CHAPTER XVIIISweet Ligia sang, and as I passedI was not fettered to the mast.
Sweet Ligia sang, and as I passedI was not fettered to the mast.
Sweet Ligia sang, and as I passedI was not fettered to the mast.
By the blinding light of two hurricane-lamps the eminent surgeons were bending over their patient. Deftly, gently, rapidly they turned and touched him here and there, their inscrutable, clean-shaven, clever faces close together, directing by an occasional short word the Salvières doctor, who was proudly serving as assistant to these great men. Beyond the brilliant circle of light stood Tatiana, turning her wedding-ring round and round her finger, her eyes fixed upon it as if her life depended upon the exactness of its fit. Jean, Régis, and the abbé had retreated to the recess, where the round windows shone back at them like mirrors. The setting down of a stethoscope or of a measuring-tape in its little metal wheel upon the deal table near the bed, made the nerves of every person present thrill. The minutes dragged like weary hours, and the silky sound of the rain falling from the slate roof to the paving of the narrow-walled inclosure about the station was distinctly exasperating.
“Can he hear—understand?” Tatiana whispered to her private physician as he crossed before her to get something from a side-shelf.
“No, Madame la Duchesse,” answered one of the Paris miracle-workers who had heard, stepping to her side. “That will pass, however; it is merely the effect of shock.”
“And,” she ventured, with great pleading eyes raisedto his cold, clear ones, “will the—the injury be hard to heal?”
The man of science did not reply at once. He was of the opinion that unpleasant news is worse than useless to communicate to the great of this world; a delicate coat of fine gold should, according to him, always mask the bitterness of the pill; but the hardening of her gaze made him attend, and quickly.
“Pas de bêtises, docteur,” she said, harshly. “I want the truth. We are responsible, my husband and I, so pray don’t shilly-shally; speak out.”
“Believe me, Madame la Duchesse, nothing is further from my mind than to lead you astray.” There was a fine curl of deprecation on his thin upper lip. “But before my learned colleague and I have been enabled to take counsel together a decision on my part would be—er—premature—even discourteous, I may add.”
Tatiana’s slim foot tapped the granite floor impatiently. “How long will it take you to come to a—courteous understanding?” she demanded, taking a lightning-like distaste for this frigid person who was attempting to overawe her at ten thousand francs an hour.
Fortunately the eminentconfrère, more tactful, and a man of the world, had listened with one ear, and now joined them.
“I think, Madame la Duchesse,” he said, urbanely, “that a secret consultation is scarcely needed.” The throwing of dust in his client’s eyes, be they ever soerhaben—as the Germans call it—was not his habit. He posed, on the contrary, for adocteur tant-mieux—an optimist of the finest orient, scorning the school of thetant-pismedical man; and his critical mind could not but acknowledge that his colleague was exhibiting the bedside manner of a half-frozen frog, so, throwing a considerable amount of warmth into a tone already sympathetic, he resumed:
“I understand, Madame la Duchesse, that this gentleman is not related either to yourself or to Monsieur le Duc?”
“No,” she snapped.
“It makes our task easier, of course, in telling you that violent contact with a hard substance has caused a deep-seated injury—to the lumbar vertebræ; in fact, I need not explain that this is extremely serious.”
“Is there any hope of recovery?” she asked, feeling herself get dry-lipped at the horror of this condemnation.
“None at all!” the cheerful doctor asserted.
And just then from the bed came the poor, brainless voice.
“I tell you, Loris—jump.... Don’t be afraid—you wanted this, you know.... I’d always hoped it might one day be said of me that I’d lived clean. I wasn’t straitlaced as if I’d swallowed the Statue of Liberty up to her manly bosom. But it’s too late now—there’s no time.... Jump, Laurence—jump! I can tuck you under my arm.... Are you still afraid?... Don’t you believe in a free United States—”
The hearers listened in silence. Thisblagueandbagoutso essentially Parisian were his, doubtless, by some curious trick of ancestry, but it was rather gruesome just then.
“Won’t they laugh at home...!” The sickening drone went on. “I! caught in a double cross like this ... good for crabs and evil tongues.... Great Scott! isn’t that a treat!” He laughed a ghastly ringing laugh that suddenly choked in his throat, and gave a grimace of pain that brought the doctors back to his side.
“I thought he could not feel—anything?” Tatiana murmured, profoundly shocked. “If one must see him suffer too—”
“Reassure yourself, Madame la Duchesse. He does not really feel—as yet, and this wandering of the mind is quite natural. It is when he comes to himself thatyour kindly task will be—er—difficult.” It wasDocteur Tant-Mieuxwho spoke, rubbing the tips of his long surgical fingers together, as if washing his hands of all doubt on the subject.
“Is there,” Salvières said, coming forward, “any danger in moving him to more comfortable quarters?”
The twoconfrèresglanced swiftly at each other. “Do you,” inquired the optimist, “see any risk, Docteur de Partenay, in the patient’s being carried to the château, as Monsieur le Duc so thoughtfully suggests?”
“Hummmm-m,” the pessimist hesitated. “Not a very great deal, provided the transportation is done on a water-mattress and by very careful bearers; but no doubt the infirmary of the Castle—about which I have heard so much”—here he bowed first to the Duke and then to the Duchess—“can be called upon for all appliances necessary.”
“And,” resumed Salvières, “will it be impossible, say in a few days, to put the—patient on a yacht and take him back to his own land? He—he—is an American.”
“In this season, Monsieur le Duc,la belle saison,” the great man addressed responded, visibly undeterred by a newly awakened squall that was shrieking its way around and around the “Station,” “I should say not; but with your permission my colleague and I will answer your question after a second examination of the patient, when he has been removed from here. You have no doubt considered the necessity of our spending the night at Salvières.”
“Certainly,” Tatiana and Jean exclaimed together. “Jean,” she went on, “will you be so good as to give orders to have ‘Mr. Harrington’ moved to the Louis XI. suite on the ground floor of the west wing. The ground floor will be advisable, messieurs, is it not so? Besides, it is in the newer portion of the house and very comfortably installed,” and she turned to the doctors.
To this they agreed, much impressed, in spite of their professional phlegm, by the simplicity with which this Duchess referred to a wing dating back five hundred years as the “newer portion” of her Castle.
Two hours later the transit had been accomplished and Preston Wynne was resting in the high-ceiled room where once the King of “many watches” had slept. The doctors’ opinion before their departure the next morning—by means of another special train, their valuable presence being peremptorily required in Paris—was to the effect that “Mr. Harrington” would in all human probability recover consciousness within the next few hours. They would, as promised, despatch a medical studentde troisième annéeto Salvières, as also an orderly, to take full charge of the patient and accompany him to America, were the voyage decided upon. Money, they were told, was no object, and so they might well believe when thinking of the plethoric cheques folded in their respective pocket-books! Hope of complete or even partial recovery, they repeated, there was none—none whatsoever—and it was with a heavy heart that Tatiana, after seeing them off, turned her steps to the sick-room.
Her feelings were hardly to be analyzed as she came to the bedside and looked long and intently at the boyish face on the low, hard pillow scarcely elevating it from the smoothly drawn sheet. With his eyes closed, his hair swept back from the forehead, very white, and breathing very softly, Preston Wynne seemed to have recovered some of childhood’s lines. He was barely twenty-six, but just then he gave the impression of sixteen rather, and Tatiana sighed. “What a pity,” she murmured; and quite in spite of herself, for she was a singularly merciful and forgiving woman, she felt a sudden wave of disgust sweep over her as she thought of Laurence lying in princely state in the old chapel, and of thisher fifth and last victim. Basil, Piotr, Marguerite, Neville, and now this poor young stranger who had, according to his own broken and wandering words, tried to resist her fascination. Had any one ever heard of such inconceivable ill-fortune, of such persistent mischance, as had befallen those who had loved her? Well, she had paid the price; not only of her peculiar reading of the plighted faith, but of that fault, perhaps far more heinous yet—a total lack of heart, of gratitude, and of motherhood. Still Tatiana could not bring it upon herself to say the “repose in peace” which comes so readily to Russian lips whenever they think of those that are no more, and, slipping into an arm-chair at the foot of Preston’s bed, she sat, her eyes fixed upon the quiet figure before her. A bunch of sun-rays, clean-washed by the storm, was thrusting its golden points through the lace of the undercurtains, and after a while Tatiana turned her eyes toward them, though her thoughts were far away. She did not notice the passing of the hours, and the light was beginning to veil itself when she suddenly became aware that Preston was awake and looking straight at her, perfectly calm and reasonable.
With a nervous start she rose and came closer to him. “How are you now?” she asked in as matter-of-fact a tone as she could summon to her assistance.
“I am all right, I believe, except that I feel lame all over,” he replied, smiling in that peculiarly winning fashion she had always liked. “We were wrecked—” he continued, puckering his brows in puzzlement. “When you moved, madame, I was just trying to piece the last few hours together.”
“Yes,” she encouraged, “but don’t do it too fast. You have gone through a great deal, Mr. Wynne, and rest is what you need most. Are you thirsty?”
“I am, thank you,” he said, still quite evenly; and as she took from the table a long glass with something cool init, he made a motion to raise himself on his elbow, desisted, and glanced inquiringly at her.
“Are my legs broken?” he queried.
She deftly passed her left arm under his head and put the glass to his lips.
“No,” she said, her face hidden from him as she bent, “you broke no bones, marvelous to relate.”
“That was lucky!” he admitted, but now there was not only surprise, but an odd wistfulness in his voice. “Still, I cannot move my legs at all. It’s curious!”
“Not in the least; you were properly battered by the waves, my poor child, let me tell you.”
“I dare say. I remember something about that. But tell me, Madame de Salvières, how do I come here under your roof?” He hesitated, bit his under lip, and fell silent, battling bravely with his hazy thoughts.
Tatiana, who wished herself a million miles away, replaced the half-empty glass upon the tray, and, stepping across to the nearest window, busied herself with a blind apparently recalcitrant—a strange happening in a dwelling where everything went always as neatly as clockwork.
Behind the stiff brocaded curtains falling straight on each side of his couch Preston was vainly trying to pull himself together. How was he here? What had become of Laurence after she had been torn from his arms in that hell of waters? Why was it the Duchess de Salvières—Prince Palitzin’s sister—who nursed him, and, in the name of all wonders, why were her eyes so kind and sympathetic? Assuredly he deserved no such treatment from her.
“Madame de Salvières,” he said at length, “would you very much mind coming here, since I cannot stir yet, and telling me something?”
Instantly Tatiana was at his side, her hand lightly touching his.
“I feel awfully foolish,” he explained, “as foolish as aman well can feel—and, to be truthful, I don’t know where to begin, but I’d like to know what—what has happened to—to me, for instance?”
His fine eyes were searching hers imploringly, and, drawing a chair toward her with her foot, she sat down close to him without releasing her hold upon his cold fingers.
“You were a passenger on theWild Rose,” she began. “You remember that?”
“Yes.”
“The yacht was caught in a storm and foundered a few cable-lengths from our rocks.”
“Yes, I remember that, too; and then....”
“Oh! then,” Tatiana resumed, “our life-savers did their duty, as they always do, and brought you ashore.”
“But,” Preston rebegan, fine beads of perspiration starting on his forehead, “I—I was not alone.”
“Of course not. There were the captain, the officers, the crew, and my sister-in-law, your hostess.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“And now that you know all that is necessary for you to know at present, it will be best for you to go to sleep again, my dear Mr. Wynne. Later, when you are quite recovered, we will, if you wish it, discuss further.”
She was surprised at the indifference of her tone. She might have been holding forth on the details of some approaching festivity, so natural did it sound.
“But,” objected Preston, “I am not a bit sleepy, Madame de Salvières, and if it is not asking too much of you, would you—would you tell me—more?”
“What more can I tell you?” she said, trying desperately to keep on playing her impossible rôle. “Wrecks are wrecks, disagreeable moments to be gone through, of course, with casualties sometimes, and unpleasantness in any case. Some of the crew were drowned last night, as you may easily imagine, and we heard from the first matethat you conducted yourself with extreme bravery, so all is for the best in this best of worlds.”
“Drowned!” he exclaimed. “Drowned! It is not a very nice way to make one’s exit. They were good fellows, those sailors of theWild Rose. I am sorry. The captain?” he inquired, with a swift widening of the eyes. “Braines, I mean—Captain Braines—was he saved?”
“I am afraid not—at least he has not reappeared; but, really, you must listen to me now, and postpone the rest of the inquiry, Mr. Wynne. I cannot allow you to agitate yourself after the knocking about you had. I cannot, really!”
There was a hurried note in her words, a haste to finish that his swiftly awakening faculties did not miss; also he noticed, with that keenness of perception which sometimes follows a profound nervous shock, that the great gems on her fingers sparkled oddly, a quivering sparkle that denoted a tremor of hands held still by sheer will-power, and in a second his mind was made up.
“Madame de Salvières,” he said, resolutely, “you are awfully kind to spare me, but I feel that there are things I ought to know—that, to express myself more clearly, Ideserveto know. Give me a little more of that cordial and tell me all,please! I am not a child; I feel perfectly normal, I give you my honor, save for that queer numbness I told you of, and I ask you to be truly merciful and not to keep me in suspense.”
Without a word Tatiana rose, reached for the restorative, and when this had been obediently swallowed to the last drop made him take a cup of cold, strong bouillon; then she sat down again.
“It would be absurd,” she said, firmly, “to pretend not to understand you, Mr. Wynne. I would have preferred to wait a little longer before causing you more—” She stopped to choose an adequate word, and, finding none,hastily put in “pain.” “To cause you more pain than can be helped; but if you persist in wanting the truth, there is nothing left for me to do but to tell it to you brutally.”
He did not stir even an eyelash; he was gazing at her in the glow of the setting sun, which left him in shadow and bathed her in a sort of glory which did not even make her wink, and he thought: “What a merciful and masterful face! This is indeed a woman to rely upon in time of need.”
“Your affection for Laurence Palitzin—pardon me, but I cannot avoid alluding to that now—is very profound, I suppose. Of course you are a gentleman, and I am perfectly aware that you cannot speak of this feeling to any one, but you must yield one point and answer me this: Will it break your heart if the incident of last night and its—consequences oblige you to—part from her? Never to see her again, for instance?”
“You mean,” Preston said, a slow flush rising to the roots of his hair, “will it cause me an insufferable sacrifice to give up—having brought this upon myself by my unforgivable imprudence and indiscretion—the friendship which Madame Palitzin was so kind as to honor me with?”
Tatiana, wondering at his delicacy and pluck, nodded. “Yes,” she admitted, “that is precisely what I mean.”
“Then I will answer in the negative, with all the frankness you impose upon me, madame. The affection and respect I feel for Madame Palitzin command me before all things to avoid—late in the day, alas!—compromising her by the merest hint of any deeper sentiment. May I assure you that from this day I will neither seek to see her, nor to communicate with her by spoken or written word? I have been guilty of unpardonablelégèretéin accepting her invitation to cruise with her on theWild Rose, but ... friendship alone—” He had become a littlebreathless, and, shaken with pity, Tatiana put her fingers on his lips in an impulsive, irresistible gesture, and drew them as swiftly away again.
“Enough,” she said. “You are a very fine character, Mr. Wynne, permit me to say so.” She had grown horribly pale, and her lips were twitching.
“But excuse me,” he pleaded. “One word more. Should your brother—Prince Basil, I mean—consider that his wife’s actions in accepting me as her guest, harmless as were her intentions, are—capable of misinterpretation by—by the public, I hold myself at his disposal, you understand. I am an American, and doubtless you have often heard, madame, that we do not look kindly upon dueling; but I think differently, and I’ll give him satisfaction if he judges this to be his due.”
Tatiana rose brusquely and stepped out of the sun-path piercing the room from end to end like a glittering sword-blade. To hear this poor cripple, this maimed boy, speak so gravely of giving Basil satisfaction was more than she could bear, and for the first time in her life the dauntless Tatiana felt herself within measurable distance of hysterics.
“My brother,” she said at last, in a spiritless voice very foreign to her, “is—oh, a man every inch of him, not a brute, thank God!—and he will see as I do, that punishment more than adequate has been meted out. Let us say nothing further of all this.”
She turned with her customary quickness, and he caught sight of her ashy face.
“Madame—Madame de Salvières!” he cried. “What is it? Has worse happened? Is she hurt? Is sh....?”
His lips were trembling pitifully, and Tatiana rushed forward, threw her arms about him, and pressed his face against her breast as she would have done with Pavlo.
“Hush!” she murmured over him. “Hush! God knowswhat He does. It is best for her like this—for you—for all of us.”
Gently she knelt down, still holding him, and there was silence in the room. Far down below the cliffs the whistle of some sea-birds winging their way home cut the clear air that blew softly in at the windows, and Preston, who had never known a mother’s caress, suddenly burst into a passion of tears.
“It is not as if you had loved her,” she murmured, “as if it had been all your doing. You have many excuses. We cannot think altogether harshly of her—now, of course, but relationship does not exclude justice; and the blame is not all upon you, be assured of that.”
He drew slightly away from her and stared at her in amazement.
“How—how do you know it?” he stammered.
“That is my secret, and will remain so,” she consoled. “Suffice it that I do know, and—absolve you.”
“I—I wish it were I,” he whispered.
“Don’t!” she implored, drying his eyes with her scrap of a handkerchief. “Don’t say things like that.... You have paid enough already.”
“Paid!” he scoffed through set teeth. “Paid, with a ducking and a few bruises? You call that paying?”
She was silent. What should she do? Tell him the whole truth while she was about it—give him the whole terrific dose at one draught? Would this be wiser, more merciful? Would one desperate shock counteract the other? All this raced across her mind while she smoothed the telltale flatness of the pillow, the uncrumpled sheet with its embroidered crest and crown. She was for energetic measures by nature, by conviction based upon a deep knowledge of life, but still she hesitated; and, quite carried beyond himself by her silence, he made a violent effort to sit up.
Just an instant too late she pressed him down with both her strong, tender hands on his shoulders.
“Oh!” he said, faintly, understanding as in the revealing light of a lightning flash. “Oh! I have paid back a little, then?Tant mieux!” And this time he lay quite still, his struggle over.