, they send for him. He is a very clever surgeon.'
I thought of those long, slender white fingers, and I rememberedoperations it had been my lot to witness in the hospital. I shuddered.
'Are you cold, child?' she asked.
'No,' I said. 'I was only thinking of some of the scenes I have gonethrough. How I used to hate the operating-room!'
'What nerve you must have had,' she said. 'I can hardly believe, when Ilook at you, that you were ever a real white-capped uniformed nurse! Ishould like to see you in your dress.'
'You will see me,' I said. 'I have sent for all my belongings toDublin, and when they come I will put on my professional attire to showyou how I look in it.'
'I don't wish you to wear it here,' she said, almost anxiously. 'Ishould fancy I was ill again; and oh, Nell,' and she clasped her handssuddenly, 'I do hope and pray I may keep well. I should dread to gothrough that suffering and fear again.'
I cheered her, of course, and laughed at the idea of a relapse. Indeed,in my own mind, I am sorely puzzled as to what was the matter with her.Latin names are so useful, but so ambiguous! Her husband's explanationhad left me completely in the dark. Her recovery was so sudden thatit took me by surprise. I questioned her about Youghal as a placeof residence in order to change the conversation. She mentioned thenames of some neighbours, but lamented that the good families and oldfamilies were now no more. Death or ruin or misfortune had overtaken somany of them.
'Our nearest neighbour,' she said, 'is Lady Ffolliott. She is awidow, and lives at a place called Durrus. It is further inland thanthis. A lovely old place. She has bought it I believe. She is a greathorsewoman. She rides splendidly, takes fences like a jockey, they say.She is what one would call a brilliant woman. By that I mean that whenshe is in a room everybody knows it. She is very popular and very rich,goes to Dublin for the season, and dresses magnificently.'
'I should like to see her,' I said.
'Oh, you will be sure to do that soon,' said Mrs. Langrishe. 'Shecomes over here very often. Indeed, my husband told me she is comingto dinner to-morrow night, and he will probably ask one or two of theofficers from the barracks also. Lady Ffolliott likes male society.'
This is all I have gleaned so far about my new surroundings. It hastaken me till midnight to write it all. So I think I have done my duty,and can go to bed with a clear conscience!
July 8.
I slept well, and woke at six. The morning was lovely, and I dressedhastily, made up bathing dress and towels, and started for the sea.
Mrs. Langrishe had given me full directions as to the short cut, andit brought me out on a road that led to the cliffs. I followed them inthe direction of the Strand, and soon discovered her 'bathing-box,' aswe call them in Ireland—I had the sea almost to myself, save for a fewmale creatures in the distance; who used the cliffs as dressing-rooms,for machines there were none.
The tide was in, the water lovely. I swam and dived, and floated andfrisked, with keen enjoyment of the bracing air, the warm, lovelysunshine, the smooth, hard sands underfoot. On my way back I met Dr.Langrishe. He was on his way for his dip, he told me, and mentionedthat the breakfast hour was nine o'clock. That gave me ample time todry my long locks and dress. Then I went to Mrs. Langrishe's door toask if I could do anything for her.
She bade me come in.
I found her sitting by the window, her hair streaming about hershoulders. She looked pale and heavy-eyed, as if she had not slept. Ifelt distressed at so sudden an alteration. She laid the blame on theheat. It had been impossible to sleep, and a bad night always upsether. I said little. I did not wish to discourage her. She had been soanxious to come home; but it struck me she would have done better toremain at Glengariff. I did her hair for her, and helped her into acool cotton gown. She looked better when she was dressed, and we wentdownstairs into the dining-room, where breakfast was laid.
Dr. Langrishe soon appeared, fresh from his bath, the picture ofhandsome, healthy manhood. It was strange how he had always seemed tome to dwarf and shadow his wife by his own super-abundant vitality.This morning I noticed it again, even as I had noticed it atGlengariff, when I had first seen them together.
After breakfast, Mrs. Langrishe had to interview her cook, and give herorders for the dinner this evening. I made use of the liberty given meto explore the outdoor premises. I saw a cow grazing in the paddockand two or three horses. There was a poultry yard also and a range ofstables and coach-houses shut in by a high stone wall from the kitchengarden and adjoining orchard. From nowhere else except the front ofthe house was the sea visible. Far off, a range of mountains stood upagainst the misty sky. I knew the Blackwater divided them from Youghal.Near as they looked, they stood in County Waterford, but geography isnot my strong point, so I will only say that they looked as if theybelonged to Youghal and its county. Leaving the orchard, I took myway down the avenue by which we approached the house from the mainroad. In this sultry July morning it was delightful to wander underthe cool shade of the thickly planted trees. Overhead the branches metand interlaced, shutting out the hot sunshine with their lovely greenleafage. I strolled slowly along until I came to the lodge.
Standing in the doorway was the same evil-looking old woman I hadnoticed the previous evening. As she heard my step she looked sharplyat me. She was knitting, and her needles moved swiftly and mechanicallyamidst the grey wool. I paused a moment, and wished her good morning.She gave it briefly. For an Irish woman this surprised me. I lingeredstill, asking a few questions as to the road and distance from the town.
'I suppose you live here,' I said, after she had answered me.
'I do, miss. I've lived here since the master took the house. I knewhis family well. 'Tis the sad changes I've seen amongst them one andall. He's the last of them now, is Mister James, and sorra a chick ora child coming to kape the old name up. The mistress is but a poor,delicate crature. God help her! You're not belongin' to her, I suppose,miss?'
'No,' I said. 'I'm only a friend. I've come to stay and look after herfor a while.'
'Indade, thin, she nades it; sorely she does. 'Tis a lonesome lifeshe's had av it, as Moll Duggan knows. And though she's English, andquare in her ways, and none too much liked in the place, yet she's akind way wid her, and she's had her own troubles, too. They'll come tous, rich or poor. And I'm sorry for her since the child died. She's notthe same at all, miss—not at all.'
'It was a great pity, I am sure,' I said. 'She has told me about it.'
'It's not often she'll spake av it, poor soul! I hear she's mendedgrand since she wint away to the mountains. Shure 'twas a poor ghost ava thing she was lavin' here. I never thought to see anything but hercoffin brought back. No life or strength in her at all, there wasn't.'
'Well, she's very different now,' I said, cheerfully. 'And I hopeshe'll keep so. Her husband is a very clever doctor, isn't he?'
She shot a swift glance at me.
'That's as may be,' she said, cautiously. 'How would I be knowin'whether he's clever or not. Shure, 'tis only the quality has the granddiseases. The dispensary does for the likes av us, whin we're sick.'
'Do you live here, quite alone?' I asked, by way of changing theconversation.
Her restless fingers stayed a moment. The sunlight flashed on the longbright needles.
'What would the likes av me be wantin' wid company,' she said.
'I thought,' I said, 'you might have had children—or grandchildren.'
Her face darkened. She said no further word, but went quickly within,and shut the half-door of the little lodge after her.
I was astonished. It is rare for the Irish of her class to take offenceat inquiries respecting either their families or affairs. But sheappeared to have done so, for some unexplained reason. I walked on tothe entrance gates and stood a moment there, debating whether I shouldventure down the long hot road. As I stood I heard the sound of wheelsbehind me. I looked round and saw Dr. Langrishe driving a dogcart, witha man behind him. I stepped aside, but as he saw me he drew rein.
'I am going on my rounds,' he said, 'can I drive you to the town? It israther a long walk on such a hot day.'
I agreed at once, and sprang upon the high step with alacrity.
I loved driving, and we bowled rapidly along, turning off at rightangles to the road we had traversed the evening of our arrival.
'I have to call at a house near here,' he said, 'Lady Ffolliott's. Iwon't be a moment. I have only to give her a message from my wife.'
I was all curiosity. What I had heard of Lady Ffolliott had interestedme so much that I longed to see her. I hardly expected, however, todo that unless she happened to be in the grounds. We drove throughan avenue of sycamore trees, and came out before an imposing-lookingbuilding, double fronted, with a massive porch and beautifully laid outgrounds surrounding it.
On the smooth emerald green lawn strutted a magnificent peacock, itsbrilliant plumage spread to the hot sunshine, and, standing on thebroad stone steps, feeding the lovely vain creature with cake, whichshe scattered on the turf, was a woman.
Such a woman!
I have never been given to raptures over my sex—pretty faces andlovely forms are common enough in Ireland—but this woman almost tookmy breath away. She was so beautiful. She was very tall, and yet soexquisitely proportioned, one would not have her height a shade less. Ithink, though, the most wonderful thing about her was her hair. It wasof a ruddy, red-gold colour, twisted and coiled about her shapely headin perfect masses. The sunshine streamed down on it, making yet morerich and vivid its glorious colour, and the soft waves and tendrilsthat softened her brow. The colouring of her face was lovely—deadcreamy white, with a faint bloom on the cheeks, which deepened intocrimson on the mouth. She wore a white gown, severely simple, butshowing to perfection the shape of her figure, and the warm ivory ofthe throat. As we drove up, she looked straight at us. She did notmove, only a faint smile touched the curves of her mouth, and herlifted eyes of dark, almost purple blue, revealed a sort of amusedcuriosity. They were as lovely as everything else belonging to her,fringed by dark lashes that curled upward.
'Ah, doctor, good morning,' she said, and I almost started at hervoice. It spoilt the whole charm of the picture. It was hard, metallic,with a strange accent to which I was unaccustomed. It struck me, as afirst impression, that it was not the voice of a lady. 'What brings youto Durrus so early?' she went on. 'No bad news, I hope?'
'No,' he said, throwing the reins to the man who had sprung to thehorse's head. 'I have only come with a message.'
He jumped down from his high seat and approached her. I noted theydid not shake hands, but passed into the porch together, he talkingearnestly.
Now, I suppose, I have no business to relate my impressions in detailin these pages, and yet I could not help the strange feeling that cameover me as I watched those two figures. They were both so handsome,they looked so splendidly matched in height, looks, and physique, andthey seemed on such remarkably good terms with one another. The thoughtuppermost in my mind was that I was glad I was not James Langrishe'swife. It was foolish, no doubt, but then these pages will be a recordof foolishness, so a little more or less to the general amount won'tmatter. The message took about a quarter of an hour to deliver. Then hecame out alone, mounted to his seat, and we drove off.
'So that——' I said, as we trotted down the avenue, 'so that is LadyFfolliott. Mrs. Langrishe spoke about her as a near neighbour and agreat horsewoman. She did not prepare me for a "great beauty" also.'
He looked at me quickly.
'You think her handsome, do you? I thought women were alwaysunappreciative of each other's good looks.'
'One would have to be blind,' I said, 'not to acknowledge LadyFfolliott's. She is the handsomest woman I ever saw in my life.'
'And not an "if" or a "but" to qualify that opinion?' he asked,ironically.
'No,' I said. 'I think not. Of course, I don't know her yet. Somefaces gain by repose, and lose by expression. I can't tell if she is apicture or a statue till I speak to her.'
'You will have that opportunity to-night,' he said. 'She is to dine withus. And you will hear her sing, too. She has a glorious voice.'
I thought of the speaking voice that had been so harsh and grating, butI was wise enough to say nothing on that score.
'I did not introduce you,' he went on. 'I reserved that till you wereon her own level. It would have been absurd calling out names with youat that elevation.'
'Yes,' I agreed. 'Even if she noticed me, of which I have grave doubts.'
'Oh, she did,' he said, quickly. 'She asked who you were—at once.'
'Then she must be Irish,' I said laughing.
'Of course, she is. Did you suppose——'
'Her accent puzzled me,' I said, as he paused. 'I couldn't quite makeit out.'
He said no more, only touched the horse with the whip, and sent usspinning along the white shadeless road with renewed speed.
'Are you going to the town?' I asked, for I hate silence, and he at allevents had not an unmusical voice, or an accent that one could cut witha knife.
'Yes,' he said. 'To the chemist's. I want some drugs, and I have aconsultation later on. By-the-by'—and he slackened speed, and checkedthe horse to a walk—'how long did Mrs. Langrishe continue to take themedicine I sent?'
I had been looking straight ahead, for a glimpse of the river shonebrightly in the distance, and the sloping hills and wide green countrydotted with white farmhouses on the Waterford side, made a lovelypicture in the foreground.
As he spoke, however, I glanced at him. His lips were set tighttogether, and I noted a curious white line round the lower one. Itfaded away as the pressure of the upper lip lessened.
'The medicine,' I said, vaguely. 'Oh, of course, I remember. The bottlegot broken. It was all spilt.'
'Not the second one,' he said, sharply.
'Oh, no. That was all right. But by the time it arrived, Mrs. Langrishewas so much better that she did not need it. I believe it is atGlengariff still. We meant to bring it, but forgot.'
He gave the horse a sudden savage lash that sent it flying down thehill. I caught the side of the dogcart, with a little cry of terror.The jerk had almost unseated me.
Have I ever said Dr. Langrishe was handsome? In that moment his faceshowed the savage, brutal ferocity of the devil.
July 8th, Midnight.
I have just come up to my room; but sleep seems so far from my eyesthat I will add a few more notes to my day's record, before I go to bed.
The night is intensely hot—the sultry, close heat that is theprecursor of storm. I have put on a cool linen dressing-gown. Thewindow is wide open, and my table is close beside it. Not a breathof air stirs the lace curtains—the candles burn steadily on thedressing-table. The house is very quiet. Not a sound breaks on thedrowsy stillness.
What was it Debbie said to me the night before we parted?
'Write downeverything that strikes you, however unimportant it mayseem.' Everything.
To-night I am haunted—cursed, so to speak—by the memory of words Inever ought to have heard. God knows how sorry I am that I did hearthem! Shall I write them here? Will it be any relief if I do?
To explain them I must touch first on the dinner party. It was a verysmall affair. Only Lady Ffolliott, a Captain Tivy, and a young ensign(Charley Blake was his name), and ourselves. Six in all. Lady Ffolliottlooked superb. She wore white satin, a rich, gleaming, lustrous satin,that any duchess might have envied. It was perfectly plain, save forsome of the lovely Youghal lace on the bodice, caught by a spray ofdiamonds. It made me feel positively un-Christian to look at all thisprodigal beauty. Such a face, set on ivory white neck and shoulders.Such a figure, carrying with insolent ease its own faultless grace. Nowonder men lose their heads over a woman's beauty. Here, at least, wasexcuse enough for it.
Poor Mrs. Langrishe. What chance had she, though I did my best for her?It was the light of a farthing dip in comparison to the glowing noondaysun, the weakness of water to wine. I don't often 'drop into poetry,'but I never look or think of Lady Ffolliott without remembering thoselines of Mrs. Browning:——
. . . . Mere cold clay,
As all such things are, but so fair,
She takes the breath of men away
Who gaze upon her unaware.
That describes her perfectly.
Of course, to all the men the room contained but one woman. Mrs.Langrishe and myself received the attention of courtesy, but LadyFfolliott had the eyes and ears and souls of them all! And upon myword, I couldn't blame them.
She sang to us in the drawing-room laterin the evening. To my astonishment, the harsh and accent-marredspeaking voice melted into a deep throbbing contralto when she sang. Itwas another spell, another charm. How more than enough some women haveto be sure! And how far too little others!
Mrs. Langrishe is passionately fond of music. She plays, and playswell. But who wanted to hear mere playing, after drinking in thosefull-throbbing passionate notes, and listening to words that weretender enough to wake up the very feelings they described? I don'tknow the name or the words of that song. She used no music, but I doknow that it left a most unholy longing behind it. A longing to lovemadly, wrongly, defiantly, for love alone made life worth living. Itwas after that, when we had all sauntered out on the grassy sward, thatmy melancholy fate took me within hearing distance of those betrayingwords.
I had gone in the house for a lace shawl for Mrs. Langrishe. LadyFfolliott feared neither night dews nor chills. With her lovely neckand milk-white arms bared to the moonlight, she stood just a few yardsbeyond the long French window. The faint light fell on her rich hairand her insolently beautiful face. I stepped lightly out of the window.She was just before me. Beside her stood Dr. Langrishe. He was speaking.
'It is hell, Di,' I heard him say. 'Hell—that you are giving me.'
'Hush-h,' she whispered warningly, as my black dress passed shadow-likeover the grass at her side. But I had heard. I cannot forget. Oh, Iwish to heaven I could.
I have never thought I could act. I have never thought it was in meto be otherwise than blunt, outspoken Nellie Nugent. But to-night hastaught me that it is wiser sometimes to mask feeling than betray it. Inever looked at them when we returned to the house. I talked foolish,frivolous nothings with Charley Blake. I listened to Captain Tivy'slaments over the ill-fortune that had stationed him at Youghal, insteadof Cork, and all the time my brain was throbbing with the memory ofthose overheard words. I heard them echoing through the laughterand the jests. I hear them now. It seems to me I shall always hearthem. . . Do I stand on the threshold of a tragedy? . . the brokenpassion; the fierce despair of James Langrishe's voice haunts me with asudden sense of terror.
'It is hell, Di, hell—that you are giving me!'
That he should call her by her Christian name, which his wifeinnocently used, would not have startled me so much. It might have beenthe result of a moment's forgetfulness, but those reckless words meantsomething more, something worse, something dangerous. I am no studentof character; I cannot read faces as Debbie does; but even I can seethat James Langrishe is a man of fierce temper, strong passions, fierynature—a dangerous man to thwart; a man who would risk everythingto accomplish his wishes, a man whose love would be as terrible ashis hate. When I think of Diana Ffolliott's lovely face and maddeningbeauty, her daring insolence of speech and manner, my heart sinkswithin me. To love such a woman means badly for any man when obstaclesand impediments stand in the way. For such a man as James Langrishe, itwould mean——What I dare not whisper to myself—what I dare not writeeven here.
* * * * * * *
July 16.
A gap of many days in my entries. Let me sum them up in one, and makeit a long one, for I am all alone to-night, and the time hangs heavy onmy hands. The doctor and his wife have gone out somewhere to dine (I donot know the people, they live at Ardmore, or near Ardmore); and willnot be home till late. I am tired of roaming in the grounds, so I havecome up to my own pretty room, and taken out my diary to write it up.
It is no longer a task to me. I begin to like it, and with the likingthe interest grows. Some of its extracts I sent to Debbie in my lastletter. She has not answered it yet, but I know she is very busy. Iknow how little time she can take from her work. This is her last year,too, at that hospital, and she is not likely to spare herself.
But to return. What have I to write since my last entry? Oneconviction, surely rooted in my mind, is that Dr. Langrishe does notlike me. Disguise it as he may, a hundred little things show it me. Onthe other hand, Mrs. Langrishe's attachment deepens every day. We areconstantly together. We drive, or rather I drive her, about the manybeautiful spots surrounding Youghal. We walk in the grounds, we shop inthe town. She has shown me the beautiful old church whose interest ishistorical, and whose existence dates from the thirteenth century. Ihave seen the wonderful tomb of the first Earl of Cork, and the strangegrave in the churchyard where the grass will never grow, and the watergate, and the famous old clock-tower once used as a bridewell. I havewandered in dear Sir Walter Raleigh's house, and sat on the broad oakwindow seat, where he and Spenser may have discussed 'The Faerie Queen.'
Dear, lovely old house, to me sacred as a shrine to the pilgrim'sheart, for Sir Walter is my hero of history! He, at least, knew how tobuild a domicile that had beauty of design. They say he had it built onthe lines of a Devonshire manor house, in honour of his birthplace. Onewonders what brought him to Youghal from his far-off sunny county!
The house is covered thick with ivy and creepers, and bowered inmyrtles, from which it takes its name. It has three pointed gables, anda picturesque porch. The walls are chiefly wainscotted in Irish oak. Inone room was a carved mantel, to which I lost my heart. It rose nearlyto the ceiling. Outside, in the old, old garden, stand a group ofancient yews, the trees from which Youghal takes its name, 'Eochaille,'the yew wood. I could have spent hours in that old house, and deliciousgarden. I saw the place where the first potato was planted in Irishsoil. Little dreamed the planter that one day that homely root would bethe national food; and I saw, too, the very tree under which my herohad smoked his pipe, what time his Irish cook deemed that Old Nick wasat work with her master, on seeing smoke issuing from his nostrils andmouth, and had dashed a bucket of water over him in her terror, cryingout lustily to saint and Virgin for help against the evil one.
To Mrs. Langrishe this is, of course, old ground, and she has beenover and over again to the house and church, and knows the historyof both according to tradition and chronicle, but to me it was allnew and sacred and wonderful, and reconciled me even to the dirty oldtown, with its filth and its smells, and its jumble of queer houses andhovels, their low half-doors polished by generations of leaning elbows.
It is only when I get up on the hilly ground to the west of the townthat I forget its disagreeables. Up there, where part of the old wallsstill stand, one can go back at least a couple of centuries. If stonescould speak, what tales those old walls could tell. Untold interestlurked for me in their ivy-covered towers and turrets and loopholes,and bits of ancient gateways. What sieges they have stood! What battlewaves of blood and terror have broken over and around them! What grantsand rights they held for the town they shielded! What changes ofmonarchy have been rung out and rung in with shouts of joy and blaze ofbonfire! And still they stand, and generations have passed away. Thearms that built and repaired and preserved them are dust, and yet stillthey stand. Wonderful it seems to me, and in the wonder I almost forgetto be critical as I gaze down on the queer jumble of buildings—somemodern, some half-ruined—that form the present town. Heaped pell-mell,all sizes and sorts, hovel and house standing cheek by jowl, theirroofs moss-grown or broken, their walls coloured by time or stucco,cabbage and potato plots, manure heaps and pigsties, ruined cabins andnarrow alleys, and ladder-like lanes that are mere stairways of roughsteps, ancient graveyards and ancient buildings where never sunlightseems to come. Such is Youghal as I view it from its vantage point, thewalls.
But enough of ancient history. I sat down to write of present events,and my pen has run on with a veritable guidebook description of mypresent surroundings. But I cannot help getting interested in a placewhere I live. I watch the pathetic misery of the faces that look outat me from their shrouding shawls, and I look at the poverty-strickencondition of the town, and I wonder if any improvement is possible.
Progress seems to have been abruptly arrested here. 'Don't care' seemsbranded alike on streets and houses and people. On market days, or atcattle fairs, the general gloom is relieved by a considerable amount ofdrunkenness. It is humiliating to watch the long string of ass carts,or 'butts' as they are called, wending their way homewards with aninebriated load, to whom even the eternal 'go an' presents difficultiesof utterance. If it were not for the superior intelligence of thepatient and belaboured little animals I doubt whether their ownerswould ever reach home on these occasions. As it is, I find myselfwondering how much of the profit of pig or sheep or poultry, as thecase may be, is flung away in the public-houses, instead of being keptfor the good of wife and children. I am no politician, heaven knows. Istate merely my own conviction of Ireland and Irish difficulties whenI say that they spring from the inability of the people to provide forany 'to-morrow.'
The present day or hour is all they consider, and the result of suchwisdom is only too evident.
I was saying that Mrs. Langrishe and I are much together. I observeher closely, all the more so because of that dread of which I dare notspeak. I wonder if she thinks she still holds her husband's heart; ifshe ever did hold it, which I doubt. I know that the money is all hers.He has nothing worth speaking of.
She is the daughter of a rich Manchester merchant, now dead. He dividedhis enormous fortune between his two daughters, giving his wife onlya life interest in it. Mrs. Langrishe is generosity itself. She givesher husband an income of his own, as I have discovered, and the wholeexpenses of the establishment are defrayed by her. She is a goodmanager, and not extravagant.
They keep several horses, and they have a closed carriage and privateoutside car, besides the dogcart and pony phaeton. We usually use thelatter for our drives. It is light and convenient, and the pony is asteady safe-going animal such as Mrs. Langrishe loves. She is a highlynervous woman, and is in terror whenever her husband drives her. Heis reckless in the extreme, both riding and driving. No horse is toohigh-mettled for him—a taste that Lady Ffolliott seems to share also.
She has been here twice since that memorable evening. Once she rodeover in the early morning. She looked magnificent on horseback, acoal-black hunter, spirited and mettlesome enough to tax anyone'sskill and nerve; yet to her hand docile as a lamb. Yesterday, again,she was here. She came to afternoon tea, and sat in the cool, prettydrawing-room for nearly an hour, chatting cordially to Mrs. Langrishe,and ignoring me in her usual insolent fashion. I do not like her.
Small wonder at that! Is she not rich, beautiful, triumphant, andpatronising, and, above all, do I not feel she is treacherous? PoorMary Langrishe! She suspects nothing. She is so blind and trustful thatit angers me. And yet, not for worlds would I give a hint that all isnot right. That her husband and her friend are deceiving her.
But, I ask myself with a sort of terror, how long will the blindnesslast, how long will concealment be possible? It is strange to look atthese blank pages and think that a day may come when they will have tobear the burden of a secret whose import none of us can tell—as yet.
* * * * *
Have I said all I have to say? Is there nothing lurking in thebackground? A shadowy dread that I have been putting aside? Let mebe honest and confess it. Before Mrs. Langrishe went out to-night shehad one of those sharp, sudden spasms of pain that I had witnessedat Glengariff. It passed quickly, so quickly that she made light ofit. She would not allow me to breathe a word to her husband, and sheinsisted on dressing and going to this party.
But I don't like it. I am not easy in my mind, forI cannot understandthe cause. There, it is written, and my mind is relieved.
July 17.
Last night it rained heavily, and the morning broke grey and cloudy. Ilooked out at the sodden grass and rain-drenched trees, and a distanthaze that represented the sea. It reminded me somehow of my first dayat Glengariff. Dear, lovely Glengariff! What a happy time I had there.And how long ago it seems. I wonder——
I broke off here. I argued with myself that Dick had no right to aplace in these pages. Perhaps my conscience pricks me for not treatinghim well, but I liked him so much that I didn't want him to make loveto me and spoil everything!
I have heard nothing from him, of course, since we said goodbye atKillarney. I half promised to write, but I have not done so. I thinkI am a bad correspondent. And I prefer to leave our next meeting tochance. 'What is to be will be,' I say to myself. 'I never expectedto meet him in Ireland after parting with him in the ward of a Londonhospital. And yet it happened. In similar fashion, if Fate decrees, ourpaths may cross again. He is good, kind, true, reliable; and I know hecares very much for "little Nurse Nell," as he calls me, but yet myheart is obdurate. I cared once for a man. He treated me badly. I vowedI would never let myself care again. Perhaps it was a foolish vow. Dicktried to persuade me that it was. Ah! dear me——'
Enough of Dick. He has nothing to do with my present life, or theanxieties already hovering about it.
Mrs. Langrishe did not leave her bed this morning.
She said the dinner party had tired her, and they had been caught inthe storm, and it made her nervous. I sat beside her for some time.Then she dropped off to sleep. I did not like her looks at all. Theold, unhealthy pallor had come back to her cheeks and lips. She sleptrestlessly, and her hands and limbs twitched with odd, convulsivemovements that surely 'nerves' alone could not account for. I wasstanding watching her in serious uneasiness when the door softlyopened, and her husband entered.
He came over to my side. 'Ah, she is asleep at last,' he said. 'She hada bad night. The rest will do her good. I am going out now. I thought Iwould just have a look at her first.'
'She is not sleeping naturally,' I said. 'I don't like those convulsivemovements of the muscles.'
As I said it I noticed his lips change. That curious white line I havebefore mentioned came round his lips. He bent over the sleeping womanas if to conceal his altered expression.
'Nonsense,' he said, drawing back again, and speaking in a sharp,subdued fashion. 'You are fanciful, Miss Nugent. This is simply anervous affection. She is a highly nervous woman. She was almosthysterical last night on account of the storm.'
I said nothing. I had no inclination to pit my opinion against his, butall the same, I had my own ideas on the subject.
'Keep the room dark,' he went on, 'and let her sleep as long as shewill. If she wants anything, let her have a little claret and seltzerwater. There is a bottle downstairs, on the sideboard, the brand shelikes.'
He drew out his gloves from his pocket, and fidgetted nervously withthem for a moment.
'She had better remain upstairs to-day,' he went on presently. 'Thequieter she is the better.'
'Very well,' I said, and resumed my seat, and took up some needleworkon which I had been engaged. He went away then, and presently I heardwheels on the gravel drive, and knew he had left the house. For aboutan hour Mrs. Langrishe slept on. Then she awoke with a start and a cryof terror.
'Oh! I have had such a horrible dream, Nell!' she cried pantingly. Hereyes gazed wildly round, and her hand clutched my arm.
I tried to soothe her, but it was no easy task. Presently, however, shelay back on the pillows.
'I can't forget it,' she said, 'someone—I couldn't see the face,but only the hands, a strong, cruel-looking hand, with long, whitefingers—was trying to strangle me. I can almost feel the pressure onmy throat still! And over there, at the foot of the bed, a woman wasstanding, and laughing, and as she laughed she moved away, and I sawher body was that of a gigantic snake, only the head kept turning andlooking at me.'
She shuddered as she lay among the lace-frilled pillows. All theappointments of her room and herself were of the daintiest and mostcostly description. Poor soul! Neither lace, nor satin, nor thedelicate coral-pink colouring which made her bed a thing of beautyand softened the light from the opposite window—nor any of thesethings could make her look aught but a plain, pallid-faced woman,with the stamp of ill-health on her worn brow and sharpened features,and in her dimmed and weary eyes. My heart ached for her. I knewwell that she only wished to set off her own want of attractions bytasteful and becoming surroundings. There was no vanity in the desire,only a longing to please the critical taste that had made her itsyoke-fellow—a longing infinitely pathetic. I did my best to sootheher, but the dream seemed to have taken a strong hold upon her mind andshe could not shake it off.
'It is the effects of the dinner party,' I said, lightly. 'Indigestionand nerves combined. By the way, who was there? Any Yawlishers?'
For so I always called the select society of the neighbourhood.
'Captain Tivy,' she said. 'And the Geraldines, and Di Ffolliott, ofcourse.'
'Does she go everywhere?' I asked.
'Yes, she is our beauty, you know. Our showpiece, as it were. No partywould be complete without her. Her dresses alone are a godsend to thisbenighted place. We should forget there was such a thing as fashion,but for Di's gowns and mantles and bonnets.'
'With all her beauty,' I said, 'I don't envy her. I don't think she isa happy woman.'
'She has lost her husband,' said Mrs. Langrishe, pityingly. 'And shehas no child.'
'Ah, you are too compassionate,' I said. 'Lady Ffolliott is not thewoman to bury her heart in a grave, and as for children—I have heardher say she could not understand any woman spoiling her figure.'
'She often makes strange speeches, Nell. She doesn't really mean them.'
'You are a better champion than she deserves,' I said, somewhatbitterly, for did I not know in my heart that this woman was no friendto my poor invalid.
'Am I?' she said, wearily. 'I don't know. I have been so happy in mymarried life that I can afford to pity wives unblessed, unloved, orwidowed. But there are not many men like my Jim.'
Her Jim! Good heavens! the blindness of women.
Her Jim, whom she believed in and loved; her Jim, whose whole soulcraved another woman. I bit my lips to keep back imprudent words.
She lay there quite still for a few moments, her eyes closed, and asort of smile hovering round her pale lips. I suppose her fond, blindheart was praying for or dwelling upon 'her Jim' and his perfections.
'If you are feeling better,' I said, suddenly, 'I will fetch you someluncheon. It is past one o'clock. Dr. Langrishe left some claret foryou downstairs. He said you were to have it.'
'Did he? He is so thoughtful. Very well, Nell. Tell Hannah to bring upa tray, and you go down and have your own luncheon.'
'I would rather stay here with you,' I said. 'If you don't mind.'
So I went down and gave the orders, and the parlourmaid brought upa luncheon tray on which were cutlets, and chicken, and fruit, andwine, and laid a small table in the window for me, so that I couldtake my own meal and look after my patient as well. She ate a very fewmouthfuls, but drank the claret thirstily. It was a small-sized bottle,holding about three claret glasses. I mixed it with seltzer, and shedeclared it did her good.
'Do take some yourself,' she urged. 'I am rather critical about claret.The are very few brands I like. This is my favourite, and Jim alwaysgets it for me.'
I seldom take wine, but the day was hot, and I was thirsty, so I mixedmyself a tumblerful with the addition of the seltzer and drank it off.
'It is very nice,' I said. 'But I am no judge of wine. I couldn't tellone brand from another.'
She laughed. She seemed in better spirits and stronger. I advised her,however, to remain in bed till the evening.
'You shall get up for dinner,' I said, 'and put on a tea gown and comedown. Tea gowns suit you. I will make you look lovely.'
She looked wistfully at me.
'Ah, Nell,' she said. 'I wish you could. But my day is over. I have nobeauty left. It is not that I am vain. It is not for myself I care—itis——'
I lost all patience, and rang for Hannah to remove the things. I wantedto hear no more of 'her Jim.'
I set the room in order and made her pillows comfortable, and thenoffered to read to her. The rain had ceased, but the sky still lookedgrey and heavy. The room was dusky and very quiet. I was not surprisedthat after a short time the invalid's eyes closed, her breathing grewsoft and subdued—she had fallen asleep again.
I laid down the book. Suddenly, a strange feeling of drowsinessovertook me also. It was so unusual, that I tried to shake it off. Iwalked into the dressing-room, and looked out of the window, but invain did I try to keep my heavy lids open. A sort of dizziness cameover me, and a curious singing noise filled my ears. In some dim way Istruggled across the room to the big Chesterfield couch—reached it,and lay down.
That is all I remember.
It seemed as if I had slept for hours, when the sound of voices,subdued to a whisper, roused me. I was scarcely conscious whether I wasawake or dreaming. With an effort I opened my eyes. The room was nearlydark. The voices came from the adjoining bedroom.
'Quite an enchanted palace,' said one. It was Lady Ffolliott. 'And thesleeping beauty lies beyond. What spell did you breathe on them, Dr.Jim?'
'I suppose,' he said, 'it was the heat, or having nothing to do.'
They were close to the dressing-room door by the sound of their voices.I lay on, languid and inert, with an odd feeling that my heart wasawake but that my body was powerless to move.
'She looks better asleep than awake,' went on Lady Ffolliott. 'But sheis pretty, you know. I never recognised before what an important parteyebrows might play in a woman's life.'
'What on earth do you mean?' he asked.
'Did you ever see so perfect an arch? I envy her that. But we all havea weak point, haven't we?'
'You,' he said, hoarsely, 'have little to complain of, God knows! Youare the most maddeningly beautiful woman I have ever seen.'
'Nonsense,' she said. 'If you were only wise you would see a hundredways in which I could be improved, or in which little Miss Eyebrowsbeats me. That soft colouring, those large, innocent eyes, thoseperfect curved brows. I often think what fools men are. How blindlythey pass by the good, how wilfully they select the bad. That child,Jim, is worth fifty such as I, but you won't believe it.'
'No,' he said, 'I don't like milk and water.'
'Well, I'm not that. I'm more like strong drink Ithink—upsetting—intoxicating—if I am to believe your sex. Eh, Jim?'
'I wish,' he said, 'that no other man might see you or speak to you. Itdrives me mad when I see you coquetting as you do.'
I made an effort to rise, but a waking nightmare seemed to hold me in agrasp from which there was no release.
'I wonder sometimes whether I hate or love you most,' he went on in thesame suppressed hoarse voice. 'Last night I could have killed you. Youallowed that old painted satyr to kiss your hand. You sang to him, orlet him believe so. I—I never got a word or look the whole evening.'
'We must be careful,' she said. 'I don't want people to talk, and youare very reckless, Jim.'
'Reckless!' he said. 'Is it any wonder? Every day, every hour away fromyou is torture.'
'And if,' she said mockingly, 'I were your property, Dr. Jim, everyday, every hour would be torture away from—some other woman.'
'No, no!' he said passionately. 'You wrong me there, Di.'
'Hush-h,' she whispered. 'I think someone is stirring.'
They ceased speaking, but no betraying sound came from the bed whereMrs. Langrishe lay. As for me, the buzzing in my ears began again. Dowhat I would my eyes closed. Dead weights seemed to cling about mylimbs. I tried to speak, to scream; but my tongue seemed paralysed.I heard the soft swish of a dress passing—passing—passing intodistance—the closing of a door.
Then again I slept, or seemed to sleep.
When I awoke from that strange slumber I felt quite myself. I sprangup from the couch and went into the bedroom. Mrs. Langrishe was up andpartly dressed.
'Why, Nell,' she said smiling. 'What a laggard nurse. I looked in, andsaw you were sound asleep. It is six o'clock now.'
'I can't make it out,' I said. 'I never remember doing such a thing assleeping in the afternoon. It must have been the wine. I am not used totaking wine in the daytime. I won't do it again.'
She had seated herself before the mirror on the toilet table, while Iwas speaking, for me to dress her hair. I began to brush its soft, longstrands mechanically. She had beautiful hair in all but colour. I toldher once, laughingly, I would dye it golden, were it mine.
'Mrs. Langrishe,' I said, suddenly; 'was there anyone here in your rooma short time ago?'
'Not to my knowledge,' she said. 'Unless my husband looked in. But Ihave been asleep all the time. Why do you ask? Did you fancy you heardanyone?'
'Yes,' I said; 'I felt certain I did. But perhaps I dreamt it. Ifancied I heard Lady Ffolliott's voice.'
'I will ask Jim,' she said. 'She may have called, and then he would belikely to bring her upstairs to see me. When I was ill before she usedto come every day.'
I finished her hair, and then put her into a tea gown, a lovely, airy,lacy garment, of her favourite pink, shrouded in creamy films ofchiffon and muslin. Then I left her sitting by the open window of herboudoir while I ran off to make my own toilet for dinner.
The bell rang before I had finished. I hurried down, but the doctor andhis wife were already seated. I made a hasty apology, as I declinedsoup. I had never been late for a meal before.
'I must blame you, Dr. Langrishe,' I said. 'For it is really yourfault, or rather the fault of your wine. I broke my usual rule, andtook a glass of your wife's claret at luncheon time. It sent me tosleep for the whole afternoon.'
He was raising a spoonful of clear soup to his lips as I spoke. Itnever reached them. There was a splash in the white cloth; the spoonalmost fell from his hand.
He gave a hurried exclamation, then turned sharply to the waitingparlourmaid and bade her take away his plate. Then he looked at me.
'You are not used to wine,' he said, with a faint sneer. 'I advise youto abstain from it in future if the effect is so strange.'
I felt my face grew crimson. It was his tone more than his words thatannoyed ma. My hot Irish blood boiled in sudden anger at the hatefulinsinuation. Words, imprudent and wrathful, trembled on my tongue, butI caught sight of Mrs. Langrishe's face, and restrained myself. Shelooked so terrified and imploring that I knew she dreaded a scene.While I hesitated, she spoke.
'Indeed, James,' she said, 'the wine did seem stronger than usual. Itsent me to sleep also.'
'You women are so fanciful,' he muttered, pouring out a glass of winefrom the decanter by his side. 'It was only the heat made you drowsy,I suppose. As for you, Mary, it is surprising you slept to-day when younever closed your eyes all last night. Some fish, Miss Nugent?'
I accepted salmon, and held my tongue. I saw the frown deepen on Dr.Langrishe's face. He ate his salmon in silence. Mrs. Langrishe refusedit, and made another attempt at conversation, as unlucky as my own. Sheasked if Lady Ffolliott had been there that afternoon. She fancied shehad heard her voice.
He looked sharply up.
'She called—yes,'—he said, and the white line I had learnt toassociate with any strong emotion on his part showed for a moment ashe spoke. 'I took her up to see you but you were asleep. She wouldn'tdisturb you. She will probably look in to-morrow.'
'Oh, I shall be all right to-morrow,' she said, cheerfully. 'I feel muchbetter. My sleep did me good.'
He shot a sudden, eager glance at her. She met it with one of herfoolish adoring looks. I felt angry, and yet sorry for her. Oh, if onlyI dared open her eyes! I sat on; my own eyes fixed on my plate, thecolour burning hotly in my cheeks.
It was true. I had not dreamt it! Di Ffolliott had been in that room;the words I had heard were their own, dangerous revealing words. Thesecret I had only guessed at was the hateful secret of two guiltyhearts, and the poor wronged, unconscious creature before me was theobstacle to that guilty passion.
I turned sick and faint, as I sat there. For a moment the lights andflowers swam hazily before my eyes. I could see nothing. Even MaryLangrishe's voice sounded miles away.
Then, suddenly, everything grew clear once more. And as my brainsteadied, and my heart beats recovered their normal speed, a resolve,born of that moment's horror, leaped into life. At any cost, at anysacrifice, I must stay here and help this poor, blind, trustful soul.She was so alone, so friendless, and in such peril, too.
God knows I am not suspicious by nature, but I became suspicious inthat moment of terror, and saw plainly that this unloved wife was in acritical position. That her very unconsciousness of peril left her allthe more at the mercy of the man she loved.
Could I possibly help her?
In this quiet hour, as I sit here and write down my terrors andsuspicions, I feel my own helplessness as I never felt it before. Aweak girl, and I must watch and guard this solitary woman, and keepat bay this dangerous man, and hear with insolence and indignity fromthe scornful beauty who has read me aright. She knows I am no false orpretended friend to Mary Langrishe. She knows I will keep her at bay ifit is possible to do it.
How all my foolish jests come back to me to-night! How clearly Iremember the very words I spoke to Geoffrey Masterman respecting thisvery diary. 'If I thought life would get dramatic I should begin toput down its incidents at once,' I had said. And heaven knows there isdrama enough unfolding itself here under this roof. More than I everwanted, or ever bargained for.
Am I too imaginative? Are my suspicions too readily awakened? I hopenot. In any case, they will be locked up here, safe and sound. No eyeshall see them. I will not breathe them even to Deborah Gray. All thesame, they are a heavy and a hateful burden. I would give a great dealto whisper them to safe, honest ears, were such at hand—to someone whowould say they were unwise, untrue, unworthy of 'little nurse Nell.'
* * * * * *
12 o'clock.
I come back again to these pages. I cannot sleep. I cannot rest. Anhour ago I put out my light, but I have left my bed and been hangingout of the window for most of the time. It is a hot, misty night. Thesky is dull, save for a few stars gleaming among black clouds. Theflowers in the beds are drooping and broken after the heavy rain. Theair oppresses me. I feel stifled.
* * * * * *
I have stated that my room does not face the sea, though it has a sideglimpse of it. It overlooks the garden and a small stone building,which I at first took for a tool-house or outhouse of some kind,until I learnt accidentally that it was a sort of dispensary of Dr.Langrishe's, where he kept drugs and specimens and dissected horriblethings that were brought to him or procured by him, in the interests ofscience. It was lighted by one small window, and always kept locked. Ihad never seen him enter it, but then I was not in the habit of hangingout of my window in the fashion of to-night.
My light, as I said, was extinguished. As I stood there, gazing outover the dark misty grounds, I saw a sudden streak of light shine outfrom the gloom. Naturally, my eyes followed its direction. It camefrom the little stone building. I could see in through the uncurtainedwindow, but only a small portion of the interior was visible—a row ofshelves containing bottles. As, half-curiously, I watched that light, ashadow came between me and the shelves; an arm stretched upwards. I sawthe black coat sleeve, the white cuff, the long, slender fingers I knewso well. A bottle was taken down; the shadow moved again. Then, oncemore, the arm and hand came into light. The bottle was replaced on theshelf.
It is evident I am not the only sleepless person at Knockminossto-night. But surely midnight is an odd time for the doctor to visit hisdispensary and prepare his medicines.
12.30.
The light is out now. In the deep silence everywhere I heard the soundof a locked door, then a step crossing the gravel. He must have come in.
How late he sits up. I wonder if Mrs. Langrishe is asleep? She went toher room at 10 o'clock. She has been alone all the time. I wish I daredcross the passage and ask her if all is well.
I am afraid I am getting nervous and unsettled. It will never do. Oh,for Debbie's good, steady head and clear common sense. I feel such anunreliable little fool! . . .
July 24.
Another week has passed, and my fears are lulled to rest. At least,nothing has occurred to waken them again. Mrs. Langrishe is muchbetter. We have been out almost every day. We have seen nothing ofLady Ffolliott. She has gone to Cork for a week, so I hear. Dr.Langrishe has been very busy—over a scientific experiment, he says. Itnecessitated hours spent in that curious building, and also a visit toCork for some special drug not to be obtained in this benighted town.(He has been away two days and nights. I draw my own conclusions, and Ileave my confidante here to do the same.)
Mrs. Langrishe and I are quite happy together. She has told me a greatdeal about her early life, her marriage, her impressions of Irelandand the Irish (not very flattering to either, but full of good commonsense). In fact, we have become as confidential as two women solelydependent on each other for society and amusement are bound to becomein a limited time.
Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, I go for a spin on my bicycle.On one occasion I met Charley Blake. He is a good-looking talkativeyouth, with the usual importance of the newly-fledged military, and theusual Irish tendency to gossip. He seemed surprised that I could standthe dullness of Knockminoss, and abused Youghal heartily, and withreason. Yet I am dimly conscious of a growing fondness for the place.The season has just begun, so I avoid the sea front, for excursionsblock the strand with trippers, and the sea is a sight to make oneshudder, with its crowds of ungainly females, in the most primitive andunsightly of garments—the long, shapeless gown, high in the neck, andflowing to the heels, and guiltless of waistbelt, which the uneducatedBritish bather believes in as appropriate for dips.
The seaside arrangements of Youghal are primitive in the extreme.Bathing boxes for public use are unknown. So the fair bathers unclothethemselves unabashed under the avails of the promenade, and trip to thebriny deep apparelled as I have described, and dip and duck, and screamand laugh, with supreme disregard of spectators.
If Youghal could only be taken in hand by an enterprising Englishsyndicate, what wonders might be worked! Its fine position andbracing air are God-given blessings that only need to be known tobe appreciated; but, alas! alas! like many of the beautiful andpicturesque spots of my unfortunate country, it is neglected, abused,and hampered on all sides by the indifference or the ignorance of theinhabitants.
As I said before, Mary Langrishe and I give a wide berth to the Strandon excursion days. We hear of good 'lets,' and of manifold visitors,but they interest us not one whit. We take our drives through thebeautiful country, or along the road by the Blackwater. We go to prettyArdmore, and to the quaint historic ruins of Temple Michael, once astronghold of the Geraldines, and taken from them by that ubiquitouspersonage, Cromwell. And sometimes, in the cool of the evening, wedrive near to the old walls, or walk to my favourite point, lookingdown on the pell-mell mass of crowded roofs and ruins which make up thetown. The blue river parts the harbour from the land, shelving softlyto the base of purple hills and bare mountains.
It is like a bit of ancient history up there. One can well believe whatstirring scenes and times Youghal has seen since it emerged into thelight of the sixth century; since Paganism and Christianity fought forits possession, since Dane and Norwegian besieged and plundered it, andthe Anglo-Norman settlers built its walls, and monks and friars foundedits abbeys. Up there, on those old walled heights, one reads itshistory best; below, in the modern jumble that civilisation has made ofit, one only recognises how much it lacks.
Mrs. Langrishe has planned an excursion to Lismore, and another toCappoquin, to inspect the famous Mount Melleray, founded by a communityof monks of the order of La Trappe. But both these mean a day, and along day too, so I do not urge it very strongly. There is time enough,I say. The summer is at its height. We will wait till the weather getscooler.
'I shall be glad when it does,' she said to-night, as we sat out onthe broad grass plot, which is like, and yet unlike, a lawn. 'The heattries me. I am never well in the hot weather. I sleep badly, and when Isleep badly I feel a wreck the next day.'
'But you are feeling better,' I said, anxiously. 'Better and strongerthan last week?'
'Oh, yes,' she said, cheerfully. 'Ever so much better. That pain doesnot trouble me at all.'
Dr. Langrishe had been away two days. She had half expected he wouldreturn to-night. But the eight o'clock train had long been in, andthere was no sign of him. No conveyance had been sent to meet him, byhis own request. He would have taken a car from the station and come upby the Bog road, had he arrived. I saw Mrs. Langrishe was anxious andexpectant. She had put off dinner, and arranged a nine o'clock supperin its place. It was evident we would have to partake of it ourselves.
As we sat there, the lovely evening light on the trees and the broad,blue sea shining in the distance, I heard a step coming along thegravel drive. I looked hastily round, and saw the old woman from thelodge approaching. She had something in her hand. A telegram.
She came up to Mrs. Langrishe and dropped a curtsey.
'I've brought up this, ma'am,' she said. 'A boy was after coming upfrom the station with it. I said I'd take it ye.'
Mrs. Langrishe tore it open. An expression of disappointment shadowedher face. She handed it to me. It was from the doctor.
'Detained—returning to-morrow.'
That was all it said. I made no remark.
'It's all right, Molly,' said Mrs. Langrishe. 'It was from the master.Will you go into the kitchen and have something after your walk?'
'No, thank ye kindly, ma'am. It's not that bit av a walk wud hurt me.'She looked restlessly about, and I saw her arms twitching under herapron. 'There's no bad news, ma'am, I hope? Is the master coming home,maybe?'
'Not to-night, Molly. He is detained in Cork. He will return to-morrow.'
'To-morrow is it? Ah thin, good luck to him. 'Tis lonesome widout him,ye are, ma'am. I'm sure o' that.'
'Not so lonely as I used to be, Molly,' said Mrs. Langrishe, with alook at me. 'I have a friend to cheer me up now, you know.'
'Ah, thin that's thrue for ye, ma'am. An' good company she'll be, too,from the looks av her. Well, good-night an' God bless ye both. I'm gladMister James is returning soon. There's a poor soul bad wid favver downat Micky Donovan's farm. It's not far. They sint the boy Paddy up toask wud the master come down. I'll be after telling him it's not homehe is yet. To-morrow, maybe, he'd give a look at her.'
'She had better send to the dispensary,' said Mrs. Langrishe. 'Fever isnot to be trifled with.'
Then with another curtsey and some muttered words, Moll Duggan tookherself off.
'What a queer old thing she is,' I remarked, as the old womandisappeared down the avenue.
Mrs. Langrishe was lying back in her cushioned basket-chair, slowlyfolding and unfolding the telegram she had received.
'Yes,' she said, somewhat absently, 'she is. She was an old servantin my husband's family, and when he took this house he put her in thelodge. She has had some troubles of her own, poor old soul. A son,suspected of knowing a good deal about dynamite plots a few years ago,and a daughter who went to the bad, a lovely girl. She ran away fromhome, and poor old Moll was quite off her head for a time. No one hasheard anything of the girl since.'
I remembered, then, how oddly the woman had behaved when I spoke toher that morning at the lodge. Unwittingly I had touched upon delicateground.
'There are so many of those stories,' I said, presently. 'It is verysad. And it is always the woman who has the worst of it. I think it isa shame.'
'All women think that,' she said. 'It is an unfair battle. The strongagainst the weak. But you see there is no halfway for a woman. Her roadhas been marked out and she must keep it, or suffer the consequences.'
'Yet we are expected to forgive men for worse sins than just that oneslip, which youth or ignorance or temptation has brought about.'
'Dear Nell,' she said gently. 'What is the use of rebelling? It can'talter that unwritten law. The soul that sins must suffer for its sin.Every day we live points out that fact.'
'Do you think,' I asked her, 'that you would forgive a man who hadsinned against you?'
She turned very white.
'I should try,' she said. 'One can never measure the strength ofanother's temptation by one's own power of resistance. And men are notfaithful by nature, as we are.'
'I am sure of that,' I said, bitterly, remembering my own experience,and my present discovery. 'Oh, I wonder why we can't be enough forourselves—we women. Men only spoil our lives the moment we give themplace or part in them.'
'Ah, Nell,' she said, folding out the crumpled paper, and laying it onher lap, 'when you love you will not care very much whether your lifeis spoilt or not. You will only think it is worth the living at last.It will seem to you so wonderful that among all the world of womenone man—the one man—should have stooped and chosen you and made youmistress of his heart and home.'
A smile played round her lips. The happy, trustful smile of a trustingwoman. It angered me to see it, but it would have been cruel to disturbher peace of mind. 'Mistress of his heart and home. That was what shehad said; what she believed. And he had only married her for her money.He cared nothing for herself, or her failing health, or her adoringworship. He only coveted the forbidden beauty of an unprincipled woman!'
A silence fell between us after that last speech of hers, I think shewas away in the past, dreaming perhaps of those girlish days whenshe and Jim had met, when the spell of his handsome face had beensufficient to blind her to all else, even to the fact that it was herwealth he coveted—not herself.
She turned to me at last and laid her thin cold hand on mine.
'Nell,' she said, 'if I can read faces aright, I know you have a loverworthy of all your trust—of all your heart. I should like to think youwould make him happy one day. I—I fancied, somehow, at Glengariff youwere not very kind. Believe me, child, it is not given to every womanto be loved worthily or well, just for her own sake; but he loves youvery deeply. Has he not told you so?'
'If you mean has he proposed—certainly not,' I answered. 'Nor do Iwish it. I like him very much, but that is all. And I don't wish tomarry. I believe there are other duties and interests for a woman thanyoking herself to a man and putting up with him as long as they bothshall live!'
'Ah,' she said, with a sudden little catch in her breath. 'That soundssolemn, doesn't it? It makes one think of—of the afterwards, Nell. Ifone was sure, quite, quite sure that the barrier of death would only bea temporary barrier. That, again one would meet, and love, and cling tothat other who is left behind—here?'
Her voice broke. I saw her lips quiver, and suddenly the tears brokeforth and streamed down her white, thin face. She made no attempt todisguise them. She sobbed helplessly like a child.
'Nell,' she said. 'Nell, I know my fate so well. It is I who will haveto wait for him beyond the barrier. Will he remember, will he care,will he ever come to me again?'
I rose from my seat. I could not bear it.
'Oh, hush—hush,' I said, 'this will never do. You are getting morbidand fanciful. I cannot allow it. It is an indulgence I only permit toreal invalids. You are only a sham, you know.'
She rose and slipped her cold thin hand within my arm. How warm andplump and solid I felt beside her. In her white gown, and with hertall, slight figure and delicate face outlined by the clear, fullmoonlight, she looked strangely frail and shadowy. I drew her arm closeto my side, and walked her off into the house.
'You want some food,' I said briskly. 'And a good glass of wine. Thatis what is the matter with you!'
And I turned to the sideboard, to conceal my own eyes. They were moreself-betraying than my voice.
July 30.
The doctor came back again a few days ago, but Lady Ffolliott is stillabsent. I have had nothing worthy of note to put down in my diary savea letter from Debbie, rather a brief one. She thanks me for my longletter, and is glad to hear I have taken her advice and am keepingnotes of my case.
She mentions that Dick Barrymore's book is out and making a sensationin town, and encloses a review on it from some critical journal. If Iwish, she'll buy it for me, as, of course, there is little chance of itgetting to Youghal or even to Cork for a good six months or longer. Weare as badly off for literature as for most good things. I have writtenher to send me the book. I can spare 6s. now for what would have meanta luxury a few months ago.
It is not given to every girl to get £100 a year as nurse-companion!Mrs. Langrishe is a most generous woman. She is always making mepresents—gloves, laces, sunshades, all sorts of useful and prettyfripperies. Her health is still uncertain, but there is nothing to begravely anxious about. The great heat is trying, and she is not able tobathe in the sea every day as I do.
The doctor has returned in a gloomy, unsettled state of mind. He is upvery late at night at his scientific work, so late that he has ordereda bed to be made up for himself in his dressing-room. He does not wishto disturb his wife, he says, and she is at all times a bad sleeper.
The days pass quietly and monotonously. A few callers drive up now andthen, but Mrs. Langrishe excuses herself from seeing them. She is notwell enough, she says. Even our drives have been discontinued.
I have just finished Dick's book. It is delightful. Brilliant, causticin style, finely written, and well worked out. A book to remember. Abook to be glad one has read. I feel a higher respect for him thanever. I wonder how I had the courage to be so flippant and carelesswhen I was with him. There is an undercurrent of sadness in the bookthat tells of his own many heartaches. He calls it 'The Fruit ofExperience,' and very bitter and unpalatable fruit it seems. I havetaken to reading it out to Mrs. Langrishe. She is delighted with it,and begs me to pass it on to the doctor when I have finished.
'Does he care for novels?' I asked.
'Oh, yes. When he has the time to read them. He has a very queercollection of books in his own case—Dumas, Eugene Sue, Albert Smith,Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Reade, and ever so many more modern authors.Whenever you want anything to read, you must ask him to lend you someof his private store. The library, of course, is all solid standardreading—Thackeray, Dickens, Scott, Lytton, Macaulay, Balzac—more thanI can remember, often as I have arranged and catalogued them.'
'I have read the titles, often,' I said. 'But the cases were alwayslocked. I did not like to ask for any books.'
'What nonsense, child,' she said. 'Are you not at home enough yet toask for what you want here.'
'I am a bashful, retiring sort of person,' I said, laughing, 'and I wasafraid to ask for the loan of any of those splendid-looking volumes.'
'You are quite welcome to any of them,' she said. 'But I think you willfind Jim's collection more amusing. I will ask him to bring you some.'
'Oh, no. Don't trouble him,' I said. 'I will look over the shelf formyself, when he is out of the way, if you will let me choose one ortwo.'
'Very well,' she said. 'We will make a raid on his study to-day.'
* * * * * *
We made 'the raid' that very afternoon, when the doctor was out. It wasthe first time I had been in the consulting-room, or rather study, forno patient had ever called at the house while I had been there.
It was a small, rather gloomy-looking room. A large writing table,containing many drawers, and loaded with books and papers, stood inthe window, which was draped with dull-coloured velvet curtains.A comfortable chair, on a movable swivel, stood in the knee-holeof the table. A couch was on one side of the wall, and a few plainleather chairs. The bookcase was a mahogany one. The doors were shut,so Mrs. Langrishe had to open them. The key was in the lock. I sawthree shelves, closely packed with volumes. Of that number the topone contained medical works, old Bradshaws, and foreign guide books;the other two were crammed with 'yellow backs,' and the familiar'Railway Library.' Here, indeed, was literature of all sorts—spicy,sensational, horrible. An odd collection, it seemed to me, for amedical man. 'Paul Ferrol' was side by side with 'The Scarlet Letters''Monte Christo' and the 'Three Musketeers' shovelled the 'Marchionesof Brinvilliers' into a corner. The 'Wandering Jew' and 'The Mysteriesof Paris,' 'The Crimes of London,' 'Eugene Aram,' 'Clever Criminals,''The Night Side of Nature,' and scores of others, were ranged withsome dozen of Marryat's and Mayne Reid's, and Jules Verne's series. Afew translations of Zola's worst, and a few untranslated modern Frenchnovels, completed the collection.
Mrs. Langrishe seated herself on the chair by the writing table asI examined the contents of the shelves. I took the 'Marchioness ofBrinvilliers' out of its place, and began turning over the leaves. AsI did so a paper fell out and fluttered to the ground. I stooped andpicked it up. It was a small scrap of ordinary notepaper. On it weretraced some words, and the usual hieroglyphics one sees in a doctor'sprescription. The curiosity of my profession impelled me to decipherthe Latin terms. It was a curious prescription. The ingredients wereonly three. Of one of the drugs I was entirely ignorant, but the onefollowing it was arsenic, and parallel with its name was its prescribedquantity. It did not concern me, so I replaced it between the pagesfrom whence it had dropped. My fingers still held the book open atthe same place. My eyes glanced down the printed lines.
It struck meas odd that the very page from whence the paper had dropped containeda passage describing the symptoms and nature of the same poisonousmineral. I had never read the book, so I put it quickly on one side,and went on with my investigations.
The next work I selected was theghastly 'Paul Ferrol.' Then I gave a glance up at the top shelf,containing the medical books. They were rather high up, so I fetcheda chair and stood upon it, and then commenced to read the titles.Without exception every volume related to the treatment or natureof mineral and vegetable poison!
It struck me as somewhat strange, thisuniformity of subject. But then, doctors had curious leanings towardsone special sort of disease and its treatment. I knew that well enoughfrom my brief hospital experience. One would be mad about 'germs,' andanother about surgical treatment; one only cared to treat infectiousdiseases, another approved of cardiac or spinal affections, and so on.Perhaps Dr. Langrishe had also his professional weakness. It was not anagreeable one, I thought, but it accounted for the rats and rabbits Ihad seen taken into his dispensary; the hours spent in researches. Hewas writing a scientific work on the nature of certain drugs, so he hadsaid. I suppose it was a book on poisons he was compiling. I selectedthe two books I have mentioned, and then Mrs. Langrishe relocked thecase.
'What an odd choice you have made,' she said. '"Paul Ferrol," I havenever read that, I believe, but I have heard of it.'
'I hope,' I said, 'Dr. Langrishe won't mind my taking these volumesaway. You must tell him I had your permission.'
'Of course. He never minds my taking the novels. It is only the medicalbooks he won't have tampered with.'
We left the room then, and she went up to the boudoir. It was too hotfor her to go out, so she lay down on the couch. I, however, betookmyself to the grounds, and under the shade of a huge old oak tree Iplaced my basket chair and began to read the history of the famouspoisoner, Mario of Brinvilliers. It had a curious, horrible fascinationfor me. As I read on, I grew so absorbed that I forgot all about thetime. The sound of a footstep aroused me at last. A shadow fell acrossthe page. I looked hastily up, and saw Dr. Langrishe.
'How absorbed you were,' he said. Then glancing round he asked, 'Whereis my wife?'
'In her own room,' I said. 'It was so hot she wouldn't come out.'
I closed the book. The picture on the cover was uppermost. His eye fellon it.
'Where did you come across that book?' he asked sharply.
'Mrs. Langrishe gave me permission to select one or two from your bookcase,' I said. 'I hope you don't mind.'
'Mind, of course not!' He had a riding whip in his hand, and as hespoke he switched the grasses right and left. 'Why should I mind?' hewent on abruptly. 'The books are a curious jumble, a job lot boughtat sales or second-hand shops. You have made a queer choice, though,'and he glanced again at the picture of the beautiful horror, with hervelvet mask and her feathery ringlets.
'Yes,' I answered. 'I suppose it is queer, but then I am interestedin poisons. By the way,' and I turned the leaves rapidly back till Icame to the slip of paper. I think there is something of yours here. Aprescription, is it not?'
As I handed it to him I looked up straight into his face. If ever I sawfear—ghastly, awful fear—in any human creature's face, I saw it then.All the blood seemed to forsake his cheeks and lips. He made a suddensnatch at the little scrap of paper, and stood holding it, or rathercrushing it, in his ungloved hand, while his eyes searched my face.
'Once for all, Miss Nugent,' he said, in a savage, low voice thatstartled me, 'I warn you I will have no spies listening and prying intomy concerns. It's not the first time that——'
He stopped abruptly. I had sprung to my feet and faced him there insuch astonishment and indignation that I think it brought him to hissenses. He raised his hand to his brow, and swept the dark hair back.
'I beg your pardon, I forgot myself,' he stammered. 'I am an irritableman, especially where professional matters are concerned. I hate anyoneto meddle with my books and papers.'
'I shall never do so again. You may be sure,' I said, coldly, thoughrage was boiling within me. 'Your wife opened your bookcase, and toldme to select any works I pleased. I will return them immediately. Itwas no fault of mine if a mislaid prescription was hidden in one ofthem.'
'Hidden?' he said, fiercely. 'That's another accusation. What do youmean?'
'I mean that you are the worst-tempered man it has been my lot tomeet,' I thought to myself, but prudence forbade such an expression ofopinion.
'I mean nothing, Dr. Langrishe,' I said, icily. 'Except that I am at aloss to understand your anger. It seems to me quite uncalled for.'
He turned abruptly away and went into the house, leaving me standingthere.
* * * * * *
I have returned the books by Hannah, the parlourmaid. She took them tohis consulting-room, and tells me she handed them to him with 'MissNugent's compliments.'
During dinner, Dr. Langrishe never addressed a word to me, and even tohis wife he was brusque and uncommunicative.
I saw she looked nervous and disturbed. We talked inanecommon-places—the weather, the fishing, the forthcoming amateurconcert in aid of the schools. It was hard work, but I seconded hermanfully.
Dinner was nearly over, when she made a remark that again seemed todisturb her husband's temper.
'By-the-bye, Jim,' she said. 'Did you ever go to see that poor girl atDonovan's farm? Molly Duggan told me she was bad with the fever. I hopeit is not the same sort of fever we had here three years ago.'
He drank off his glass of wine before he answered her.
'I have seen the girl,' he said, shortly. 'She is dead.'
'Dead! Oh, poor thing. She was such a pretty girl, and so young!'exclaimed his wife. 'I had no idea she was so ill, or I would have goneto see her.'
'I should advise you not to go near the place,' he said, shortly. 'Thefever is infectious. There's a good deal of it about. In your state ofhealth——'
He paused abruptly, poured out another glass of wine, anddrained it off. 'If it's going to be an epidemic like the last,' hewent on, 'I shall pack you off somewhere.'
'But we are so far from the town, dear,' she pleaded, 'and I'll not gothere at all if you think it unwise. Please don't talk of sending meaway. I hate to leave home.'
'You women always do hate the thing that's best for you,' he said,rudely.
'When did Eily Donovan die, Jim?' she asked presently, as if to changethe subject.
'When?' His frowning brows met angrily. 'Yesterday; no, to-day. Whatdoes it matter when? I've seen half a dozen similar cases to-day, moreor less serious.'
'No wonder you are tired and worried,' she said, soothingly, as sherose from the table. 'Shall I send your coffee in here, Jim, or willyou take it in the drawing-room with us?'
'Send it in here,' he said, abruptly, 'or no—let Hannah take it intothe consulting-room. I have some work to do.'
I passed quietly out of the door. I saw she wanted to linger there fora last word. So I left them. I went into the drawing-room. The windowswere open, a lamp with a large yellow shade stood in one corner, andthrew a soft, delicious light over the delicate colouring of the room,the tapestried lounges, the stands of palms and ferns, and bowls offlowers. The grand piano was open. A book of Chopin's nocturnes stoodon the carved stand. I seated myself at the instrument, and began toplay. I was but a poor musician in comparison with Mrs. Langrishe. Icould only play Irish melodies and a few old waltzes, but she declaredshe loved to hear them. As the sad old rhythm of 'Loved and Lost' roseand fell in the quiet room, she stole softly in and took the low chairby the window.
'Go on,' she said, as I half turned. 'I love that air. It just suitsthe scene to-night. What is there about waltz music that is so haunting,so sad, so full of memories?'
I went on playing. I could see her as she sat there, with the moonlighton her soft black draperies, her fair hair and sad, pale face—sadderand paler than ever it looked in that faint light.
'I can't forgot that poor girl,' she said at last. 'So young, sopretty. Such a bright, merry little soul, Nell, and now—dead. She usedto run up here with messages, or drive the donkey-cart with vegetablesto the town. She was but sixteen. I have known her ever since I livedhere.'
There came a knock at the door, and the parlourmaid entered.
'If you please, ma'am,' she said, 'there's Polly Donovan without,sister of poor Eily that died this morning. She's after asking for afew flowers. May I give them to her?'
'Of course, Hannah. Stay, I'll go and pick them myself. Where is thegirl?'
'In the back, ma'am, waiting by the kitchen garden.'
She rose. I also left the piano.
'Wait a moment,' I urged. 'Is this wise? Remember, the girl has comedirect from the infected house. Remember what your husband said? Youare not strong enough to run risks. Let me go and pick the flowers.'
She stood as if undecided.
'I'm sure there is no fear, Nell,' she said. 'Besides, the risk is asgreat for you as for me. Why should you go if I am not to?'
'Oh, doctors and nurses never catch anything,' I said lightly.'Besides, I am well and strong, and you are not. Stop here and drinkyour coffee. I'll be back in a moment.'
I put my arm lightly round her, and seated her in the chair once more.Then I went off to the garden. A bare-headed, tidily-dressed girl ofabout twelve years of age was waiting at the gate. Her eyes were redand swollen with crying.
'I will give you some flowers,' I said. 'Come in here. We are so sorryabout your poor sister. I thought she was getting better?'
'So she was, miss. We all thought she was mending grand. And thedoctor, he said so too, an' thin sudden-like she took a turn for theworse. 'Twas after takin' the new medicine that was, she begun to besick in her stomach, miss, an' we saw it was all over, and we sint forthe priest, an' then—God rest her sowl—she's gone to glory now, an'we're the sorrowful creatures at home this night.'
'Did Dr. Langrishe see her?' I asked, beginning to cut some whitestocks and dahlias and tall, white marguerites as I spoke.
'Shure an' he did, miss. We had something from the dispensary first,but no doctor came out. 'Tis a long ways, miss, from the town, an' whinmother heard the master was back she asked him to look in and see Eily.She was on the mend, thin, miss. An' he said she'd get over it. An'thin he brought some new medicine for her, an' after a while she gotbad agin. Ah well,' and she wiped her eyes with her print apron, 'it'sall over now, miss, an' 'tis wakin' her we'll be to-night, an' lovelyshe looks, miss. White, an' beautiful, an' sweet, jist like an angel ina picture. God bless her.'
I had been gathering flowers while she talked, as many white as Icould find, then some pink roses and sweetpea, and the feathery greenof asparagus tops. She held out her apron, and I laid them in, looseas they were. Just as I had done this, I heard the gate between thekitchen garden and flower garden swing open, and saw Dr. Langrishe'stall figure approach.
He came quickly towards us.
'Oh, Molly,' he said, 'I thought I saw you pass my window. What's thatyou came for—flowers?'
'It is, yer honour.' She dropped a curtsey, holding her nearly filledapron carefully the while.
''Tis for poor Eily, I come for them,' she went on.
'It's all right. You can have as many as you wish. Look here, this isthe paper, the certificate I promised your mother. Give it her whenyou get home. Be careful, now, don't lose it. The death has to beregistered. See they attend to it.'
He handed her a sealed envelope, and she put it in the bosom of hergown. He never addressed a word to me, but stood there as if waitingfor the girl to go. She curtsied again, bade us good evening, and thenwalked away, holding the flowers carefully in her apron.
I followed her silently, and he accompanied me. When we reached thegate I bade her good night, and she turned off down a path leading tothe back entrance.
Then Dr. Langrishe spoke.
'I suppose,' he said, 'I offended you this afternoon. I judge as muchby your sending back my books. Pray forgive me, I was vexed, disturbed.I had been sorely tried all day, and I'm a bad-tempered man.'
'Pray say no more,' I exclaimed. 'I can quite understand your notliking your books to be meddled with. But you may be sure I would nothave touched them without your wife's permission, as I told you. Butshe seemed to think you would not object.'
'Of course not,' he said. 'Of course not. Pray think no more about it.My wife has taken you to her heart; her friends are my friends. Let usforget that little outburst. Go to my room when you wish, take whatbooks you please, so long as you return them, and don't contrast theill-tempered brute of a husband too unfavourably with the amiable andfriendly wife.'
I confess I was astonished at such words. But I had secret misgivingsas to their real meaning. I did not like this very sudden change. Icouldn't understand why, from open discourtesy, he had veered round toapologetic friendliness. There was no reason for it. I felt convincedhe had no warmer feeling for me than during the whole time of ouracquaintance, but he wished me to believe he had.
Well, the conversation, and the incident leading to it, are put downhere for what they are worth. Time perhaps may throw some light uponthem.
* * * * * *
I found Mrs. Langrishe still sitting at the open window when Ireturned. She handed me my coffee, and I stood there beside herdrinking it and looking out at the sloping green lawn and the blue,unrippled sea, dotted here and there with fishing boats.
'What are you thinking of?' she asked.
'They are going to "wake" that girl to-night,' I said. 'I would give agood deal to be able to see the ceremony.'
'Would you really? I don't think you would find it interesting. Wakesnowadays are not what they were in Carleton's time. Nor would you findthe Shaughraun business likely to happen. The priests are very muchagainst "waking." They try to persuade the people to send the body tothe chapel, but the old prejudices are hard to uproot. And are theyreally going to have one for poor Eily?'
'So her sister said. Do you think I might get in as an unknownspectator?'
'You could, of course, but I don't think it would be wise, especiallyif there are any "fever germs" about.'
'I don't mind that risk,' I said. 'As I told you before, I never catchanything.'
'But these Irish hovels and cottages are different—close, dirty,unventilated. I never knew a people who so rigorously objected to freshair, pure water, and cleanliness.'
'Youghal is certainly a very dirty place,' I observed. 'And the shops,with the exception perhaps of the drapers' and the big store, are adisgrace. Isn't there anyone in charge, local board, commissioners,magistrates, who could improve matters?'
'I suppose they think they have done enough. They have made theBlackwater navigable, and passed a Drainage Act, and protected thesalmon fishery, and there is a poorhouse, and an infirmary, and gasworks, and a savings bank. What more would you want in an Irish town,so old and unimportant?'
'It used to be important once.'
'Ah yes, my dear. But Ireland is very different now.'
'But to return to the wake?' I said. 'It has occurred to me that MollDuggan might be going.'
'Might! My dear child, she'd get up from her own death-bed to go. Nofestive gathering in the world can compare in the Irish mind with theglorious excitement of a wake, or a funeral.'
'I know that,' I said. 'Although, of course, in Dublin——'
'Ah, yes, Dublin is different. It has advanced a little with the times,but don't compare Youghal to the capital.'
'I know nothing to which I could compare it,' I said, laughing. 'Andyet it might be made so beautiful and so popular.'
'Have you made up your mind to go, Nell?' she asked presently.'Because, if so, I should advise you to take Moll Duggan with you asa chaperone, and put on your plainest gown, and a bonnet, if you haveone. I am sure you will find it a wretched business, and be sorry youwent; but if you are bent upon it——'
'I think I am,' I said, 'and I'll take your advice, and go in under theshelter of Moll Duggan's wing.'
I laughed softly to myself. An idea had entered my head. I said nothingto her, but went upstairs to my room, and put on the dress, cloak,and bonnet of the nursing sisters. They were of a dark, neutral tint,and the bonnet had the usual long veil and white strings. I came downsoftly and walked across the hall. As I reached the drawing-room, thedoor of the consulting-room was suddenly opened, and Dr. Langrishe cameout. I stood still, the handle in my hand. He was half way towards mebefore he remarked my presence. Then he started.
'Good heavens,' he cried. 'What's this?'
'It's only me,' I said. 'Didn't you know me in my professional getup?'
'No. . . . It startled me at first. I couldn't——But what on earthhave you dressed up like that for?'
'I am going to an Irish wake,' I said, 'for the first time, and I wantto look unremarkable.'
'Do you fancy you dothat?' he asked.
There was a curious look in his eyes that I did not like. I made noanswer, but walked into the drawing-room. He followed.
Mrs. Langrishe gave a little cry of surprise. I had dressed once forher in the old lilac gown and cap and apron, but she had never seen mein my outdoor uniform.
'Why, Nell!' she exclaimed, and then her face grew suddenly white.'Why did you put that dress on,' she said in a distressed, broken way.'It seems like an evil omen. I don't like it. When you came into theroom——'
'I am so sorry,' I said; 'I never thought you would mind. You told meto put on something very quiet.'
'What nonsense you are talking, Mary,' said Dr. Langrishe. 'I thinkit is a very suitable costume for Miss Nugent. It is certainly mostbecoming,' he added, with another of those odd looks. 'But what is theidea of going to this wake? You are Irish yourself, and it can have nonovelty for you?'
'That is just what it has,' I said. 'I have never seen one, and I amanxious to do so.'
'I can't applaud your taste,' he said. 'A lot of noisy, raggedcreatures, huddled in one room, drinking whisky, and shouting andsinging, and moaning and crying. It is the nearest approach toPandemonium that I can imagine.'
I was drawing on my gloves. I made no observation.
'Are you going by yourself?' he asked, suddenly.
'No,' I said, 'with Moll Duggan; if she'll take me, that is to say.'
'Moll Duggan?' His brow darkened, and he turned towards the window.
'You choose odd company,' he said.
I met Moll Duggan just locking her door, dressed in her long Irishcloak, which, summer or winter, is the out-of-door attire of theIrishwoman when she can afford it. When she cannot, she contentsherself with a shawl drawn over her head. The old woman started whenshe saw me.
'Glory be to God, who is it?' she exclaimed, and crossed herselfhurriedly.
'Why, don't you know me, Molly?' I said.
'Ah, miss, so 'tis you it is. What's come to ye at all? I thought yewas a ghost, stealin' along, shure 'tis not the way ye're dressed onother days?'
'No,' I said. 'But I was once a nurse, Molly, and this was the dress Ihad to wear, and I've put it on to-night because I want you to take meto Mickey Donovan's farm. They're to "wake" poor Eily to-night, and I'mgoing. I'm sure you are bound for it, too.'
'I am, miss. Wasn't she like a child av me own, poor Eily. May theheavens be her bed this blessed night, an' shure they will, for 'tisshe was the innocent good creature, an' the good child to her parents.'
'I'm sure of that,' I said. 'Everyone has a good word for her. It issad to die so young, Molly.'
We were walking on together. She seemed less sour and reticent than herwont.
'Sad,' she said, as if echoing my words. 'Ah thin, miss, there's sadderthings than dyin' young. Maybe she's tuk from worse to come.'
As if that thought brought dark reflections in its train, she lapsedinto gloom and silence. We crossed a field path and skirted a smallwood, then a patch of rough and rocky ground, from whence we caughtsight of the farm in the distance. The white buildings and walls shonein the moonlight. Fields of grain and potatoes lay in green patchesaround, the cows were in their sheds, the useful and inevitabledonkeys browsed in leisurely peace on a wide stretch of grass land,a farm horse or two kept them company. Evidently Micky Donovan was awell-to-do farmer.
'The land looks well,' I remarked to my companion as we neared the farmhouse itself.
'Tis well enough,' she said, curtly, for the Irish are too wise topraise anything for which rent has to be paid. 'But Micky's a poor man.He finds it hard enough to live an' keep his family respectable fromone rent day to another.'
'But his landlord must live also, and keep his family respectable,' Isaid. 'Do you never think of that?'
'Ah, sure, 'tis easy enough for the likes o' thim to live, an' thebest av everything at their service,' said Molly. 'They never deniesthemselves anything. 'Tis no toilin' an' moilin' in the cold of winteror the heat of summer as they knows about.'
'They have hardships and struggles of their own,' I said, 'that younever hear of, and perhaps would not understand. Don't fancy they'rehappy and content any more than the farmers you pity. Trouble isno respecter of persons, Molly. Queen and beggar, the lord and thepeasant, the Pope and the priest, they all have their share. Never envythe rich. They are often more unhappy and have a harder life than thepoor man, with his cabin and potato plot, and his bare-footed childrenplaying around the open doorway.'
'Ah, miss, talks all very fine, but if you'd seen what I'veseen—'tisn't so long since the tenants were evicted on the big estatehere. An' I saw with my own eyes the poor man that was stabbed by theconstable with his loaded bayonet an' never a bit ov him in the widewurrld known ov him. An' the meetings an' rows an' riots. Ah! 'twas aterrible time intirely, miss—that it was.'
I hadn't time to argue with her that if the Ponsonby tenants had notbeen foolish enough to adopt the plan of campaign, and insist on equaldistribution of rents, there need have been no 'terrible time,' nobloodshed or evictions. We were at the farmhouse entrance now, andwalked unceremoniously into the kitchen, crowded already with friendsand neighbours, sitting or standing about. The kitchen was wide andlow-roofed. It opened into another room in which was a bed draped allin white. I followed Moll Duggan into it. The dead girl was laid outthere. She was fully dressed. Her hair lay spread around the pillows.Her hands were crossed upon her breast, and about them was twineda brown rosary. At the foot of the bed, on an oaken chest, stoodseven lighted candles, and the flowers that Polly had brought fromKnockminoss were scattered about the bed, or placed in bowls of water.
The girl's mother sat by the head of the corpse, and on chairs andbenches all down one side of the room were women, young and old,friends or relatives of the family. They were talking loud and eagerly.Our entrance made no difference. They simply looked at us, and thetongues wagged freely as ever.
Moll Duggan went down on her knees and crossed herself, and said theprayers for the dead. There was something touching and pathetic in theaction, I thought. And yet all around and about the voices chattedand buzzed. I heard laughter and jest from the kitchen beyond, andthe quiet waxen face of the dead girl lay on the snowy pillows as ifrebuking the carelessness of the living.
Truly strange ways, and a strange people! And yet they meant kindly.It would not have been considered neighbourly to leave their friendsalone in their grief. They would sit up every night, until the funeral,enjoying themselves in this dismal fashion. One more among the manypeculiarities of my country is that the people cannot even keep theirgrief to themselves, but call on their friends to witness it.
Two women near me were talking in subdued tones.
'Ah, the pity of it—and such a lovely girl, an' wasn't Katey Corriganmakin' the match for her wid young Barney Maguire, an' he willin'enough, an' as fine a lad as ye'd wish to see. 'Twill break his heartintirely, that it will, or sind him off to Ameriky, maybe.'
''Tis the will o' God, Mary,' said the other woman (who by the wayhad daughters of her own). 'An' maybe Barney'll do as well forhimself as iver Katey Corrigan could do for him. She's a fine hand atmatch-makin', sure enough; but it's none so well they've turned out, asI've good cause to know. Wasn't Biddy Reilly tellin' me wid her own twovery lips, that she cursed the day whin she took Pat Henessy for herhusband, the hard drinker he is, an' a sore trial to any dacint woman.An' I'm none so sure, betwane ourselves, Mary Hogan, that there wasn'tthe bit av money passed betwane Pat an' herself to make things aisy,an' poor Biddy, she thinkin' t'was herself he cared for, an' not whatshe'd got to bring him—the tidy bit av bizness it was too!'
I half-smiled to myself. How history repeats itself. After all, wasthere so much difference between the poor Irish match-maker, and thegreat ladies of society who took their commissions in a variety of waysfor the introduction ofparvenus to Court, and who 'arrange' marriagesfor them with eligible suitors?
I begin to think that in all grades of life, and among all conditionsof men, 'self interest' is the one great motive of their actions.
Presently, as the voices grew subdued, a curious sound broke across theroom. At first I thought it was the voice of the 'Keener,' though Ihad heard that with the abolition of whisky at these ceremonies, thathistorical personage had gradually disappeared.
The sound increased and swelled into a wail, a melancholy, long-drawnminor chord. I rose and looked through the doorway near me, and sawa blind woman sitting in a corner playing a fiddle. She wore a rustyblack skirt and jacket, and a shabby, tattered, old sailor hat. Shelooked miserably poor and wretched, and her playing was of the mostprimitive description. I don't know what sort of air it was. It hada good deal to do with one note—a wailing, mournful, long-drawn outnote—and some of the audience began to rock themselves to and fro,and give vent to correspondingly dismal sounds. My ears sufferedconsiderably during the performance, but the company appeared toappreciate it immensely.
'Shure, 'an it's good of Joaney, the poor woman, to come an' cheer usup a bit,' said Mary Hogan to her friend.
'Indade, thin, she's none so badly off as she purtinds,' said theother. 'The visitors is very kind to her. Little Bridget there, whotakes her about, she told me that she tuk as much as fifteen shillingslast week on the Strand alone. Not a ward of a lie about it. An' she'sput a tidy bit in the savings bank agin winter comes. Ah, woman, JoaneySullivan's no fool. You may take your oath av that.'
Meanwhile, Joaney Sullivan played on and on—dirges and jigsalternately—and snuff was handed round on a plate, and tea 'supped'out of mugs or cups, or indeed anything that came handy. One or twomen had brought whisky in flat bottles, which they took out of theirpockets and drained surreptitiously, so as not to offend their host,who would have been banned by the parish priest for producing thenational beverage on such an occasion.
It did not seem to me that this festivity was likely to prove veryentertaining. I heard gossip galore, but I have no intention of fillingup these pages with histories of peasant squabbles, loves, hates,births and marriages. I began to wonder what had become of the oldIrish wit and humour. The only amusing story I heard was that of onePat Cassidy, who informed a neighbour that his landlord had built arow of 'dacent stone cottages' near the town for workmen and theirfamilies, having just knocked down the filthy old, undrained, draughtyhovels which had stood on the land for some fifty years.
'Av coorse,' said Pat, 'I took one av thim to oblige him; an' I put upwid it though it hadn't the convaniences av me ould cabin at all. I'vebin there jist upon two years, an' now, I suppose, I'll be axed topayme rint!'
A grievance this, after living in a clean, well roofed, tidy house fortwo years!
The atmosphere grew more and more oppressive. I saw some fresh arrivalscoming in, and amidst the stir and confusion I managed to escape,leaving Moll Duggan behind. What a relief it was to be out in thesweet, pure air once more. The brilliant moonlight made the place lightas day. I took out my watch and could see the time distinctly. It wasnearing eleven o'clock. I had no idea I had spent so much time at thefarm, and I hurried along the road as fast as my feet could take me. Itwas a quarter of an hour's walk to Knockminoss. Taking the short cutsby which I had come here with Moll Duggan, I reached the lodge withoutmisadventure of any sort. The gate was unlocked, and I passed quicklyin. Midway down the avenue I met Dr. Langrishe. He was coming towardsme and smoking a cigar.
'Oh, Miss Nugent, is that you?' he said. 'I hope you enjoyed the"wake." Interesting in these highly civilised days, is it not?'
'Yes,' I said. 'It was interesting, as showing how little civilisationhas done to lift the veil of superstition from those poor creatures'eyes.'
'How you are hurrying,' he said. 'There's no need to fly like that.Mrs. Langrishe is in bed by this time. Do you grudge me a few momentsof the society of which you are so lavish to her?'
I felt my face flame hotly under the soft gloom of the arching boughs.I did not like his words, or his tone, or the curious glitter in hiseyes. He was near enough for me to catch the fumes of wine from hisbreath, and the horrid suspicion struck me that he was not quitehimself. I drew a little away; but I did not slacken my speed.
'It is very late,' I said, hurriedly. 'Too late to loiter out of doors.'
He laughed unpleasantly.
'It would not be too late with the right man, I suppose,' he said. 'ButI have been unfortunate enough not to find favour in those pretty eyes.So I am to be snubbed, eh, Nell?'
'Dr. Langrishe!' I cried, indignantly. 'That is not the way to speak tome. You have no right to use my Christian name.'
'I beg your pardon,' he said, with mock humility. 'Is its touchy littlespirit up in arms? You see, I never hear you called anything but"Nell." The prettiness of Nell—the goodness of Nell—the sympathy andkindness and cleverness of Nell. Naturally I drift into thinking of youas "Nell," which indeed suits you better as a name than "Miss Nugent."And in that dress you look altogether so piquante and bewitching. Ishall always call you "little nurse Nell" in my heart from to-day,whether you like it or not.'
'Little nurse Nell.' The same name another man's lips had called me.The same name Dick Barrymore had given me. To hear it spoken by thisman, hypocrite and deceiver as I know him to be, affected me with asudden horror.
What could he mean by this familiarity—this entire change of manner?That it was assumed for some purpose I had no doubt whatever. But I wasin the dark as to what that purpose could be. I made no answer to thatlast insulting speech. I know well enough by a woman's intuition thatthe insult only veiled its veal purport. He neither admired nor likedme, but he had determined to try and make me believe he did both. Wasit to separate me from his wife? To leave her once more friendless,ailing, helpless, at his mercy, in his power?
A sickening terror seized me as the thought flashed through my mind.All my horror and distrust of him battled with the prudence thatwhispered not to make an enemy of him for his wife's sake. She wasso unsuspecting, so trustful, so helpless. We were almost out of theavenue now, for I had quickened my steps again.
'Aren't you going to speak to me?' he said more gravely. 'Come, come.Don't play at propriety like this. In the life you've led, and withthat pretty face of yours, you must have heard enough of such speechesfrom men. What about the hospital students, eh? and the doctors, andthe patients, too, Nurse Nell?'
'I am happy to say,' I answered sharply, 'that not one of the men youhave mentioned ever forgot to behave himself as a gentleman in thepresence of a defenceless girl!'
'Ha! ha!' he laughed harshly. What a regular heroine-of-a-novel speech.Do you mean that I am not a gentleman, then, because I paid you acompliment? 'Pon my soul, that's good—very good, You're the firstwoman that ever turned rusty over a compliment from me. Let me tellyou, Miss Nugent——'
But what he intended to tell me remained a mystery. I sped swiftlyinto the house through the open window of the drawing-room, and fledupstairs to my own bedroom.
I was panting and out of breath. I sat down for a moment or two torecover myself. My shaking hands began to unfasten my cloak and bonnet.My face burned with indignation. I saw that I had a harder task beforeme than I had dreamt of when I promised to be Mary Langrishe's nurseand companion. I had to tolerate the insults of her husband, or leaveher to his mercy.
2 a.m.
A distant clock has just struck the hour. I have been all this timewriting down these entries. I commenced to write the moment I returnedto my room, after listening a few moments at Mrs. Langrishe's door. Allwas quiet there. I felt sure she was asleep, and I locked my own door,and without changing my dress, began to write. . . . . I have finishednow, and must go to bed. How hot and close the night is, and how hot myhead is.
I have a curious burning feeling in my throat. A sense of intolerablethirst. Ah, the thoughtful Hannah has left a jug of water and a glassby my bed. If it were only lemonade!
It is lemonade, and delicious lemonade, too. I have drunk a tumblerfulof it and I feel refreshed and cool.
Cool. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
What is this? I am shivering now. I feel deadly cold. Oh, God! Am Igoing to be ill?
* * * * * *
Three a.m. has struck. I woke suddenly and found myself lying over thetable, my head on the page, my arms stretched out. What on earth can bethe matter? I must get into bed—but the bed looks so far away—and mylimbs so heavy. My dress—how is it I have not changed my dress aftercoming from that fever-stricken household. What folly!
Oh, dear God of mercy, give me clear head and steady brain for justfive minutes more, to lockthis—away.
THE STORY CONTINUED BY DEBORAH GRAY.
July 18, 189—,
My time in this hospital is almost up. My last year of service ends inSeptember next. It has been a hard and trying time, but I love my work,and the experience gained here repays me for any labour or exertions inthe past.
I have returned from a brief holiday spent in Ireland with my littlefriend, Nelly Nugent. She was in this same hospital for a shorttime, but was obliged to leave on account of her health. She is notstrong enough for hospital work, but was fortunate enough to procurea situation as companion to an invalid lady in Ireland——
(. . . Goodheavens! What a hypocrite I am! Why am I writing like this? No eyes butmy own will ever read these pages. Can't I be truthful, even here?)
An invalid lady in Ireland! A woman I once hated with all my heart andsoul. The woman for whose sake James Langrishe left me. That is thetruth. I feel better for writing it.
What fools of fate or chance we are! We men and women, who make ourlittle earth-life the centre of importance. The wheel of fate hasturned for me after seven years of fighting out that devil which JamesLangrishe left in my soul. I met him again.
Those seven years had been a liberal education of hard work, hardthinking, hard living. I came out at the end of them a woman, cold,unemotional, and full of purpose. But I had no soft or tender feelingleft. Help, skill, care, these I could give to the poor sick miserablewretches I had to tend in the wards; but the sympathy, the pity, thelittle tender ways of which Nell had such a store, those I could notpretend to. My heart was like an empty vault, full of great darkness.Love is the only lamp that illumines the soul of a woman. Alas, what anight of gloom is left to her when that lamp is extinguished.
That lamp was extinguished long ago for me, and out of the darkness Ihad to grope my way back to daylight, the foggy, grey, neutral-tintedday of a lonely woman's life. But it was not the loneliness that heldsuch terror for me, it was the memories that loneliness evoked.
When I had known James Langrishe first, I had been a fresh, trustful,clean-souled girl. He swept the freshness away with the hot acridbreath of passion's blast. He turned the trust to disbelief. He peopledthe clean soul with godless and impure fancies, leaving me, as I saidbefore, with a devil to fight, in return for my love and faith in him.All this he did, and then mocked me to my face for 'prudish scruples.'
Well, it is good for a woman to humble herself before the mirror ofher own soul once in a way. So, I will go on my knees at last, andconfess I was a fool; an utter, blind, besotted, unreasonable fool. Awoman's road in life is marked out clear, fair, straight for her, byher own instincts, by the unwritten law of society. If she errs fromit, straying to right or left, she steps into bogs of shame—pitfalls,snares, set for her by the stronger power, whose prey she is. I saw myroad clear and straight before me. There was no one to say me nay. Iwas free and independent, and I had never known fear of man or woman.
And I met James Langrishe.
He was so handsome! I had never seen a man to equal him. Every womanin the place raved about him, but my worship was silent and unuttered,and veiled, too, by little sharp thrusts and speeches to which he wasunused. And so, because I would not seem to bend before him, he turnedhis mind to me, and made hot love to me, as such men do, and then woulddraw back subtly, as if alarmed, and ask my pardon for presumption, andtalk of friendship and respect.
Respect is a wider embrace of a woman's character than love. The subtleflattery pleased me.
My fears were soothed, and he would walk and talk by the hour, and hewould intoxicate my soul with that most dangerous form of admiration,an admiration not for myself, but for my strong brain (as he calledit), my clear common-sense, my keen insight into character, mycompanionableness, my influence over those with whom I came intocontact.
'You are not beautiful,' he would say, frankly, 'but you are somethingbetter. You are a woman for a man's mate, not his plaything. You couldrouse him, elevate him, inspire him——'
Faugh! Why do I write this maudlin trash? I, who know its sequel; inwhose memory the name of a traitor is branded in letters of undyingshame.
* * * * * *
There are two sides to a woman's nature. Perhaps to a man's also, butI know only one of theirs—the worst. So it was, that while abashedand trembling in this man's power, and loving him with the wild, madidolatry that was part and parcel of myself, I yet knew that somethingin me escaped him. Escaped, and perched bird-like above my captor'shand, beyond his reach. He could never touch it, or capture it. Awayfrom him I could reason clearly enough. I knew, often, that I lovedhim with the love that borders on hate. It was strung to so intense atension that the strain was more than human strength could hear. Butwith him I could not reason. I only felt that his influence enwrappedme as a flame enwraps gossamer; that his voice, his touch, his glance,his kiss, could lift me heavenwards in rapture for which I sufferedcorresponding shame and agony in after moments.
* * * * * *
Time went on. Long or short, I did not know, or care. I had flungmyself overboard for good and all, and the waves and the winds bore mehither and thither on the current of a man's caprice. Then began, forme, the education of evil.
All pure and simple things that do a woman good—faith, religion,charity, helpfulness, were thrust away, and out of sight, or laughedto scorn by his specious reasoning and brilliant pantheism. For he wasonly animal, pure and simple—this man I had chosen for my god! He hadno beliefs, no integrity, nothing good, or great, or noble about him.Men and women, human lives, were just tools to use for any purpose hedesired them. But for a time, I believed in him, and for a time heloved me. That—I know as only a woman knows, for a man cannot feignpassion without her detection—unless indeed she be more fool than heis knave.
For a time; and then I woke. It was all over. He lifted the mask fromhis soul, and I knew him as he was.
Did I suffer? Not just at first. I was too numbed, too broken, to feelvery acutely. But then, slowly, the throbbing wounds began to ache andbleed, and I lay like a half-dead thing in a living world, and criedaloud in bitterness, as a human creature must cry soon or late toGod who has created it! But of my crying there came nothing, neitherresponse, nor pity, nor peace.
And therein lies the real bitterness of sorrow! The two-edged swordcleaving bone and marrow asunder, the sharp, rending agony that findsno remedy or relief, that, crying dumbly to the darkness and mystery ofa beyond, strains its ears for response that never comes.
Never.
At least no human thing whose sad confessions I have heard, whoseaching suffering body I have nursed, has ever confessed to me that helpmet or comfort reached it in such hours as these. God knows, it hasbeen my lot to hear sad and pitiful stories enough. Stories of ruin,desertion, suffering, torture, horrible and ignoble—of martyred lives,of crime, sin, shame. Truth stands naked and unabashed by the sideof death. No figleaf is needed at such a time, and men's and women'stongues have alike whispered strange and horrible things to the ears ofthe nursing sister.
And out of the fight, how have I come off at last? Cured—disenchanted?What?
Hate, born of love, is of all feelings the bitterest and wickedest andmost enduring. And with all my heart and soul, with every instinct andfeeling of my nature, I know Ihate James Langrishe.
Not that my feeling is revengeful. I would not step across the roadto do him harm, but I could not stand and look on at his sufferings,his downfall, his punishment, as the fallen angels might have lookedon at Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, falling from heaven's high estateto join their ranks. For surely, as I write these words, the dark hourwill come for this son of evil, the hour when he and guilt, and all thewrong he has wrought, will look at each other reflected in the hideousand grotesque distortions of the devil's looking-glass!
Strong words, you say. Not feminine, or graceful, or pretty. No. And Idon't mean them to be anything but strong.
A woman of my nature, and who has lived my life, has few fanciful,feminine vanities left. She can stand back and look on at life withouta veil, and see the thing it is! The curious, piecemeal patchwork ofGod and the devil, as we have chosen to call the two strong powers wecannot fail to recognise fighting for mastery in this outer world.
How my pen and my feelings have run away with me from my modeststarting point. It is plain I have not the gift of authorship. My brainis an unstable, unreliable substance. If I had to earn my livelihood bymy pen, I wonder if I would ever be able to keep my own personality inthe background. I have a sort of feeling that I should be my own PaulPry, for ever intruding on my story, letting experience pop round thecorner and say this, that, or the other, as fancy moved me.
Cannot I possibly come back to the record of facts that my diaries haveusually held. For I may as well state at once, that since I took uphospital work I have always kept notes, not only of my patients' cases,but of the incidents connected with the life. It has become a habit.However, I have hitherto restricted myself to just the record of factsconnected with the day's work and duties. I have never permitted myselfthe luxury of confidence, even to these safe pages. All the stranger,therefore, is it that I should burst out in this fashion. Perhaps it isthe after-effect of my holiday at Glengariff, perhaps the outcome ofthose pent-up feelings that made my life almost intolerable while JamesLangrishe was on the spot.
* * * * * * *
By what accursed irony of fate was I obliged to meet him again, tospeak to that poor, sickly creature he had made his wife, for sake ofher wealth?
God alone knows. I don't.
But having met him and spoken to him, with such scorn and hatred as myoutraged heart could hold, I, at least, consoled myself by thinking ofthe victory. I fear his power no longer. The very attraction he oncehad for me, the subtle attraction of the senses, his handsome face,his eloquent eyes, his persuasive, tenderly modulated voice—all theseseemed to me as mere external tricks and artifices—the whitewash ofa sepulchre whose interior I had once seen, whose gruesome horrorsI knew. . . . . And now, it is all over, like my brief holiday, andNell is in his house, and I am here, in the fetid atmosphere of thehospital, and my spell of rest is over for to-day. I must close thisbook, and go down to the ward.
A new patient was brought in last night. A woman, or rather a girl—afearful object, wretched, ill clad, her face pinched and blue, her longlovely russet-hued hair, unkempt and matted—the victim of poverty andintemperance and typhoid.
July 19.
The woman is in the last stage of that virulent and horrible fever.She will never rally. Her constitution has been enfeebled by vice anddrink; her language shows that, even if her face did not tell herhistory. She is Irish from her accent, I should say. It is not anunpleasant one. Certainly not a Dublin or Belfast one. I know both. Itis a drawling monotonous accent, and she has a soft, and seems to me, awell-cultivated voice. Her ravings are terrible sometimes.
They have cut off all her hair. She looks a pitiable object, lyingthere, with her head bandaged, her livid face, her parched lips,from which the panting breath comes painfully and unevenly. It needsresolution and experience and cool-headedness to deal with cases likethese—to remember the loathsome sufferers are still human, with soulsto be accounted for!
I have the night duty in the ward to-night. I hardly fancy she will livethrough it. I cannot spare the time to write more now. I must take myturn of sleep, and I feel sorely in need of it.
July 20.
Horror upon horror seems to accumulate for me.
Let me—while the scene is still fresh in my mind—commit it to thesepages.
Surely the hand of fate is at work, drawing me once again into the netof James Langrishe's life and actions. At nine o'clock last night Iwent on duty. I could see the typhoid patient was sinking fast.
I gave her some milk, but she could scarcely swallow it. Her eyes weresunk deep in her head. They looked at me in a beseeching, feverishentreaty.
'You want something?' I said, quietly. 'What is it? Would you like tosee a priest? You have only to say so.'
A heavy frown knit her brows. 'Priest—no, it's too late for that,' shegasped. 'My soul will have to answer for itself, and so will his thatruined me and brought me to this. May the hearthstone of hell be hisbed, and with my dying breath I say it.'
I was used to hearing strong expressions from the Irish patients, whowere not uncommon in this hospital. I rebuked her gently for thatunchristian wish, but she followed it up by low mutterings and cursesall more or less eloquent of animosity.
Suddenly a name she muttered caught my ear. I bent closer to her.
'Who did you say?' I asked, eagerly.
Her claw-like fingers were plucking at the sheet that covered her,her lips moved quickly, her glazed eyes were gazing straight beforeher. She paid no heed to my question. The curses were rattling off hertongue now as glibly as I had heard prayers and blessings fall from thelips of her compatriots in a more Christian frame of mind. I listened,wondering if my ears hod deceived me.
'When we meet, James—for we shall meet again—I'll be there, I tellye. The foot of Dead Woman's Hill, at midnight. I must be going now.Mother'll be so angry. A kiss—a hundred kisses if ye want them, heartof my heart as ye are. . . . What! gone! left me. A curse on his lips.Ah! don't curse me, James Langrishe. Shure, me heart's broken, and melife ruined. You said I should be a lady. Is this what ye meant? Ah!black villain, black heart,you'll cast me off,you'll send my soul tohell, will ye? No, you won't. You can't. May Hell's deepest curse be onyour head; may your bones never rest; may your death be as bitter asmine, and the gallows your end, murderer that ye are! . . Ah—h—h!'
A shriek broke from her so agonised and terrible that one of the othersisters came round the screen and approached the bed. But she lay quitestill now. Her hands had ceased to move.
'She's gone,' said the sister, quietly.
'Not yet,' I said, and half supported her head.
But it was the last stage of collapse. A shudder ran through her body.She opened her eyes and gasped for breath.
'Is it any use to call the house surgeon?' asked the sister.
I shook my head. I had nursed too many cases not to know every sign andsymptom of the disease.
'It would be useless,' I said. 'Nothing can be done.'
'You look very white,' she said, in surprise. 'Surely you are not upsetby this?'
I had learnt self-control in a good school. I hastily shook off theemotion that threatened to interfere with the duties of the moment. Iwould not even let myself think that this strange woman, whose deadlimbs I was straightening, for whom I had to perform the last sadoffices human hands can render to a fellow mortal, that this, for whomlife was for ever a closed book, had crossed the dread threshold ofeternity with a curse on her lips—a curse coupled with the name of theman who had once been my lover.
* * * * * *
Not then could I allow myself to think, but now I am free to doso—free to go over and over again that incoherent raving which toldits own story against this man, and laid the ruin of another life athis door. I did not know her name. No friend had come to see her. Astranger had found her in the street below, dying almost, and hadbrought her into the hospital, and there she had remained. She hadnever told anything about herself. Indeed, she had never been able tospeak rationally or calmly. I should have paid no heed to her ravingsto-night but for the mention of that name—James Langrishe! There wasno mistaking it—no possibility of deception—James Langrishe, and thisawful creature, who had scarcely any charm or trace of femininity leftabout her.
What had been the secret shared between them? The old, hateful, commonstory of betrayer and victim. One in one grade of life, the otherin a lower and unimportant one—too unimportant for virtue to be ofany moment. Her words had implied that, but they had also breathed ahatred, terrible and relentless. A curse on the life and soul of theman she had said she loved.
I can give the story no place except in my memory, and here. Will aday ever come when I shall have a clue to it? When I shall know whothis poor creature really was? Another victim of James Langrishe's evilpassions, another soul whose peace and welfare he has ruined.
* * * * * *
July 20th.
No one has claimed her.
That fate most dreaded by all the friendless and unknown creatureswhose last breath is spent between these walls, the fate which givesthem to science for its own purposes, will be her fate. Her body willknow no resting place in quiet burial ground, no visit from kindred,no tears let fall from sorrowful, living eyes. Unknown, unsought, shehas passed into the unknown country, and only a stranger's lips breathe'God have mercy upon her soul.'
July 29th.
A wet Sunday, and my day off. There has been a great deal of sicknessand mortality in the wards during the past week.
I feel too depressed and weak to go out. It is hard work nursing andtending these poor creatures, interviewing their friends and relatives,keeping guard over them on visiting days, hearing their melancholyhistories, that truly make one doubt the purpose or aim or the schemeof creation. . . . Life in great cities, the life of the poor, is themost horrible, hopeless, wearisome struggle for bare existence. Thediseased bodies, the besotted brains, the awful, loathsome recklessnesswith which those same diseased and tainted creatures breed others oftheir species and cast them on the ocean of humanity—these are thehorrors and problems with which I am perpetually confronted.
I have seen what preachers and philanthropists never see. I have heardthe futile cry of the departing soul that goes in blind ignoranceto meet its doom. I have beheld the evils of false conceptions oftruth and morality, of systems introduced to promulgate good, andproductive instead of only wrong and suffering and oppression. Themotley crowds that pass to and fro the wards of our hospitals are aneverliving reproach to the vices civilisation has brought among us.A clean, fresh, natural life has been made an impossibility. Who isthere to legislate for it among political sycophants and place-seekinghirelings? Who is there to speak to lawmakers of the iniquity of asystem made complex by every art of man in order that justice shallbe the costliest and hardest thing to win on this side of the grave?Who among preachers of creeds ever pauses to consider what it is he isgiving in place of spiritual food? Hard stones of doctrine, dry husksof a spurious morality, the sounding of brass and the tinkling ofcymbals! Where are the disciples of Christ, the peacemaker? Where arethe followers of His beautiful charity?
In the ritualists' pulpit, in the Pope's palace, in the dissenters'chapel? In cathedral, or church, or monastery, or temple? Each cryingaloud against the other and vaunting their own ritual, their own faithwith the brazen effrontery of an order, blessed and ordained by Heaven?
Poor Heaven, place or state whichever you be, how much you have toanswer for! What crimes and wrongs have been committed in your name!What rivers of blood have washed the world's highways at your supposedbidding! What vileness has been shielded by your armour! What hideoushypocrisy of soul has been cloaked by a pretended faith in your highdestinies!
Oh! How this is all bitter and blasphemous, the Pharisees would say!Bitter because it is true, blasphemous because it is unsectarian.
Be it so.
I am only a woman, who is fighting life's battle, single-handed,disillusioned, and what I say is true of myself and my experience, forof all sins I most abhor and loathe, it is the devil's darling sin ofhypocrisy, and Christian hypocrisy most of all.
* * * * * *
I have been looking over one or two of Nell's last letters. Shedoes not write often. She does not seem quite at her ease about Dr.Langrishe. I cannot make out what she suspects; but that it is a caseof 'Dr. Fell,' I feel confident.
In reading over one of them I was struck by the following observation:—
'The lodge here is kept by a strange, queer-tempered old woman. Ican't make friends with her, which for an Irish person is singular,and for me—unusual. She has had some great trouble in her life. Herdaughter ran away; no one knows what became of her. I hear she was avery beautiful girl. It is believed that there was some man behind thescenes, as usual. Ah! Debbie, my dear! Well may we say, "Preserve usfrom the men!"'
I put down the letter and began to reflect.
The lodge-keeper of James Langrishe's place was a queer, soured oldwoman who had had a beautiful daughter. The girl had run away fromhome. No one knew where. It was believed some man was at the bottom ofit.
Under ordinary circumstances, I should have thought nothing ofthose observations of Nell's, but with that miserable story and myown miserable suspicions fresh in my mind, it struck me in a newlight. I wrote to her at once asking guardedly for information ontwo points—the time of the girl's disappearance, and if, in theneighbourhood of Knockminoss, there was any place known as Dead Woman'sHill. I gave no reasons for asking these questions, nor did I tell heranything of the girl whose last breath had spent itself in a curse onJames Langrishe's name.
Towards evening, the rain cleared off. I resolved to make use of my'day out,' as the servants call it. I would go for a walk.
I left the hospital, and went on through the wet, sloppy streets,without paying much heed as to where my footsteps took me. Church bellswere ringing for evening service. Well dressed people passed me withcomposed Sunday faces and prayer books in their hands. I was used tobeing one of a crowd. I moved with them, and leaving Charing Crossbehind, went further west, towards Piccadilly. Here I again foundmyself in a greater crowd than I liked. I crossed the road, and walkedup a bye street, of whose name I was ignorant. The sound of a bellstruck my ear. I looked up and saw myself by an unimposing buildingwith green doors. One or two people were going in, and, moved bycuriosity, I stopped and read the name on the board without.
"The Theist Church."
Theist? I wondered what sort of ritual was to be found here. I entered,passed along a passage, at the end of which stood a table, coveredwith books and pamphlets. Then I opened a door and walked into a bare,unbeautiful edifice, with plain pews of polished wood, and wallspainted a dull green. Opposite the organ, by which sat the choir, was asort of platform. In the centre stood the pulpit, from which the wholeservice was conducted. I was shown into one of the vacant pews (therewere a good many), and took my seat and listened with pleasure to abeautiful voluntary on the organ, performed by a true artist, who knewhis instrument and loved it, I should say.
Then the preacher or minister entered, and the service commenced.The book in my pew informed me that the compilation and arrangementof the service had been the work of the founder of this church. Theportion used struck me as being most admirable. . . . It was just whenI was engrossed with the new form of litany, in which the congregationjoined, that someone was shown into my seat, and I lifted my eyes insurprised greeting to the face of Dick Barrymore.
July 29, 9.30 p.m.
A lovely rendering of Gounod's 'Nazareth' on the organ kept me in myseat till the last echo died away.
Dick had left me, but I found him, as I expected, waiting for me at thedoor. His greeting was warm and enthusiastic, but I took it for whatit was worth, knowing that Nell was the cause of it. Her name trembledon his tongue as soon as 'How d'ye do,' and 'How strange meeting youhere!' had been said and answered with a lingering handshake as anaccompaniment. Then I told him all he was dying to know, and we walkedup Piccadilly and turned into the Green Park for a talk before I tookthe homely 'bus' back to the hospital.
It appeared he was a constant frequenter of the Theist Church, thoughnot a professed acceptant of the religion it embodied. When I coulddrag him away from 'Nell'—Nell's doings and sayings, her presentwelfare, her future plans—I made him explain what Theism really meant,and the reason of its existence as a religion, in a sort of alienrelationship to the parent church.
We had a long and interesting conversation. Indeed he even accompaniedme on the omnibus to the hospital, and took leave of me with evidentregret.
I promised to see him in my 'off' hours, for the next week. It islikely he will be leaving town shortly, with his uncle. GeoffreyMasterman appears to have acquired the true American craze for'rushing' from place to place. He never settles down anywhere for anylength of time.
I asked him why he didn't write to Nell himself. He allowed he had doneso, and sent her his book, but had only had one letter in return. Heseemed to think she did not desire to open any correspondence with him.
* * * * * *
In my own heart I cannot blame the girl, though, to common sense,her conduct seems a little unwise. Dick is such a good fellow—sohonest and tender and true—and he loves her so devotedly, but alas!isn't that always the way? The best and truest love rarely finds whatTennyson called its 'earthly sequel,' unless, indeed, 'streaming eyesand broken hearts' be considered in that light.
Well, we parted, Dick and I, and I went into my own quarters, and wroteup my diary for the day, and in consequence of the time spent in doingso had to undress in the dark, or rather by moonlight, for hospitalrules are inexorable, and fines are a heavy tax on a nurse's pocket.
* * * * * *
August 6.
Save for the usual 'cases' in the wards, I have had nothing tochronicle. The heat in London has been intense, and a correspondingamount of sickness, due to drought and reckless living, crowded thefever wards last week. But things are better now.
It occurred to me to-day, that it is some time since I had a letterfrom Nell. I hope nothing is the matter; I feel unusually anxious. Isaw Dick Barrymore yesterday. He told me he had written to her a weekago, but had no reply yet. He leaves for Switzerland to-morrow, with hisuncle. I shall miss him very much. We have seen a good deal of eachother lately, and I seem to know him better than I did at Glengariff.
Dear Glengariff! How lovely it must be there in those cool woods,beside that lovely murmuring water, among those fairy islands!
No wonder I sigh, sitting here in the hot close air, that noventilation can make breathable.
But I must not get discontented. I have put my hand to the plough.There must be no looking back. I am steadily working on for a purposeand ambition of my own. Whether I achieve them or not I at least havethe satisfaction of trying my best.
August 7th, Knockminoss, Youghal.
. . . Breathing space at last! The last entry in my diary was writtenin my own room in the hospital in London. I open it to-night in a briefhalf-hour of leisure, to continue its history once more here, under theroof of the man I count my bitterest enemy.
How has it all come about?
Let me be accurate in every detail. Much may one day depend on thesenotes of mine.
The 6th broke cold and wet. It was a bank holiday, and the streets werethat dismal look which weather and disgusted pleasure-seekers alone canbestow. I took a look at drenched gowns and dripping umbrellas, andbedraggled skirts and melancholy feathers, as I passed to my morningduties. I had been a brief time in the ward when one of the sisterscame to me with a telegram in her hand,
'For you, Sister Gray,' she said.
It was such an unusual thing that I took the little brown envelope withsome trepidation. I tore it open and read this message:
'Nell very ill. Fever. Fear the worst. Am ill myself; can do nothingmore. Come at once; at once.
'MARY LANGRISHE.'
I stood there, holding that little bit of paper in my hand like onedazed. Then I muttered some excuse to the sister in charge, and,regardless of rules, fines, everything, I rushed to the matron's room,and poured out my breathless request. With or without permission, Imust go at once, that very day, to Ireland.
Nell dying. My bright, pretty, merry Nell! I felt sick andbroken-hearted as I read those words.
I don't know what I said to the matron, but I suppose I made it clearthat the message was urgent, and that go I must.
The permission was granted. Indeed had it been refused I should haveleft all the same.
I took the 6.30 train from Euston, caught the mail at Kingsbridge nextmorning; and was in Youghal the same afternoon. I took a car and drovestraight to Knockminoss. The man did not drive through the town, butturned round past the other side of the station, and drove along astraight dusty road till he reached a hill. He drove up this hill, andon and on for what seemed to me a long time. Then we reached a lodge,and he informed me that I was at my destination. A woman came to thegate; my parched lips tried to frame an inquiry but failed for veryterror of what the answer might he. We drove down an avenue, thicklyplanted with trees, then came a wide, open space, showing the sea fairand smiling in the distance, and before me was the house as Nell haddescribed it. I sprang from the car and rang the bell. I bade the manput down my small Gladstone bag and modest trunk, and paid him hisfare. A servant came forward and stared when she saw me. She was astupid-looking girl, with untidy black hair rolled about her head, anda not too clean apron over her black dress.
'I am the nurse,' I said. 'I was telegraphed for. Will you take me toMrs. Langrishe's room?'
'Will ye plaze step in, miss', she said, opening the door of thedining-room.
'I'll tell the masther, miss. No one is allowed to go near the mistressbut himself.'
I went into the room and stood by the window, looking out in an agonyof fear and impatience. Presently I heard a step, I turned and sawJames Langrishe.
His face, as he saw me confronting him, turned perfectly livid. If hehad seen a ghost he could not have looked more terrified.
'My God!You! How did you come here?' he gasped.
'Didn't you expect me?' I said. 'Your wife telegraphed for me. Nell isvery ill,' she said. 'I came at once.'
'My wife,' he stammered. 'My wife telegraphed foryou? There must besome mistake.'
'Here is the message,' I said, handing him the telegram, which I hadkept in my pocket ever since I received it.
He read it, and his face grew savage.
'I was not told,' he said. 'I know nothing. I wouldn't have sent foryou if I had needed a nurse.'
'Probably not,' I said. 'But it was my friend I came to nurse, not you.How is she?'
'It has turned to typhoid,' he said, sullenly. 'I can't give an opinionyet.'
'And Mrs. Langrishe?' I asked.
'The bad symptoms began yesterday. I suppose she felt ill and wired toyou the day before. I knew nothing about it.'
'She never told you!' I said, breathlessly.
'Haven't I said so? It's devilish odd. I think she must have gone offher head. She has been very queer. She hasn't slept since Miss Nugentwas taken ill.'
'May I go and see them, since Iam here?' I said, quietly.
'Of course,' he said, hastily. 'Why not. It's no business of mine.Indeed, it's a great relief to have someone to look after them. I hadintended sending to Cork for a nurse. The parlourmaid is ill, too—samething, I'm afraid. People are getting scared. There are a lot of casesin the town.'
He spoke in a jerky, nervous way, moving restlessly to and fro at thetime. His eyes never met mine. I thought his manner very odd. Butperhaps I put it down to some remnant of unforgotten sentiment. A womannever believes that a man who has once loved her ever quite forgets her!
I showed no embarrassment whatever, though I felt I had come to hishouse in a very inopportune fashion. I was puzzled to know why his wifeshould have telegraphed for me without his knowledge. However, I put itdown to some urgent request of Nell's, which she had carried out beforesuccumbing to the fever.
'Will you take both cases?' he asked me suddenly.
'Yes,' I said. 'I am used to hard work. I know every stage of thisfever. I have nursed scores of cases already. Are they in adjoiningrooms?'
'No, that's impossible.'
'It must be managed,' I said. 'Surely you know that.'
'Miss Nugent is better. She does not need so much care as my wife.Their rooms are divided by a passage.'
'I will see them,' I said, 'and then make my arrangements. Kindly leadthe way.'
He took me up a broad staircase, which led to a long carpeted corridor.Several doors opened on this corridor. He opened one, and lying on thepillow—a wasted haggard object—was Nell. I stopped by the door togain composure. I was afraid of disturbing her. She seemed in a stateof sleepy exhaustion; her eyes were closed, but she was mutteringsoftly to herself.
I went over and studied her attentively for a few moments.
The room had been cleared of hangings and superfluous furniture. Therewas the familiar scent of disinfectants everywhere.
I touched her hand. It was burning hot. Her head turned restlessly onthe pillows. I leant over her and whispered her name. She paid no heed.She kept muttering something over and over again.
'Is it locked up? Oh, is it locked up?' That is what I heard.
'You have attended her entirely yourself?' I asked Dr. Langrishe, as Imoved away from the bedside.
'Of course,' he said sharply. 'My colleagues here are not more skilfulthan I am, and I did not think it necessary to have a London physicianover.'
I passed over the sneer without observation.
'I should like to see your wife next,' I said.
He and I followed him into a beautifully furnished bedroom, with twowindows looking seawards. The curtains of the bed were draped Frenchfashion from a gilt crown fixed in the ceiling. They were of delicatepink, covered with filmy lace, and shrouded the haggard, wasted face ofthe sick woman in ghastly contrast to herself. My first glance showedme she was very ill.
'How many days,' I asked quietly.
'To-morrow will be the sixth from the first symptoms. She would notacknowledge she was ill.'
'You should not have allowed her to nurse Miss Nugent,' I said,sharply; 'especially if she was in bad health at the time.'
'How do you know she was in bad health?' he asked, with a furtiveglance at my face.
'My friend told me in one of her letters.'
'She was very well,' he said insolently. 'As well as she has ever been.But she is a fanciful woman, and a headache will knock her over.'
'Where does that door lead to?' I asked, pointing to another one thatopened out of the bedchamber.
'That is my dressing-room.'
'May I see it?' I inquired.
'Certainly,' and he led the way again, and threw open the door.
It was a fair-sized room, very plainly furnished. It had a widesquare window, also looking to the sea. A couch stood before it.In the opposite corner was a low iron bedstead. The furniture wascompleted by a mahogany wardrobe, a shaving-glass and table combined, amarble-topped washstand, and a couple of chairs.
'You use this room at present?' I said.
'Of course. She had had very bad nights. I have watched her for thefirst half and Hannah, the parlourmaid, would then take my place, butshe has broken down to-day.'
I considered for a few moments. Then I said:—
'I should propose to move Miss Nugent into this room. I will then havethe two patients under my eye. Is there another bedroom into which youcould move?'
'Of course,' he said. 'There is the spare room, at the end of thepassage. I shall be within call. But do you think it advisable to moveyour friend?'
'I do,' I said quietly. 'And I must have all this fantastic drapery andhangings removed. Can you send anyone to assist me?'
'The housemaid has left,' he said. 'Got scared. Hannah has gone to thefever hospital. The woman who admitted you and the stable men are theonly servants!'
I thought that for such an imposing-looking establishment it seemedsingularly destitute of domestics. But I was not going to raiseobjections at such a time. A crisis was at hand, and I needed all mynerve and coolness. I knew I was strong enough to do the work of twonurses with very little outside assistance, and surely in a day or twohe would be able to get someone to help with the household.
'Please send that woman up,' I said, and I removed my cloak and bonnet,and hung them on a rail in the outer corridor.
He went downstairs, and in a few minutes the untidy creature who hadadmitted me appeared.
I gave her my orders, and she brought steps end dusters and brush, asI desired, and in a very short time I had the fripperies and fantasiesstripped from Mrs. Langrishe's room, the square of carpet raisedand removed, the boards sprinkled with carbolic, and the inevitabledrenched sheets waving to and fro in a current of fresh pure air.
The dressing-room wanted very little arrangement, only the removal ofthe carpet, and the placing the bed in a different position. The couch,a deep padded Chesterfield, I intended to use for myself.
I then bade the servant remove her master's belongings to the spareroom, and get that ready for his use.
While she was doing this I examined the medicinal bottles on the tablebeside Mrs. Langrishe. They were unlabelled. Evidently her husbandmade them up himself. One was a small bottle marked, 'Drops,' on whicha strip of paper was pasted, marking, by little notches, each dose.I smelt this. 'Morphia,' I thought to myself, and then looked at thesleeping woman. She was in a heavy stupor now. She seemed to breathewith difficulty. I did not like her appearance at all, and for manymore days she must battle with this hateful disease ere a change couldbe expected. Would she ever have the strength?
As there was nothing to be done for her at present I returned to Nell.
Still restless, still muttering, unconscious and unrecognising. Therewas no doubt that she was very seriously ill. I had seen too many casesof this horrible fever not to recognise at a glance its virulent ormild forms. But she was young, and had lived quietly and restfully nowfor nearly a year. Surely nature and I could pull her through, if Godso willed.
August 16.
It is close on midnight. The change was effected easily. Nell is now inthe adjoining room, and I have my two patients under my eye.
Dr. Langrishe came in at eleven o'clock, examined them both, andgave me directions for the night. About midnight the crisis mightbe expected with Nell. I was to call him in if I felt in the leastuneasy. . . . I sit here and try to calm my mind by writing down thesefacts.
It seems years since I came over in answer to that telegram, and yet itwas only yesterday.
How slowly the hours and the days have passed! How long I seem tohave waited for that dreaded moment when I shall know if life ordeath is to be her fate. The hardest duty of the sick nurse is thewatching. Nothing can be done—nothing must be given. One has only towait—wait—wait—and see the battle fought out.
It is hard enough, that time, when one has merely a professionalinterest in the sufferer, but when one's heart is in the case, and loveand anxiety are mingled in that dread hour of suspense, ah, that iswhen one recognises human weakness!
Enough. . . . I must put my journal away now. The hour is at hand. WhenI open this again what shall I have to write in it? . . . Let me fallon my knees, cold and careless sceptic as I have long been, and prayGod's pity for this life I love.
August 17, 6 a.m.
The glad sunshine breaks over the world, and the world is beautiful!There are birds singing in the boughs, the grass is spangled withdew, the sweet fresh air blows in through the open window by which Isit—and Nell?
Nell is safe!
Oh! I thank God. I thank God. My heart is so full I could sing forjoy. The glad tears crowd my eyes. I, who so seldom weep, who despisewomanly emotion so heartily.
The crisis was sharp, but quickly over. I had summoned the doctor. Forin that dread moment all animosity was forgotten. We were simply nurseand doctor, waiting in profound anxiety for the crisis of a human fate.
It came—it passed—through the wide open window the sweet, fresh airpoured in. She opened her dim eyes, and they turned from his face tomine.
'Why, Debbie?' she said, faintly, and then smiled, and half turned onthe pillows. A soft dew broke out on her forehead, the ghastly colourof lips and cheeks altered ever so slightly.
'I feel easier now,' she said.
'Give her the restorative,' said the doctor. 'She will do. If there'sno relapse, she'll have turned the corner and be on the mend.'
And then for the first time in my life, the courage of the nurse gaveplace to the instincts of the woman. I sank into the chair beside thebed, trembling from head to foot. I could not speak. I could not evensay 'Thank God.'
He looked at me in surprise.
'Were you so fond of her?' he asked, half scornfully. 'On what trashyou deep, strong-natured women spend your feelings!'
It was a brutal observation, especially at such a time. It stung me tostrength and composure, however. I rose and gave her the restorative.
'She will do now,' I said coldly. 'I need not keep you from your rest.'
He made no answer, but walked into the other room, and I heard him gotowards his wife's bed. I could not leave Nell's side for a moment. Butas I stood there I heard the chink of a bottle touching a glass.
I hurried to the doorway, and saw him bending over the little table onwhich stood the medicines.
'She has had her medicine,' I said quickly. 'I hope you——'
He turned round and faced me savagely.
'Curse you, Deborah Gray; can't you attend to your own duties there,'he said. 'Do you suppose I don't know what I'm about. You nurses thinkyou know better than the whole College of Surgeons put together!'
'I wouldn't give much for the nursing capacities of the whole Collegeof Surgeons,' I said. 'It is one thing to prescribe for, but another toattend to a patient.'
I had walked into the room as I spoke. Mrs. Langrishe was in thesame sort of stupor which marked her case so strongly. Nell had beenrestless, excited, wandering. Mrs. Langrishe's brain seemed dull andinert.
My eyes turned from her to the table.
I saw that the bottles were not in the position in which I had placedthem. However, I made no remark. There was no reason why Dr. Langrisheshould not move the bottles or examine the medicines which he himselfdispensed. I thought the poor woman looked very bad. Her colour wasawful—the breath came fitfully and unevenly through her leaden-huedlips. I began to have doubts whether she would ever have strength topull through the fever as Nell had done.
'It is strange,' I said, thoughtfully, after a short silence, 'that themedicine has no effect upon her. It suited Nell so well.'
'You musn't compare my wife with Miss Nugent,' he said. 'Theirconstitutions are totally different.'
'And yet you give them the same medicine?'
'I suppose next you will be wanting me to write out my prescriptionsand submit them to you. You professional nurses have a fair share ofMother Eve's virtue—curiosity.'
'If she does not improve,' I said, 'I wonder, for your own sake, youdon't call in other advice. There is a Dr. A., of Dublin—(mentioning afamous physician of that city),—he would come at once.'
His brow darkened.
'Do you think,' he said, somewhat huskily, 'that she is so bad?'
'You need not ask me,' I answered. 'What is your own opinion?'
'Oh, she has wonderful rallying powers,' he said evasively. 'I thinkshe will make a good fight for it.'
That was all the conversation.
I sit here writing it down while it is fresh in my mind, for I donot quite like Dr. Langrishe's manner. He seems to me like a manwith something on his mind—some burden or trouble. His temper isso irritable, his manner so strange and discourteous, that I shouldfancy he wished to make my stay here purposely unpleasant. But neitherdiscourtesy nor temper will drive me from my post until my patients areout of danger—or need me no more.
7 p.m.
Both are sleeping quietly how. I can afford to lie down myself and takea little rest. How tired I do feel!
Same day, 10 p.m.
Nell's improvement is steadily maintained. She is gaining strengthevery hour, and takes eagerly the light nourishment which I give her.To my great surprise, Dr. Langrishe told me to-night that he hadtelegraphed to the Dublin physician. We might expect him to-morrow. Thissudden change of plans quite amazed me. I could not make it out.
August 18.
I have had five good hours' rest to-day. The servant girl took myplace, but there was no need to call me. The patients slept the wholeafternoon.
It is always towards night that Mrs. Langrishe gets worse.
Nell woke up quite bright and cheerful. She was full of curiosity toknow how I had come to Knockminoss. I would not let her talk much forfear of exciting her. She said something that puzzled me, however.'Where are my keys, Debbie?'
I gave them to her. I had found them under the pillow on a key chain,and they had been in my charge ever since. She looked anxiously atthem, telling them over one by one.
'That is all right,' she said, softly. 'I did lock it up.'
'Lock what?' I asked, remembering suddenly how all her wanderings hadbeen about something to be looked away in safety.
'The diary,' she whispered, and then glanced timidly round.
'Who is in the next room?' she asked.
I told her Mrs. Langrishe, and that she was ill.
'Very ill, Debbie?' she asked, turning her frightened eyes to mine.'Tell me. What is it?'
'Fever,' I said. 'The same fever that you have had, dear.'
A look of relief crossed her face. She sank back on the pillow.
'Debbie,' she said, then, 'to-night, when you are all alone, I want youto go to the chest of drawers in my bedroom. Open the small top draweron the right with this key. There you will find my diary, unless——'She paused, and put her hand to her head in a perplexed, painful way.'I can't remember,' she said. 'I felt so ill—did I put it away safelybefore I lost consciousness? Heaven grant she may never get sight ofit!'
'She—who?' I asked in wonder.
'Mary Langrishe,' she whispered. 'Oh, Debbie, it has been terriblehere, terrible.'
Her shuddering glance wandered round the room.
'I can't speak of it. I daren't,' she went on. 'But you will find itall written down in the diary, everything . . . read it, Debbie, andthen form your own opinion. Perhaps I have been too suspicious. I don'tknow—but I distrust that man with all my heart.'
I soothed her, and bade her lie down and rest, and not worry herselfover anything till she was strong once more.
'Remember,' I said, 'you are not safe yet. There is always the dangerof a relapse. Then, what should we do? It will need all my care andskill to nurse that poor creature in the next room. Her strength isscarcely equal to the strain of this horrible fever.'
She wrung her hands in a sudden desperate way.
'And it was all my fault,' she murmured. 'I brought it here. I would goto that "wake," and I remember I never changed my dress nor used anyprecaution, and sat there at the open window half the night. And nowshe has it, too. Oh, Debbie, say she won't die. For God's sake promiseit!'
'Dear child!' I said gently. 'The issues of life and death are not inmortal hands. I will do all I can, but you can assist me greatly bybeing quiet and obedient, and doing your very best to get well. Thereis a time in the most critical diseases when the wishes of the patientmaterially assist recovery. Remember that, and relieve me from furtheranxiety on your behalf.'
'I will, Debbie,' she said, earnestly. 'Indeed, indeed, I will. Andoh!' she went on, 'I'm so glad you put me here, I am near her. Itis such a comfort, and I can see you passing to and fro. One thingmore——' and she laid a detaining hand on mine, 'has he attended usboth?'
'Yes,' I said, 'but I wish for another opinion. I expect a doctor fromDublin to-morrow.'
'Oh, I am so glad,' she said, eagerly. 'Watch her carefully, Debbie,very carefully. Did she have the same medicine that I did?'
'Exactly,' I replied.
'And no sleeping draughts and stuffs?'
'No, certainly not. In her state it would have been most injurious.'
'And, he? Where does he sleep?'
'Down the passage. In what they call the blue room.'
She looked relieved.
'That is all, Debbie,' she said. 'Now go and fetch the diary, and whenyou read it, sit where I can watch you. I should like to see yourface. But don't let him catch sight of it. Keep it locked safely away.Promise me that.'
I promised; then gave her some milk end left her.
10 p.m.
I found the diary in the drawers she had described. It was locked, andthe key was on the chain with the others. The diary was the same that Ihad given her in the hospital when she left us. It had a peculiar claspwith a Bramah lock. I took it with me to Mrs. Langrishe's room, and putit in my own dressing-bag until I should have leisure to read it. Thewhole long night was before me.
Medicines and nourishment had to be given at regular intervals. Thatwas all. I had a small spirit lamp and stand which I always stood inthe fireplace, and used for boiling water or milk, or anything of thatsort. I made all my preparations for the night, bathed and brushed myhair, and changed my dress for a cashmere dressing-gown. Then I puta small table with a shaded lamp in a corner of the room, in view ofNell's bed.
She was wide awake and watching me eagerly. The doctor had paidhis last visit for the night. Mrs. Langrishe was just in the samecondition. I sat down and wrote up my journal to this present extract.
* * * * * *
11 p.m.
I have just looked in at Nell to tell her I am going to read the diary.She says she is getting sleepy, and won't disturb me by a word.
I have locked the door of the bedroom leading into the corridor. Thereis no fear of disturbance. The window is wide open as usual, for thenight is very hot. I can see the sea shining like a burnished mirrorunder the light of the brilliant August moon. The trees stand out darkand still against that luminous background. Within all is still andpeaceful. The room is in shadow save just where I sit in the circle oflight thrown by the lamp.
A night-light burns in Nell's room. It shows me her pale face and duskyhair lying back on the frilled pillows. The soft tick of the clock onthe chimney-piece, and the hurried breathing of the sick woman are theonly sounds I hear.
The house seems very still. I don't know whether Dr. Langrishe has goneto bed or not. A sense of peace and seclusion are about me, and yet Ifeel strangely disturbed. The locked diary is there, on the table. Ihaven't opened it yet. I feel as if my own impressions must be got ridof, so to speak, before I venture to read that history.
The moon has stolen round. Its golden crescent faces me and clustersof brilliant stars make the light clear almost as day. So lovely, sopeaceful a scene, and yet within this room the heavy burden of humangriefs, human anxieties.
I fancy I hear a step on the gravel below. It has crossed the grasssward running down to the plantation. The faint odour of a cigar stealsup to the window. The doctor must be out there smoking.
I went over to the window and looked out. I saw the tall dark figure Iknew pacing to and fro the stretch of velvet sward. The light withinmust have shown him myself with equal distinctness. He called to mesoftly, and I answered.
'Any change?' he asked.
'None whatever,' was the reply.
He walked away, and I watched him slowly pacing from end to end ofthat sloping stretch of grass—now in shadow, now coming out into thefuller radiance of the moon. The tiny red spark from his cigar wasdistinctly visible. Then I saw him turn down the slope and pass intothe plantation beyond, as if going to the road that led seawards.
I turned back into the room. I glanced at Nell. One arm was thrown outon the white coverlet, her pretty, dusky head was defined against thefaintly deepening background of the inner room.
I passed softly to Mrs. Langrishe's side. She opened her eyes andcomplained of thirst. I gave her some milk and soda-water, andrearranged her pillows. The rapid pulse, the dry hot skin, the quickbreathing—all were unchanged.
Then I returned to my seat by the table and unlocked the diary.
August 19, 5 a.m.
I began to read Nell's diary towards midnight. I was interrupted twiceto attend to Mrs. Langrishe. With that exception I read steadily on andon till daybreak.
What shall I say here of that book, with its innocent yet damningtruths, with its terrible suspicions?
Is James Langrishe a blacker villain than I ever dreamt he was? Has hesome awful purpose in his heart, concealed and masked by that handsome,inscrutable face? He loves another woman, and his wife, the one barrierbetween them, lies at his mercy, in the throes of a deadly disease!
I know what James Langrishe's love can be. I know how utterlyunscrupulous he is, and I know that what has puzzled me in this case ofhis wife's is accounted for by the confessions of Nell's diary! He isa dangerous man—a subtle foe. Can I match my woman's wit against hisschemes and baffle them?
I dare not breathe a suspicion, and yet I must meet him, speak to him,as if I were still ignorant of his intentions. It would never do todrive him to bay, to make an open enemy of him. And yet—my whole soulrecoils with shuddering horror as I think of his long treachery to hispoor trusting victim.
What can I do? The vigilance and keenness of half a dozen nurses wouldscarcely suffice to baffle such schemes as his. And I am but one woman,for Nell cannot help me. At the thought I glanced at the openingbetween the two rooms. I have said her bed was a low, light iron one,easily moved. I resolved to place it in such a position that Nell,lying there, could see the bed and table of the sick woman.
She must watch his every movement, should he come into the room in myabsence. See that there is no tampering with bottles or glasses, andthen—if Mary Langrishe recovers—she must have some sort of warning.At any risk, I am determined I will not leave her at the mercy of thisfiend.
* * * * * *
Let me be calm, let me be wary. I walk among pitfalls indeed, and Ihave need of cunning to match cunning—an iron nerve and watchful eye.
I can write no more now. The day is at hand. I must prepare for myduties.
The poor creature whose life wavers in the balance has passed a quietnight, but the restless fit is coming on. I must lock those two booksaway. I have a terrible task before me!
August 20.
A quiet hour at last. The long, long day has worn itself away, and I amtired and spent. The physician came yesterday. He examined the patient,asked me a few questions, looked at my notes, and then retired toconsult with her husband.
I would have given worlds to know what they said, but I have not yetdescended to listening at keyholes! How is it in this world that thehypocrites always succeed, the truth-tellers never? That man was nodoubt making out his plausible, specious story, and his colleague wascontent to take his view of the case.
I know a good deal about professional etiquette. It is a pity no censushas ever been taken of the lives it has sacrificed!
* * * * * *
The physician had lunch and then came up for a last look, and to giveme his final instructions.
'You are perfectly satisfied with the treatment?' I said quietly.
He flashed a keen glance at me.
'It is the usual treatment,' he said. 'If her strength can bemaintained, she will do. Give her plenty of milk, chicken broth, or anylight nourishment she can take. It is more a case for nursing than fordrugs!'
'Ought she to have sleeping draughts?' I asked.
'Sleeping draughts? Certainly not! I was not aware—I mean——'
'I believe Dr. Langrishe is in the habit of giving her morphia,' Isaid. 'He thinks she ought to sleep more than she does.'
He looked perplexed.
'Is that so? He did not mention it. I certainly object. In her presentcondition it is positively dangerous.'
I glanced at the table by the bedside. The bottle marked 'Drops' hadbeen removed.
'Doctor,' I said, moved by a sudden impulse, 'please say nothing. Itmight offend Dr. Langrishe. I asked you on my own responsibility. Iwill see she takes no more.'
He looked at me, as if trying to read my very soul. I bore the searchunflinchingly. Then he laid down Mrs. Langrishe's hand and stood for amoment or two watching her.
He drew his watch out of his pocket, and then put it back. His browdrew together in a perplexed fashion.
'When did you say you expected the crisis?' he asked.
'To-night, I believe,' I said. 'I was not here when she was taken ill.She was nursing my friend there, who is now on the road to recovery.I fancy Mrs. Langrishe struggled against the symptoms longer than weimagine.'
He put the watch back in his pocket.
'I shall stay here to-night,' he said, suddenly. 'I will watch hermyself. There are one or two points about the case that interest me. Isuppose I can have a bed here, if necessary.'
'Certainly,' I said. There was a jubilant ring in my voice that musthave struck on his ear.
'You seem pleased,' he said, with an odd smile lurking round his gravelips.
'Yes,' I said. 'I am. I have been very anxious.'
'Have you done all the nursing yourself—both cases?'
'Yes,' I said.
'It was too hard,' he said. 'Much too hard. You should have had anothernurse here.'
'Dr. Langrishe did not think it necessary. Besides the whole householdis upset. The servants have fled in terror of the infection.'
He began to pace the room slowly and thoughtfully.
I heard wheels on the gravel below. It was the dogcart to take him tothe station. I went over to the window. James Langrishe sat there,holding the reins. He looked up, and shouted impatiently that therewould only be time to catch the train. The doctor went downstairs andout of the front door. From where I stood I could see and hear themboth.
'I am not going back to Dublin, Langrishe,' He said. 'I shall stayhere. A change is at hand. I want to watch it. But you can drive me tothe post office if you wish. I must send some telegrams.'
I saw James Langrishe's face turn from red to white. For a moment hesaid nothing, only sat there, staring straight before him.
Then he muttered something about its being all right, and the doctorsprang up beside him. He gave the horse a savage cut, and the dogcartwhirled down the avenue.
I turned from the window and went into Nell's room, before ringing forthe girl and giving her directions.
'Oh, Nell,' I said. 'We've found a friend at last. The Dublin physicianis going to remain till the crisis is over.'
The girl's face turned very white. The tears of weakness and reliefsprang into her large blue eyes.
'Oh, thank heaven,' she said. 'Oh, Debbie, how clever you are. How didyou manage it?'
'It managed itself,' I said. 'I was as astonished as you.'
Then I sat down on the side of the bed for a few moments, and held hersmall wasted hand in mine while in low hushed whispers we discussed thediary.
* * * * * *
The afternoon passed quietly. The physician came in twice. Dr.Langrishe did not appear again until dinner was over. She was thengrowing rapidly worse, and hope sank within my breast every moment.
Suddenly, she turned her head and murmured something. I bent close tocatch the words; they were so faint. I turned quickly to the doctor.
'She asks for claret,' I said.
He considered a moment. Then he turned to James Langrishe.
'Let her have it,' he said. 'It can do no harm now.'
He turned to leave the room. The physician looked at me. 'Go you, too,'he whispered. 'Fetch it yourself; open it here; don't let it out ofyour hands.'
I felt myself change colour. Was it possible, after all, that JamesLangrishe had betrayed himself; that these keen professional eyes hadseen something amiss?
I hurried after him: my dress made no noise on the carpeted floor. Ashe entered the dining-room I was beside him. He started. The old evillook I knew flashed from his eyes.
'What do you want now?' he asked, savagely.
'The claret, of course,' I answered, coolly. 'And the corkscrew. I willopen it upstairs.'
He said nothing, but unlocked the sideboard and took out of thecellarette one of those small pint bottles Nell had mentioned in hernotes. He put it down, and I quietly took possession of it. I glancedat the seal. It was unbroken. At least there had been no tampering withthe wine. I secured a corkscrew and ran quickly upstairs.
Even in this brief time there had been a change. I drew the cork, andpoured out half a tumblerful of the wine. The doctor added some waterand held it to her lips.
She drank it thirstily, eagerly, Then . . . . It seemed a miracle—herwhole face changed. The glazed dim look left her eyes. She gave a longdeep breath, and lay back.
'Fan her,' said the doctor hurriedly, 'she wants air.'
I took the large palm leaf fan I had so often used and waved it softlyto and fro, and held a smelling bottle to her nostrils. At that momentDr. Langrishe entered.
The physician drew back a step. His quiet unemotional face bore a lookof triumph.
'Your wife is safe,' he said. 'The worst is past. It is odd, thesefancies they take,' he went on. 'You remember with the Prince of Walesit was beer, but the result is generally the same. When the fate isswaying in the balance, I always listen to Nature. If she had asked formorphia I should have given it.'
James Langrishe turned aside. I saw him take out his handkerchief andwipe his brow. His emotion seemed too great for words. He left the room.
* * * * * *
And now once more comes the trying part of the case, untiringwatchfulness, unceasing care, will be needed. My vigilance must neverrelax, my energies must not fail. She will live, unless there shouldbe a relapse. That is what I have to guard against. She is sleepingnow, the natural, though somewhat feverish slumber of convalescence.The Dublin doctor has gone to rest. I don't know where James Langrisheis. I am well content that he should not come into this room. I wouldhe might never enter it again. Is it too hard a thing to say of that,wicked, wasted, unholy existence of his?
The physician has telegraphed for another nurse from Cork. He says I amoverdone; that I, too, shall fall ill if I don't rest.
I fancy there is no more to fear now, and when I can leave the othernurse in charge I shall know the delight of one long, good night's rest!
August 27.
A long, quiet, peaceful week. Nell is up and about the room, andgaining strength every day. Mrs. Langrishe's progress is slower andless perceptible. Still, every day of improvement is a sign of hope.
And what of James Langrishe?
He certainly does not trouble us atall. Perhaps conscience has made a coward of him, perhaps the Dublinphysician alarmed him. I only know that he never interferes with me ormy assistant, a young nurse from the Woman's and Children's Hospital,Cork. Mrs. Langrishe is left entirely in our hands. She needs nomedicines now. Only plenty of light, wholesome nourishment. As soon asshe is really convalescent, I shall urge her to come away for a change.She and Nell. I do not think the air of Knockminoss at all suitable toher.
The household is still in the same disorganised state. We two nurseshave to prepare the invalid's food ourselves, as the Irish servant hasvery little idea of cooking, at least of invalid cookery. I suppose shemanages her master's dinners to his satisfaction, or she would be sentabout her business.
I am a poor eater at the best of times, and the plainer and simpler thefood the better I like it, but even I began to rebel a little at thewatery soups and greasy stews, and badly fried fish, which are servedto Nurse O'Toole and myself. Nell simply cannot touch anything thatBridget Lehane does. I have to concoct jellies and milk puddings, andmake beef-tea for her in my leisure moments. But I mind nothing now myanxiety is at rest. Besides, Mary Langrishe is the sweetest and mostgrateful of patients.
* * * * * * *
I came up from the kitchen a short time ago. I had gone down to seeto supplies and put on some fresh beef-tea for my patients. I had toreprimand the girl Bridget rather sharply. She had persistently stoodgossiping with an old fish-woman at the back entrance, and persistentlyrefused to attend to my call. For all excuse she told me that KateyLeary (one of the biggest vagabonds in the place) had been telling her'such a mighty queer story' she couldn't drag herself away. I askedwhat the story was, and her garrulous Irish tongue ran on for fully aquarter of an hour.
Disentangled from the meshes of 'I sez' and 'Sez I,' and somehalf-dozen family histories of O'Hooligans and MacCarthys and O'Briens,I made the story to be as follows:—
Three weeks or so back a juvenile O'Hooligan, related in somemysterious manner to the redoubtable Katey Leary, had been out onan errand, and was returning home by a lane skirting the foot of ahill some couple of miles off. He saw a woman sitting at the bottomof the hill on a heap of stones, apparently resting. Her shawl wasdrawn over her head. He came close to her, and she turned and lookedat him. Her face, according to the boy, was 'just terrible.' Heknew, in some mysterious fashion peculiar to the Irish, that he hadlooked on no living woman—' 'twas a sperrit, miss, sure enough, andhe gave a screech and took to his heels, and never stopped until hewas safe in his mother's cottage.' Now, whether Tim O'Hooligan spokeof this adventure or not, I was unable to discover; but certain itwas that between that date and this, the same woman, sitting in thesame position, had been seen by some dozen or more equally credibleauthorities. The story was going about the neighbouring farms, and theplace was getting an ill name.
'Not,' added Bridget, 'that that's to be wondered at, miss, for shureisn't it Dead Woman's Hill, where the murder was twinty years or moreago, an' small wonder if it's haunted now be them as can't rest in orout of purgatory.'
'Dead Woman's Hill,' I exclaimed, struck by a sudden memory. Wherehad I heard that name? I tried to think, but for a moment I could notremember. Then it all flashed back. The girl who died in the hospital,cursing James Langrishe's name. That was the place she had mentioned.
'I'll meet you there,' she had said.'At the foot of Dead Woman's Hill,at midnight.'
I had some of the Scotch superstitions. I was not sceptical as toghosts or apparitions, or legends of haunted spots, and surely thiswas a very singular occurrence. There was a place in the neighbourhoodcalled 'Dead Woman's Hill,' and probably its uncanny reputation hadmade it a very safe trysting place. But yet, was it possible? Could Ireally believe that the poor ruined creature I had nursed in the feverward of a London hospital was now haunting in spirit this very place!Are there 'stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of inour philosophy,' I began to wonder.
All day I have kept this story to myself, and 'pondered it in myheart.' It has a queer meaning for me. I felt unnerved for the firsttime in my life. A strange, unholy, longing took possession of me tosee this thing for myself. To find out if it really bore the semblanceof the girl by whose death-bed I had stood, whose lifeless limbs I hadstraightened for the hideous sack in which she had been sewn and takento the mortuary.
I thought over ways and means. I had not yet been outside the groundsof Knockminoss. My brief spells of exercise had consisted of a turnin the garden, a few moments pacing to and fro that long stretch ofsloping grass before the house.
I had more leisure at my command now. Still it would seem strange tostart off for a midnight walk to a place two miles away.
I must wait. I could not possibly do it until James Langrishe was outof the way.
August 29th.
A strange thing happened to-day.
The doctor came upstairs after breakfast. He saw his wife, and madea few inquiries after her progress. I was alone in the room. NurseO'Toole had gone to lie down in Nell's old bedroom, which had beenthoroughly aired and disinfected, and which we nurses used now for ourrelief hours of rest and sleep.
'I have come to say, Mary, that I am called away for a couple of days,'he said. 'Now that you are getting on so well you won't need me. Ileave you in good hands.'
'Where are you going, dear?' she asked, feebly.
'Only to Cork. I leave to-day. I shall be back on Saturday at thelatest.'
She smiled affectionately, and laid her thin transparent hand on his.
I saw his eyes fall on it. It was the left hand. The thick hoop of thewedding ring looked far too large and heavy for its emaciated strength.
He drew his own hand away suddenly, and moved aside under some pretextof altering the light. I had fixed up green inside blinds over theart-patterned roller ones, so as to keep the room dark and cool.
'A good idea,' he said. 'Was that yours, Deborah?'
'I saw Mrs. Langrishe start, and a keen, suspicious glance shot towardsme.
Naturally it must have seemed strange to her that utterance of my name.I wondered whether he had noticed the slip, or made it purposely.Nothing was impossible where James Langrishe was concerned. I answeredhim coolly, and without looking at him.
'Yes, Dr. Langrishe it was. We get all the morning sun this side of thehouse.'
'Would you like to change any more bedrooms?' he asked with that faintsneer I began to know so well. 'My house is quite at your service. Praymake any arrangements you please.'
I heard the poor deluded creature in the bed apologising for andlamenting his discomforts. It put me out of all patience. I busiedmyself at the other end of the room and turned my back on him. I heardsome more murmurs, some fond expressions, the sound of a kiss, and thenhe left.
I breathed freely. It was delightful to think that for three daysthere need be no espionage, no tremors and fears. I fancy I had neverrealised how great the strain had been until that moment. When I turnedagain and looked at Mrs. Langrishe I saw she was quietly crying—cryingbecause that traitorous wretch of a husband was going to Cork fortwo or three days. Truly the ways of women are strange and pastunderstanding.
August 30th.
The lovely golden moon—August's queenly moon—is in full splendour inthe deep blue sky, and shining over the tranquil breast of the quietsea. It is close upon ten o'clock. Nurse O'Toole has the night duty,a light office now, for Mary Langrishe always sleeps tranquilly andeasily. I had never found she needed sleeping draughts, and took goodcare to say so in presence of her husband.
Nell is in bed, sleeping like a child, and I have come to my room—herroom, rather—though she still prefers the dressing-room. I feel toorestless to undress or go to bed. I keep thinking of that lonelytrysting place, and I wonder if that ghost story is true, or due to anextra amount of grey matter secreted in a cell of the O'Hooligan brain?
I sit here, writing nothing, for I have nothing to write, tracing theseidle words, feeling all the time that something is drawing me—drawingme—slowly out of this house, out and over the quiet lonely road thatleads to Dead Woman's Hill. I have never been there, but I seem to knowit so well. Can I resist the power? Shall I obey it?
I will—I must. Be it truth or phantasy, a trick of imagination or astory got up for a purpose, I am determined to find it out.
I will put on my bonnet and cloak, and then tell Nurse O'Toole I amgoing for a walk. I often go out in the evening for a stroll in thegrounds. She will think it nothing unusual. I can leave one of theFrench windows unshuttered and return that way. I fancy the servant hasgone to bed. She is fond of retiring early and getting up late. Yes, mymind is made up, I will go.
August 31.
With quiet nerves and steady pulse, and facing the bright daylight,can I believe in the existence of haunting spirits. Unable to restin their own sphere, bound by some inexplicable law of which we wisemortals know nothing, to return to some spot of their vexatious earthlypilgrimage?
Can I, I ask myself, believe this? I only know that last nightwhen, between eleven and twelve, I found myself at the foot of thatill-omened hill, I most certainly and distinctly saw the face of thevery woman I had nursed, and laid out for dead in the hospital.
Crouched at the foot of the hill, on a heap of stones, her shawl drawnabout her head, as the boy O'Hooligan said, so the figure sat as Iapproached. The full moonlight made everything clear and distinct. Iknow my eyes played me no tricks. And the strangest part of all wasthat I felt not the least fear. I saw it, and stood a few paces off,coolly regarding it, and sure in my own mind that it was a real being,and that the story had a very rational foundation.
But suddenly the figure lifted its head and looked at me from out ofthe shrouding folds of the shawl. Then, indeed, I knew what fear was.The deadly chilling terror that stops one's heart beats, that makes thehair bristle on one's head, and grips the frame with an icy grasp, thatleaves the limbs powerless to obey the instincts of the brain. Such amoment of such a terror was mine. Then it passed, and I grew calm andlooked back at the haggard face, with only a sense of wonder.
Here was something that I knew belonged no longer to this world inwhich I moved. Here, in likeness of its old self, and yet with afearsome indescribable change in it, was the face whose eyes I hadclosed, the lips whose curses still rang in my ears.
I must state here that from the moment the fear passed out of me Ibecame conscious of a certain pleasurable interest in the phenomenonbefore me. I had witnessed death so often, in so many ghostly shapesand forms, that it had ceased to alarm or distress me. It only left ahaunting desire in my mind to know what really happened afterwards. . .The moment of release. What did it really mean? Was all of earthforgotten? Could the whole mysterious personality of the 'ego' changeand accept its spiritual garb as it would have accepted a present ofnew clothes on the earth plane?
Those things had perplexed me many times. Now for the first time inmy life came an opportunity of questioning a spirit, about whoseauthenticity I had no manner of doubt. It was a remarkable face—onenot easily forgotten—and the most singular circumstance about it wasthat as the shawl fell back, I noted the hair was cut short, just as ithad been in the hospital.
I looked at her, and as I looked I saw her slowly rise, and the fullgolden rays of the moon streamed down upon the ghastly face and the saddespairing eyes. I thought she was about to speak, but she only stoodthere looking at me.
'Who are you?' I asked, suddenly. 'Will you tell me your name?'
There was no answer. I felt perplexed, but not in the least alarmed.Maybe I have to thank the blood of my Scotch ancestry for that.
'Can you speak,' I went on. 'Is there anything you want?'
Then, whether it was voice or sigh, or impression, I cannot tell, butto my brain, not in my ears, came four words. Only four words, sostrange—and to me so unintelligible that I write them down almostunwillingly.
They were these:'The Black Cap waits.'
And then—well then, I looked only at a heap of stones and a slopinghill on which the moonrays streamed.
Sept. 1st.
I closed my diary with that last entry. There was no use to speculateabout it. I only knew it happened, and that neither God nor man canshake my belief in it. It has been a theory of mine all my life thatthe earnest longing of the spirit can mature into action when theearth-clog of existence is cast aside. If it goes out of life with thatlonging it must be a motive force in its existence. However, I shallsay nothing, not even to Nell, about my visit to Dead Woman's Hill.
But a conviction is growing up surely and steadily within my mind thatI am destined to play an important part in James Langrishe's fate, thatit was not without purpose we met again, and that from circumstance tocircumstance I have been led along the mysterious road on which I nowtread, for the working out of that purpose.
Oh, what would I not give to rend the veil of the future—to see, evena little way along the dark road, to know what lies for him, for me,beyond? But it cannot be—not yet, I tell myself, not yet.
* * * * * *
10 p.m.
A telegram arrived to-night from James Langrishe. It was addressed tome.
'Tell my wife I cannot return yet. Have to go on to London. Will write.'
I, of course, broke the news to Mary Langrishe, and had thesatisfaction of seeing her cry herself into a bad headache. Her reasonswere twofold. First, her husband had wired to me, instead of her;second, he had gone to London without giving any reason.
I gently explained that telegrams were public property, in a way, andthat probably his reasons were not. But she is weak and foolish, poorwoman, and won't hear common sense. I wonder sometimes why Nell is sofond of her. To me she is not a particularly interesting woman, andshe is certainly a weak one. I can hardly wonder that she has ceasedto interest her husband, and that all her blind love and devotion isabsolutely wasted on him. Not that his loss of interest or affectionexcuses his conduct, but knowing him as I do, it explains it.
September 8.
And now has begun for us a peaceful, tranquil time. Nell is able to getout in the garden every day. Mrs. Langrishe herself is up, and sittingin her own boudoir. The doctor is safe away in London. Nurse O'Toolehas returned to Cork.
We three women are leading a monotonous, yet not unpleasant existence.I have broached the subject of change of air, and Mrs. Langrishe hassuggested the mountains near Mellary. It appears that those good monkshave not only founded an establishment of their own, but have builta series of cottages in this healthy, bracing spot, which can be letto visitors for the summer season. Mrs. Langrishe proposes that Ishould go over to Cappoquin, and then drive to the monastery, and makeinquiries about one of those houses. It would mean leaving her alonefor the day, but then she is really convalescent, and Nell is quitecapable of doing everything necessary for her during my absence. Myanxiety to get them away from this house, and be rid of the hatefulfears and suspicions of this past month, induce me to lend a ready earto the proposal.
I propose to take the steamer at 1.30 from the quay and go up toBlackwater, returning by half-past seven if the tide serves. It will bea pleasant excursion. I am only sorry that Nell cannot come with me.Mrs. Langrishe seems quite full of the idea. She longs to be well andstrong once more, she tells me. She is sick of playing the invalid. Ipromised her great things from mountain air, and freedom from householdcares.
She informed me this morning, while I was dressing her, that no doubtit was this fever coming on that had made her feel so queer and ill forsome time back. It was diplomatic to agree, but it was not truthful,and my conscience suffered accordingly.
September 10th, 11 p.m.
I have just come to my room (the dressing-room again) after a long talkwith Nell. We talked with hushed voices and bated breath, for we talkedfor the first time of our fears, and of James Langrishe. Step by stepwe trod the path of suspicion opened by the diary, and leading back tothe first days of our acquaintance with the doctor's wife.
It was scarcely possible to put one's fears into plain words, butwe knew each in her own heart what the awful thing was whose shadowhad haunted James Langrishe's actions, and between which and hisunsuspecting victim we had interposed not an hour too soon.
'But we can't guard her for ever,' said Nell, despondingly. 'She loveshim and trusts him entirely, and whatever he tells her she will do. Aslong as he loves that other woman, his wife is not safe, and that heloves her there is no doubt.'
'Where is she now?' I asked. 'Have you heard?'
'No, but I believe she is in Cork still. At least Mrs. Langrishe saidso the other day.'
'I should like to know,' I said, 'what has taken him to London.'
'So should I,' Nell answered. 'Mrs. Langrishe had a letter yesterday.It seemed rather a long one. She read it about a dozen times.'
'I wish,' I said, 'she could see him in his true light; but that'simpossible. However, if we can get her away and get her strong and wellthere will be no need of medicines, and once out of this ghastly houseI think we ought to warn her, Nell. I can't have it on my conscience toleave her—a lamb at a wolf's mercy.'
'As long as she keeps me with her I can watch,' said Nell.
I shook my head.
'My dear child,' I said, 'the greatest vigilance would not be vigilantenough to guard her if he is determined to——'
'Hush,' she said, turning very pale. 'Don't say it, Debbie, dear. Itsounds so awful put into words.'
'It will sound more awful put into deeds,' I said.
'Could I possibly have been mistaken?' she said, anxiously. 'Did itread so badly, Debbie?'
'It read,' I said, 'as badly as anything could read, short of actualaccusation.'
'Ought I to keep it? It seems so dangerous. I seem to be haunted by theterror that it may fall into someone's hands.'
'That was what troubled you in your delirium,' I said. 'You fancied youhad not locked it up, but it was quite safe, I assure you.'
Then I rose and bade her good-night, and went off to my own room.
Mrs. Langrishe was in bed, propped up by pillows, as was her fancy.Her face was flushed, and her eyes feverishly bright. I did not quitelike her looks. I went over and felt her pulse. It was beating fasterthan it should have done. I asked her if she felt as well as usual, andshe declared she did, but not in the least sleepy. I suggested that Ishould sit up and read to her for a time. It was only half-past ten,but she declared the light hurt her eyes. If she were alone she wouldsoon go to sleep. I moved the night-light into a corner where she couldnot possibly see it, and arranged her pillows comfortably and left her.
When I had undressed I put on my dressing-gown as usual, and thentook out my journal. I listened a moment at the door of communicationbetween the two rooms. All was quiet. She was evidently asleep, and Ineed fear no interruption.
It seems to me almost a duty now to commit every fact that comes undermy notice to these safe pages. I cannot rely absolutely upon memory,besides memory is not evidence.
I wonder what made me write that. If I live much longer in this houseI shall become suspicious of everything and everybody. . . . I shallbegin to mistrust myself and my own powers of reasoning. I quite longfor to-morrow, a long day in the open air, on the lovely river of whichI have heard so much, into the solitudes of those dark mountains whosetops I have watched the sun's rays crown so many summer mornings.
It is growing towards midnight. I had better close those pages. I wishthere may be no need to open them until we are all safe and togetherunder the peaceful shadows of the Knockmeledown Mountains.
September 11th, Night.
Whatever I might have intended to write here of my journey, I haveneither time nor inclination to do so. I caught the return steamerfrom Cappoquin (having secured a house for a month from the 10th ofSeptember), and arrived at the quay at half-past seven. The outside carfrom Knockminoss was waiting for me. As we dashed off I asked the manif all was well at the house.
'They are, miss,' he said, 'and the master's back. Came back suddenlike. No one expected him. The house is a bit upset.'
I was utterly amazed and very ill-pleased at this news. But I found theman knew nothing, only that the doctor had arrived by the 6.10 trainand dashed home on a car from the station, and that Bridget was mightyput about for things for dinner, not having expected him at all.
My impatience made the drive home seem endless. I thought the lodgewould never appear in sight. I sprang from the car as it reached thefront door and hurried upstairs to Mrs. Langrishe's room. I found hersitting up, dressed in a marvellously smart tea-gown; her face lookedpainfully flushed and her eyes feverish and strained. The doctorwas not there, and Nell was sitting by the window looking almost asdisturbed as Mrs. Langrishe. I spoke to them, as I usually did afteran absence. If I had ventured an opinion, I would have said they hadquarrelled, but that seemed too wildly improbable to suggest.
As I was relating the incidents of my journey a noise from the innerroom struck me. I turned hurriedly. As I did so the door was thrownopen, and Dr. Langrishe appeared. I stared, and the blood rushed to myface. Through the open door I could see the whole arrangement of theroom had been altered. The bed was in its old place, the shaving-glassstood by the window; his portmanteau was on the floor, open, and withits contents strewn about on chairs and carpet. It was a man's roomonce more, and he had taken possession of it.
'How do you do, Sister Gray?' he said, coolly. 'You see, I've come backto my old quarters. My wife tells me she is perfectly convalescent, andyour absence for the whole day is proof enough of that. I congratulateyou on your excellent nursing. It only leaves one regret behind. Thecure of the patient means the dispensing with the valuable services ofthe nurse!'
He stood there, with his handsome evil eyes on mine. I was, for amoment, too amazed to speak.
Then my unfortunate temper blazed forth.
'What do you mean, Dr. Langrishe?' I asked. 'Am I to consider yourwords in the light of a dismissal?'
Nell started to her feet and came over to my side. I felt the pressureof her hand on my arm, and I knew I had said an unwise thing.
'You may take it any way you please,' he said, insolently. 'I have beenbadgered out of house and home by a parcel of women for the last month.I've had enough of discomfort. I'm having a decent cook down from Cork,and I am coming back to my own room, and I am going to rule my house inmy own way once more. Now that my wife is well, I'll not have the placeturned into a hospital with rules and regulations any longer.'
'Debbie,' whispered Nell, entreatingly, as the hot blood flew to myface, 'be quiet, dear; be patient—remember.'
I did remember, but I could not be quiet under such covert insult. Ilooked at Mrs. Langrishe. She was white and trembling.
'Is it your wish,' I said, 'that I should go?'
'No, not immediately; pray don't take offence, dear Miss Gray,' shesaid, feebly. 'But, really, I am quite well now, only for just a littlenatural weakness. Why should I be detaining you from your own properduties. My husband tells me that you left the hospital to come here,and that your time there is not up.'
I laughed harshly. This was gratitude indeed!
'I should not be likely,' I said, 'to stay a day longer with a patientthan was absolutely necessary. But my own judgment tells me, Dr.Langrishe, that your wife is not yet strong enough to be left withoutattendance.'
'She will have mine,' he said, mockingly, 'and Miss Nugent's, ifnecessary.'
I said no more, but turned to leave the room.
Nell followed.
'What does it mean?' I asked, as we passed down the corridor.
'I can't make it out,' she said. 'He came home in an awful temper, andinsisted on having all your things turned out of the dressing-room, andhis own brought back. I think she is frightened, poor soul. Oh, Debbie,what am I to do? I feel so nervous and terrified, and if you go——'
'There is no "if" about it,' I said. 'He as good as ordered me out ofthe house. I cannot stay after to-night. I won't go to-night, not foreven worse insults. We'll share this room, child, and I must pack up, Isuppose, and go back to London, and our promised holiday is all over!'I sighed regretfully as we went to her room, and closed the door.
'It is too bad,' she said, indignantly; 'and he has done it purposely.I know he wishes you out of the house, Debbie. He seems to have a fearas well as a dislike of you.'
'And well he might,' I thought to myself. 'Well he might.'
I commenced to pack my belongings. It did not take me long. Nothingwould have taken me back to Mrs. Langrishe's room but a message. Asnone came, Nell and I sat on in the beautiful moonlight, talking anddiscussing plans, and cheering each other as best we could.
At last a knock at the door startled us. The servant Bridget was there.
'The misthress's compliments, miss, to both of yez, and would ye obligeby coming down to supper. The misthress is downstairs at the tablewaitin' for ye!'
We both sprang up.
'What!' I cried. 'Is your mistress downstairs—in the dining-room?'
'Shure she is, miss, an gettin' on grand. 'Tis walkin' all over theplace she'll be immediately.'
I looked at Nell. She looked at me. 'He is going to kill her by openand legitimate means,' I said. 'Come, Nell, let us go down. I'll pocketpride to-night for your sake, and hers. I don't know why, but I have afeeling that she is glad I am going away.'
The dining-room was brightly lit, and the table laid out in quite afestive manner, with glass and silver, and flowers. It was the firsttime I had had a meal downstairs since my arrival at Knockminoss. Thedoctor and his wife were seated, one at the head and the other at thefoot of the oval table. Places were laid for Nell and myself oppositeeach other.
Mrs. Langrishe wore the same airy, filmy tea-gown, pink silk and lacecommingled, and her hair was curled and waved, and then twisted up inan elaborate coil on the top of her head. Her face had still the samefeverish flush, and her thin, haggard cheeks looked thinner by contrastwith it.
She smiled graciously as we entered.
'Dear Miss Gray,' she said. 'Don't accuse me of taking liberties withmyself. I really feel quite well, and my husband gave me permissionto come downstairs. Now, let us all have supper together, and try toforget this horrible time. I, for my part, am only too thankful to doso.'
'And I,' said her husband, 'only too thankful to welcome my wife backto her old place. This has been a time of purgatory to me.'
I seated myself in silence, and Nell made some jesting remark as ifto cover my reticence. The doctor began to carve the pair of fowlsbefore him. The table was spread with cold tongue, roast beef, salad,fruit, and cakes. Mrs. Langrishe took some chicken, but Nell and Iwould not touch anything our arch-enemy served. The beef was beforeme, and, at his request, I carved it. There were two or three sorts ofwine—claret, sherry, and hock—but not content with that he insistedon opening champagne, and gave Mrs. Langrishe a glass of it. I thoughtit an unwise proceeding, but as any interference was prohibited, I saidnothing.
Nell and I refused to touch any wine, and took water.
The champagne seemed to have an exhilarating effect upon the doctor'sspirits. He became talkative, noisy—almost boisterous. He questionedme about my journey to Mellary, made coarse jokes about the monks,and complimented his wife on her choice of a place for change of air.He spoke of certain alterations to be made in the house during herabsence, and even declared she must hunt again that winter. She hadplayed the invalid too long.
Then he took more champagne and drank her health, as he said, andbewildered and intoxicated the poor creature with his glances andcompliments and tender speeches. He seemed to take a maliciouspleasure in airing his affection for her, and calling out a displayof her adoring worship of himself. It made Nell and myself mostuncomfortable, but we could not leave the table till she did so, andshe seemed inclined to sit on all night, basking in the sunshine of herhypocritical husband's love-making.
At last he rang the bell and ordered in coffee. I was a littlesurprised, but the servant brought in a tray of cups, and, at hisdesire, put it on a table near the window. He rose, and Mrs. Langrishefollowed him. The window was wide open, as usual, and the garden andlawn were flooded with moonlight.
He turned to me, as I also came towards the table.
'Would you kindly put out the lamp, Miss Gray,' he said. 'The one onthe table. The other gives enough light, and it is a pity to spoil theromance of such a scene by the vulgar glare of an illumination.'
I immediately went back to the table and touched the extinguisher.It was stiff, and did not work well. I may have been a moment or twobefore I managed it. Nell was standing by her chair watching me. Weheard him say,
'Sit down, my angel, and rest. I will wait upon you.' We exchangedlooks expressive of our feelings.
I lifted the lamp and carried it over to the sideboard. At the samemoment the servant entered and commenced to clear away the supperthings. Dr. Langrishe addressed me from the window.
'You will take some coffee, Miss Gray, won't you—and Miss Nugent, too?'
Nell and I loved coffee. We accepted the offer and went over to thewindow. He handed us each a cup, asked if we took itau lait orblack, and took a cup himself, with a lequeur of cognac in it.
All the time he talked incessantly. Nell was standing half in, halfout of the window, her cup in her hand. She seemed to be gazing outat the belt of woods and the gloom of moonlit sea. I was near her. Ihad begun to drink the coffee, and finished it quickly. It was not asgood as I had hoped, but it was better than the hospital stuff. Nellhad, I think, only sipped a small portion of hers. I do not know whatmade me notice that she had a white cup—mine had a pattern on it. Iglanced at Mrs. Langrishe's to see if her's was the same. It was a pinkone, with a gold border at the top. It struck me as odd that, whereall the appointments were so excellent, there should have been such anunmatched service sent in with coffee, but it was no concern of mine,and the thought was dismissed almost as soon as I entertained it. Itwas probably the servant's fault.
My eyes turned again to the lovely view. It seemed less distinct thanit had been. A sort of haze seemed creeping between the wood and thesea, and yet the moon was bright as ever.
'Nell——' I said, suddenly.
My voice was drowned in a cry from her. I saw her start, and the cupfell from her hand, and lay in a hundred fragments at her feet.
'Debbie,' she cried, 'look at that woman, look! Oh! what an awful face!'
I was through the window and beside her in a moment. She was tremblingviolently. I saw a figure standing opposite the house in full view ofthe windows. A shawl was drawn about its head. The face looked straightat us, and the full moon revealed it with startling distinctness. Iknew it in a moment. The same woman, the same face I had seen at thefoot of Dead Woman's Hill. At Nell's exclamation, at my movements,James Langrishe had also come forward.
'What is it? What are you staring at?' he asked. 'Who is there?'
'Can't you see anyone?' I asked. 'A woman. Look, she is leaning againstthe iron railings beyond the grass slope.'
'I can see nothing,' he said, angrily. 'What cursed folly is this?'
Mrs. Langrishe had also risen and come forward.
'But thereis a woman there, James, dearest,' she said. 'Can't you seeher? Look, she is coming ferwards. She waves her hand. Oh, Jim! herface. It is no living face. It is adead woman's face. My God, and shesigns to me!'
And with a wild, terrified shriek she sank down, insensible, intoNell's outstretched arms.
In a moment all was confusion. With a savage oath James Langrishe tookhis wife's unconscious form from Nell's weak support, and laid her onthe leather couch. I dashed water over her face, and Nell ran upstairsfor the smelling salts.
The Irish servant meanwhile kept up a running commentary ofejaculations and remarks, and declared it was 'gettin' beyant thebeyants, the way things was. An' no dacint crature could slape in peacethim times. An' shure, wasn't it well beknown everywhere who 'twas thatwalked, an' hadn't scores of people seen her, an' if 'twas here she wasnow minded to come, shure, Bridget Lehane wasn't goin' to stay in theplace. No, not for double the wages anyone might offer her!'
Her master cut her short with an oath.
'What nonsense are you talking woman?' he exclaimed. 'Get out of theroom. I want none of your infernal jabber going on here.'
The girl fled. As the door closed I looked at him.
'What she says is true,' I said, in a low voice. 'That was no livingwoman we saw. I have good reason to know.'
'You?' he said, and his livid face gave me a shock, as for a second'sspace I saw written on it the one unmistakable sign of fear.
'I,' was my answer. 'I nursed that woman in the fever ward of thehospital. I saw her die. And yet I have seen her here, twice. The firsttime was at the foot of Dead Woman's Hill.'
His eyes fell. I saw the ghastly colour creep over his very lipstill his face looked like a grey mask. Then into it flashed a savagedesperation.
In that moment, I think some evil deed first drew its birth-breath. Inthat moment, the soul of James Langrishe defied death or hell to turnit from its purpose.
It was some moments before Mrs. Langrishe regained consciousness. Thenshe opened her eyes, and sat up, and asked the usual foolish questions.
I left Nell to answer her.
I was myself unnerved and upset, and my head began to ache in afeverish unaccountable way.
'Good heavens!' I cried, in my heart. 'Am I going to be ill—am I goingto take the fever?'
I staggered into a chair. The room looked hazy and indistinct. Thefaces swam before me. I pressed my hands to my head. It was burninghot, then suddenly as the feeling had come it passed. My brain steadiedand my eyes cleared, and I rose.
'If you will excuse me,' I said, 'I will go to bed. I don't feel verywell.'
I believe they spoke, but there came a buzzing singing noise in myears, and I could not hear distinctly.
'I think this must be something like people feel when they are drunk,'I said to myself, and I seemed to hear my own foolish laugh as I saidit.
* * * * * *
Then I was in my room. I was trying to pull off my clothes. I waslooking at my box, packed and addressed for departure. I saw thebed turned down—the frilled pillows. I felt but one longing, oneimpulse—to lie down and sleep—sleep for ever!
I remember no more.
* * * * * *
FINAL EXTRACTS ADDED BY NELL.
Two weeks—two long, endless, miserable weeks. How can I write all theterrors and sorrows and anxiety they have held for me?
And yet I must. The story cannot be left unfinished. There has been toomuch said for me to be silent now. There are too great issues at stakefor either omission or negligence on my part.
'Oh, what would I not give for a friend to trust, to rely upon, totake counsel with. I feel so miserably helpless and alone. Oh, for aman's strong heart and strong sense to encourage me now! For Dick,strong, self-reliant, clever Dick. But I don't know where he is, and Idaren't write to my own people. I daren't breathe a word of the hatefulsuspicions at work within my soul, and poor Debbie is ill—ill of thesame terrible fever.
Fortunately, she has had it very mildly, but it has been bad enough.Bad enough, indeed, taken in conjunction with all that came with it.And now my pen has the hardest task to fulfil I have ever given it.It is little wonder I shrink from putting down in black and white thetruth of all this past year's fears. And yet I must.
Mary Langrishe is dead.
Dead, and in her grave, poor soul. And the stonemasons are at work overan elaborate marble cross to her memory, and an inscription, composedby a bereaved husband, and adorned by an appropriate text!
Do devils laugh at us, I wonder, watching the apelike tricks we playbefore high Heaven and our fellow mortals!
* * * * * *
Now the bold plain fact is written, perhaps I can compose my mind tothe task before me. I have to trust memory, for I have had not a sparemoment to make any notes since the night Debbie fell ill.
That night, Mrs. Langrishe seemed on the high road to recovery. Herhusband had returned from London and behaved somewhat rudely to Debbie.In fact she took his conduct in the light of a dismissal, and declaredshe would leave next day.
We both were asked downstairs to supper, a fact which rather surprisedme. Our meals had been served upstairs in Mrs. Langrishe's boudoirsince her illness had upset the household, following closely on myown. The supper was very festive, as far as appearances went—lights,flowers, fruit, wine all set out as of old, and Mrs. Langrishe in highspirits, and the doctor complimentary, and almost lover-like. Yet Ifelt uneasy, and so I am sure did Debbie.
Mrs. Langrishe had a fainting fit later on that night, brought on, Ifear, by a remark of mine that frightened her and led to a ghost storyfrom the servant, and to great anger on the part of Dr. Langrishe.I certainly fancied I saw a figure standing at the end of the grassslope, and with a very awful face, and Mrs. Langrishe declared she sawit too. The rest of that evening, and the awful night that followed it,is a hazy confusion of recurring terrors.
Let me try at last to separate the tangles, and unravel the threads,and see what sort of narrative comes out of the confusion.
Mrs. Langrishe had scarcely recovered from her fainting fit whenDebbie left the room. She said her head ached, and retired abruptly. Iremained behind with Mrs. Langrishe and her husband. He chided her forbeing so foolish and fanciful, and then insisted on her having anotherglass of champagne. It seemed to revive her. She sat up and began totalk—rather oddly, I fancied—and as for Dr. Langrishe, he finishedthe champagne, and I thought it best to depart. I asked Mrs. Langrisheif she would require my assistance, but the doctor interposed.
'I will be your maid to-night, my love,' he said, and not caring towitness any more maudlin tenderness, I retired. I found Debbie in bedand sound asleep. I therefore put the light out of sight, and undressedvery quietly, and got in myself.
It was a large bed, and stood against the wall. Debbie slept on theinner side, her face turned away from the room, so I did not disturbher. She seemed in a dead sleep, but knowing how worried and anxiousshe had been of late, I did not wonder at it. I had turned out thelamp before I got into bed. The moonlight, however, was so bright thateverything in the room was distinctly visible.
After two or three moments, I began to feel drowsy. I closed my eyes,but a curious singing noise began in my ears which I did not like.Then came an odd sensation, as if I were floating out to sea. The roomseemed filling with water—clear, deep, silvery water—and it rose androse until the bed was lifted up and I in it, and we seemed driftingaway in a flood of liquid light. Leaden weights seemed pressing on myeyes. I tried to open them, but could not. My limbs grew chill andheavy, and—I remember no more.
* * * * * *
It seemed as if hours had passed when I awoke with a start. I fanciedI had heard a strange, suffocating cry, and that it was very near.Someone was calling,
'Nell, Nell!'
I sat up.
'Debbie,' I cried, 'was that you?'
There was no answer. Only the quiet, heavy breathing of the sleeper bymy side.
The moonlight had faded now. All was dark in the room. In the stillnessI could hear my heart beating loudly, heavily, with the painful throbsof fear. A cold perspiration stood on my brow. I was shaking as withdeadly cold. I lay back again, and drew the light covering up to myears. I felt as if my limbs were weighted—as if I could not move handor foot. Yet my hearing was painfully acute, and with all my heart inmy mouth I listened.
Nothing—not a sound or movement—only the faint rustle of leavesfrom beyond the partially open window, only the softly deepeningdusk creeping over the room. I felt my eyes closing. I felt theleaden-weighted drowsiness stealing over my senses. Again I slept.
* * * * * *
When I awoke next it was with a terrifying consciousness of beingcalled by someone, and was out of the bed and groping my way tothe door before it struck me that I was perhaps the victim of somenightmare. I stood mid-way in the room, swaying to and fro in a dizzyfashion. I grew deadly sick.
When the paroxysm passed, I was bathed from head to foot in a coldsweat. I sank down into the nearest chair feeling horribly ill, andtrembling as if I had an ague fit. The numbing horrible cold set myteeth chattering, and yet I had not strength to grope my way back tobed. Then, in the dead silence that reigned everywhere, I suddenlyheard a strange sound. It was a sound familiar to me only in thehospital wards, and a sound that of all others I most loathed anddisliked.
It was the sound of the stomach pump.
There was no denying it, no mistaking it. Ears that have once heardthat sound never forget it. And as I sat there, and caught the regular,even suction of the horrible machine, I began to ask myself what onearth was the meaning of it. Who could possibly require its use? Wasanyone ill? Was it Mary Langrishe?
The thought gave me sudden strength. I started up from the chair andgroped my way to the door. My cold fingers felt for the handle, foundit, turned it.
It was locked, and the key was not there.
In frantic terror I rattled and shook the handle. I called aloud. Iscreamed to Debbie to wake and help me, but she never moved. Then mysenses fled, and calling out that murder was being done, and I couldnot get out, I fell heavily across the threshold.
* * * * * *
Was it all a dream—a ghastly nightmare? For now comes the story ofthe awakening; and as I live I cannot tell if this night of terror wasreal, or due to an over-excited brain, and the stimulant of half a cupof coffee.
I awoke again, or rather was awakened by a violent knocking at my door.The sun was streaming in. It was broad daylight, and I was in bed,though how I got there I cannot imagine or remember.
'Miss Gray—Miss Nugent!' cried a voice—the voice of Dr.Langrishe—'will one of you get up and come to my wife? She is veryill—quick as you can. I've called you half a dozen times.'
I sprang out of bed. I never looked at Debbie, or gave a thought toher. Then I remembered the locked door.
'The door is looked on the outside,' I cried. 'I tried to get out inthe night and couldn't.'
'Are you sure?' said the doctor's voice. 'There's no key here!'
My eyes turned to the keyhole as I slipped my feet into my slippers.
The key was there.
More and more bewildered, and feeling uncertain yet whether I wasasleep or dreaming again, I hurried into my dressing-gown, and unlockedthe door and rushed off to Mrs. Langrishe's room.
As I entered I saw the figure of one of the local doctors standing bythe bedside. He turned away as I entered. I saw him lay a stiff whitehand down on the lace coverlet.
'I am very sorry, Langrishe; it is too late,' he said. 'Of course,after what you have told me, the cause is natural enough. . . . I knowwhat a trying time you have had!'
I sprang forward, and there, lying quietly back on the pillows, thegolden sunlight falling on her white face and closed sunken eyes, wasthe dead form of Mary Langrishe.
For a moment I stood paralysed—struck dumb—with the awful suddennessof her fate.
The two doctors were speaking still. I saw James Langrishe'shandkerchief raised to his eyes, and heard the sympathising tones ofhis colleague. I longed to speak but fear chained my tongue.
Suspicion is not proof. I dared not say what my own feelings promptedme. It was not the time or the place for that.
'Oh, how was it? How did it happen?' I cried at last. 'Why was I notcalled?'
'I called you till I was tired,' said Dr. Langrishe, turning on mealmost fiercely. 'If your habits in the hospital were anything likethose I have witnessed since you have been under my roof, I don'twonder you were dismissed from it!'
I felt my face grow scarlet. I tried to speak, but grief, anger, andindignation only found one way of betraying themselves, and verifyinghis judgment.
I burst into a flood of tears.
'Ah,' I heard the other doctor say. 'No nerve, no stamina. Too young, Ishould say, and inexperienced. So many of these lady nurses are uselesswhen it comes to real hard work. There, there, my dear,' he added,turning to me. 'Don't fret about it. Let it be a lesson to you in thefuture. You don't look very strong or well yourself. Besides, even ifyou had been with the poor lady you could have done nothing. Failure ofthe heart's action, accelerated by sudden fright. The weakness had beenof long standing, you say. Yes; and then this fever. Oh, quite right,quite . . . I will sign the certificate if you wish . . . you preferit? Certainly, certainly. Now, about the sad duties—eh?'
'I will do all that is needful,' I said, drying my eyes. 'Do not send astranger.'
They said something, but I was really beyond attending to mere wordsthen, and all I know is that they went out of the room and left mewith the cold, still, inert thing, that only last night had been MaryLangrishe!
* * * * * *
I laid her there, in her pretty pink-draped bed, in one of her lovelylace and muslin gowns, and drew the blinds, and set the room in order.
Then I stood there, for long, and looked at her.
Oh, if she could speak. Only one word, only 'Yes' or 'No' to thehideous suspicion that lay in my breast.
Her body told me nothing; her face told me nothing. It was calm andfull of peace, as most dead faces are. Rarely, indeed, do their lastmoments leave any self-betraying marks behind.
I felt bewildered. If it had not been for the presence and assuranceof the other medical man, I might have blurted out some of my terriblesuspicions. But he had been called in. He had stated the cause ofdeath, and my lips were perforce sealed.
With regard to Dr. Langrishe's statement that he had called me, and Ihad not heard him, what could I say?
My impressions of the night were a series of nightmare-likehorrors—lifelike visions—and yet baseless, apparently. I had fanciedthe door was locked, and all the time the key was on my side of thedoor, I had fancied I heard her calling me, but her voice could notpossibly have travelled from this room to mine, through closed doorsand the long corridor beyond.
Then suddenly I thought of Debbie. What could ail her? Sleepingheavily, soundly through all the night's confusion? My duties here wereover. With one last, sorrowful glance at the stirless form, which thechill linen already outlined, I hurried back to my own room.
Debbie lay exactly as I had left her, only her face had a deep purpleflush on it, and her hands and head were burning hot. My heart stoodstill with terror. Was she going to be ill next? Was she in the graspof that fever-fiend with whom I had lately struggled.
I remembered the strange doctor was still in the house, and withoutan instant's hesitation I flew downstairs. I heard voices in theconsulting-room, and I knocked at the door. Dr. Langrishe opened it. Irushed by him, and laid my hand on the arm of the stranger.
'My friend, Miss Gray, the other nurse, is very ill,' I said. 'Will youcome and see her? I think she is sickening of the fever, too!'
He rose at once, and glanced at Dr. Langrishe.
'Go by all means,' said he, with his cold, evil smile. 'Miss Nugent hasno faith in my abilities. I should prefer you to undertake this case.'
He sat down again at his table. The other doctor followed me, and wewent up to Debbie's bedroom.
He looked at her attentively, felt her pulse, tried to rouse her fromthat deadly stupor, but in vain.
'When did you notice anything wrong?' he asked me.
I told him how strangely she had slept all night, and how unusual itwas for her to do so. He looked more and more puzzled.
'It looks to me,' he said, 'as if this sleep were not natural. She isnot in the habit of taking sleeping draughts, is she?'
'No,' I said. 'She has never done such a thing to my knowledge.'
He lifted the lids of her eyes and looked at them, again felt herpulse, and listened to her heavy breathing. Then he asked a fewquestions as to her general health and the dates when Mrs. Langrisheand I had taken the fever.
'I am afraid it is that,' he said, at last, 'but it's impossible to sayfor certain yet. In two or three days the symptoms will be definite.'
'Will you come—will you attend her?' I said, impulsively. 'She doesnot like Dr. Langrishe. It would make her worse, I am sure, if shethought——'
I stopped abruptly. Dr. Langrishe was standing in the doorway. His facewas set and white; he did not attempt to come into the room.
'Well, Conolly?' he said. 'What is your opinion?'
'I can't say yet,' was the guarded answer. 'I fancy it will turn totyphoid.'
'She has been attending my wife and Miss Nugent,' he said in a hard,steady voice, 'and, like most of her profession, taking no precautionswith regard to herself. I thought she looked ill yesterday. I am notsurprised at this.'
'I suppose,' I interrupted, looking at Dr. Conolly, 'she cannot bemoved. She intended leaving here to-day to return to London.'
'Impossible,' he said. 'Preposterous! Unless you wish to kill her. Youhad better isolate yourself in this quarter of the house, and if yourequire other assistance I will send it you. You are scarcely wellyourself yet.'
Dr. Langrishe had gone away as abruptly as he came. His house was beingturned into a hospital with a vengeance.
That same day Debbie succumbed to a mild attack of the same fever, andshe and I and a nurse from the town, who came every night and leftevery morning, were completely shut off from the rest off the house.
Mrs. Langrishe was buried the third day after her death. I saw nothingof the funeral, but the nurse told me it was not largely attended. Ittook place early in the morning, eight o'clock, and very few peoplewere invited. I sent to Cork for a wreath for her, and slipped into theroom at daybreak and placed it on her coffin.
I had not seen her from the hour I laid her out. I did not know whatchanges had taken place in her appearance. To me she would only be amemory henceforward, never a friend more—the living, trusting, kindly,suffering creature I had grown to care for so deeply, to pity so much.
And now three weeks have passed—Debbie is getting better. She tookthe fever less seriously than Mrs. Langrishe or myself. The doctorpronounces her out of danger, and in another fortnight we can leavethis hateful prison.
I have seen nothing of James Langrishe. He went away directly afterthe funeral, overcome with grief, so I heard, and left us the houseto ourselves. The new cook, a pleasant Englishwoman, who arrived inthe midst of all the confusion, proved herself a veritable treasure.She was not afraid of infection, nor for ever running into cornersand saying prayers to saints, and crossing herself as she passed thesickroom, as foolish Bridget Lehane did. She cooked for us, and did hershare of the housework, and kept Bridget to her duties, and made us allcomfortable and content. I believe Dr. Langrishe paid her a month'swage in advance, and left her in charge of the household.
He told her he was going to England, to break the news to his wife'smother, who was a very frail old lady, and to whom it would not beadvisable to write of the occurrence.
And so, in his deep mourning, and with that new mask of grief wornskilfully over his dark, evil face, James Langrishe turned his back onKnockminoss, and I felt as if I could breathe freely once more.
* * * * *
The cook came to me this morning with a letter from her master in herhand. She informed me he had written asking the condition of Miss Grayand when it would be convenient for us to move out of his house. It wasthen to be thoroughly cleaned and disinfected, and put in order for hisreturn.
I took the hint, as it was intended to be taken. Deborah was on thehigh road to recovery. If Dr. Conolly said she might be moved, Iresolved to lose not an hour in taking her away. We would go into someclean, quiet lodgings, near the sea, and there she could remain untilstrong enough to bear the journey to London.
I told her this, and quoted one or two passages from the doctor'sletter. She agreed at once; indeed she seemed almost feverishly anxiousto be out of the house.
The doctor had sent us a cheque each. Mine was my salary up to the timeof his wife's death, and a month added in lieu of notice. Deborah's wassimply accompanied by a slip of paper, on which was written,
'For professional services for one month. Ten guineas.'
I saw her face flush. She seized the cheque as if to tear it in pieces,but my hand stayed hers.
'No Debbie,' I said. 'We must pocket pride in this instance. It isstrictly just that you should be paid for your professional services.Remember, you are not strong or well yet. We have to live, and you haveto get back to England. You can't afford to throw away that money.'
The colour ebbed slowly from her face. She handed me the cheque withouta word. I placed it with my own in my purse; I determined to cash themat the Bank of Ireland in the town that afternoon, when I went to lookfor lodgings.
* * * * * *
I returned from the Strand fatigued and cross. The houses were all let.No lodgings were to be had. It appeared that people take them for theseason, say from May or June till October, paying exorbitant rentalsfor the worst furnished and dirtiest-looking residences it has everbeen my lot to behold.
I looked at some half-dozen, and retired in disgust, more especiallywhen I heard that the smallest, cheapest, and dirtiest would fetch £14a month!
Clearly, nothing was to be done there, so I asked if there was not sucha thing as a cottage to be found. I was directed to one at the back ofthe Strand, at the end of a row of small, irregular little houses. Itwas surrounded by fields and looked out on the sea. It had originallybeen two separate cottages, but an enterprising owner had knocked theminto one. The rooms went through from front to back, a window at eachend. It was beautifully clean and neatly furnished.
I foresaw wonders to be done with a little art-muslin and some plantsand flowers. The price was moderate. A clean, tidy old woman, who livedin the kitchen, agreed to do the housework and cook, 'if 'twas plaincookin' we'd put up with.'
I promised it readily. I was no inexperienced hand at the culinaryart myself. If 'plain cookin'' failed, I could throw myself into thebreach. The old woman whose name, she informed me, was Mary Ryan,promised to have the rooms ready for us next day, and I told her wewould arrive about five o'clock—in time for tea. Then I returned tothe car, and drove rapidly home up the Bog road, which was the shortestway to Knockminoss.
I found Deborah sitting up and looking wonderfully better. I told herof my success, and she seemed pleased at the idea of leaving here sosoon. I spent the rest of the evening packing up our joint belongingsand making a melancholy tour of the deserted rooms. If I shed somebitter tears over the memories connected with that pink bedroom and theclosed and shuttered boudoir, where that poor woman had so often satand talked to me, it was not altogether weak or unnatural.
I returned to Debbie. I closed and locked the boxes. The last thing Iput in was her journal.
'It is our last night here,' I said, with a glance at the familiarbedroom, the paraphernalia of glasses and bottles, the what I called'hospital look' of everything, from bare walls to bare floor.
Debbie was sitting up in an easy chair, wrapped in her dressing-gownof olive green cashmere, with a thick, black cord girdle; a gown inwhich I always thought she looked like a Lady Superior. I am sure, ifever Debbie founds a home or retreat or anything of that sort, shewill dress like that, in loose, swooping gowns, with a rope or cordconfining the waist. In nothing does she look so well and so majestic.
She did not immediately answer, but her melancholy glance followed mine.
'The last night,' she said, at last. Then she looked at me long andthoughtfully.
'Nell,' she said, 'have you considered what we are to do? What it isour duty to do?'
A cold shiver ran through me.
'Oh, Debbie,' I cried, 'don't tell me that you think we ought to accusehim. Have we proof? Have we anything really to justify us? It is such aterrible, terrible thing to say of anyone, and once said we must abideby it.'
'It was a more terrible thing to do,' she answered. 'And once done, hemust abide by the consequences of his deed.'
I was silent, looking helplessly at her as the stronger power, andawaiting her decision.
'Have you read it carefully?' I asked, glancing at the diary, which Ihad left with her that afternoon.
'Every word. Most carefully. It is my belief that he drugged us both onthat fatal night; but you, if you remember, only took half the coffeehe gave you; you spilt it, fortunately for yourself. The symptoms youdescribe are almost identical with those you experienced after drinkingsome of her claret. The brain awakes, but the body is like a helplesslog. I can't think what it is he uses. Could I have slept as I did—I,whom the least noise will waken—if he had not given me something?'
'But if an inquiry took place the doctor would say that was the fevercoming on,' I suggested.
She shook her head.
'Those symptoms are not the symptoms of fever. One is restless,sleepless, incoherent, the temperature rises rapidly. No, Nell, I am ascertain as that I now speak to you that the coffee was drugged.'
'There is one thing we could do,' I said quickly. 'Have up Bridget, andquestion her as to whether her master tampered with the coffee thatnight.'
'You are right,' said Debbie, eagerly. 'Have her up at once. And, Nell,go you over to the window there, and make a note of what she says. Itwill not do to trust to memory now. Here, take your diary and write myquestions and her replies.'
I summoned Bridget, and she came up smiling, and dirty, and untidy,as usual. Debbie spoke a few gracious words to her, told her we wereleaving to-morrow, and presented her with half-a-sovereign in our jointnames. Her gratitude took the form of many blessings and rapturousthanks.
From my place on the low bare window-seat I heard all, and notedDebbie's skilful questioning, and listened, half-amused, at her effortsto keep the girl on the one track, for it is an impossibility for anIrish person to tell you a story without circumlocution of diverskinds, and a tribute to the genealogical virtues of every family whosename is brought into the matter.
My notes, detached from the circumlocution, ran as follows:—
Deb: 'Do you remember, Bridget, the evening your mistress died, when wewere all downstairs in the dining-room?'
Bridget: 'Remember, is it, miss? Shure an' I do. Iverything thathappened is just as clear as print in me memory; an' the ghost,too—for 'twas a ghost as sure as me two eyes iver see out of mehead—an' Moll Duggan—well,she knows av it, an' that Katey, poorgirl—Kathleen was her name, miss, an' as fine a girl as you'd wish tosee—oh, a lovely girl she was——'
Deb: 'Yes, yes, Bridget. I know all that, but what I want to ask youis, do you remember making coffee for us, and bringing it into the roomafter supper?'
Bridget: 'I do, miss, but savin' your presince, I wouldn't tell ye abit av a lie this same blessid night. 'Twasn't me as made it, miss. Notlikely, faith! The likes av me handlin' the beautiful silver coffeepot. Ah, no, the master, he comes out, an' sez he to me he was mostparticular, an' did the kittle boil, that was afore supper, miss, an heaxes me to give him a jug, and the coffee grounds.'
Deb: 'You mean the coffee itself?'
Bridget: 'Well, shure, that's the same thing, miss. Grounds it is, an'a plinty av thim there was too, for didn't I throw thim into the bucketwid me own two hands?'
Deb: 'Then your master made the coffee that night?'
Bridget: 'He put thim grounds into the jug, miss, an' I poured theboiling water on it, an' sez he, 'Fetch me an egg to clear it,' andshure I did, Miss. An' he stood the jug on the stove, an' tells me I'mto bring it in whin he rings, afther supper. An' indade it 'twas amighty fuss, for he had the cups set out in the pantry, an' tould me topour the coffee into thim the minnit as I heard the bell, an' bring 'emin on the silver tray, jist as they were.'
Deborah: 'You didn't take any of the coffee yourself, Bridget, Isuppose?'
Bridget: 'No, miss, I did not. An' it had been tay, now, I would nothave minded a dhrop; but I'm not used to the coffee, miss, an' I don'tever drink it.'
Deborah looked at me, and I at her. Then we dismissed Bridget Lehane.
'What do you think now?' asked Debbie, as the door closed. 'The coffeewas splendidly prepared. You remember how strong it was; and the cupsset out by himself. In one or other he put his vile drugs. We each hada different coloured cup. I remember noticing that most particularly.You upset his calculations by upsetting yours. Mrs. Langrishe drank allhers.'
'And you think——?'
'I think hers contained poison, and that we were intended to sleep toosoundly to hear her cries of pain or fear. His plan succeeded with me,but not with you. You woke, and that sound you heard, Nell, was nofancy. It is my belief that if Mary Langrishe's body was exhumed nowthere would not be a trace of either food or poison in the stomach. Heused that machine in order to destroy all evidence.'
'But he called in another doctor. You know the gardener was sent off atdaybreak.'
'Yes, but she was almost dead then, and he timed that message, knowingit would arrive too late. . . . Nell, a word, a hint from us, andthat body would have to be exhumed, and James Langrishe would standconvicted by his own over-caution.'
I shuddered.
'Remember,' I said, and I held the book towards her, 'Remember thatevenhere I am not sure. I thought I heard that sound, but I felt as ifI were in the agonies of a nightmare.'
She looked at me steadily.
'You will not be a reliable witness, Nell,' she said. 'But, reliable ornot, the day will come when, as surely as I now speak, Fate will makeus the instruments of James Langrishe's doom. We need not stir hand orfoot. We need not raise a whisper of our suspicions. We may lock thesebooks, and put them aside and try to forget we ever wrote one word ofthe tragedy they hold, but no lock will close them. No will or wishof ours can lay the seal of eternal secrecy on this murdered woman'sgrave.'
I was silent.
She held out her hand suddenly and took the book, then gave it back,and pointed to the pens and ink on the table by her side.
'Write downthat,' she said, and in silence I obeyed.
'Now,' she said, 'put your journal away, Nell, as I will put mine. Theyhave served their purpose. We need them no more. It remains to be seenwhether Fate will make them its instruments in the future.'
'And you will say nothing?' I asked eagerly.
Her eyes were gazing straight before her, with that strange inscrutablelook I had seen but once before.
'I will say nothing till the time comes, till his own folly works outhis own fate.'
[End of Nell's Diary.]
THE STORY TELLS ITSELF.
Foreign travel is no doubt a very delightful and very exhilaratingthing, but scenery cannot cure a heartache, and even to the fairest andmost enchanting spot we can only carry our own burdens, only see itthrough our own sorrowful eyes.
Dick Barrymore was saying something of this sort to himself as he trodthe tourists' beaten track from Lucerne to St. Moritz. It was all grandand beautiful and worthy the praise of poet and pen, but he wantedsomeone to be beside him in the mountain passes; in the glow of anAlpine sunset, in the wondrous splendour of an Alpine dawn.
Someone! Only a little girl. Nothing very beautiful, or clever, orwonderful. Just a little, blue-eyed, mocking, tantalising girl, andthen the face of the whole world would be changed, and life would befree of torment. He wondered what she was doing, where she went, whomshe saw, or coquetted with in that, demure, half conscious, whollysweet manner of hers.
He envied dark-browed 'Dr. Fell,' as he still called him. He felt atwinge of jealousy at the thought of 'barracks,' a suggestion DeborahGray had let fall. The thought of red-coated rivals was not pleasant,and the snow-clad mountains took a sanguinary hue to match his jealousthoughts. He could have blessed his uncle when, one September day, hedeclared he had had enough of Swiss guides, Swiss scenery, and Swissprices, and would go straight back to England.
England meant within hearing distance, at least, of his wilful littlesweetheart, for so he called her in his own heart. They arrived inLondon at night, and the very next day he went to the hospital with anote for Deborah Gray, to beg her to let him know when she would be offduty and could see him. The answer brought completely upset all hiscalculations:
'Nurse Gray was not in the hospital. She had left last month.'
He then asked to see the matron, and the halo of the 'Romance' beingstill about his name and his memory, he was speedily favoured with aninterview. From her he learnt that Deborah Gray had been suddenly sentfor to Ireland on account of the dangerous illness of a friend. Shehad left on August 6, and they had heard no word of her since. Dickfelt his heart stand still as he heard these words,'Telegraphed for toIreland.'
They could but mean one thing. Nell . . . Nell must have been taken illand sent for her, and that was more than a month ago.
Ill, dying perhaps, and he had been idling his time among those Swissmountains, listening to tourists' raptures, and trying to believehe was enjoying himself. He asked a few brief questions, but onlysucceeded in ascertaining that it was to Youghal, county Cork, Deborahhad gone. She had given no address, and no one in the hospital had hadany news of her from the hour she left.
He tried to preserve some remnant of self-command, and took his leavewith outward composure, but once out of the hospital precincts, hesprang into a hansom, dashed back to the hotel, and informed his unclethat he intended starting for Ireland by the night mail to discoverwhat had happened to the two nurses.
Geoffrey Masterman waited until his nephew had walked and talked offsome of his agitation. Then he said,
'Look here, boy, if you do this you make it appear that your interestin this girl is something quite out of the common. It is none of yourbusiness to follow up Miss Gray, or to fancy that she is with herfriend. It might be someone else she has gone to nurse, the doctor'swife, perhaps. Don't you think it will look a bit odd, if you rush offdemanding to know why she is staying there?'
But Dick was beyond reasoning, beyond arguing, beyond anything, butjust that frantic longing to know what had happened to Nell. Why hisletters had been unanswered. What was detaining Deborah Gray in Ireland?
In the end, Geoffrey Masterman came to the conclusion that it wasbetter to see him through his phase of madness than to combat it; and,grumbling audibly at the follies of youth, he had his own Gladstonepacked, and declared himself ready for Holyhead and Dublin that evening.
That journey seemed endless to poor Dick. There were new lines on hisbrow, and not a few silver threads among his fair locks, before hereached Youghal. His uncle stayed behind at Cork, declaring he wouldnot be rushed from train to train in this headlong fashion. Once atYoughal, the young man took the inevitable car and desired to be driven'Dr. Langrishe's house.' He knew no other address. The man drove off,but as they were trotting along he commenced to talk to his fare.
'Beggin' yer honour's pardon, is it the doctor yer wantin', for he'snot there at all. It's to London he sez he went after the funeral.'
'The funeral!' gasped Dick, and his hand clutched the side rail of thecar. 'Whose? What? Whose was it?'
'It was herself, Mrs. Langrishe, sir. She's been ill on and off thislong time, an' she tuk the fayver. It's been mighty bad here in thetown this past summer, an' the poor lady got it. They do say as 'twasnursin' the young lady who was her companion, or something, an' therewas great works at the house, an' a nurse over from London, an' twodoctors, an' all no use, poor soul. She's gone to glory, sure enough.God rest her, a kind an' good lady she was, as iver stepped; an' 'tisthe poor of the place will miss her sore.'
'And the other, the young one?' gasped Dick, finding voice at last.
'Oh, she's well enough! She got on grand wid the nurse from London totake care av her. Why shouldn't she? An' then the nurse fell sick, an''twas the same thing agin. Indeed, I heard as 'twas the same nightas the poor lady died that she was tuk bad. But she wasn't so illas the other one, an' now they've gone down to live by the say; an'Knockminoss is all shut up until the doctor comes back.'
'Wait. Stop!' cried Dick. 'If there's no one there it's no use mygoing. Have you any idea where the young ladies are? It's them I want,not the doctor.'
'Och, shure, thin yer honour, an' why didn't ye say so at furst. It'smeself can take ye to thim, for isn't it me own mother's sister, WiddyRyan, that let thim the cottage, an' lives wid thim to do their bit avcooking an' what not? Why, I'll have ye there in no time, yer honour;an' a tidy place it is, too, an' handy to the say, an' the younglady, she goes bathing ivery morning, bless her pretty face. Always apleasant word for ivery one. 'Tis sorry we'll be to see the last ofher, an' shure 'tis soon now they'll be goin' back to England.'
He had turned the horse's head, and was driving back the same road.It seemed endlessly long, to Dick's impatience, but in reality it wasbut a very short distance to traverse before the car stopped at apretty low, thatched cottage, with a garden before and behind, in whichsunflowers and stocks and roses were growing in picturesque profusion.
He handed the man half-a-crown, and not waiting for thanks, or furtherwords, walked up to the open door and looked in.
He saw a wide, red-bricked kitchen, clean and tidy as a picture,and standing near the fire, a teapot in her hand, and talking to abrown-faced old woman, who was holding a canister of tea, stood Nell.The revulsion of feeling was so strong after all he had undergone, thatDick cared nothing for spectators, for scruples, for even any possibleobjection from Nell herself. He walked straight in, and as she turned,he softly called her name in a sobbing breath, and folded her in hisarms.
The teapot dropped on the red-tiled floor and broke into a hundredpieces. He cared nothing for that, and Nell apparently did not know it.She was crying with her head against his breast. He stroked her hair,he murmured a score of tender names, he breathed out passionate wordsof thankfulness and relief, and she suffered it all without question,without rebuke. She only felt that her prayer had been answered. Thestrong arm on which to lean, the strong heart in which to trust, thestrong brain on which to depend—all were here at last. The dark, awfultime, the terrors and anxieties, slipped off her like a burden released.
Sobbing and laughing all in one, she clung to him as a frightened childclings to its nurse. She could say nothing but,
'Oh, Dick! how glad I am; how glad I am.'
He thought they were the sweetest words he had ever heard.
She drew herself away at last.
'You must come and see Debbie,' she said. 'She has been very, very ill.Oh, if you only knew, Dick, what these past months have been to us.'
He was very well content to know what they haddone, seeing that theyhad brought her to his arms, and won from her a confession so sweet.But she flew off and into the low bow-windowed parlour, where a tablewas spread for tea, and where flowers seemed blooming everywhere. Helooked, and there, pale and wasted, the mere shadow of her former self,sat Deborah Gray.
When she saw him, she sprang to her feet, and she too called him by hisname with no prefix of formality. And then came a torrent of questions,and a general sense of topsy-turveydom until at last they grew quietand accustomed to his presence, and with a womanly tribute of smilesand tears, made him gladly welcome in their cottage home.
But gradually as the joy and excitement wore off, a strange sort ofrestraint seemed to creep into the conversation. Dick noticed thisfirst, and he noticed that it occurred whenever the name of Dr.Langrishe was introduced. They told him of Mrs. Langrishe's death, andhe thought it odd they should speak of it as sudden, after what thecarman had told him about it. However, he did his best to draw offattention from anything painful or disagreeable. 'There would be timeenough for that,' he said. 'They, at least, were safe, and he was withthem once more.'
For him that was happiness enough.
'For her, too,' seemed to say Nell's liquid eyes, as they met hisadoring gaze.
Deborah Gray noticed those eloquent glances, and drew her ownconclusions. Nell was going to be wise at last. Sorrow had softened herobdurate little heart, and she was no longer inclined to quarrel withthe gifts the gods might send her.
When tea was over, she discovered that two or three things wererequired from the town, and asked Nell to go for them. It was onlynatural that Dick should offer to accompany her, and she saw the twodepart with an absurd attempt at indifference that left her gravelysmiling in the doorway. But when they were out of sight she went withinand there was no smile on her lips. She sat down on a low basket chairby the window, and looked sadly out at the shining sea.
In another week she would be well enough to leave here, and returnto her old life. It seemed as if this past month had been but a wildphantasmagoria of events; as if it could not have been herself, DeborahGray, who had witnessed and participated in them.
And yet, she knew the events had happened, and that she had witnessedthem. Nay, more, that locked away in her trunk lay their writtenrecords, held fast by a silent witness, a witness who might yet beneeded to condemn the guilty.
Slowly and steadily she marshalled every detail of that history inreview.
She heard a voice from the grave calling to her, an obscure, unnoticedwoman, for justice on the evil doer. She saw herself alone, unaided,uncredited, fighting against the mighty engines of the law, facing aman who, in the deadly struggle before him, would spare neither wealth,nor energy, nor power, to crush her as an enemy in his own self-defence.
The law itself, as an instrument of justice, is not terrifying toan unprejudiced mind. But the law as a motive force in the hands ofbrutal, unfeeling, indelicate men; the law as an inquisitor plying intothe past of a witness's life in order to throw discredit on her presentstatements,that, indeed, is a thing to fear and loathe, and to makesilence seem the highest wisdom.
Deborah Gray knew that it was in James Langrishe's power to throw suchdiscredit upon her, to hold her up to the sight of friend and foe asa woman jealous of a rival, for whom she had been forsaken; eager forrevenge on the man who had wronged her with that wrong no woman everforgives!
No wonder she sat there, perplexed and distraught. No wonder she askedherself whether the burden might not be eased by taking into herconfidence the strong sense and cooler judgment of this heaven-sentfriend.
And yet the first word of suspicion was the first strand in that ropeof condemnation that she could place around James Langrishe's neck.
Who was to be the instrument of Fate in this instance? The dead womanin her grave, or the living woman with her condemning record of factsbuilt up from the trivial incidents of daily life?
Slowly the glow of sunset faded. Softly and tenderly the quiet twilightcrept over the peaceful scene. But the dark eyes watching it were stilltroubled and perplexed. For many a long and weary day there would be nopeace born for them.
Geoffrey Masterman came down to Youghal next morning by the eleveno'clock train. His nephew was waiting for him at the station. He lookedso radiant and happy that Geoffrey felt he had his answer before he puthis question.
'It's all right, I see,' he observed, as they walked out of the stationto the row of waiting cars.
'Yes,' said Dick. 'It's all right, thank God. Will you come and seethem first, Uncle Geoff, or go to the hotel? I'm staying at the GreenPark. It's most comfortable. You'll like it, I'm sure.'
'I'm not in love,' said Geoffrey Masterman, grimly, 'and'—with aglance round at the Strand—'if this is Youghal, I don't think much ofit.'
'Oh, you haven't seen half of it,' said Dick, 'and don't pretend to bedisagreeable, uncle. I see you've brought your "kit bag," so that meansyou'll stay at least a night.'
'Where are they?' demanded Geoffrey, resisting the blandishments ofsundry ragged boys who desired to relieve him of his bag.
'The girls? in a cottage close by here. Nell is perfectly well, butpoor Deborah Gray looks very ill still.'
'Nell, indeed,' said Geoffrey Masterman. 'Little blue-eyed baggage, anice dance she's led you, I must say. Hoist this thing up on one ofthose crazy vehicles. I'll pay my future niece a morning call before Igo to the hotel.'
They sprang up on the nearest car and drove round to the Widow Ryan'scottage. Nell was evidently watching for them. She came out smilingand blushing and was somewhat disconcerted at Geoffrey Masterman'swholesale embrace of her small person. Dick had certainly lost no timein breaking the news.
A very noisy and talkative half-hour followed—what time the carwaited, and the jarvey reckoned up his extras. But with all GeoffreyMasterman's jests and sarcasms, Nell felt that he was quite contentwith his nephew's choice, and that the last objection she had raisedto her lover's summary claim on her was swept away, even as he hadassured her it would be swept. So she could allow herself to be ashappy as she pleased, and withdraw the 'little wilful thorns' of pride,and pretence, and dignity, with which she had so long kept Dick at adistance.
After that morning, a blissful week flew by. A week of drives, andboating, and picnics; of trips to Ardmore and Capel Island, and up thelovely Blackwater to Cappoquin, and Lismore, and Mellary. All day longthey were out in the fine bracing air which alone should make Youghalfamous for invalids and convalescents, and with each day Deborah Gray'shealth improved, but her gloom and reticence deepened. She seemed asone burdened with some heavy secret. She was abstracted and almostmorose.
Geoffrey Masterman watched her with a keen interest and a great deal ofperplexity. It was clear to him that she was in trouble, and was benton fighting it out in her proud, self-contained fashion. Once he hintedas much to Nell, but she seemed so grieved and distressed that he letthe subject drop, and only spoke of it now and then to Dick, while theysmoked their last cigars before turning in at night. Dick had alsonoticed it, but he put it down to the sad occurrences of that time atKnockminoss, and to her professional mortification at losing a 'case.'
He had always thought Deborah somewhat cold and unfeeling, and themanner in which she now detached herself from Nell's merry enjoyment,and the obdurate melancholy in which she indulged, led him to think shealmost grudged her bright little friend her present happiness.
The week passed, and Deborah Gray was bent on returning to London andthe hospital. She had written a full explanation of her illness, andthey were only too glad to have her back again. She was too valuablea nurse to be anything but welcome where cool heads and skilled handswere perpetually wanted. She consented to stay a night in Dublin, andwas introduced to Nell's brother, and made heartily welcome in Nell'sold quarters.
It was not to be supposed that Dick Barrymore could tear himself awayfrom hisfiancée yet, so Geoffrey Masterman and Deborah Gray travelledon next day, and the same evening found her back in her old place inthe hospital.
Then commenced the old routine. The hours of duty, the hours 'off,'the regulations for meals, sleep, exercise. She felt as if she werebecoming a mere machine, a something that worked because a certain setof springs set it in motion, a something with no heart, no pity, notenderness. Her mind had only room for a great dread—a heavy, hatefulfear, that lay on her heart at night, and moved by her side all day,and gazed at her from chance eyes that met hers in the busy streets.
She knew nothing, and asked nothing, of James Langrishe's doings. Shedid not know if he had returned to Youghal, or was still in London. Allshe hoped was that they might never meet. If they did, she felt thetruth of her hateful suspicions would flash from her eyes to his, andthat he would know what her soul hid from the world.
Nell wrote to her, happy, gossipy letters; letters that breathednothing of that hateful time and its weight of secrets and anxieties.She answered the letters briefly. It seemed to her that even to Nellshe could say nothing now.
That she must hold herself aloof and wait.
* * * * * *
One Sunday, towards the end of October, was her free day. She spentthe morning at the Theist Church, and the afternoon with some friendsat Hampstead. She left about six o'clock, and came west on top ofan omnibus as usual. As the omnibus was going down Oxford street aslight shower of rain came on. Deborah was looking at the pedestriansscurrying along, unfurling umbrellas, or rushing into omnibuses, whensuddenly her eye caught sight of an elegantly-dressed woman, over whoma gentleman was holding his umbrella. The omnibus stopped to allow ofsome passenger entering it, and she noticed the gentleman wave his handto a passing hansom. He put down the umbrella, to assist the lady in,and Deborah Gray saw he was James Langrishe.
She gave a swift turn in her seat and glanced at his companion. Withthe mental photograph left in her mind by Nell's description, she couldnot doubt but that she was looking at Lady Ffolliott. The red goldhair, the beautiful colouring, the splendid figure, all were there, andtheir possessor was in company with the man who not two months ago hadlaid his wife in her grave.
The hansom dashed on, and her eyes followed it. She saw it turndown Bond street, and then it was lost to view. A sense of burningindignation was the one sense of which Deborah Gray was conscious.Knowing what she knew, the open shamelessness of this man's conductstamped him as utterly callous, and utterly without conscience.
'I shall remember this,' she thought, 'when the time comes.'
The rain had ceased. She felt too disturbed to sit quietly there anylonger. She got out at the circus and walked towards Charing Cross.Coming out towards the broad thoroughfare of Northumberland avenue,with the palatial hotels, she hesitated and looked down. She might takethat way and walk along the embankment. There was plenty of time.
She followed the impulse and went down the avenue. As she passed oneof the big hotels, she noticed a hansom standing at the entrance. Inher perturbed state of mind the fact that between the shafts stood agrey horse, scarcely touched that note of association which had ledher to observe another grey horse in another hansom. Her glance sweptcarelessly over it, and she was passing on, when a man came swiftly outof the hotel, and sprang into the waiting cab.
He saw her and she saw him. She saw, too, the change in his face ashe recognised her. She passed on towards the embankment, but she hadscarcely reached the end of the thoroughfare when the sound of hurriedfootsteps caught her ear.
The night was closing rapidly in. The gas lamps had long been lit. Asthe quick steps almost echoed on her own, she turned. The gaslight fellon the face of her pursuer, and she was scarcely surprised when she sawwho it was.
'Miss Gray,' he said. 'Deborah—I thought I recognised you. I could notbe mistaken.'
She took no notice of his outstretched hand. She only stood there andlooked at him.
'What do you want with me?' she asked, quietly. A strange quietness,the quietness of the sea before the storm lashes it to fury; for allthe horror and hatred she felt for this man swept like a flood over hersoul as she gazed into his smiling, handsome face once more.
'Want with you,' he repeated. 'Nothing. But it is surely not strangethat I should speak to you, that I should wish to ask how you were? Ileft you in my own house—ill.'
'And sent me a very strong hint to clear out of it,' she said.
'You put it strongly,' I only meant——'
'James Langrishe!' she said. 'The time has long gone by when you and Ineed play at courtesies. Our paths have crossed again. I hope it is forthe last time. I hope it for your own sake.'
He changed colour slightly.
'I can't understand you,' he said.
'You are not usually obtuse,' she answered. 'Shall I speak plainly?The grass hasn't yet grown over your wife's grave, and you are inhot pursuit of another woman. Had I wished to forget the strangeoccurrences at Knockminoss they would have been recalled to me by yourown imprudence. Be careful, James Langrishe, or other eyes than minemay read your secret. I shall not guard it one hour longer than Fatewills.'
A curious leaden hue crept over his features as he heard those words.His attempt at bluster, at the old coarse oaths, failed signally.Those calm, condemning eyes read his very soul, and for once in hislife James Langrishe felt what it was to fear a woman. A mortal dreadmastered him body and soul.
She only stood there perfectly silent, gazing at him with a loathingshe could no longer conceal, the loathing of that craven, cowardly,cruel nature which once she had worshipped as an ideal of manhood. Thenshe turned silently away and left him.
He stood a moment or two watching her retreating figure—a look ofmurderous hate in his eyes. Then he, too, turned and went back, up thebroad avenue, until he reached the hotel. Here he paused a moment, asif undecided. Then he went into the smoking-room and ordered a pintbottle of champagne and a liqueur of brandy.
When they were brought he poured the wine into a tumbler and added thebrandy to it, and drank it at a draught. Then he took out a card fromhis card-case and wrote a few words on it, and called the waiter whohad served him.
'Take that to Lady Ffolliott,' he said, 'and tell her I am waiting tosee her in the reading-room.'
As the man disappeared, he walked into the room he had mentioned. Itwas almost deserted. At that hour it was never frequented. He chose aquiet corner, and sat down near one of the tables, and began turningover some papers. The wine had steadied his nerves, but his pulse beatfuriously, and a hundred thoughts went whirling in wild confusionthrough his brain. It seemed hours before the soft rustle of a dressmade him look round, and he saw the beautiful figure of Di Ffolliottapproaching.
'What is it, Jim? What is the matter?' she said, hurriedly. 'Yourmessage startled me. I was just dressing for dinner.'
'Sit down here,' he said huskily. 'I've come to say that since I sawyou—an opportunity has arisen for me to get rid of my practice, andsell the whole place with it. I hate it. I should never care to livethere again. But I must go back to Ireland to-morrow to make thenecessary arrangements. After that, I shall return here, or go abroad.Di, put me out of my misery. Surely we have had enough of waiting, andscruples, and conventionality. I'm sick of it. I've had a hell of alife ever since I've known you; a man can't bear more. Promise me, whenthings are settled you'll marry me at once. Let us leave this hatefulcountry. You are always saying you'd like to travel—we'll go to Spain,America, India, anywhere you like, but it must besoon. Haven't youtried me enough; and you know I'm not a patient man, and I've neverloved a woman as I love you, Di!'
His face told her he spoke truth then. Its wild worship and passionatelonging were plain enough to read.
'This is very sudden, Jim,' she said. 'An hour ago there was no word ofsuch a thing. The usual year of waiting was as much in your mind as inmine!'
'Never in mine, Di,' he said, 'never in mine, as I live, but I didnot like to speak too plainly. I thought, like most women, you wouldnot excuse the maddest love ever given, for one small breach of yourbeloved conventionality! Faugh, I hate the word!'
He looked at her, and his burning gaze made her own eyes droop. It waseloquent enough to force conventionality to curtsey and withdraw. Sheglanced hurriedly around. No one else was in the room except a bald oldgentleman in a distant quarter nodding over the last number of 'Punch.'She bent forward, and laid her hand on his.
'How soon,' she said, 'do you wish——'
The blood leaped to his face, and his eyes glittered with unholytriumph.
'An hour would be too long had I my way,' he said passionately. 'As itis——' he paused, and seemed to make a rapid calculation. 'Two, three,I should say in three weeks I could have arranged everything. We mightget married by special license. It will avoid banns and all that vulgarpublicity that makes marriage a bugbear to men. Then start at once forParis, and so on across the Pyrenees. Oh, trust me, my empress, I willmap out a tour that will delight even you. Ah,' and he drew a long deepbreath, and looked at her again with all the wild worship of his heart,straining and warring against the curb he had to place upon it, 'Kissme, Di,' he implored, and she leant quickly forward, and their lips met.
'You do love me. Swear that you love me,' he muttered, and he rose, andlaid a strong, yet trembling hand on her bare white arm.
'You know it well enough, Jim,' she said, half sadly, for in thatmoment of self-surrender she knew how much of her long-cherished powerhad fled.
'And you will never play me false, never throw me over. By heavens, Di,I think I would kill you if you did!'
She smiled, half pleased, and yet a little afraid of this flame she hadkindled, and in whose fierce glow her own heart had become scorched.
'Answer,' he said, watching with jealous pain that little curioussmile, lifting the crimson curves of her lips.
'I will be true to you, Jim,' she said, 'as long as I love you. But itis not in man's or woman's power to promise eternal love or eternalfidelity. You have won me; it rests with you to keep me. I promisenothing—nothing.'
His lowered lids hid his eyes for a moment, and hid, too, a look notgood to see.
'Three weeks,' he muttered absently. 'Nothing can happen in threeweeks. Nothing can part us, Di, except our own hearts play us false.'
'I think mine will stand that test,' she said.
'And you don't ask about mine,' he said, jealously.
'One loves, and one is loved, you know,' she said. 'I feel very sure ofyou, Jim.'
He looked at her long and earnestly, all his soul in his eyes.
'I will not see you again,' he said, abruptly, 'until the day before Iclaim you for ever. Three weeks from to-day. You will remember?'
Something in his voice struck a sudden chill to her heart.
'Of course, I will remember,' she said. 'Does a woman ever forget herwedding day?'
'We will forget that man or woman ever stood between us,' he said, 'onthat day. It will be my only, my real wedding day, and you—you Di?'
The colour wavered in her clear lovely skin. She lifted her gloriouseyes to his.
'I will tell you,' she said, 'on that day.'
Five minutes later he was in the streets on the way to his own hotel,his brain reeling with the very madness of love. All memory of life,and sin, and remorse, aye, and retribution, swept aside by the sorceryof a woman's loveliness!
To a closed house, lonely and dreary as a vault—to empty rooms, wherenot a footstep sounded—to a ghostly horde of memories, that it neededstrong nerves to exorcise—came James Langrishe in the dusk of anOctober evening.
The two servants, hastily warned, had struggled with damp rooms anddamp fuel, and sent to the town for provisions, and done their bestto make some sort of preparation for their master, but nothing thathireling hands ever do, can give to rooms that home look which love canbestow on the most commonplace surroundings.
The doctor entered, with the mist and damp of the chill autumn eveningstill clinging about him. The clang of the bell he had rung at thefront door still echoed in the distance, the light of the solitary lampin the big, gloomy hall made everything shadowy and vague.
Bridget Lehane, who admitted him, murmured an apology for things notbeing straight. The intimation of his coming had been so sudden. Hemade some impatient rejoinder and threw down his rug and Gladstone bag,and went into the dining-room.
The fire was doing its best to burn cheerfully, but the chimney wasdamp, and the coals had only smouldered. The large lamp that stoodon the sideboard gave out a friendly light, but it had been hastilytrimmed, and burned unevenly, and the smell of oil was self-evident. Helooked around with shuddering distaste as he drew off his gloves. Thenhe rang the bell hastily.
'Take some hot water to my room,' he said. 'By the way, what room is ityou have prepared for me?'
'The blue room, sir; the others was all being disinfected, and thepapers had been stripped off as you ordered.'
'Yes, yes. I might have known there'd have been nothing done. I knowwhat Irish workmen are. In heaven's name, bring me some lights, and getthis fire to burn. The room is almost as cheerful as a churchyard, andthe smell of paraffine is enough to knock one down.'
'I'm very sorry, sir, but we was out of oil, and shure, we had toborrow this from Moll Duggan till the boy brings up what we ordered.We only got yer tiligam this morning, sir, an' the place was allupsotlike, an' cook an' I had our hands full iver since.'
'Do what I tell you, and don't talk,' he ordered, sharply, and Bridgetretired, to find candles, and get hot water, grumbling all the time atthe "onraysonableness" of men, expecting to find everything so straightas an arrow for them, an' niver letin' on to anybody that they wascomin' back.
After dinner, James Langrishe despatched a message to Dr. Conolly, wholived in the town, requesting him to come up, if possible, that evening.
It was nine o'clock when he appeared, the coachman having waited forhim by James Langrishe's orders. He was shown into the dining-room,where the doctor was sitting over his wine. By his side, on thepolished mahogany table, was a heap of letters and papers.
The two men had a long conversation. It was evidently satisfactory.
Bridget Lehane brought in glasses and soda-water about half-past ten andset the spirit-stand on the table, and then asked if anything more wasneeded. Her master dismissed her to bed, and the two men drew up theirchairs near the fire and continued their conversation.
About half-past eleven Dr. Conolly left; the doctor rose also, andproposed accompanying him as far as the lodge. Both men had had theirfair share of the whisky and soda, but Dr. Langrishe only seemed togrow morose and reticent over his potations, while his companion becamegenial and communicative.
The night was very dark as they stepped out from the hall and turneddown the almost leafless avenue. The ground beneath their feet was dampand thick with fallen leaves. The rain had ceased, but neither moon norstars lit up the gloomy walk.
'You've not seen the ghost yet, I suppose, Langrishe?' said Dr.Conolly, as they walked briskly on towards the lodge. 'You know you'recredited with one here. Not a soul in the place but talks of it. I wishshe'd favour us with a visit now,' and he laughed boisterously. 'Butthose same apparitions are too wise to show themselves to anyone whowould be a creditable witness.'
'What nonsense is all this?' said the doctor, savagely. 'Who isspreading reports about me? It will be worse for them if I catch them.'
'Oh, not about you. I never said that. They only say a woman with ashawl over her head, and a very awful face—heavens, Langrishe! What'sthat before us—don't you see?'
'See! I see nothing. Are you drunk, man, or dreaming? Why, it's pitchdark.'
'I know it, but look, Langrishe, walking straight before us. A woman'sfigure, as I live, I'll light a match.'
The spark of it illumined the darkness for a moment. Beyond its circleof light was a faint, misty outline. A cold wind sighed through thestripped branches overhead. Then all was darkness again.
'What folly is this!' exclaimed James Langrishe, fiercely, 'and theidea of you taking it up, Conolly. I thought you had more sense.'
'I certainly thought I saw a figure moving before us,' said Dr.Conolly, doggedly, 'and it's no joke I'm telling you, Langrishe. Scoresof people have seen this thing. Sometimes it is seated at the foot ofDead Woman's Hill, as if waiting for someone, and sometimes it walks toyour lodge and down this avenue. . . . There . . . by heaven! man, asI'm alive, I see it. Where are your eyes? . . . Look—straight beforeus—facing us. Goodness! what an awful face.'
The cold sweat stood out on James Langrishe's brow. He clutched hiscompanion's arm, and stood for a moment gazing wide-eyed into thedarkness, swaying like a drunken man.
'Some fool is playing tricks on us,' he muttered. 'There's nothingthere—nothing.'
They were half way through the avenue now. Suddenly, through a rift inthe clouds, the moon shone out pale and watery, yet distinct enough toshow the path before them. Nothing was there.
James Langrishe burst into a harsh laugh.
'I think, Conolly,' he said, 'my whisky was stronger than we thought. Apretty pair of fools we are, to turn ghost-seers at our time of life.Come, hurry on; I'll keep my word, and see you to the gates. Perhapsthe ghost will oblige me by waiting till I return, and acquaint me witha reason for frequenting my avenue.'
They went on hurriedly, and spoke but little. Then James Langrishereturned to the house. His heart beat a little quicker as he approachedthe place where that ghastly face had for a second's space seemed toflash out of the shrouding darkness. The moon was still shining downthrough the drifting clouds. But neither form, nor face was visible.Yet James Langrishe's own face was ashy white as he stepped once moreinto the glow of warmth and light. He bolted the outer door, andreturned to the dining-room, and stirred the fire into a blaze, and litevery candle he could find. Then he poured himself out half a tumblerof whisky, dashed in some soda-water, and drank it off.
'I'll carry a pistol about me for the future,' he said aloud, as ifspeaking to some unknown listener. 'I'll have no——tricks playedon me. Who talks of ghosts? There are no ghosts. We live, or wedie—there's an end of us. Carrion, rotting back to its own clay,feeding the worms. Ghosts? What old women's tales to frighten sillygirls and children.'
He paced the room in a fevered manner, pushing aside chairs, talkingall the time wildly and incoherently.
Someone passing along the hall, with a candle in her hand, pausedbefore that closed door, and listened with frightened eyes to thestrange talk and movement going on within. It was Bridget Lehane.
'Musha, mother of mercy,' she cried to herself, 'but the quare goingson there is in this house, an' sorra a place at all, at all, fora dacent gurl to live in. Shure, 'tis the masther has the onaisyconscience, and why should he at all only for the things as he knowsan' I daren't be lettin' on about seein' as how a prison was in thetaycup to-night, when meself was lookin' at the leaves!'
She crossed herself, and stole softly back to the kitchen. For many andmany a night she had chosen to sleep there on a settle before the fire,rather than go upstairs to her bedroom.
* * * * * *
James Langrishe had been a week at Knockminoss.
It was known that the furniture and house were to be sold, and thathe had made over his practice to Dr. Conolly. These facts gave riseto a great deal of talk, but talk is so much the natural province ofIrish folk that the wagging of tongues meant less to the 'waggers' thanan outsider would have supposed. Yet looks askance were cast at thehandsome doctor when he drove through the town or along the outlyingroads, and there were many who said the change in his appearance wasdue more to fear than to grief.
Yet still, all the whispered rumours amounted to very little, and asyet none had reached his own ears. When he was in the house he wasfor ever sorting papers, burning letters, packing books and surgicalinstruments, and generally dismantling the establishment, but theservants noticed he never went near his wife's apartments, and herwardrobe and jewellery were packed under the superintendence of Mrs.Conolly, who gave him the keys afterwards.
His iron will kept him there day after day, and gave him strength, too,for the hateful tasks that must be done. Once he turned his back onKnockminoss, he resolved never to enter it again. His present bravadohad a purpose to serve, but with every night his terrors grew apace,and his nerves needed more and more of that false stimulant that senthim reeling up to his hated room in the small hours of the morning, toclose his eyes in a drunken stupor that rested neither mind nor body.
* * * * * *
A child can kindle a flame that half an army cannot extinguish. In likemanner a chance word, dropped by an idle tongue, is oft-times the seedthat sows a field of dragon's teeth in a single night.
Bridget Lehane had a sweetheart, and the said sweetheart was a memberof the constabulary. Reticence is assuredly no fault of her nation, andreticence to a sweetheart on any subject connected with her own lifeand its incidents would have been an impossibility. So it came to passthat Jimmy Whelan was informed of everything connected with the doctor,and the affairs generally of Knockminoss, and how he always carried apistol in his coat, and how he drank himself into raging lunney everynight of his life.
Jimmy was not one whit sharper or more brilliant than others of hispersuasion, but he took to thinking things over, and they seemed tohim as to Bridget, 'mighty quare.' Still, nothing was said, and thepreparations for leaving Knockminoss went on apace; but during thesecond week the story of the ghost was once more revived, and not asoul from shop or farm would tread the avenue after dusk for any bribeor persuasion.
The stories got to Dr. Conolly's ears, and Dr. Conolly had a wife, andhe and the wife talked together over Dr. Langrishe's curious dislike tothe place and his hurried preparations for departure, and his strangereticence about his future plans. It needed a woman's wit to put herfinger on the weak point of the chain of circumstances. Mrs. Conollywas the woman.
'Lady Ffolliott is leaving also; her place is to be shut up, thelodge-keeper told me. I wonder if he will marry her, after a time. Hecan't pretend to be sorry for his wife's death. Everyone knew he wasinfatuated with that woman, and his freedom came most opportunely.'
Dr. Conolly kept silence for some moments. His thoughts were backwith a scene in the grey dawn of a September morning. He remembereda hasty summons, a confused account of a strange seizure, the storyof the little nurse and her agitation, the certificate he had beenasked to sign, the hurried funeral, the strange symptoms of the Londonnurse, which had puzzled him at the outset of her illness, the abruptdeparture of the widower, and now his determination to sell his place,even at a loss, and leave Ireland altogether.
The more he thought the more he remembered. The more he remembered, theless he liked. He grew nervous, suspicious, uncomfortable, and it waswhile in this mood that he was informed that one Jimmy Whelan, of theconstabulary, was below in the kitchen and desired urgently to haveword with him.
The communication of Jimmy Whelan resulted in the following letter,written by Dr. Conolly to Deborah Gray:—
'Dear Miss Gray,
'I write to ask you if, by any chance, you kept any notes of thelate Mrs. Langrishe's illness during the time you attended her atKnockminoss. I was unable to question you on the subject owing to yourstate of health. I must tell you that my reasons for asking this aremost serious, though at present I beg you will treat this communicationasstrictly private, as I will treat anything you tell me on thesubject.
'Believe me,
'Yours faithfully,
'CHARLES CONOLLY.
'Youghal, Co. Cork.'
In due time there arrived for Dr. Conolly a thick packet, sealed andregistered. He opened it, and found it consisted of manifold sheets ofpaper containing extracts from a journal that had apparently been keptby two persons. It was accompanied by a note from Deborah Gray.
'——Hospital,
'London.
'Dear Dr. Conolly,
'In answer to your letter, I beg to enclose the following extractsfrom a journal kept by Miss Nugent, who was Mrs. Langrishe's companionduring the months of July, August, and part of September, and alsomy own notes from the time I was summoned by Mrs. Langrishe herself,to the fatal 12th of September, when she died. The records speak forthemselves, but neither my friend nor myself wished to breathe oursuspicions until they were necessary, either to justify or condemn somequite impartial interference. I need scarcely say we are both ready tostand by every word we have written, however strange or condemnatorythey may seem.
'Yours faithfully,
'DEBORAH GRAY'
That night Dr. Conolly read every word of the records submitted to him.When he finished, his face was the face of one on whom Fate has imposeda stern and distasteful duty. His heart sank with a dread beyond allwords. He had taken this man's hand, he had called him friend, and nowhe must stand forth and accuse him before the world and his fellow-menof the most awful and dastardly crime the brain of a devil couldconceive.
Horror inexpressible seized him as he thought of Mrs. Langrishe'sstrange illness, of her husband's pretended anxiety, of the fearfulhypocrisy and deceit of which the poor woman had been the victim.
There was one thing, however, which he could not understand, and thatwas the fatal haste to bring about a result that led to open suspicion.Why had he not let the poor creature linger on and slowly fade into thegrave his skill had dug for her, instead of making this sudden, savageonslaught, as it were, on her already jeopardised life?
He puzzled over this for long. Suddenly, the remembrance of his wife'swords flashed across his mind—the infatuation for Lady Ffolliott!Here, evidently, was the motive. In his fear of losing one woman, JamesLangrishe had ruthlessly sacrificed another.
The evidence of those two nurses would condemn him hopelessly, if—ifthe body of the dead woman bore out that evidence.
It was a case for human justice now, without mercy, without paltering.The law had been outraged boldly and recklessly; the law must avengeitself upon the offender. All the threads of suspicion must be gatheredup, knotted into one strong, condemning strand. He had but to placethese papers in the proper hands, and the order would be given toexhume the body of the poor wronged woman.
There must be no delay. James Langrishe had proved himself a man devoidof scruples. He himself knew on what thin ice he trod here, amidst thescenes of his infatuation and his crime. As yet, no whisper of all themany floating round had reached his ears; but at any moment they mightdo so, and he would escape.
His urgent haste to have all matters of business settled, the disposalof his practice and his property, his utter reticence on any futureplans, save only that he was going to London—London, where LadyFfolliott was—all these facts were strangely suspicious. Dr. Conollyfelt that in some measure his hand was forced. The grave must bethe first accuser. By its silent witness James Langrishe would bepronounced innocent or—guilty.
* * * * * *It seemed to James Langrishe as if that last week would never pass. Thehours seemed leaden-footed; they brought him no peace, no rest. Thenights were things of terror when he would sit surrounded by the glareof fire and candles, horribly conscious of lurking shadows, of faceslooking out at him from dusky corners, in terror of the lonely room,in greater terror of that creaking staircase, and that long, shadowycorridor, down which he dared not glance.
At times his brain and will were fiercely active, at others they grewsluggish and inert, and he became the prey of torturing fancies thatdrove him to a dangerous refuge for temporary forgetfulness.
But the third week dawned, and everything was so nearly settled that hecould fix the very day and hour of his departure. And still the hand ofNemesis was stayed, and legal scruples and legal difficulties hampered,as they always do, the plain, straight path down which Right and Truthand Common-sense would march to justice had they but their way. Soit came to pass that, driven desperate by his own fears and terrors,and his horror of that crime-haunted house, James Langrishe startedsuddenly off to London one morning, leaving his luggage to follow him,and telling no one of his intention.
He arrived three days before Di Ffolliott expected him, but she didnot blame him for expedition—only she exclaimed at the change inhis appearance, the pallor of the dark, brilliant face, the haggard,sleepless look of his eyes. He told her it was due to absence andlonging and love, and half-chiding, half-incredulous, she let herselfbelieve it, more especially as his feverish restlessness increased hourby hour, and whether with her or away from her, time seemed a thing ofdread to him.
The arrangements for their marriage were simple enough, and he hadpersuaded her to drive from the church to Charing Cross station, enroute for the train to Paris.
There were to be no guests. She had few friends in London, and hewould suffer none to be present at the event. For once in her life DiFfolliott allowed herself to be blindly led, and followed, meek andobedient, the will of one she had chosen as her master. Wild and mad aswas his love for her, hers was no less wild and mad for him—otherwiseshe knew she would not have sacrificed the show and publicity sheloved, and gone quietly to church in the early morning in a plaintravelling dress, whose only merit was its perfect fit, to be marriedas any common little dressmaker's girl might be married!
The day came at last. A grey, foggy November day. Early as it was afew loiterers came into the church when the doors opened. One man,with a shrewd, quiet face, watched each straggler with keen interest.Now and then he whispered to another man by his side, a good-natured,red-haired individual, who kept well in the shadow of a pillar, and whobore a singular likeness to one Jimmy Whelan, of Youghal police fame.
At last a man entered hurriedly. He was dressed in dark clothes, andwore a white muffler round his neck that partially concealed hisfeatures.
'That's him, sure enough,' whispered Jimmy Whelan to his companion.
The man nodded. His keen eyes watched the tall figure with ascrutinising glance, taking in perhaps the chances of a struggle whenthe desperate game should be played out.
After a few moments' delay he came out of the vestry, and took up hisposition before the altar rails. Then he turned his white face towardsthe empty aisles, and gazed eagerly at the door. It opened, and aloneand unsupported, a woman walked in. Her beauty seemed to glow and warmthe cold dim church, the foggy grey atmosphere.
'My word, she is a beauty! I don't so much wonder at him,' exclaimedthe watcher, pressing a detaining hand on his companion's arm, whichkept his red head out of sight of a chance glance, should one speedthat way.
The lady took her place, marshalled by a seedy-looking pew-opener.
The clergyman opened his book and the sermon commenced. Solemnly,slowly, the words rang out in the silence. Solemnly they echoed in theears that had determined to pay no heed to a ceremony which was onlyconsidered in the light of a bit of legal tomfoolery to ensure a legalbargain.
'I require and charge you both as ye will answer at the dreadful Dayof Judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, thatif either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joinedtogether in matrimony, ye do now confess it.'
One moment's dead silence—an awful, terrible silence. Then the strangeman left his place, and Jimmy Whelan left his, and swiftly they movedforward and stood beside the couple at the rails.
The clergyman paused. James Langrishe turned. Before he could utter aword a hand was on his arm. The strong, steely clasp that in dreams hehad felt and fought against a hundred times, was the clasp of reality.
'James Langrishe, I arrest you in the Queen's name, for the wilfulmurder of your wife.'
The book fell from the clergyman's hand. Such a proceeding as this hehad never faced in the whole course of his clerical experience.
'This is not the time or the place for such a proceeding,' he stammered.
'Maybe not, but I'd be sorry to think that that poor lady was legallybound to a man who must face a criminal charge.'
'It's all a mistake,' thundered the doctor, wrathfully. 'Do you hear? Amistake. This man doesn't know me. No such charge has ever been made,as he says.'
'I know you, sir,' said Jimmy Whelan, quietly. 'I was brought here toidentify you; the charge is quite true.'
Then, with one look of shuddering horror at the man whom she had comehere to wed, Di Ffolliott sank senseless to the ground. The startledclergyman raised his book. The dusty pew-opener advanced to theassistance of the unconscious bride, and James Langrishe, handcuffedand with his captors one on either side, was led out of the church, toa cab waiting at the steps.
Dogged and silent, he sat between the two. The network of the law hehad defied was about him at last. He felt that struggling was useless.
Only one question he asked as the cab rattled through the foggy streets.
'Where are you taking me?'
'To Cork. The first investigation takes place there. We are bound tocaution you not to say anything that may be used in evidence againstyou.'
The magisterial inquiry into the cause of Mrs. Langrishe's death wasone of the sensations of the hour. It was from the first so plainlyagainst any satisfactory defence that the jury unhesitatingly broughtin their verdict of 'guilty.'
James Langrishe left that court, and was taken to the Cork Gaol toawait his trial at the winter assizes.
The full horrors of his position came home to him then in thehumiliation of imprisonment. His very companions in the exercise yardscorned to look askance at him—the gentleman murderer whose sentencethey knew was a mere matter of weeks. He was never alone for a singlemoment. Two warders watched him night and day. His duties and his foodwere the duties and the food of the commonest prisoner who shared thislegal captivity. The very doctor and chaplain seemed to regard him asthey never regarded the vagabonds and lawbreakers who filled the othercells. The horror of that one crime which sets a man apart from allother criminals, was a horror that made itself felt even here, wherecrime was in the air one breathed.
He showed no sign of what he felt. Outwardly cool and dogged, he passedhis days as the other prisoners passed theirs; making no complaint,asking no favour, seemingly indifferent to the passage of time, butin his heart cursing himself for his own folly, his own blindness,since now the veil was rent, and in the eyes of his fellow men he hadread his own condemnation. He had engaged the very best counsel forhis defence, but even those astute legal brains made no secret of thewell-nigh hopeless nature of the task they had undertaken. Save forhis counsel, no one came near him. No message ever reached him fromthat world beyond those high white walls, at which his moody eyes gazeddespairingly.
There was not a very long time to wait before the assizes commenced,but it was long enough to turn his raven locks to grey, to furrow hisbrow with lines that Time never ploughed. The day of trial came atlast, and he was placed in the van between his two warders. He heardthe great gates clang behind him, he looked up once at the soft bluesky above his head, and shuddered.
The drive seemed long as eternity, and the time of waiting longerstill, but at last the summons came, and he was led from the cell ofthe courthouse up the narrow corkscrew staircase, and placed in thedock facing the judge, in his crimson robes, the crowded bench ofbarristers and reporters, and everywhere were crowds of gazing, curiousfaces—the faces of men and women he had known and met a hundred timesin years of residence amongst them. No one looked pity or sympathy, orgave sign of recognition.
That first penalty the criminal pays—the silent condemnation of hisfellows, was already demanded from James Langrishe.
The light of the winter day fell through the line of windows thatlit the court, and showed up the newness and varnish of recentimprovements. Its old gloom and dirt had disappeared since the firethat had come to obliterate those landmarks of time. But to JamesLangrishe that newness and cleanliness had something gruesome about it.Would there not be busy reporters to state that the first importantcriminal case since the fire of 1891 was the case of James Langrishe?He almost fancied he saw the lines in theCork Examiner orConstitution of the next morning, and a grim smile touched his lipsas he wondered why his thoughts should dwell on such trivialities at atime when his life hung in the balance.
A stir in the benches below, the rustle of papers and opening of briefsarrested his attention. His face hardened and set itself in rigidcomposure. His eyes, with their old, mocking brilliance, turned fromjudge to jury, from the jury to the witness-box, with its solitarychair, and then dropped to the crowd of bewigged heads below. In thewell of the court stood a table on which was a model of Knockminoss.Beside it were various articles whose nature his professionalexperience readily guessed, and a little apart from them lay a smallbrown paper parcel. He found himself wondering what it contained.
He gave it no second glance. There was nothing about it to betray itsfatal purport, or the effect its production was to have in the issuesof the case.
Then the proceedings commenced. The clerk of the court read out theindictment, the jury were sworn, and prisoner was asked whether hepleaded guilty or not guilty to the charge of the wilful murder of hiswife, Mary Langrishe, on the — of September, 18—. His white lipsbelied the firmness of his voice as he gave the expected denial. Thenthe counsel for the prosecution began to address the court. There wasno need here for legal subterfuge or suggestion. The plain, bold factswere plain enough for a child's comprehension. The evidence givenat the previous inquiry was again retailed, and for all his defiantdemeanour James Langrishe felt that it was absolutely condemnatory.
The giving of arsenic for medical purposes was all very well, butthe nurse's evidence was damning. There had been no need for such aremedy in Mrs. Langrishe's case. The inquest had also proved one factmore suspicious than all the rest. The stomach-pumphad been used onthe fatal night, and for what purpose could it have been used exceptto destroy the evidence of poison? But arsenic can never be quitedestroyed. It has the peculiar property of embalming the body, and byits antiseptic virtues gives back the vital organs to the light of dayin a state that places its presence beyond a doubt, even to the mostminute atom.
When Mary Langrishe's body was exhumed, and the investigation made, thestomach was found to be quite empty. Yet the evidence of the nursesproved that she had partaken of supper with her husband and themselves.This fact alone was suspicious enough. Nothing could explain it away,and in spite of the stomach having been emptied, there were tracesof the poison in other organs sufficient to do away with the theorythat the arsenic had been administered for merely medicinal reasons.Counsel went on to say that apart from and beyond these facts arose thequestion ofmotive in the case of murder. Unfortunately, in this casethe motive was so clear and plain a one that it added the strongestlink to the chain of evidence against the prisoner.
Within two months of his wife's death he was about to marry anotherwoman. His preparations for flight were then briefly dwelt upon, afterwhich the prosecution proceeded to call witnesses for their case.
That speech made a sensation in the court. The tide of popular favourset strongly against the prisoner. It was felt on all sides thathis innocence was an impossibility, and from mind to mind flashedlike an electric current all the hundred and one little condemningincidents of his life in their midst. His open infatuation for LadyFfolliott—meetings, letters, speeches overheard—and at the time onlylaughed at—how absolutely damning looked all these trivialities nowwhen passed in review before a court of justice.
The routine of a criminal trial is always more or less the same. Theopening address, the testimony of the witnesses, the cross-examination,the badgering and bullying of counsel, the speech for the defence, andthe summing up.
The sensation of this case was the evidence of the two nurses, and theextracts from their diaries as read and commented on by their counsel,and on which they were examined. Beginning with the acquaintance atGlengariff, and the strange symptoms of the invalid, Nellie Nugent wasquestioned and cross-questioned on the point set up by the defence,that arsenic had undoubtedly been administered to the deceasedlady, but it had been given for a certain complaint from which shesuffered, just as in like manner the morphia had been administered forsleeplessness.
In confutation of this, came the evidence of the two nurses as to Mrs.Langrishe's rapid improvement in health after the accidental breakingof the bottle of medicine her husband had left for her, and thediscontinuance of the said medicine during the remainder of her stayat the hotel. At this point the brown paper parcel was taken from thetable and handed to the witness.
She identified it as the one that Dr. Langrishe had sent to Glengarifffor his wife, and which she had placed on a shelf in the cupboard ofher bedroom. It had lain there in a corner unobserved, unopened, untilsent for as an item of evidence in the case. It had been analysed, andthe analysis was submitted to judge and jury.
The amount of arsenic contained in it would have killed any adult, evenone accustomed to taking it, in a week.
The sensation at this point was tremendous.
The face of the accused was ashen-white as he saw that bottle—theforgotten, incriminating record of his first blundering attempt.
Medical evidence in support of the nurses' story closed the case forthe first day, and left it black enough against the accused man as hewas driven back to the gaol.
For three days he stood in the dock, and saw arrayed against himselfthe deadly crowd of dimming facts which his blindness and foolhardinesshad overlooked. He heard those records of the diaries, and cursed thefolly that had suffered those female spies within his doors. With thedesire of averting suspicion he had only aroused it.
Deborah Gray's evidence seemed to impress the court even morethan Nellie's. Her calm, serious face, her simple, direct answer,her evident reluctance to state anything save what was absolutelynecessary, gave her admissions a greater weight, than her friend's.Her cross-examination was lengthy and severe, but nothing could shakeher grave serenity. It was only when the defending counsel asked herroughly why she had not mentioned her suspicions at the time of MaryLangrishe's death that she hesitated in her answer. She looked at theguilty man for the first time. All the colour left her face. Her eyesdrooped. Her voice trembled.
'I—I do not consider it professional to talk about a case,' she said.'Besides, I was ill myself. I was not with Mrs. Langrishe at the timeof her death. She was in her grave before I knew anything of what hadhappened. And no one has a right to utter suspicions that they cannotverify.'
'You could not verify yours?' demanded the prosecution.
'No,' she said, very low.
'But you believe James Langrishe did administer poison with criminalintent, to his wife?'
'I do.'
Then James Langrishe knew that her hand had put the first strand of thefatal rope about his neck, and in his heart of hearts he cursed her asthe author of his ruin.
He scarcely listened to Bridget Lehane, who followed Deborah into thebox, and rambled on about the ghost and the drugged coffee until theprosecution and defence alike lost patience, and could make nothing outof her evidence.
He raged at his own folly now for surrounding his house with gossiping,credulous idiots, who had only eaten his bread and then turned upon himin the hour of adversity.
Perhaps the cruellest and blackest hour of all he had to face was thehour when Di Ffolliott, pale as death, and clothed all in black, stoodup in her turn, and he had to listen to her answers as the sharp, coolvoice of the famous Q.C. dragged unwillingly admissions of that wildlove, that fevered impatience, that hurried broken marriage, from herpale lips.
His long-sustained self-command gave way then.
He bent down and covered his face with his hands. In his heart he said,'The bitterness of death is past now. It cannot be worse than this!'
The speech for the defence was as able and brilliant as it wasunconvincing. Even the judge pitied the hopeless effort, and theaccused man listened with a bitter smile on his pale lips, knowing itsutter uselessness in face of all that had gone before.
It was odd that never until he had faced this trial had he even dimlyimagined he had awakened a suspicion in the mind of his fellow mortals.How the first terrible design had taken shape he could scarcely tell.The mad infatuation for Di Ffolliott, that impatience with the sickly,uninteresting woman whom he had married solely for her wealth, thesehe remembered; and then the gradual hope that freedom would come soonand by its blessed chance he might secure the one woman he had evercoveted—without success.
At that time the ugly thought had found no place in his mind; butlittle by little it had formulated itself, growing stronger and moretempting with every day that barred him from those lovely arms. Humanlife had no very special value in his eyes. He had tested poisonson living creatures with utter callousness as to their sufferings.Sickness had rarely aroused any wider sympathy in his breast than theperplexity or difficulty of the case demanded, and as little by littlehe trod the path of possibilities it seemed scarcely wrong to hisspecious reasoning that he should assist those possibilities, insteadof await them.
His conscience was not of the troublesome order, and he became, after atime, interested in his own experiments. He told himself they were soeasy, so natural, so utterly beyond detection. It was only when DeborahGray had established herself as his wife's guardian that he grewdesperate to the verge of recklessness. The woman he loved so madly hadwithdrawn altogether. He never saw her, he rarely heard from her. Hissoul was afire with longing to be by her side, and yet he was detainedhere by miserable convention. One unguarded moment, one blunderingaction, and all the elaborate structure he had so prided himself upon,crumbled to the dust. He could put his hand on the weak place now,butthen, so blind and besotted had he been, that he had never evenrecognised a weak place at all.
All this flashed before him as he sat in the dock between his twogaolers, and listened to the specious arguments in his favour that hiscounsel presented to the jury.
He knew it was so much waste of breath and fine words. He had known hiscase was hopeless from the moment that fatal bottle had been unearthedfrom its forgotten shelf, from the moment that Deborah Gray had calmlyand judiciously endorsed her written records by her clear, unshakenevidence.
The impression she had made nothing could obliterate.
How he cursed now the folly that had made her his enemy, that hadplaced him in her power, even as once her blind trust and love for himhad placed her in his.
That cool and masterly skill on which he had prided himself lookednow the veriest blundering of a child. It had never occurred to himthat anyone would doubt his wife had died from the after effects oftyphoid, accelerated by the shock to her weak heart of that frightshe had experienced on the night of her death. And all had gone sowell—for a time. He had even lost any sense of fear, had never dreamedof post-mortems, or inquest, or inquiries. He had been so sure he wassafe. He had blessed that fever for sealing Deborah Gray's lips, hehad allowed himself such contempt for little, hysterical, warm-heartedNell, and yet those two weak, despised women had overthrown the wholeelaborate structure of his self-defence, had placed around his neck thenoose that would hang him.
He started suddenly.
The voice of his counsel had ceased. There was a brief moment ofsilence. Then came a rustle of papers. The judge fixed his glasses, andraised his head and looked at him, and began his summing up of the case.
In comparison with the amount of evidence, and the number of witnesses,that summary was very brief, but it was long enough for one man'spurgatory. He began by stating in the clearest terms the facts as theyhad been laid before the court by the various witnesses. Dismissingall that was irrelevant, he pointed out that the question of motiveis of all others the question that has to be considered in all caseslike the present. The accused lived on good terms with his wife, and nounkindness of any sort had been proved against him. This circumstanceas being strongly in his favour, had been made the most of by thecounsel for the defence. But a man may live on very amicable terms withhis wife and yet love another woman, more brilliant, more beautiful,more fascinating, than his lawful partner. It is this lamentable humanweakness that over and over again has led men to commit any sin, evenany crime, in order to gratify their wishes. Had Mrs. Langrishe diedfrom the effects of the fever, or from any accident, it would stillhave shown the worst possible taste for her husband to go to the altarwith another woman in barely two months' time from the date of herdecease. But when circumstances pointed clearly to his having again andagain administered to this poor, trusting creature, medicines whichwere of the most harmful and dangerous kind, it gave to her opportunedeath a more important meaning and laid open to the gravest suspicionsthe man who, on the strength of his relationship, basely traded on hisprofessional opportunities.
If it had not been for the suspicions of the nurse being arousedby her patient's rapid improvement on the discontinuance of hismedicines, then in all probability the unfortunate woman would havegone to her doom, and no living soul would have suspected the cause.He felt compelled at this point to draw the attention of the jury tothe fact that this special medicine had in every case been preparedby the accused. There was no prescription to trace, and no chemistto question. He had prepared the medicine in his own dispensary,and sent or given it to his wife with his own hands. His attempt inthe first case had failed signally, and either he had taken frightor resolved to wait a more favourable opportunity. The outbreak offever had seemed an interposition of Fate. He had awaited its issues,and even at the urgent persuasion of the nurse had called in anotherphysician. The recovery of the poor woman, her delight and gratitudeat returning health, had been read to them from the concise andadmirable notes kept by Sister Gray. It was only fair to say that butfor those records, and the keen observation of their clever author,the present case would have been attended with infinite difficulty. Hethen went on to the night of September 12, the strange determinationof Dr. Langrishe to occupy the dressing-room, his rudeness to the twonurses, the supper, and the drugged coffee, as proved by the witnessBridget Lehane. The description in Nurse Nugent's diary of thatnight, and the strange sensations she had undergone, were almost toosensational for a court of justice. To use her own Words, they readlike a nightmare, but the jury must use their own judgment in acceptingor dismissing them from the chain of evidence. If the coffee had beendrugged—and the condition of Deborah Gray, who had drunk her cupful ata draught—seemed to point to that fact, then Nurse Nugent's evidencewas entirely credible. She had only taken half the quantity her friendhad swallowed, and the result had been a partial deadening of thesenses, overcome by strenuous effort, and at last relieved by Nature.Her sufferings, her terror, her courage, had all been laid bare, beforethem. There was no need for further comment.
Dr. Conolly had spoken of being called in just as the poor lady wasexpiring, of having heard the husband's account of the seizure, andseeing no reason to discredit it. He had known for long that Mrs.Langrishe was very delicate. He had heard of her attack of typhoidfever, and the plausible account given by her husband of the frightshe had received that night after supper by seeing some figure on thelawn, had been received by him in perfect faith. Not for one momenthad he doubted that Mrs. Langrishe's death was anything but a naturalone, until the return of the accused from London, his anxiety todispose of his practice, and property, and the startling change inhimself. Yet, still, he was far from suspecting anything so terribleas these revelations until the man Whelan called upon him and declaredhe felt it a duty to lay before him certain facts that had come to hisknowledge. From that moment Dr. Conolly knew no peace. It was an awfulthing to accuse a man of so dastardly a crime, it was more awful stillto keep the secret in his breast and stifle his awakened suspicions. Hebegan to blame himself for that hasty concurrence with Dr. Langrishe.He began to acknowledge there should have been apost-mortem inquirybefore the deceased lady was laid in her grave. At last he had laid hisinformation before the authorities, with the result that the conditionof the body fully entitled the gravest suspicions, more especially whenthe contents of the stomach were found to be entirely cleared away,thus verifying Nurse Nugent's narrative where she declared she heardthe sound of the stomach-pump.
That one fact was the most weighty and important piece of evidence theyhad been offered. If the accused was innocent, if his wife had diedthat night, or rather morning of September 12, from natural causes,what reason was there for using the instrument spoken of?
He felt bound to call their attention to this fact, as it had struckhim as the one thing that pointed most directly to the guilt of theaccused man. There had been no explanation of it offered by thedefence, in spite of its condemning character. They must weigh it inthe balance with the medical evidence of the deceased's illness, asgiven by her husband, by Dr. Conolly, and by the certificate of deathhanded in to the registrar. The assertion of Dr. Langrishe that he hadat different times prescribed arsenic in conjunction with other drugsfor a certain complaint from which his wife suffered must also haveits due weight with them, as it was a well known fact that arsenicalways left some trace of itself in the system, and possessed thecurious property of embalming, so to speak, the body that containedit. No medical man, however, would think of prescribing or givingarsenic to anyone just recovering from typhoid fever. But it had notbeen clearly proved that this was the poison given the deceased ladyeitherin her coffee or by some other means, and then removed by useof the stomach-pump. As far as the evidence went no one could say whathad been given, and indeed, were it not for the precaution taken ofcleaning the stomach of its contents, it would have been exceedinglydifficult to bring home this present charge against the accused. Thefact, however, of the use of the stomach-pump, and the clear evidenceof motive, were what the jury were bound to consider carefully anddispassionately. It was not a matter for sentiment, but for justice,and important as was the issue at stake they must be guided by justiceonly.
If, after duly and carefully considering the evidence laid before them,they entertained any doubt of the guilt of the accused, they were togive him the benefit of such doubt. If, on the other hand, they foundno reason to believe him anything but guilty, they must bring in averdict to that effect. If there was any point of law on which theydesired information he would be happy to assist them. Then he dismissedthem to their duty, and they retired forthwith.
* * * * * *
An hour passed.
An hour into whose sixty moments were crowded such horror and dreadas only the guilty know, an hour in which a human life hung in thebalance, when even thought was suspended by expectation, and peopletalked in whispers, or glanced with awestruck faces at that closed doorbehind which the jury were debating their verdict.
At the expiration of that hour they returned. The prisoner was broughtup once more. The usual question was put:
'Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?'
And over the breathless stillness came that one awful word which,hoping against hope, James Langrishe told himself he wouldnot hear.
'Guilty.'
The judge put on the black cap and addressed the prisoner with thatawful formula which once heard can never be forgotten.
As the last sentence fell from his lips, 'And there be hanged by theneck till you are dead, and may God have mercy on your soul,' a wildsobbing cry burst from a woman's lips. The prisoner's despairingeye saw a figure in the well known nurse's dress sway forwards, andthen all grew dark and black before him as his own soul, and he wassupported from the dock by his gaolers into that awful van and back tothat lonely cell whence he should never issue, a free or innocent man,to face the light of day.
There was a new sound to James Langrishe in that clang of the closinggates, that quick harsh rattle of the turning keys. There was a newhorror for him in the faces of the warders as they looked the curiositythey dared not express. The little patch, the sky above, the high,white walls spoke to him with the voice of liberty for ever forfeited.The beautiful tame peacocks perched on the stone balustrade seemed toshrink aside as he stumbled through the doorway. He never saw thoseregal birds but he thought of the morning when he had watched DiFfolliott feed them on the sunny lawn of Durries. The cold whiteness ofthe interior struck him with a deadly chill. It seemed as if, already,he stood in a huge sepulchre hewn and made ready by his own hands.
It was a Saturday, and the prisoners were all busily cleaning downpassages and staircases; scrubbing, polishing, with cheerful alacrity,as he had seen them doing during those weeks of suspense. Was it onlyhis fancy that even these criminals and outcasts shrank aside, that thequestioning of their eyes turned to horror as they read on his face theone most awful word that any language holds—'Murderer!'
The two warders hurried him along and into his own cell in that longwhite corridor. How ghastly it looked with those plank beds upturned,the folded clothes, the utter bareness and cleanliness that made itssole beauty.
He sank down on the wooden stool, his only seat. No one spoke to him.The men conversed softly with each other. He knew they were countingthe moments when they would be relieved and could leave him to hisnight guardians and talk freely of the incidents of the trial.
It was awful—ghastly—unendurable!
He wondered what possible mercy lay in any suspense. He would ratherhave gone straight from the dock to the gallows than linger on here fora week or a month, as the case might be—watching the leaden-footedhours drift by, laid aside from all the living, pulsing world outsidethose iron-barred gates, as dead to all his fellow-mortals as if theunhallowed earth were already cast above his head.
He turned aside from those two watchful guardians. They had removedhis shackles, and he covered his face with his hands, and looked intohis heart at last with eyes that were no longer heedless of the doomso recklessly challenged. He saw that scene again as if it had beenphotographed on his brain.
The crowded court. The murky daylight. The gleam of crimson from thejudge's robes. The bewigged heads nodding and consulting at every stageof the trial. The white face and stern dark eyes of Deborah Gray, andthen, last and saddest of all, that lovely woeful face of the woman forwhom he had lost his soul! Would she come to him, he wondered, now thatshe knew the worst, or would she regard him now and henceforth with thehorror that his crime demanded and none of the pity that his love mighthave awakened. If it were she who had sinned, he thought, he would havehaunted her prison gates and dared all, done all, that man could do tosave her, and then, when her last hope failed, would have thrown awayhis life at the same moment she forfeited hers.
But this was a man's love, and woman's was but a poor, pale thing incomparison. In all this weary time she had made no sign, sent no word.Perhaps he would go to his doom unnoticed still, and yet he knew thatto have seen her face once more, touched her hand, no matter how manywatchful eyes were round them, he would have forfeited every hope ofearth or heaven.
The cell grew dark as the daylight closed. The little gas jet gleamedup behind its thick glass window. He could look at but not touch it,yet its bright gleam often comforted him in this comfortless place.They brought him food, and he took it mechanically, and then triedto read! But the letters swam before him. He could make no sense ormeaning of the printed page on which his eyes were fixed.
He tried hard to realise what thing this was that had come topass. . . . He tried to believe in that sentence of death. But yet hecould not believe in it; could not picture the grim reality behindthose few brief words, 'And may God have mercy on your soul!'
His soul . . . his? What was it? What did he know of it? What thoughthad he ever given to its existence or welfare? None whatever. What didit mean to him now? Nothing, and less than nothing.
He looked at the little shelf on which were placed his pewter mug andhorn spoon, and that regulation Bible. He had never opened it, or evenlooked at it, in all these weeks of suspense and anxiety. Should hebegin now?
He thought of the chaplain's grave remonstrances, of his own scoffingwords. And so brief a time now in which to repent, or to prove them. Agrim smile came to his lips. He rose and went to the little shelf andtook up the book.
The warders watched him in surprise. He dragged his stool nearthe little square of light, and began turning over the leavesindifferently. Suddenly his eyes fell on some words. They had beenscored under with pencil, perhaps by some other hopeless prisoner,facing as he faced the closing tragedy of life.
'The soul that sinneth it shall die.'
That was what he read.
'The soul that sinneth!'
Well, he had sinned as few men sin. Sinned willingly, wilfully,mercilessly; and this was the fate of his soul—death. Not the physicaldeath that his body would know, not the mere ceasing to exist which isthe fate of all humanity, but the hopeless, eternal death of the sinnerwho has defied his Maker, and sees himself confronted by a judge,stern, implacable; just, with the awful justice that must abide by itsown decrees.
He closed the book and put it aside.
But the words would not be put aside. They rang in his ears, theyechoed in his heart. They haunted his restless sleep, and flittedthrough his dreams. 'The soul that sinneth it shall die.' No hope, norest, no mercy. He had staked that soul on a mad passion—and lost. Thedevil would have his due. There was no chance of cheating him.
* * * * * *
To a prisoner whose days are numbered a certain number of privilegesare granted. He may write and read. He may receive visits from friends.He is not obliged to do any work, and even his food may be of a betterkind, if he desire it.
But never for a single moment, night or day, is he alone, and not evento his nearest and dearest on earth can he speak one word that is notthe common property of his watchful gaolers.
Novelists and dramatists have taken many liberties, and invented manypleasing little fictions with regard to prisons and prisoners. Thecondemned cell and the affecting interview have played their part inmany tragic scenes, but they are widely different from the grim reality.
No prisoner is allowed to receive any visitor in his cell, not if hewere a prince, or a peer; neither would he be permitted to speak tothem alone, though it were his last hour on earth. Once the law takeshim into its charge he has to submit to the stern unvarying disciplineit has organised. He ceases to be an independent being. He is only oneitem in a community, obeying the same rules, and following the sameroutine, for a longer or a shorter period.
It is more than probable that if any relative or friend of a condemnedman knew in what guise they would see him, and how utterly impossibleprivate speech or interview is made, they would deny themselves themelancholy pleasure of a last farewell and forego the privilegeof gazing through one grated cage into another equally guarded,and between which and themselves stands the watchful warder of theunfortunate criminal.
This is a reality that the imaginative novelist never seems to takeinto consideration. It would hamper description too much, and put astop to the harrowing scenes that draw tears from the reader's eyes, byreason of their utter unlikeness to the truth.
Probably, had Deborah Gray known what a last interview with one whoselife is forfeited by his country's laws really meant, she wouldnot have begged, prayed, and besieged the necessary authorities inorder to obtain it. But she did not know. She, too, thought only ofthe condemned cell, the closed door (outside of which stands thecompassionate gaolor of fiction), the privilege of free speech, all infact that has been written or described of such scenes.
She faced the grim reality in the wet grey gloom of a winter morning, afew days after James Langrishe's sentence.
It was a strange thing that all the desire for revenge, all the horrorand hatred, seemed to have died out of her heart from the moment shehad seen the black cap put on by the judge, and heard those awfulwords—'And there be hanged by the neck till you are dead!'
Hanged by the neck!
All through that night she seemed to hear those words ringing in herears. All through those long wakeful hours she paced to and fro, seeingonly that face of despair set in rigid calm, thinking only that roundthat neck about which her fond arms had once twined themselves, thehangman's noose would soon be knotted.
Andshe had done this.
She had persuaded Nell to keep that fatal diary,she had watched with jealous eyes his every action, she had askedthe very questions that had set that servant girl gossiping to hersweetheart, she had sent to Dr. Conolly the carefully kept records ofthose days at Knockminoss. True, it had been her duty to do all this,to protect the innocent, and bring the guilty to justice, but now shelooked at her hands with shuddering horror, seeming to see in them theknotted rope that would send a human soul to meet its awful doom.
On the morning when the order she had craved and begged was handed toher, she sat for full an hour gazing at it, trying to make up her mindto use it, yet repelled by a shrinking horror of what use might mean.It might be a month before the sentence would be executed. There wouldbe time and to spare for the use of that order, but her duties calledher back to London, and she knew that once she left this country therewould be little chance of her returning.
For ever henceforth in her mind would the Emerald Isle be associatedwith the gruesome horrors of this trial. Once the wild waters of thechannel rolled between her and it, she would never care to cross themagain.
She made up her mind suddenly, but decidedly. She said nothing toanyone but called a covered car, the hearse-like vehicle she abhorred,and drove through grey mist and drenching rain from the city along thedreary western road to the great iron gates of the county gaol, whereJames Langrishe awaited the execution of his sentence.
The bell gave forth a hollow clang, a little panel slipped hack, and awarder's face looked out. Deborah Gray showed her order, and the gatewas unlocked, and the man examined it.
Then she entered. The door was locked behind her, and she followed herconductor up a steep gravel pathway, past the governor's house, and upto another gate set in the high white walls of the prison boundary.
Here her conductor rang a bell and then gave her into the care ofa second warder, who opened the gate, and she found herself in thegrounds of the prison. At the entrance stood another warder. To theleft was the governor's office. Close to it, and perched on the lowstone balustrade, were the two peacocks that James Langrishe hadremarked with so swift a pang of memory.
Deborah found herself gazing at the building with a strangefascination. She could see into the interior, so white and clean, andin such marvellous order. It reminded her of some great ship, withits tiers of cell doors, its stairways, and netted ropes stretchedhammock-wise at every point of danger, its rows of fire buckets, itsregular passages stretching right and left from the main entrance.
After she had waited a few moments a stout, pleasant-faced warderapproached. He held her order in his hand.
'You wish to see Dr. Langrishe, miss?' he asked.
'Yes,' she said.
He looked keenly at her pale, dark face, her nurse's costume. This,doubtless, was the wonderful nurse about whose evidence the papers werefull, about whom the prisoner's attendants had spoken.
'Will you follow me?' he said, and he went down the steps and into thegravel courtyard. A narrow path, wet and miry now from the fallingrain, ran along between two walls, those of the prison yard and thechapel. She passed a little gateway opening into a small gravelledspace, at the end of which stood a small square building, with apointed glass skylight let into the roof.
She asked no questions. Perhaps it was as well she did not know whatdread thing that insignificant little building held, or that from thenarrow gateway she had just passed James Langrishe would take his lastlook at earth and sky.
The pleasant looking warder stopped before a wooden door, at whichthe pathway ended. He unlocked this, and motioned to Deborah to stepwithin. She found herself in a passage, fenced by a strong wiregrating. It looked into a still narrower passage, a mere strip, soto speak, also grated, and beyond that was a small boarded chamber,containing a solitary chair. It had two doors. One led into the narrowpassage, behind which the warder bade her stand; the other——
She had scarcely time to speculate as to where that led, when therecame the harsh grating of a key in the lock, and, still guarded by histwo gaolers, James Langrishe stepped through the open doorway and facedher through the double barriers.
One of the men retired. The other took up his place in that narrowpassage that divided the prisoner and his visitor from even thepossibility of a handshake.
Awestruck, and pale as death, Deborah Gray looked at the watchfulgaoler.
'Must I stay here?' she said faintly. 'Can I not stand where you are?'
'No, miss,' he said, not unkindly. 'I have my orders, and these are therules. Whatever you have to say must be said from there.'
'Why did you come here at all,' demanded James Langrishe, fiercely.'You've done your worst. You and your spies did their duty well. Had Iknown it wasyou——'
He stopped abruptly. She saw his lips quiver. She knew then whom he hadexpected.
'James,' she said, gravely, 'I came to say goodbye—to tell you thatin all this matter I have only been the instrument of Fate. I neverbreathed a word of my suspicions. I locked those books away. I said Iwould make no sign, breathe no word. And I did not. Yet I felt all thesame my reticence would not protect you. It was not from me the firstwhisper came, and it is not just to harbour revengeful feelings now.'
'I made you my enemy,' he said, gloomily. 'What could I expect from youin return?'
'I forgave all that,' she said, 'and no provocation would have made mespeak.'
He half-turned aside. He could not bear that she should look at himwith those pitying eyes—should see and compassionate his degradation.
There was something ghastly in the last act of the drama he had playedso recklessly, something horrible in the idea that the woman he had soruthlessly wronged should alone remember him in its closing scenes. Hadthey been alone—but not even that privilege was allowed. Not thoughshe had been the woman he loved instead of the woman he hated.
'There is nothing to be said between us,' he muttered. 'I hope my timewill be short; that much mercy, at least, they might give.'
'Is there anything you wish? Anything I can do or say for you?' sheasked, and the tears sprang to her eyes as the haggard misery of hisface was turned to her once more.
'You can spare me any moral claptrap,' he said, bitterly. 'I know myfate, and I shall meet it without flinching. Confessions are for weakfools, or men with a conscience. I am not the one, and I don't everremember possessing the other. If we are to entertain each other for15 minutes I feel at a loss for an entertaining subject. But don'tlet me have tears or texts for mercy's sake. I found one to comfortmyself with last night. It preached a more eloquent sermon than any thechaplain has favoured me with. As for messages—have you brought one!'
She noted the eager flash of his eyes, the sudden hope in his face.
'No, James,' she said, gently. 'It may be sent through anothersource. I have only come to say farewell, and to tell you that I haveforgiven—all.'
There was silence for a space. He pushed aside the chair and claspedhis hands behind his back, and moved restlessly to and fro.
'So you can say that, now?' he said, at last. 'How death softens youwomen! I suppose I'm as good as dead,' and his harsh laugh broke acrossthe narrow space and made her shudder.
'James,' she entreated, 'I don't want to preach. God knows I'm nosaint, but——. . . . I pray you may meet death in a better frame ofmind. Have you no thought of that poor woman—no fear you may meet her?'
'No,' he said, bitterly. 'If what priests say be true, we shall be farenough apart. When the tree is felled by the axe, it lies where itfell. It does not blossom into fresh leafage. And when the axe of Fatefelled me, there I lay, and lie. Life looks but a vague shadow, and inthe heaven of sects and fanatics I don't believe. I left the valley ofsuperstition behind me long ago.'
Again silence fell between them. The warder thought it was thestrangest conversation to which he had ever played the part of listener.
'And you are not—afraid?' she said, faintly, breaking the silence witha sudden memory of Time's swift passage.
His laugh held scorn and bitterness, but no fear.
'No,' he said. 'I go to prove a delusion, or find a reality. I canabide by either issue. Surely you did not think a thing likethis wouldchange me?'
She shuddered involuntarily. Her grave, dark eyes grew misty, and for amoment she clung to the railing by which she stood, as if for support.
'James,' she cried wildly, 'was there not some one else who—Oh!I can't say it. It sounds the wildest folly! James, how will youmeet—that other?'
'What other?' he asked sharply.
'I—I cannot tell you now,' she said, and she looked at the warder'simpassive face. 'Will they allow you to receive a letter?'
'Yes,' he said. 'But it must be opened before the authorities. Theyare so afraid that the law may be cheated of its due,' and again helaughed, 'that they live in terror of any kindly assistance hasteningthat sentence. However, I am permitted to read letters, so if you haveanything to tell me, Deborah——'
She clasped her hands involuntarily.
'Yes,' she said, 'I have. . . . But you will not believe it, James. Itwill sound to you more wildly improbable than any effort of fiction.Will you answer me one question?'
'Yes,' he said.
'Do you knowwho it was that everyone said haunted that hill nearKnockminoss?'
'I never paid any attention to that folly,' he answered indifferently.'No, I heard no name. Don't tell me that you——'
'It was Moll Duggan's daughter,' she said; and she saw his face changeat last, as it had never changed even during that ordeal in the court.
The warder lifted his head.
'Time's up,' he said.
Deborah Gray shuddered. Involuntarily she pressed closer to the grating.
'May I not shake hands?' she implored. 'It will be the last time.'
'Take off your gloves then,' said the man, 'and let me see your handsare empty.'
She obeyed, and threw back her long cloak, and let him examine hercuffs. Then she passed into his strip of passage and faced thecondemned man with but one line of division.
The warder unlocked the door and took his place beside his prisoner.The two cold hands met in a farewell clasp more awful and more eloquentthan if death had stood in real truth beside them, for they shook handsacross a living grave whose only memories would be sin and shame.
'Will you write what you meant?' he whispered, hoarsely.
She bent her head. She could not speak for a moment. He released herhand. He heard the key turn in the lock outside.
'God pity you. God pardon you!' fell from Deborah's white lips.
Then the door between them was ruthlessly closed, the outer one wasopened, and she saw him led away by his gaolers, even as her ownsummons sounded.
With blind eyes and stumbling feet she hurried on past that fatalgateway which James Langrishe would enter, but through which he wouldneverreturn a living man.
Across the wet gravel, past that white andcheerful entrance, where still the gaudy peacocks strutted to and fro,past a group of prisoners going to work with the cheerful alacrity of'short terms,' and on and on like one in a dream, with the jingle ofkeys and the clang of closing barriers still in her ears, till thelast was passed, and she raised her tear-wet face to the weeping skiesabove, and silently prayed God's pity on the man who had so grievouslywronged her youth!
'Deborah,—This will be the last letter my hand will pen, and Iwrite it here in my cell, knowing that now my hours are numbered. Ofall the human puppets who have played their part in my life, of allwhom I have loved, and wronged, despised, and hated, you are the onlywoman for whom I have had any respect. Does that sound strange?
'It is true. For even when I wronged you most you stood far above me.It was impossible to lower you to my level. You made your way and wonyour position, as you said you would, and you are loved and honoured,while I—who left you to the fate of others, treated in like fashion—Iam the football Fate has chosen to kick into the pit of perdition.Deborah, I have read your letter many times. You say truly you were butan instrument in the hand of Destiny. I believe you are too noble forrevenge, but not too noble for hate. Well, I deserved your hate, andyet you say you have forgiven me. I am not going to make any confessionto you. You have heard my story, and your keen eye read my secret longago. Why should I rail at fate any longer. "The soul that sins shalldie," so I read, and so I believe; and why should I whine and cry likea whipped child? You can't change a man's nature because you show himwhat that nature has led him to do. I suppose mine was bad always. Ifthere ever was a grain of good in it you found it out, but even youcould not force it to a larger growth. It lay, fallow, and rotted,and—died.
'But to go back to your letter.
'It is all quite true, Deborah. I mention no names, even, likeyourself. Strange that your hands should have closed her eyes, yourears heard those threatening words. If she is to be my welcomer whenonce I cross the boundary between my world and hers, I have an enviabletime before me! And yet what better do I deserve? What should I andsuch as I do in the Christian's Heaven? I ask it in all seriousnessof you as I asked it of the chaplain here, who prates of mercy and ofpardon for repentant sinners! What use would harp of gold, and robeof white, and songs of praise, be to me? Surely,what is myself mustremain as it is. Death, that parts it from the body that held it,cannot part it from what I know and feel it is!
'I sit here with cold, dry eyes, and ask it of myself calmly anddispassionately. Do you remember our wild talks in my student days,and yet you came out unscathed from that fire, Deborah, and you are agood woman, and I—no need to write it. My sentence is just. I am notunhappy. I am not afraid. I think, if I feel anything at all, it is astrange, cold curiosity as towhat I shall be, andwhere I shall bebefore this time to-morrow? I feel so full of life and strength now.Shall I sleep to-night? They say criminals always do, don't they? Howglad these men will be when they need no longer watch, and guard myevery action. What strange duties the crimes of one-half the worldleave to be performed by the other half! After all, I lived my life,the best of us can do no more. Am I sorry for my sins, I wonder, oronly for their consequences? That is the test, Deborah. If we escapethe consequences we never trouble about the sin. Existence is but awitch's cauldron, and the bubbles in it are human lives that seethe andglow and burst, while the old hag, Fate, stirs and stirs it round, andchuckles grimly over each catastrophe.
'Are you wondering that I can write like this? Are you grieved in yourgood, honest fashion, that I do not make a more Puritanical ending ofmy last hours? A time of prayers and tears, and Bible reading, andpenitence? Surely you know me better than that, Deborah. You, to whom Ionce showed all my naked soul! What strange heights we reached in ourspeculations! What curious points arose between us, and how we talked,and how you loved me! No other woman loved me as you did, or tried tolead me to better things.
'And now it has come to goodbye to all things earthly, and I am calmand cold, and seem not to care one whit for that fact. I think of youas I saw you last, and wonder why your memory is the one strong, clean,wholesome thing to which I turn? For I gave you but little love, andyou have no reason to pity me, or shed one tear for my fate. But youdo, and you will, for you are one of those women who do not forget.You do not love out your love; and have done. It lives in your great,strong, womanly soul, turned from an earthly channel into other andmore unselfish ones. You will be always a personality; an element ofuse, help, strength, no matter where you go, among whom you labour.
'But I think you will never love again, Deborah, and to-night I can findit in my heart to be glad of that.
'Well, it has come to be good-bye. This is my last sheet of paper. Mygaolers are weary, I think, of the rustling of the sheets, of thescratching of my pen. I wonder if you know, Deborah, that to-morrow'sdawn is the last that I shall see? I pray the sky may not be blue. Iwould like to go out to bold grey gloom, leaving nothing to regretexcept the sin that now demands its price—the life of James Langrishe.'
* * * * * *
When Deborah Gray received the letter, it was Nell's wedding morn. Thehand that had penned it was but cold clay. It lay against her breastwhile she kissed the young bride's blushing face, and heard the organ'sswell, and the chiming of glad bells!
And that day the sky was blue, and the sunshine bright.
She wondered where that soul had wandered to—which of his victimshad greeted him. Had they forgiven, as she forgave? Was that otherworld untrammelled by the narrow prejudices of this? She gave a short,sobbing sigh as the carriage drove on.
'What is it? What has distressed you?' asked the voice of GeoffreyMasterman, beside her.
But she could not tell him of a vision that she saw—lying deep, deepin the cold clay of a prison grave. She could not say that only forone moment's power to lift the veil of the hereafter she would havebartered all her future.
For a moment sorrow made her heart weak; weak even amidst the joy andmirth and festivity of the happily concluded Hospital Romance.
For a moment she thought only of hell and judgment, and the terrors ofthe unknown, which that strange nature had so callously faced. He whohad once said to her, 'Love, enjoy, claim all that is best of life.Immortality is but annihilation. Death ends all.'
Had it ended all for him?
Surely, surely, the sting of Death is not to know what it ends—what itbrings.
The carriage stopped. She saw a gay, striped awning, crimson cloth,moving figures, happy faces. Here was life beginning—a thing of joy,and hope, love that was to be eternal!
And at her breast lay cold and heavysomething that spoke of life ended.
* * * * * *
'How pale you are, and how quiet, Debbie, dear,' said a soft voice inher ear. 'Come, put off that grave face. I am going to cut the cake.'
(1)
Article from The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 - 1939) 19February 1898:
"Rita's" latest novel, "The Sinner," has had three other titles beforeit settled down into its present name. It was first called "The Millsof the Gods," but the authoress found this name had been already taken.It was next called "A Man of Evil," and it ran through the countrypapers under the title of "The Confessions of a Hospital Nurse."
(2)
The Extract from Longfellow's 'Retribution' at the beginning of thisstory did not appear in the published book, but only in the newspaperseries entitled "The Grinding Mills of God."
(3)
Article from The Australasian (Melbourne, Vic. : 1864 - 1946) 27 August1898:
NEW NOVELS.
"Rita's" new story, "The Sinner" (London, Hutchinson and Co.) opensrather well, with a description of a nurse's life in a large Londonhospital, but it gradually drifts off into into a sensation novel ofthe Wilkie Collins Type, in which extracts from a diary kept by one ofthe characters and a statement by another are embodied in the narrative.
There are two nurses, Nellie Nugent and Deborah Gray, both of whom havebeen unfortunate in their love affairs, and are therefore indisposedto receive the advances of a fresh lover. The improbabilities beginwith the advent of a patient suffering from fever, who, when he isrecovering, falls in love with Nellie. A wealthy uncle of his fromColorado (those western states of America, with their rapidly madefortunes, are quite a godsend to the novelist), turns up at the rightmoment, so that Dick Barrymore, who is an author and a journalist,becomes a very eligible wooer, but Nellie will not listen to him, andfinding the hospital work too heavy for her, takes a position as nurseto Mrs. Langrishe, a doctor's wife, who is in delicate health.
The scene then shifts to Knockminoss-house, Youghal, in Ireland, theresidence of the Langrishes, where a tragedy is fast developing. Dr.Langrishe, who turns out to be the man who has jilted Deborah andembittered the rest of her life, has married for money, and is slowlypoisoning his wife in order that he may marry a beautiful widow, LadyFfolliott. Nellie sets herself to thwart this criminal design, with theassistance of Deborah, with what success we must leave the reader tofind out.
As a sensational story "The Sinner" is fairly up to the average of itsclass, but we had hoped for something better. A truthful picture of thelife of a hospital nurse would have been a welcome novelty, but "Rita"(Mrs. Humphreys) has preferred to give us a story such as a score ofliving writers can do as well or better. The best parts of the book arethe descriptions of Irish scenery, which are vivid and picturesque.
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