He was admitted, but not to atete-a-tete.Polly was kept in theroom. The Somerset had peeped, and Oldfield was an old fellow, withwhite hair; if he had been a young fellow, with black hair, she mighthave thought that precaution less necessary.“First, madam,” said Oldfield, “I must beg you to accept my apologiesfor not coming sooner. Press of business, etc.”
“Why have you come at all? That is the question,” inquired the lady, bluntly.
“I bring the draft of a deed for your approval. Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes; if it is not very long.” He began to read it. The lady interrupted him characteristically.
“It's a beastly rigmarole. What does it mean—in three words?”
“Sir Charles Bassett secures to Rhoda Somerset four hundred pounds a year, while single; this is reduced to two hundred if you marry. The deed further assigns to you, without reserve, the beneficial lease of this house, and all the furniture and effects, plate, linen, wine, etc.”
“I see—a bribe.”
“Nothing of the kind, madam. When Sir Charles instructed me to prepare this deed he expected no opposition on your part to his marriage; but he thought it due to him and to yourself to mark his esteem for you, and his recollection of the pleasant hours he has spent in your company.”
Miss Somerset's eyes searched the lawyer's face. He stood the battery unflinchingly. She altered her tone, and asked, politely and almost respectfully, whether she might see that paper.
Mr. Oldfield gave it her. She took it, and ran her eye over it; in doing which, she raised it so that she could think behind it unobserved. She handed it back at last, with the remark that Sir Charles was a gentleman and had done the right thing.
“He has; and you will do the right thing too, will you not?”
“I don't know. I am just beginning to fall in love with him myself.”
“Jealousy, madam, not love,” said the old lawyer. “Come, now! I see you are a young lady of rare good sense; look the thing in the face: Sir Charles is a landed gentleman; he must marry, and, have heirs. He is over thirty, and his time has come. He has shown himself your friend; why not be his? He has given you the means to marry a gentleman of moderate income, or to marry beneath you, if you prefer it—”
“And most of us do—”
“Then why not make his path smooth? Why distress him with your tears and remonstrances?”
He continued in this strain for some time, appealing to her good sense and her better feelings.
When he had done she said, very quietly, “How about the ponies and my brown mare? Are they down in the deed?”
“I think not; but if you will do your part handsomely I'll guarantee you shall have them.”
“You are a good soul.” Then, after a pause, “Now just you tell me exactly what you want me to do for all this.”
Oldfield was pleased with this question. He said, “I wish you to abstain from writing to Sir Charles, and him to visit you only once more before his marriage, just to shake hands and part, with mutual friendship and good wishes.”
“You are right,” said she, softly; “best for us both, and only fair to the girl.” Then, with sudden and eager curiosity, “Is she very pretty?”
“I don't know.”
“What, hasn't he told you?”
“He says she is lovely, and every way adorable; but then he is in love. The chances are she is not half so handsome as yourself.”
“And yet he is in love with her?”
“Over head and ears.”
“I don't believe it. If he was really in love with one woman he couldn't be just to another.Icouldn't. He'll be coming back to me in a few months.”
“God forbid!”
“Thank you, old gentleman.”
Mr. Oldfield began to stammer excuses. She interrupted him: “Oh, bother all that; I like you none the worse for speaking your mind.” Then, after a pause, “Now excuse me; but suppose Sir Charles should change his mind, and never sign this paper?”
“I pledge my professional credit.”
“That is enough, sir; I see I can trust you. Well, then, I consent to break off with Sir Charles, and only see him once more—as a friend. Poor Sir Charles! I hope he will be happy” (she squeezed out a tear for him)—“happier than I am. And when he does come he can sign the deed, you know.”
Mr. Oldfield left her, and joined Sir Charles at Long's, as had been previously agreed.
“It is all right, Sir Charles; she is a sensible girl, and will give you no further trouble.”
“How did you get over the hysterics?”
“We dispensed with them. She saw at once it was to be business, not sentiment. You are to pay her one more visit, to sign, and part friends. If you please, I'll make that appointment with both parties, as soon as the deed is engrossed. Oh, by-the-by, she did shed a tear or two, but she dried them to ask me for the ponies and the brown mare.”
Sir Charles's vanity was mortified. But he laughed it off, and said she should have them, of course.
So now his mind was at ease, his conscience was at rest, and he could give his whole time where he had given his heart.
Richard Bassett learned, through his servant, that the wedding-dresses were ordered. He called on Miss Somerset. She was out.
Polly opened the door and gave him a look of admiration—due to his fresh color—that encouraged him to try and enlist her in his service.
He questioned her, and she told him in a general way how matters were going. “But,” said she, “why not come and talk to her yourself? Ten to one but she tells you. She is pretty outspoken.”
“My pretty dear,” said Richard, “she never will receive me.”
“Oh, but I'll make her!” said Polly.
And she did exert her influence as follows:
“Lookee here, the cousin's a-coming to-morrow and I've been and promised he should see you.”
“What did you do that for?”
“Why, he's a well-looking chap, and a beautiful color, fresh from the country, like me. And he's a gentleman, and got an estate belike; and why not put yourn to hisn, and so marry him and be a lady? You might have me about ye all the same, till my turn comes.”
“No, no,” said Rhoda; “that's not the man for me. If ever I marry, it must be one of my own sort, or else a fool, like Marsh, that I can make a slave of.”
“Well, any way, you must see him, not to make a fool ofme,for I did promise him; which, now I think on't, 'twas very good of me, for I could find in my heart to ask him down into the kitchen, instead of bringing him upstairs to you.”
All this ended, somehow, in Mr. Bassett's being admitted.
To his anxious inquiry how matters stood, she replied coolly that Sir Charles and herself were parted by mutual consent.
“What! after all your protestations?” said Bassett, bitterly.
But Miss Somerset was not in an irascible humor just then. She shrugged her shoulders, and said:
“Yes, I remember I put myself in a passion, and said some ridiculous things. But one can't be always a fool. I have come to my senses. This sort of thing always does end, you know. Most of them part enemies, but he and I part friends and well-wishers.”
“And you throwmeover as if I was nobody,” said Richard, white with anger.
“Why, what are you to me?” said the Somerset. “Oh, I see. You thought to make a cat's-paw of me. Well, you won't, then.”
“In other words, you have been bought off.”
“No, I have not. I am not to be bought by anybody—and I am not to be insulted by you, you ruffian! How dare you come here and affront a lady in her own house—a lady whose shoestrings your betters are ready to tie, you brute? If you want to be a landed proprietor, go and marry some ugly old hag that's got it, and no eyesight left to see you're no gentleman. Sir Charles's land you'll never have; a better man has got it, and means to keep it for him and his. Here, Polly! Polly! Polly! take this man down to the kitchen, and teach him manners if you can: he is not fit for my drawing-room, by a long chalk.”
Polly arrived in time to see the flashing eyes, the swelling veins, and to hear the fair orator's peroration.
“What, you are in your tantrums again!” said she. “Come along, sir. Needs must when the devil drives. You'll break a blood-vessel some day, my lady, like your father afore ye.”
And with this homely suggestion, which always sobered Miss Somerset, and, indeed, frightened her out of her wits, she withdrew the offender. She did not take him into the kitchen, but into the dining-room, and there he had a long talk with her, and gave her a sovereign.
She promised to inform him if anything important should occur.
He went away, pondering and scowling deeply.
SIR CHARLES BASSETT was now living in Elysium. Never was rake more thoroughly transformed. Every day he sat for hours at the feet of Bella Bruce, admiring her soft, feminine ways and virgin modesty even more than her beauty. And her visible blush whenever he appeared suddenly, and the soft commotion and yielding in her lovely frame whenever he drew near, betrayed his magnetic influence, and told all but the blind she adored him.
She would decline all invitations to dine with him and her father—a strong-minded old admiral, whose authority was unbounded, only, to Bella's regret, very rarely exerted. Nothing would have pleased her more than to be forbidden this and commanded that; but no! the admiral was a lion with an enormous paw, only he could not be got to put it into every pie.
In this charming society the hours glided, and the wedding-day drew close. So deeply and sincerely was Sir Charles in love that when Mr. Oldfield's letter came, appointing the day and hour to sign Miss Somerset's deed, he was unwilling to go, and wrote back to ask if the deed could not be sent to his house.
Mr. Oldfield replied that the parties to the deed and the witnesses must meet, and it would be unadvisable, for several reasons, to irritate the lady's susceptibility previous to signature; the appointment having been made at her house, it had better remain so.
That day soon came.
Sir Charles, being due in Mayfair at 2 P.M., compensated himself for the less agreeable business to come by going earlier than usual to Portman Square. By this means he caught Miss Bruce and two other young ladies inspecting bridal dresses. Bella blushed and looked ashamed, and, to the surprise of her friends, sent the dresses away, and set herself to talk rationally with Sir Charles—as rationally as lovers can.
The ladies took the cue, and retired in disgust.
Sir Charles apologized.
“This is too bad of me. I come at an unheard-of hour, and frighten away your fair friends; but the fact is, I have an appointment at two, and I don't know how long they will keep me, so I thought I would make sure of two happy hours at the least.”
And delightful hours they were. Bella Bruce, excited by this little surprise, leaned softly on his shoulder, and prattled her maiden love like some warbling fountain.
Sir Charles, transfigured by love, answered her in kind—three months ago he could not—and they compared pretty little plans of wedded life, and had small differences, and ended by agreeing.
Complete and prompt accord upon two points: first, they would not have a single quarrel, like other people; their love should never lose its delicate bloom; second, they would grow old together, and die the same day—the same minute if possible; if not, they must be content with the same day, but, on that, inexorable.
But soon after this came a skirmish. Each wanted to obey t'other.
Sir Charles argued that Bella was better than he, and therefore more fit to conduct the pair.
Bella, who thought him divinely good, pounced on this reason furiously. He defended it. He admitted, with exemplary candor, that he was good now—“awfully good.” But he assured her that he had been anything but good until he knew her; now she had been always good; therefore, he argued, as his goodness came originally from her, for her to obey him would be a little too much like the moon commanding the sun.
“That is too ingenious for me, Charles,” said Bella. “And, for shame! Nobody was ever so good as you are. I look up to you and—Now I could stop your mouth in a minute. I have only to remind you that I shall swear at the altar to obey you, and you will not swear to obey me. But I will not crush you under the Prayer-book—no, dearest; but, indeed, to obey is a want of my nature, and I marry you to supply that want: and that's a story, for I marry you because I love and honor and worship and adore you to distraction, my own—own—own!” With this she flung herself passionately, yet modestly on his shoulder, and, being there, murmured, coaxingly, “You will let me obey you, Charles?”
Thereupon Sir Charles felt highly gelatinous, and lost, for the moment, all power of resistance or argument.
“Ah, you will; and then you will remind me of my dear mother. She knew how to command; but as for poor dear papa, he is very disappointing. In selecting an admiral for my parent, I made sure of being ordered about. Instead of that—now I'll show you—there he is in the next room, inventing a new system of signals, poor dear—”
She threw the folding-doors open.
“Papa dear, shall I ask Charles to dinner to-day?”
“As you please, my dear.”
“Do you think I had better walk or ride this afternoon?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“There,” said Bella, “I told you so. That is always the way. Papa dear, you used always to be firing guns at sea. Do, please, fire one in this house—just one—before I leave it, and make the very windows rattle.”
“I beg your pardon, Bella; I never wasted powder at sea. If the convoy sailed well and steered right I never barked at them. You are a modest, sensible girl, and have always steered a good course. Why should I hoist a petticoat and play the small tyrant? Wait till I see you going to do something wrong or silly.”
“Ah! then youwouldfire a gun, papa?”
“Ay, a broadside.”
“Well, that is something,” said Bella, as she closed the door softly.
“No, no; it amounts to just nothing,” said Sir Charles; “for you never will do anything wrong or silly. I'll accommodate you. I have thought of a way. I shall give you some blank cards; you shall write on them, 'I think I should like to do so and so.' You shall be careless, and leave them about; I'll find them, and bluster, and say, 'I command you to do so and so, Bella Bassett'—the very thing on the card, you know.”
Bella colored to the brow with pleasure and modesty. After a pause she said: “How sweet! The worst of it is, I should get my own way. Now what I want is to submit my will to yours. A gentle tyrant—that is what you must be to Bella Bassett. Oh, you sweet, sweet, for calling me that!”
These projects were interrupted by a servant announcing luncheon. This made Sir Charles look hastily at his watch, and he found it was past two o'clock.
“How time flies in this house!” said he. “I must go, dearest; I am behind my appointment already. What do you do this afternoon?”
“Whatever you please, my own.”
“I could get away by four.”
“Then I will stay at home for you.”
He left her reluctantly, and she followed him to the head of the stairs, and hung over the balusters as if she would like to fly after him.
He turned at the street-door, saw that radiant and gentle face beaming after him, and they kissed hands to each other by one impulse, as if they were parting for ever so long.
He had gone scarcely half an hour when a letter, addressed to her, was left at the door by a private messenger.
“Any answer?” inquired the servant.
“No.”
The letter was sent up, and delivered to her on a silver salver.
She opened it; it was a thing new to her in her young life—an anonymous letter.
“MISS BRUCE—I am almost a stranger to you, but I know your character from others, and cannot bear to see you abused. You are said to be about to marry Sir Charles Bassett. I think you can hardly be aware that he is connected with a lady of doubtful repute, called Somerset, and neither your beauty nor your virtue has prevailed to detach him from that connection.
“If, on engaging himself to you, he had abandoned her, I should not have said a word. But the truth is, he visits her constantly, and I blush to say that when he leaves you this day it will be to spend the afternoon at her house.
“I inclose you her address, and you can learn in ten minutes whether I am a slanderer or, what I wish to be,
“A FRIEND OF INJURED INNOCENCE.”
SIR CHARLES was behind his time in Mayfair; but the lawyer and his clerk had not arrived, and Miss Somerset was not visible.
She appeared, however, at last, in a superb silk dress, the broad luster of which would have been beautiful, only the effect was broken and frittered away by six rows of gimp and fringe. But why blame her? This is a blunder in art as universal as it is amazing, when one considers the amount of apparent thought her sex devotes to dress. They might just as well score a fair plot of velvet turf with rows of box, or tattoo a blooming and downy cheek.
She held out her hand, like a man, and talked to Sir Charles on indifferent topics, till Mr. Oldfield arrived. She then retired into the background, and left the gentlemen to discuss the deed. When appealed to, she evaded direct replies, and put on languid and imperial indifference. When she signed, it was with the air of some princess bestowing a favor upon solicitation.
But the business concluded, she thawed all in a moment, and invited the gentlemen to luncheon with charming cordiality. Indeed, her genuinebonhomieafter her affected indifference was rather comic. Everybody was content. Champagne flowed. The lady, with her good mother-wit, kept conversation going till the lawyer was nearly missing his next appointment. He hurried away; and Sir Charles only lingered, out of good-breeding, to bid Miss Somerset good-by. In the course of leave-taking he said he was sorry he left her with people about her of whom he had a bad opinion. “Those women have no more feeling for you than stones. When you lay in convulsions, your housekeeper looked on as philosophically as if you had been two kittens at play—you and Polly.”
“I saw her.”
“Indeed! You appeared hardly in a condition to see anything.”
“I did, though, and heard the old wretch tell the young monkey to water my lilac dress. That was to get it for her Polly. She knew I'd never wear it afterward.”
“Then why don't you turn her off?”
“Who'd take such a useless old hag, if I turned her off?”
“You carry a charity a long way.”
“I carry everything. What's the use doing things by halves, good or bad?”
“Well, but that Polly! She is young enough to get her living elsewhere; and she is extremely disrespectful to you.”
“That she is. If I wasn't a lady, I'd have given her a good hiding this very day for her cheek!”
“Then why not turn her off this very day for her cheek?”
“Well, I'll tell you, since you and I are parted forever. No, I don't like.”
“Oh, come! No secrets between friends.”
“Well, then, the old hag is—my mother.”
“What?”
“And the young jade—is my sister.”
“Good Heavens!”
“And the page—is my little brother.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“What, you are not angry?”
“Angry? no. Ha, ha, ha!”
“See what a hornets' nest you have escaped from. My dear friend, those two women rob me through thick and thin. They steal my handkerchiefs, and my gloves, and my very linen. They drink my wine like fishes. They'd take the hair off my head, if it wasn't fast by the roots—for a wonder.”
“Why not give them a ten-pound note and send them home?”
“They'd pocket the note, and blacken me in our village. That was why I had them up here. First time I went home, after running about with that little scamp, Vandeleur—do you know him?”
“I have not the honor.”
“Then your luck beats mine. One thing, he is going to the dogs as fast as he can. Some day he'll come begging to me for a fiver. You mark my words now.”
“Well, but you were saying—”
“Yes, I went off about Van. PollysaysI've a mind like running water. Well, then, when I went home the first time—after Van, mother and Polly raised a virtuous howl. 'All right,' said I—for, of course, I know how much virtue there is undertheirskins. Virtue of the lower orders! Tell that to gentlefolks that don't know them. I do. I've been one of 'em—'I know all about that,' says I. 'You want to share the plunder, that is the sense of your virtuous cry.' So I had 'em up here; and then there was no more virtuous howling, but a deal of virtuous thieving, and modest drinking, and pure-minded selling of my street-door to the highest male bidder. And they will corrupt the boy; and if they do, I'll cuts their black hearts out with my riding-whip. But I suppose I must keep them on; they are my own flesh and blood; and if I was to be ill and dying, they'd do all they knew to keep me alive—for their own sakes. I'm their milch cow, these country innocents.”
Sir Charles groaned aloud, and said, “My poor girl, you deserve a better fate than this. Marry some honest fellow, and cut the whole thing.”
“I'll see about it. You try it first, and let us see how you like it.”
And so they parted gayly.
In the hall, Polly intercepted him, all smiles. He looked at her, smiled in his sleeve, and gave her a handsome present. “If you please, sir,” said she, “an old gentleman called for you.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago. Leastways, he asked if Sir Charles Bassett was there. I said yes, but you wouldn't see no one.”
“Who could it be? Why, surely you never told anybody I was to be here to-day?”
“La, no, sir! how could I?” said Polly, with a face of brass.
Sir Charles thought this very odd, and felt a little uneasy about it. All to Portman Square he puzzled over it; and at last he was driven to the conclusion that Miss Somerset had been weak enough to tell some person, male or female, of the coming interview, and so somebody had called there—doubtless to ask him a favor.
At five o'clock he reached Portman Square, and was about to enter, as a matter of course; but the footman stopped him. “I beg pardon, Sir Charles,” said the man, looking pale and agitated; “but I have strict orders. My young lady is very ill.”
“Ill! Let me go to her this instant.”
“I daren't, Sir Charles, I daren't. I know you are a gentleman; pray don't lose me my place. You would never get to see her. We none of us know the rights, but there's something up. Sorry to say it, Sir Charles, but we have strict orders not to admit you. Haven't you the admiral's letter, sir?”
“No; what letter?”
“He has been after you, sir; and when he came back he sent Roger off to your house with a letter.”
A cold chill began to run down Sir Charles Bassett. He hailed a passing hansom, and drove to his own house to get the admiral's letter; and as he went he asked himself, with chill misgivings, what on earth had happened.
What had happened shall be told the reader precisely but briefly..
In the first place, Bella had opened the anonymous letter and read its contents, to which the reader is referred.
There are people who pretend to despise anonymous letters. Pure delusion! they know they ought to, and so fancy they do; but they don't. The absence of a signature gives weight, if the letter is ably written and seems true.
As for poor Bella Bruce, a dove's bosom is no more fit to rebuff a poisoned arrow than she was to combat that foulest and direst of all a miscreant's weapons, an anonymous letter. She, in her goodness and innocence, never dreamed that any person she did not know could possibly tell a lie to wound her. The letter fell on her like a cruel revelation from heaven.
The blow was so savage that, at first, it stunned her.
She sat pale and stupefied; but beneath the stupor were the rising throbs of coming agonies.
After that horrible stupor her anguish grew and grew, till it found vent in a miserable cry, rising, and rising, and rising, in agony.
“Mamma! mamma! mamma!”
Yes; her mother had been dead these three years, and her father sat in the next room; yet, in her anguish, she cried to her mother—a cry the which, if your mother had heard, she would have expected Bella's to come to her even from the grave.
Admiral Bruce heard this fearful cry—the living calling on the dead—and burst through the folding-doors in a moment, white as a ghost.
He found his daughter writhing on the sofa, ghastly, and grinding in her hand the cursed paper that had poisoned her young life.
“My child! my child!”
“Oh, papa! see! see!” And she tried to open the letter for him, but her hands trembled so she could not.
He kneeled down by her side, the stout old warrior, and read the letter, while she clung to him, moaning now, and quivering all over from head to foot.
“Why, there's no signature! The writer is a coward and, perhaps, a liar. Stop! he offers a test. I'll put him to it this minute.”
He laid the moaning girl on the sofa, ordered his servants to admit nobody into the house, and drove at once to Mayfair.
He called at Miss Somerset's house, saw Polly, and questioned her.
He drove home again, and came into the drawing-room looking as he had been seen to look when fighting his ship; but his daughter had never seen him so. “My girl,” said he, solemnly, “there's nothing for you to do but to be brave, and hide your grief as well as you can, for the man is unworthy of your love. That coward spoke the truth. He is there at this moment.”
“Oh, papa! papa! let me die! The world is too wicked for me. Let me die!”
“Die for an unworthy object? For shame! Go to your own room, my girl, and pray to your God to help you, since your mother has left us. Oh, how I miss her now! Go and pray, and let no one else know what we suffer. Be your father's daughter. Fight and pray.”
Poor Bella had no longer to complain that she was not commanded. She kissed him, and burst into a great passion of weeping; but he led her to the door, and she tottered to her own room, a blighted girl.
The sight of her was harrowing. Under its influence the admiral dashed off a letter to Sir Charles, calling him a villain, and inviting him to go to France and let an indignant father write scoundrel on his carcass.
But when he had written this his good sense and dignity prevailed over his fury; he burned the letter, and wrote another. This he sent by hand to Sir Charles's house, and ordered his servants—but that the reader knows.
Sir Charles found the admiral's letter in his letter-rack. It ran thus:
“SIR—We have learned your connection with a lady named Somerset, and I have ascertained that you went from my daughter to her house this very day.
“Miss Bruce and myself withdraw from all connection with you, and I must request you to attempt no communication with her of any kind. Such an attempt would be an additional insult.
“I am, sir, your obedient servant,
“JOHN URQUHART BRUCE.”
At first Sir Charles Bassett was stunned by this blow. Then his mind resisted the admiral's severity, and he was indignant at being dismissed for so common an offense. This gave way to deep grief and shame at the thought of Bella and her lost esteem. But soon all other feelings merged for a time in fury at the heartless traitor who had destroyed his happiness, and had dashed the cup of innocent love from his very lips. Boiling over with mortification and rage, he drove at once to that traitor's house. Polly opened the door. He rushed past her, and burst into the dining-room, breathless, and white with passion.
He found Miss Somerset studying the deed by which he had made her independent for life. She started at his strange appearance, and instinctively put both hands flat upon the deed.
“You vile wretch!” cried Sir Charles. “You heartless monster! Enjoy your work.” And he flung her the admiral's letter. But he did not wait while she read it; he heaped reproaches on her; and, for the first time in her life, she did not reply in kind.
“Are you mad?” she faltered. “What have I done?”
“You have told Admiral Bruce.”
“That's false.”
“You told him I was to be here to-day.”
“Charles, I never did. Believe me.”
“You did. Nobody knew it but you. He was here to-day at the very hour.”
“May I never get up alive off this chair if I told a soul. Yes, our Polly. I'll ring for her.”
“No, you will not. She is your sister. Do you think I'll take the word of such reptiles against the plain fact? You have parted my love and me—parted us on the very day I had made you independent for life. An innocent love was waiting to bless me, and an honest love was in your power, thanks to me, your kind, forgiving friend and benefactor. I have heaped kindness on you from the first moment I had the misfortune to know you. I connived at your infidelities—”
“Charles! Don't say that. I neverwas.”
“I indulged your most expensive whims, and, instead of leaving you with a curse, as all the rest did that ever knew you, and as you deserve, I bought your consent to lead a respectable life, and be blessed with a virtuous love. You took the bribe, but robbed me of the blessing—viper! You have destroyed me, body and soul—monster! perhaps blighted her happiness as well; you she-devils hate an angel worse than Heaven hates you. But you shall suffer with us; not your heart, for you have none, but your pocket. You have broken faith with me, and sent all my happiness to hell; I'll send your deed to hell after it!” With this, he flung himself upon the deed, and was going to throw it into the fire. Now up to that moment she had been overpowered by this man's fury, whom she had never seen the least angry before; but when he laid hands on her property it acted like an electric shock. “No! no!” she screamed, and sprang at him like a wildcat.
Then ensued a violent and unseemly struggle all about the room; chairs were upset, and vases broken to pieces; and the man and woman dragged each other to and fro, one fighting for her property, as if it was her life, and the other for revenge.
Sir Charles, excited by fury, was stronger than himself, and at last shook off one of her hands for a moment, and threw the deed into the fire. She tried to break from him and save it, but he held her like iron.
Yet not for long. While he was holding her back, and she straining every nerve to get to the fire, he began to show sudden symptoms of distress. He gasped loudly, and cried, “Oh! oh! I'm choking!” and then his clutch relaxed. She tore herself from it, and, plunging forward, rescued the smoking parchment.
At that moment she heard a great stagger behind her, and a pitiful moan, and Sir Charles fell heavily, striking his head against the edge of the sofa. She looked round—as she knelt, and saw him, black in the face, rolling his eyeballs fearfully, while his teeth gnashed awfully, and a little jet of foam flew through his lips.
Then she shrieked with terror, and the blackened deed fell from her hands. At this moment Polly rushed into the room. She saw the fearful sight, and echoed her sister's scream. But they were neither of them women to lose their heads and beat the air with their hands. They got to him, and both of them fought hard with the unconscious sufferer, whose body, in a fresh convulsion, now bounded away from the sofa, and bade fair to batter itself against the ground.
They did all they could to hold him with one arm apiece, and to release his swelling throat with the other. Their nimble fingers whipped off his neck-tie in a moment; but the distended windpipe pressed so against the shirt-button they could not undo it. Then they seized the collar, and, pulling against each other, wrenched the shirt open so powerfully that the button flew into the air, and tinkled against a mirror a long way off.
A few more struggles, somewhat less violent, and then the face, from purple, began to whiten, the eyeballs fixed; the pulse went down; the man lay still.
“Oh, my God!” cried Rhoda Somerset. “He is dying! To the nearest doctor! There's one three doors off. No bonnet! It's life and death this moment. Fly!”
Polly obeyed, and Doctor Andrews was actually in the room within five minutes.
He looked grave, and kneeled down by the patient, and felt his pulse anxiously.
Miss Somerset sat down, and, being from the country, though she did not look it, began to weep bitterly, and rock herself in rustic fashion.
The doctor questioned her kindly, and she told him, between her sobs, how Sir Charles had been taken.
The doctor, however, instead of being alarmed by those frightful symptoms she related, took a more cheerful view directly. “Then do not alarm yourself unnecessarily,” he said. “It was only an epileptic fit.”
“Only!” sobbed Miss Somerset. “Oh, if you had seen him! And he lies like death.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Andrews; “a severe epileptic fit is really a terrible thing to look at; but it is not dangerous in proportion. Is he used to have them?”
“Oh, no, doctor—never had one before.”
Here she was mistaken, I think.
“You must keep him quiet; and give him a moderate stimulant as soon as he can swallow comfortably; the quietest room in the house; and don't let him be hungry, night or day. Have food by his bedside, and watch him for a day or two. I'll come again this evening.”
The doctor went to his dinner—tranquil.
Not so those he left. Miss Somerset resigned her own luxurious bedroom, and had the patient laid, just as he was, upon her bed. She sent the page out to her groom and ordered two loads of straw to be laid before the door; and she watched by the sufferer, with brandy and water by her side.
Sir Charles now might have seemed to be in a peaceful slumber, but for his eyes. They were open, and showed more white, and less pupil, than usual.
However, in time he began to sigh and move, and even mutter; and, gradually, some little color came back to his pale cheeks.
Then Miss Somerset had the good sense to draw back out of his sight, and order Polly to take her place by his side. Polly did so, and, some time afterward, at a fresh order, put a teaspoonful of brandy to his lips, which were still pale and even bluish.
The doctor returned, and brought his assistant. They put the patient to bed.
“His life is in no danger,” said he. “I wish I was as sure about his reason.”
At one o'clock in the morning, as Polly was snoring by the patient's bedside, a hand was laid on her shoulder. It was Rhoda.
“Go to bed, Polly: you are no use here.”
“You'd be sleepy if you worked as hard as I do.”
“Very likely,” said Rhoda, with a gentleness that struck Polly as very singular. “Good-night.”
Rhoda spent the night watching, and thinking harder than she had ever thought before.
Next morning, early, Polly came into the sick-room. There sat her sister watching the patient, out of sight.
“La, Rhoda! Have you sat there all night?”
“Yes. Don't speak so loud. Come here. You've set your heart on this lilac silk. I'll give it to you for your black merino.”
“Not you, my lady; you are not so fond of mereeny, nor of me neither.”
“I'm not a liar like you,” said the other, becoming herself for a moment, “and what I say I'll do. You put out your merino for me in the dressing-room.”
“All right,” said Polly, joyfully.
“And bring me two buckets of water instead of one. I have never closed my eyes.”
“Poor soul! and now you be going to sluice yourself all the same. Whatever you can see in cold water, to run after it so, I can't think. If I was to flood myself like you, it would soon float me to my long home.”
“How do you know?You never gave it a trial.Come, no more chat. Give me my bath: and then you may wash yourself in a tea-cup if you like—only don't wash my spoons in the same water, formercy's sake!”
Thus affectionately stimulated in her duties, Polly brought cold water galore, and laid out her new merino dress. In this sober suit, with plain linen collar and cuffs, the Somerset dressed herself, and resumed her watching by the bedside. She kept more than ever out of sight, for the patient was now beginning to mutter incoherently, yet in a way that showed his clouded faculties were dwelling on the calamity which had befallen him.
About noon the bell was rung sharply, and, on Polly entering, Rhoda called her to the window and showed her two female figures plodding down the street. “Look,” said she. “Those are the only women I envy. Sisters of Charity. Run you after them, and take a good look at those beastly ugly caps: then come and tell me how to make one.”
“Here's a go!” said Polly; but executed the commission promptly.
It needed no fashionable milliner to turn a yard of linen into one of those ugly caps, which are beautiful banners of Christian charity and womanly tenderness to the sick and suffering. The monster cap was made in an hour, and Miss Somerset put it on, and a thick veil, and then she no longer thought it necessary to sit out of the patient's sight.
The consequence was that, in the middle of his ramblings, he broke off and looked at her. The sister puzzled him. At last he called to her in French.
She made no reply.
“Je suis a l'hopital, n'est ce pas bonne soeur?”
“I am English,” said she, softly.