Читать книгу: «A Change of Air», страница 11

CHAPTER XXIII.
A Morbid Scruple

Mrs. Delane had ceased to struggle against the inevitable, and she hailed her daughter's desire to see Dale Bannister as an encouraging sign of a return to a normal state of mind. Strange as Janet's demeanor had been since that fearful evening, there could not be anything seriously wrong with her when her wishes and impulses ran in so natural a channel. Mrs. Delane received Dale with an approach to enthusiasm, and sent him up to the little boudoir where Janet was with an affectionate haste which in itself almost amounted to a recognition of his position.

"You must be gentle with her, please, Mr. Bannister," she said. "She wanted so much to see for herself that you were really alive that we could not refuse to allow her, but the Doctor is most strict in ordering that she should not be excited."

Dale promised to be careful, and went upstairs without a word about the strange note he had received; that was a matter between Janet and himself.

Janet was sitting, propped up with cushions, on a low chair, and she waved Dale to a seat near her. When, before sitting down, he came to her and kissed her, she did not repel his caress, but received it silently, again motioning him to the chair. Dale knelt down on the floor beside her.

"How pale you are, poor dear!" he said. "And why do you write me such dreadful things?"

"I wanted," she began in a low voice, "to tell you, Dale, that I did try, that I really did try, to call out. I did not forsake you without trying."

"What do you mean, darling? How have you forsaken me?"

"When he caught hold of me, there was plenty of time to call out. I might have warned you – I might have warned you. I might have done what she did. But I couldn't. I tried, but I couldn't. I was afraid. He said he would blow my head to bits. I was afraid, and I left her to save you."

"My dearest girl," he said, taking her hand, "you did the only thing. If you had cried out, he would have murdered you first and me afterward; all the chambers of the revolver were loaded. I would have died a thousand times sooner than have one of your dear hairs roughened; but, as it was, your death wouldn't have saved me."

She had looked at him for a moment as if with sudden hope, but, as he finished, she shook her head and said:

"I didn't think anything about that. I was just afraid, and I should have let you be killed."

"My sweet, who ever expected you to condemn yourself to certain death on the chance of saving me? It would be monstrous!"

"She did it," said Janet in low tones.

Dale paused for a minute.

"She was not in his clutches," he said. "He might have missed her."

"Ah, no, no!" she broke out suddenly. "You run down what she did to spare me! That's worst of all."

"Why, Jan, I don't say a word against her; but there was a difference."

"She thought of no difference. She only thought of you. I thought of my own life."

"Thank God if you did, dearest!"

"I'm glad you came. I wanted to tell you I had tried."

"I need nothing to make me love you more, my beauty and delight," he said, pressing her to him.

She looked at him with a sort of amazement, making a faint effort to push him away.

"It was so lucky," he went on, "that I didn't see you, or I should have rushed at him, and he would most likely have killed you. As it was – " He paused, for it seemed impossible to speak of poor Nellie's hurt as a happy outcome.

"Come," he resumed, "let's think no more about it. The wretched man is dead and Nellie Fane is getting better, and we – why, we, Jan, have one another."

With sudden impatience she rose, unlacing his arms from about her.

"Who is she?" she cried. "Who is she? Why should she give her life for you? I loved you, and I was afraid. She wasn't afraid."

Dale thought that he began to understand a little better. Jealousy was a feeling he had read about, and seen, and written about. If Jan were jealous, he could undertake to reassure her.

"She's a very old and good friend of mine," he said, "and it was just like her brave, unselfish way to – "

"What had you done to make her love you so?"

"My sweetest Jan, surely you can't think I – "

"Oh, no, no, no! I don't mean that. I'm not so mean as that."

Dale wondered whether this passionate disclaimer of jealousy did not come in part from self-delusion, though he saw that Janet made it in all genuineness.

"You have made her love you – oh, of course you have! Why did she follow you? why did she come between you and the shot? I loved you, too, Dale. Ah! how I loved – how I thought I loved you! But her love was greater than mine."

"Come, Jan, come; you exaggerate. You must be calm, dearest. Nellie and I are very fond of one another, but – "

"You know she loves you – you know she loves you to death."

"My darling, I don't know anything of the sort. But supposing she did – well, I am very sorry, very deeply grieved if she is unhappy; but I don't love her – or any other woman in the world but you, Jan. If she had saved my life a thousand times, it would make no difference. You, Jan, you are the breath of my life and the pulse of my blood."

He spoke with passion, for he was roused to combat this strange idea that threatened all his joy. As she stood before him, in her fairness and distress, he forgot his searchings of heart, his tenderness for Nellie, everything, except that she, and she alone, was the woman to be his, and neither another nor she herself should prevent it.

Looking at him, she read this, or some of it, in his eyes, for she shrank back from him, and, clasping her hands, moaned:

"Don't, don't! You must go to her – you belong to her. She saved you, not I. You are hers, not mine."

"Jan, this is madness! She is nothing to me; you are all the world."

"You must despise me," she said in a wondering way, "and yet you say that!"

"If I did despise you, still it would be true. But I worship you."

"I must not! I must not! You must go to her. She saved you. Leave me, Dale, and go back. You must not come again."

He burst out in wrath:

"Now, by God, I will not leave you or let you go! Mine you are, and mine you shall be!" and he seized her by the wrist. She gave a startled cry that recalled him to gentleness.

"Did I frighten you, my beauty? But it is so, and it must be. It is sweet of you to offer – to make much of what she did, and little of yourself. I love you more for it. But we have done with that now. Come to me, Jan."

"I can't! I can't! She would always be between us; I should always see her between us. O Dale, how can you leave her?"

"I have never loved her. I have never promised her," he replied sternly. "It is all a mere delusion. A man's love is not to be turned by folly like this."

She answered nothing, and sank back in her chair again.

"If it's jealousy," he went on, "it is unworthy of you, and an insult to me. And if it's not jealousy, it's mere madness."

"Can't you understand?" she murmured. "How can I take what is hers?"

"I can take what is mine, and I will. You gave yourself to me, and I will not let you go."

Still she said nothing, and he tried gentleness once more.

"Come, Jan, sweetest, you have made your offering – your sweet, Quixotic self-sacrifice – and it is not accepted! Say that's my want of moral altitude, if you like. So be it. I won't sacrifice myself."

"It's for her to take, not for you. I offer it to her, not to you."

"But I don't offer it to her. Would she care for such an offer? She may love me or not – I don't know; but if she does, she will not take my hand without my heart."

"You must love her. If you could love me, how much more must you love her?"

"You are mad!" he answered, almost roughly, "mad to say such a thing! I know you love me, and I will not listen to it. Do you hear? I shall come back and see you again, and I will not listen to this."

She heard his imperious words with no sign but a little shiver.

"There," he went on, "you are still ill. I'll come back."

"No use," she murmured. "I can't, Dale."

"But you will, and you shall!" he cried. "You shall see – "

The door opened, and the nurse came in to forbid his further lingering. With a distant good-by, he left Janet motionless and pale, and, hastening downstairs, went to the Squire's room.

"I have come," he said abruptly, "to ask your sanction to my engagement with your daughter."

The Squire laid down his book.

"I'm not much surprised," he said, smiling. "What does Jan say?"

Dale launched out into a history of the sweet things Janet had said, and of the strange, wild things she said now. The Squire heard of the latter with raised eyebrows.

"Very odd," he commented. "But it seems, my dear fellow, that, for good reasons or bad, at present she says No."

"She said Yes; she can't say No now," declared Dale. "Do you consent, Mr. Delane?"

"If she does, my dear fellow. But I can't help you in this matter."

"I want no help. She is not in her senses now. I shall make an end of this folly. I will not have it."

He went out as abruptly as he had rushed in, leaving the Squire in some perplexity.

"A man of decision," he commented; "and, altogether, a couple of rather volcanic young people. They must settle it between themselves."

CHAPTER XXIV.
The Heroine of the Incident

After Dale's visit to the Grange a few days elapsed in a quiet that was far from peaceful. Dale had gone to the Grange the next day, and the day after that: the sight of Janet had been denied to him. He was told that his visit had left her very agitated and upset, and the doctor was peremptory in forbidding any repetition of it. He had sent her a note, and she had returned a verbal message by her mother that she did not feel equal to writing. Was it possible that she meant to abide by her insane resolve to break off their engagement?

At Littlehill things were hardly more happy. Nellie was recovering, but very slowly, and she also remained invisible. Arthur Angell manifested all the symptoms of resentment and disappointed love, and only Philip Hume's usual placid cheerfulness redeemed the house from an atmosphere of intolerable depression. Philip had discovered a fund of amusement in the study of Mrs. Hodge. As soon as that good lady's first apprehensions were soothed, she was seized with an immense and exuberant pride in her daughter, which found expression both in her words and her bearing. Though ignorant of the historical precedent, she assumed the demeanor of a mother of the Gracchi, and pointed out to all who would listen to her – and Philip never thought of refusing her this kindness – small incidents and traits of character which had marked out Nellie from her very cradle as one of heroic mold and dauntless courage.

"I should be astonished, if I did not know her mother," said Philip politely.

"Ah, you must be chaffing, of course. But it's not me she takes it from. My heart goes pit-a-pat at a mouse."

"Oh, then it's Mr. Hodge."

"You couldn't," said Mrs. Hodge with emphasis, "catch Hodge at a loss. He was ready for anything. He'd have been proud to see Nellie to-day. Look what the papers are saying of her!"

"I'm sure she deserves it all."

"Aye, that she does: she deserves all Dale Bannister can do for her."

Philip scented danger in this topic, and changed the subject.

"When are we to see her?" he asked.

"In a day or two, I expect. She's much better this morning. She's asked to see the papers, and I'm going to take her the Chronicle."

"How delightful to read of one's heroic actions! I have never enjoyed the sensation."

"Nor ever will, young man, if you spend all your time loafing," said Mrs. Hodge incisively.

"Well, there must be some ordinary people," protested Philip. "The rôle is unappreciated, so it's the more creditable in me to stick to it."

"A parcel of nonsense! Where's that paper?"

She took it, went upstairs, and gave it to Nellie.

"There, read that. See what they say about you, my dearie. I'm going to see little Roberts, and I shall be back in an hour. You've got the bell by you, and the nurse'll hear you."

Nellie, left alone, began to read the Chronicle. She read the whole account from beginning to end, the article in praise of her, and, in the later edition, the editor's romantic forecast. Then she put the papers aside, exclaiming: "Oh, if it could be true!" and lay back with closed eyes.

A few days later she made her first appearance in the drawing room, where she held a little court. Her mother hung over all, anticipating far more wants than the patient was likely to feel, and by constant anxious questions almost producing the fatigue she wished to guard against. Tora Smith was there, in a state of gleeful adoration; and Arthur Angell, his sorrows temporarily laid aside, ready with a mock heroic ode; and Philip Hume, new come from Mrs. Roberts' with good news and a high eulogy on Dr. Spink's most marked and assiduous attention.

"I really believe," he said, with a laugh, "that Mrs. Roberts will have another chance of being a Denborough doctor's wife, if she likes."

"That would be an ideal ending," said Tora.

"Therefore it will not happen," Arthur remarked.

"Poets are allowed to be pessimistic," rejoined Tora. "But you're wrong, Mr. Angell. Ideal things do happen."

"To Sir Harry Fulmer, for instance," put in Philip.

"Nonsense, Mr. Hume! I wasn't thinking of that. Don't you agree with me, Nellie?"

"Nellie has made an ideal thing happen," said Philip, and Nellie blushed.

"Thanks, Phil," said Dale. "It's complimentary to describe the prolongation of my poor existence in that way."

"The deed is good, however unworthy the object, Dale."

Dale took Nellie's hand and patted it gently.

"Good child," he said, and Nellie flushed again with an almost strange intensity of embarrassment. Tora rose abruptly, and, in spite of opposition, insisted on departure. Dale escorted her to her carriage.

"I have asked Nellie to come and stay with me," said she, "as soon as she is well enough to move."

"She will like that. I hope she is going?"

"She said," Tora went on, speaking with emphasis, "that she would ask you."

Dale made a little gesture of protest, partly against Nellie's reported saying, more against the reporter's inquiring gaze. He began to be astonished at the interest he was so unfortunate as to inspire in his affairs.

"I shall advise her to go," he said. "I think a change will be good for her."

"I incline to think so too," said Tora with sudden coldness; "but I thought you might not like to part with her."

"Mount Pleasant is not inaccessible," responded Dale with equal coldness. Returning to the house, he found Nellie gone, the company dispersed, and Mrs. Hodge in his smoking room, apparently expecting him.

"Well, mother," he said, – he had used to call her "mother" when he was always running in and out of her house in London, – "Nellie looks quite blooming."

"She's mending nicely."

"I hear she's to go to the Smiths'."

"Well, I thought of taking her to Brighton."

"Oh, it will be more amusing at the Smiths'; unless, of course, she needs the sea."

"She thought, or I thought rather, that you might like to come with us for a while?" said Mrs. Hodge in a tentative tone.

"I can't get away," answered Dale decisively. Nothing would have taken him away from the Grange gates.

Mrs. Hodge took her courage in both hands.

"Look here, Dale," she said. "You know I'm not one of those women that lay hold of a man if he as much as looks at a girl, and asks him what he means by it. That's not my way. Hodge used to say girls could take care of themselves mostly – p'r'aps he wasn't far out. But Nellie's not that sort, and her father's gone, good man, and – " and the excellent lady came to a full stop.

Dale loved this honest old woman for long acquaintance' sake and much kindness. He laid his hand on her shoulder and said:

"It's a sad world, mother."

"The child's fond of you, Dale. She's shown that."

"I'm a crossed lover too, mother. We can only weep together."

"What, you mean that Grange girl?" asked Mrs. Hodge, her love for her own making her tone tart.

"Yes, that Grange girl," answered Dale, with a rueful smile. "And just at present that Grange girl won't have anything to say to me."

Mrs. Hodge pressed his hand and whispered:

"Don't you tell Nellie what I say, but let her go, dearie, and take my girl. She's sick for you, Dale, though she'd kill me if she heard me say it."

"Aye, but I'm sick for the Grange girl, mother."

"You don't take it ill of me, Dale? But there! a kind word from you is more than the doctors to her. She'd say nothing of what she's done, and I say nothing, but she's a good girl, and a pretty girl."

"That she is, and she deserves a better man than I am."

"Well, there it is! Talking mends no holes," said Mrs. Hodge, with a heavy sigh. Then she added, in an outburst of impatience:

"Why did you ever come to this miserable little place?"

Dale raised inquiring hands to heaven and shrugged his shoulders.

"What they call fate, mother," said he. "Come, cheer up. She'll get over this little idea. She'll be all right."

"Please God," said Mrs. Hodge. "It's time for her beef-tea."

The phrase Please God is as a rule expressive of the speaker's desire, but not of his expectation. So it was with Mrs. Hodge, but Dale could not bring himself to take so gloomy a view. A man's own passion assumes a most imposing appearance of permanence, but he finds it easy to look with incredulity on a like assumption in the feelings of others. He had keen sympathy for Nellie in the moment or the period of pain which seemed to lie before her, but experience told him that all probabilities were in favor of her escaping from it at no distant time. Love like his for Janet – and, till this unhappy day, he would have added, Janet's for him – was exceptional; change, recovery, oblivion – these were the rule, the happy rule whose operation smoothed love's rough ways.

Nevertheless, be this wide philosophical view as just as it might, the present position came nigh to being intolerable, and it was hard to blame him if he looked forward to Nellie's departure with relief. Her presence accused him of cruelty, for it seems cruel to refuse what would give happiness, and it increased every day it continued the misunderstanding which already existed as to their future relations. Even now, in spite of Janet's protest, Dale was convinced he had detected an undercurrent of jealousy, flowing in to re-enforce the stream of that higher, but stranger and wilder, feeling which had made her drive him away. If she heard that Nellie remained at his house, and what conclusion was universally drawn from the fact, he was afraid that, when restored health carried away the morbid idea which was now most prominent, the jealousy might remain, and, if it did, Janet's proud nature was ground on which it would bear fruit bitter for him to taste.

He could not and did not for a moment blame Mrs. Hodge for her action. It was the natural outcome of her love, and she had performed her difficult task, as it seemed to him, with a perfect observance of all the essential marks of good breeding, however homely her method had been. But she could not understand even his love for Janet, much less another feeling in him, which aided to make her intercession vain. For he did not deny now that, besides the joy he had in Janet as a woman merely, there was also the satisfaction he derived from the fact that she was Miss Delane of Dirkham Grange. Fools and would-be cynics might dismiss this as snobbery; but Dale told himself that he was right and wise in clinging to the place in this new world which his sojourn at Denborough had opened to him, and which a marriage with Janet would secure for him in perpetuity. Setting aside altogether questions of sentiment, he felt it useless not to recognize that, if he married Nellie Fane, he would drift back into his old world, the gates would close again, and the fresh realms of life and experience, which had delighted his taste and stimulated his genius, would be his to wander in no more. He had grown to love this world, this old world so new to him; and he loved Janet not least because all about her, her face, her speech, her motions, her every air, were redolent to him of its assured distinction and unboastful pride. Nay, even these fantastic scruples of hers were but a distortion of a noble instinct born in her blood, and witnessed to a nature and qualities that he could look for only in the shade of some such place as Dirkham Grange. He felt as if he too belonged to her race, and had been all his life an exile from his native land, whither at last a happy chance had led back his wandering feet. What would dear old Mother Hodge understand of all that? What even would Nellie herself, for all her ready sympathies? It was a feeling that, not vulgar in itself, seemed to become vulgar in the telling; and, after all, he had no need of other justification than his love and his pledged word.

He looked out of the window and saw Arthur Angell walking moodily up and down. Putting on his hat, he joined him, passing his arm through his. Arthur turned to him with a petulant look.

"A lot of miserables we are, old boy," said Dale, pressing the arm he held. "I am often tempted to regret, Arthur, that the state has not charged itself with the control of marriages. It would relieve us all of a large amount of trouble, and I really don't see that it would hurt anyone except novelists. I am feeling badly in need of a benevolent despotism."

"I'm going back to town," Arthur announced abruptly.

"I'm very sorry. But I don't know that it's any use asking you to stay. Nellie goes to the Smiths' in a day or two – "

"It makes no difference to me where she goes," interrupted the unhappy young man. "I – I mean – "

"I know what you mean."

Philip came up, and glanced keenly at Arthur. Then he smiled good-humoredly and said:

"Shall I prophesy unto you?"

"No," said Arthur. "I know you're going to say it'll be all the same six months hence."

"I was. I can't deny it, Arthur. You forget that I have seen you like this many times before. We may have a tragedy or we may not, Arthur, but I shall take leave to eliminate you from the cast."

"I'm going to pack," said Arthur angrily, and he went into the house.

"When there are real troubles about," said Philip, "it is well to clear the ground. There's not much the matter with him."

"I think he feels it rather, you know."

"Oh, yes; it's worth a set of verses."

"I'm glad to hear it's no worse; for, to tell you the truth, Phil, there's enough to worry about without Arthur. I'm glad our party is breaking up."

"Why?"

"We know too much about one another to live together comfortably."

"True. Shall I go?"

"No," said Dale, with a smile; "you may stay and keep watch over the razors."