Meanwhile Agatha was left standing near the doorway, whilst her chaperon was explaining the reason of her late arrival to old Miss Firs-Robinson, Elfrida's aunt.
The girl's eyes were directed towards the dancers, and so absorbed was her gaze that she started visibly when a voice sounded at her elbow—that hated voice!
"May I have the pleasure of this waltz, Miss Nesbitt?"
Agatha looked up. Dr. Darkham, tall, handsome, almost young, was standing beside her.
"I am sorry—but the dance is promised," said Agatha, gently but coldly.
"I am unfortunate." He looked keenly at her, with open question in his eyes. He had educated himself very carefully on the lines of social etiquette; but education of that sort, unless it comes by nature, is often defective and sometimes he forgot. It did not now suggest itself to him that to question Agatha's word, whether that word were true or false, was abêtise. Some men had come up to ask, Agatha for a dance, and when they were gone he spoke.
"It is promised, then?" he said. "And yet you have only just come?"
Agatha looked at him for a moment as if surprised.
"It is promised," she said again.
She made no attempt to explain herself. Her manner, however, was very quiet, although her face was set and her tone frozen.
Suddenly, however, her expression changed. It lit up with a happy fervour, and her eyes shone. They were looking past Dr. Darkham's towards something beyond, and the latter, as though unable to control his longing to learn the cause of this sweet change in the lovely face before him, turned to follow her glance, and saw over there, making anxious efforts to reach her, a young man rather above middle height, with a face that, if not strictly handsome, was at all events extremely good to look at.
It was Dillwyn, the young doctor who had lately come into the neighbourhood, and who was beginning to do pretty well with a certain class of patients. Not the better classes; those belonged almost exclusively to Darkham.
Dillwyn was still a long way off, hemmed in by a crowd of skirts that now, being a little stiffened at the tail, took up a considerable amount of room and were not easily passed. There was still a moment or two before he could reach Agatha. Darkham caught his opportunity and turned hurriedly to her.
"I hope you will give me a dance later on?" he said, with a dogged sort of determination. He saw that she did not wish to dance with him, but the knowledge only served to strengthen his desire to dance with her; yet he did not ask her for the next dance. An almost mad longing to waltz with her, to hold her in his arms for even a few minutes, to feel her hand in his, took possession of him. He would risk it.
"If the first supper dance is not engaged, may I hope for that?" he said, his voice quite even, his heart beating wildly.
"I am afraid I have promised that, too," said Agatha, who hadnotpromised it, but she felt driven to desperation. Her voice was low and tremulous. What was it about him that repelled her so? She could not, shewouldnot dance with him, whatever came of it.
Darkham bowed and drew back, leaning against the wall just behind her. She felt miserable, and yet thankful, that she could no longer see him. Yet she knew he was behind her, watching her; and she had been rude—certainly, very rude.
At that moment Mrs. Poynter joined her.
"Not a partner yet? I suppose you must wait for this dance to be over? Ah! here I see Dr. Dillwyn coming towards us. You know, Agatha dearest, that he is a cousin of mine, and quite good family and all that."
Agatha laughed.
"Yes, yes; you ought to take it that way. It really should not be serious," said Mrs. Poynter, who was a young woman and fond of Agatha, and thought the girl with her charming face ought to make a good match. "I am so glad you are not going to be serious over it, because, really, it would be a terrible throwing away of yourself."
"But Mrs. Poynter—-"
"Yes, of course. He hasn't proposed, you mean; but—I really wish he had not been placed here through the influence of old Mrs. Greatorex, Reginald Greatorex. The old gentleman might just as well have sent him anywhere else, and hedoesrun after you a good deal, Agatha, doesn't he now?"
"I never saw him run in my life," said Agatha demurely.
"Ah, there! I see you are evading the subject. And here he comes. Now Agatha, be careful; you know—-"
"Yes; I know, I know," said Agatha, smiling at her. Yet she hardly heard her; her eyes and thoughts were for the young man who was standing before her.
Neither of them saw the face behind them—the face of the man leaning against the wall!
"At last!" said John Dillwyn. "You have not given it away? You have remembered?"
"The dance?"
"Yes. You know you said you would give me the first on your arrival."
"But this! I am so late! I could not have expected you to wait—-"
"I have waited, however. And it is mine?" He was now looking at her anxiously. What did her manner, her hesitation, mean?
"Yes, of course, but have you no partner?"
"I have, indeed"—laughing. "One I would not readily change. I have you."
"But," looking up at him a little shyly after this plain speech, "how did you arrange it?"
"Very simply. This will bemyfirst waltz as well a yours."
"Oh, that is too bad of you," said the girl, colouring softly. She meant to be angry with him, perhaps; but if so, the effort was a dead failure. The corners of her lips were smiling, and a happy light had crept into her eyes. "To wait so long, and—-"
"It was long. I admit that," interrupted he, smiling. "I thought you would never come."
"It was all Mrs. Poynter's fault," said Agatha. "And really, but for me I am sure she would not be here even now."
"Well, come on, now; let us get even a turn or two," said Dillwyn. "By the bye, the next—is that free?"
"Yes," said Agatha. She felt a little frightened. She hoped he would not know she had kept it free purposely. Four or five men had asked her for dances whilst she stood near the door on her arrival with Mrs. Poynter, and when giving them a dance here and there she had steadily refused to part with the next one. She did not tell herself why at the moment, but she knew all the same.
"May I have it?" asked Dillwyn, with such a delightful anxiety that all at once her mind was set at rest.
He suspected nothing, thought of nothing but his fear that the dance might have been given away before he could ask her for it. Oh, how dear he was! Was there ever any one so good, so perfect?
He passed his arm round her waist, and together they joined the dancers.
Agatha waltzed delightfully. Her lovelysveltefigure swayed and sympathised with the music, just as though it had caught her and was moving with her. Dillwyn waltzed well too.
The dance was too soon at an end.
"The night is lovely," said he, "will you come out?" He felt that he wanted to be more alone with her; the presence of the people round checked him, destroyed the keenness of the joy he always knew when with her.
"I should like it," said she.
They went towards the conservatory, from which there were steps to the garden outside. The door of the conservatory opened off the dancing-room, and was close to where Agatha had been standing on her entrance. Darkham was still there.
He had not stirred since Agatha had floated away with Dillwyn's arm around her. He had watched her persistently. He watched her now as she went through the conservatory door down to the gardens, that glad, sweet light upon her face. Were his wife's words true then, after all? Was there something between her and that fellow—that interloper, who had come from no one knew where, to dispute his right in all the parish ailments? His eyes followed them as though they could not tear themselves away, as Dillwyn and Agatha, happy, laughing, went out of the door beyond into the mild and starlit night.
A laugh roused him; it was his wife's. A terrible vision in scarlet satin, trimmed with black velvet bows, met his gaze as he turned. Mrs. Darkham was distinctlyen fêteto-night.
"Well, what d'ye think now? That's her young man. What did I say? Don't you wish you were young, eh? Why, she looks upon you as a Methusaler!"
Darkham drew his breath sharply. He looked quickly round him. Had any one heard? The woman's hideous vulgarity made him sick. Try as he would, how could he raise himself with this incubus hanging round his neck?
He moved away, tired at heart, half mad with misery.
Agatha and Dillwyn had reached the garden by this time—a garden lit by heaven's own lamps, and sweet with the breath of sleeping flowers.
A few other couples were strolling up and down the paths—but over there was a garden-chair untenanted. They moved towards it in a leisurely fashion. Whether they stood or walked or sat, they were together—that was the principal thing.
"The next is mine, too," said he, in a glad voice, as if dwelling on some joy that nothing could spoil.
"Yes. We must take care not to lose it."
"And yet it is so lovely out here. Are you sure you are warm enough? And, at all events, it is a good thing to know we need not hurry—that there is no other partner waiting for either of us."
He seemed to dwell upon the "we" and "us" as if they conveyed great sweetness to him. His heart seemed full. All at once it seemed to him as though hemustspeak to her—must tell her of the love that filled his heart. The hour, the loneliness, the silence, all tempted him, and yet he feared!
She had known him so short a time—and what was there in her manner to him that should give him courage? Could he dare to put it to the touch to win—orloseit all? To lose! That was what held him back.
Agatha was speaking.
"I am so sorry you waited for me," said she, lying unconsciously. Had not her heart beaten with delight because he had waited? "And you, too, who are so fond of dancing."
"Ah! fond! That is a strong expression. I am not a slave to it, you know."
"No." She paused. She seemed to study him for a moment. His face, young, strong, with a sort of defiance in it, as though he could and would conquer his world, fascinated her. It had always fascinated her from the first moment she saw it, now three months ago. It was not so much the kindliness of it as its strength that attracted her. She, too, could be strong. She felt in harmony with him from the very first. He was, as has been said, not strictly handsome, but his eyes were dark and expressive, and his mouth firm. The pose of his head was charming and his figure well-built and athletic. He was always in splendid spirits, and the milk of human kindness ran swiftly within his veins. Already the poor in his district began to adore him, for kind were his words and encouraging his smiles, and these counted with the sickly ones even more than the shillings that so often came out of a pocket where but few shilling lay. He had begun his fight with life unaided, save by the influence of old Reginald Greatorex, who had property in Rickton, and had got him appointed there, but he felt no fears. A natural buoyancy upheld him.
"Well," said he, smiling at her. He was wondering at the depth of her regard.
"I was thinking," said she, starting slightly, "that you could never be a slave to anything."
Dillwyn looked at her now.
"There you wrong me," said he. "I could be—I am—a slave!"
"It is difficult to believe," said she calmly.
"Why should it be difficult?"
"I don't know. But you don't lend yourself readily to the idea. You look as if you could never be easily swayed or governed."
"Not easily, perhaps. But—-" He put out his hand as if to clasp hers.
At this moment a sudden movement in the bushes behind her struck upon Agatha's ears. She sprang to her feet.
A sense of faintness crept over her. By some strange prescience, she knew who stood behind there in the darkness, concealed, listening. A great horror took possession of her. Why should he haunt her so? What was she to him? He who had a living wife!
She turned to Dillwyn, who had risen too.
"Come back to the house," said she. Her voice was nervous, but very low. She moved away from the seat, on which she had been resting, with a haste that was almost feverish. Dillwyn followed her, his mind disturbed. Had she fathomed his determination to speak to her, and had she purposely prevented his speaking? He went at once to the point, as he always did when uncertain or perplexed.
"Have I offended you?" asked he.
"No! Oh, no! You must not think that. How could you have offended me? But I thought I heard some one—there—behind the shrubs."
"But even so, there are people all over the place to-night."
"Yes, I know." Her tone now was almost heartbroken. She stopped suddenly and held out her hand to him. "You are still my friend?" said she.
"I shall be your friend to the last day of my life," said Dillwyn. But his tone was heavy; the elasticity that always distinguished it had gone out of it for the first time.
In silence they reached the house. Not another word was said about the dance impending. Agatha seeing a couch surrounded by fragrant shrubs, went towards it.
"The dance has begun," said Dillwyn, but so coldly that she shrank from him.
"I am tired," she said.
"Then you had better rest here. Shall I bring you an ice?"
"Thank you."
He went away. Agatha dropped on to the lounge and gave her misery full play. She had put an end to it all—all that might have made her dull life a very spring of joy. And yet to tell the man who loved her that another man—a married man—pursued her with his hateful attentions was more than she could do.
Now, left alone, her spirit failed her, and her eyes filled with tears. She would have given all she possessed to be at home, in her own room, alone, so that her grief might have full sway. She almost hoped he would not come back with the ice. She dreaded the coldness of his regard more than his absence. She—-
"Can I do anything for you, Miss Nesbitt?"
Dr. Darkham stood beside her. It was to Agatha as though he had risen from the dead. She had supposed him still outside in the garden. But he had followed her apparently.
"No, thank you," she said, in a voice well kept in order.
"You are not dancing, then?"
"Not for the moment."
"Your partner is Dr. Dillwyn?"
"Yes."
"He was your partner for the last two, I think?"
Agatha roused herself. She looked full at him; there was a smile upon her beautiful lips.
"Ah, Dr. Darkham, I have already a chaperon!" said she.
"A most inefficient one," said Darkham steadily. "Why should you be allowed to listen to the solicitations of a mere beggar? Were your aunt to hear of this—-"
"My aunt!"
Agatha looked up at him, but after that one swift glance drew back. What was there in his eyes? Oh, horrible! Surely, surely now she knew that she was not wrong when lately she told herself in shrinking whispers that this man was in love with her. There had been something so strange in the expression of his eyes when looking at her—something soempresséin his manner— something so downright hateful in the inflection of his voice.
"My aunt is quite capable of looking after me without the interference of any one," said Agatha slowly. "You have been very kind to Mrs. Greatorex, but you must not extend your kindness to me. I want no other guardian but my aunt." She rose and looked him straight in the face. "Pray do not trouble yourself about my welfare for the future."
She passed him and went on; she saw Dillwyn coming towards her with the ice; she had believed she would rather not have seen him return, but now she went to him gladly.
Darkham fell slowly into the chair she had just left. That girl —her face, her form—they haunted him. And side by side with hers always grew another face, another form—that of his wife! What vile fiend had arranged his marriage? A mere mockery of marriage, where hatred alone was the link that bound the two.
Gold that had given a false brilliancy to the faded yellow of her hair, and thrown a gleaming into her light, lustreless eyes. Had he but waited, had he but relied upon himself and given his undoubted genius a chance, he might have risen, unaided, to the highest point, and been now free to marry the woman he loved.
With wild, increasing exultation he remembered how she had risen to-night out there in the shrubberies as Dillwyn was on the point of proposing to her. She had cast him off in a sense. Gently, though. She was always kind and gentle. But she certainly put him off; she did not care for him, then.
Darkham's face glowed as he sat there in the conservatory.
If this woman to whom he was tied was gone—dead!Then his chance might come. If she did not care for Dillwyn—why, she might care forhim. At present howcouldshe?
"Why don't you come out and look at her?" said the coarse voice he dreaded at his ear; "she's dancing with Dillwyn. She dances lovely—'specially with Dillwyn."
Mrs. Greatorex was, in a ladylike sort of way, a confirmed gossip. To have told her so personally would have been to make her your enemy for life. The way she looked at it was far more Christian—she said "she took a kindly interest in her neighbours."
To-day her interest was particularly strong, if not very kindly; and she was now, from the depths of her low lounging chair, catechising Agatha about the dance last night. She was always very keen about any news that concerned the Firs-Robinsons, who were really nobodies, whilst she—-
Her grandfather had been an earl—out-at-elbows, it was true, but yet an earl. She laid great store by this, and periodically reminded her acquaintances of it. Her mother, Lady Winifred, had married (badly from a moneyed point of view) a young and reckless guardsman, who died three years after her marriage, leaving her all his debts and an infant daughter. But then he was one of the Engletons of Derbyshire, and would have come into a baronetcy if three uncles and five cousins had been removed.
Unfortunately, her husband predeceased his father! And when the old man (who detested her) followed him to the family vault three months later, it was found that she was not as much as mentioned in his will.
There had been no settlements. As there were no children, all the property went to the second son, Reginald Greatorex.
The sorest subject with Agatha's aunt was this brother-in-law. She had treated him very cavalierly during her short reign at Medlands, as wife of the elder son; and when Reginald came in for the property he remembered it. He portioned her off with as small a dowry as decency would allow.
He was testy, self-contained old bachelor—and the last of his race—though with a good point here and there. He had a been good, at all events, to John Dillwyn, whose father was the rector of his parish, and whose mother, some said, had been the one love of old Reginald's life. Both father and mother were dead now, and the young man, after a fierce struggle for existence in town, had passed all his exams, and was free to kill or cure, anywhere. It was when he stood triumphant, but friendless, that Mr. Greatorex had come forward, and got him his post at Rickton, where the former had a good deal of property, though Medlands itself lay in an adjoining county.
Mrs. Greatorex had received the young man coldly. Any one connected with Reginald must be distasteful to her. To do her justice, she had never truckled to her brother-in-law in any way, and had contented herself with undisguised hatred of him. Agatha had nothing to do with him, she thanked Heaven—otherwise she could not have supported existence with her. She came fromher side of the house, where people had been officers and—-
"Mrs Darkham looked frightful," said Agatha. "She really did, poor woman! Fancy, such a gown—red satin and black velvet— and her face—-"
"As red as the satin, no doubt. But is it possible, Agatha, what you tell me—that Richard Browne is staying with those people?"
"Those people" were always the Firs-Robinsons with Mrs. Greatorex. The fact that they could have bought her up a thousand times over at any moment rankled in her mind. She could not forgive them that.
Still in some queer way she hankered after the Robinsons— desiring to know this and that about them, and being, as has been hinted, of a parsimonious turn of mind, did not refrain from accepting from them fruits and flowers and vegetables. Indeed, face to face with them she was delightful. She justified herself over this hypocritical turn, and explained herself to Agatha, by quoting St. Paul. "All things to all men" was a motto of his.
"Richard?" questioned Agatha, as if surprised. Indeed, Mrs. Greatorex was perhaps the only person of his acquaintance who called Mr. Browne "Richard." "Dicky, you mean?"
"Yes, of course. He was christened Richard, Agatha. That ought to count. His father's name is Richard."
"It is so funny to think of Dicky's having a father," said Agatha, laughing. "What kind is he, auntie?"
"A mummy! A modern mummy," said Mrs. Greatorex, laying down her sock. "A dandified mummy. All paint and wig and teeth—-"
"But a mummy! It wouldn't have—-"
"Yes, I know. But there's nothing in him! Nothing that is his own. He is padded and stuffed and perfumed! He"—indignantly— "ought to have died ten years ago, and yet now he goes about the world rejuvenated yearly. Only last month I had a letter from a friend of mine, saying Richard's father had come back from the German spas describing himself as 'a giant refreshed.' Just fancy that, at seventy-eight!"
"I always feel I could love old Mr. Browne," said Agatha, laughing still.
"You must have precious little to love," said her aunt, knitting vigorously. She had known old Mr. Browne in her youth.
Agatha's laughter came to a sudden end. She sprang to her feet.
"Here is Edwy Darkham," said Agatha, moving to the window—"and looking so wild! Aunt Hilda, do come here! Oh!"—anxiously— "surely there is something wrong with him."
Across the lawn, running uncouthly, hideously—rolling from side to side—yet with astonishing speed, the idiot came. His huge head was thrown up, and the beauty that was in his face when it was in repose was now all gone. He was mouthing horribly, and inarticulate cries seemed to be bursting from his lips.
Agatha struck by the great terror that so evidently possessed him, conquered all fear, and springing out of the low French window, ran to meet him.
At times she shrank from him—not always. Deep pity for him lay within her heart, because he was so docile, and because he clung to her so, poor thing! and seemed to find such comfort in her presence. She had been specially kind in her manner to his mother often because of him, and perhaps that kindness to her—the mother—whom the poor, handsome, ill-shapen idiot adored, had been the first cause of his affection for Agatha. She had always been good to Edwy, in spite of her detestation of his father, and now, when the unhappy creature was in such evident trouble—a trouble that rendered him a thousand times more repulsive than usual—she lost her fear of him, and ran down the balcony steps to meet him.
He was unhappy—this poor boy, whose soul was but an empty shell! What ailed him? All her young, strong, gentle heart went out to him.
"Edwy! Edwy!" cried she, as eloquently as though he could hear her.
He rushed to her, and caught her arm, and sank on his knees before her.
"Sho! Sho! Sho!" he yelled.
It was his one word. To him it meant "mother."
Agatha understood him. She pressed his poor head against her arm.
"What is it? What is it, Edwy?" asked she. There was quick anxiety in her tone.
Her voice was unheard by him, but his eyes followed hers and the movement of her lips. Some thread in his weak brain caught at the meaning of her words. His fingers clutched her and closed upon both her arms. The pain was excessive, almost beyond bearing, and Agatha tried to shake herself free. But after a first effort she checked herself. The agony in the poor boy's face, usually so expressionless, moved her so powerfully that she stood still, bearing the pain courageously.
She managed to lay her hand, however, on the large bony one (so singularly muscular) that was grasping her right arm, and after a moment or two Edwy relaxed his hold.
"Aunt Hilda," cried Agatha, turning to the window. "Whatcanbe the matter?" But Mrs. Greatorex, who had carefully taken refuge behind the window curtains, from which safety point she could see without being seen, declined to leave her shelter to solve the problem offered her.
"Send him away! send him away!" she screamed dramatically, safe in the knowledge that the idiot could not hear her. "He is going mad. I can see it in his eyes. He'll murder you if you encourage him any further. Get rid of him, Agatha, I implore you, before he does any mischief."
"Oh no, it isn't that. It is only that he is in terrible distress about something."
At this moment Edwy rose to his feet, and, approaching her, began to gesticulate violently and make loud guttural sounds. In vain Agatha tried to understand him. Finally, as if dimly aware that his cries and gestures conveyed no meaning to her, the idiot seized her by both arms and turned her in the direction from which he had just come. Then he waited a moment, but seeing her immovable, an access of fury seemed to take hold of him, and catching her by her arm and shoulder, he began to drag her forcibly along with him, so forcibly that Agatha felt she had no power to battle with him, and that it would be useless to resist.
She did resist, however, with all her might, useless as it was. She herself was young, strong, and lithe, but this squat, broad creature, over whose head she could look, held her powerless in his grasp.
With fierce impatience he hurried her forward, in spite of her now almost frantic struggles to free herself from the clasp of his long arms.
His eyes were always staring straight before him as though he were looking at something that affrighted him. His strength was superhuman, and he had now dragged Agatha with him half across the lawn. She could not reason with him, as he could not hear, and she felt her strength grow less every moment. Where was he going? Where was he taking her?
She looked down at the stunted figure beside her, at the rough, unkempt head. She felt the long, sinewy arms tighten round her, and suddenly a sensation of faintness overcame her. What was it her aunt had said? That he was mad! That he would murder somebody! Was he going to murderher?
By this time Mrs. Greatorex's terrified shrieks were resounding across the lawn. But the servants, two small maidens, were evidently too frightened to attempt a rescue. They hung back, and clung to each other, and whimpered sympathetically.
In the meantime Agatha had been dragged to the borders of the wood. Another minute would take her out of the view of those watching from the windows.
At this moment a young man pushed his way vigorously through a thick hedge of laurel, and, springing forward, intercepted the idiot. He stood before him in an authoritative manner, and made a strange little gesture. Evidently Edwy understood it. He came to a sudden standstill.
The new-comer was Dr. Dillwyn. He went up to the poor boy, and laid his hand upon his shoulder and made a sign or two to him with his fingers. Edwy let Agatha go, and the girl, sick and faint with the terror, fell back against a tree behind her.
The idiot caught Dillwyn by the shoulder, looking at him and mouthing beseechingly.
"Sho! Sho! Sho!" moaned he.
He had now, however, grown calmer, and presently his face regained its usual placid look. Dillwyn's appearance had had some extraordinary effect upon him. The terror disappeared from his eyes, and they were now fixed on the young doctor with the steady gaze of a dumb animal.
The poor idiot had learned in some blind way to like and believe in Dillwyn. In the same strange unreasoning fashion he had grown to like Agatha. These two he clung to of all those that surrounded him in his silent life. There was another, and that was "Sho," his mother. To him, however, she was light and life and all things. And she loved him. And now "Sho" was in danger— was lying there at home in a darkened room silent, without a look, a word for him, for the first time in all his blighted existence. It was to that darkened room he would have carried Agatha, some unformed thought of help for his mother stirring him.
Again Dillwyn made some signs, pointing towards the direction from which the unfortunate lad had come, and after a minute or two the idiot turned and shuffled rapidly away towards his home.
Dillwyn went towards Agatha. His face was as white as death. He caught her hand.
She felt that he was trembling even more than she was. He let her hand go, and it occurred to the girl that he made a step towards her with his arms a little outheld, as though he would have clasped her to his heart. Her late danger had perhaps made him bolder—for the moment. He could dare the strong idiot, but what man could dare his love?
"Don't be frightened," said he in a low tone. "He meant nothing. Nothing, really. But I thank God I arrived in time. You must have had a great shock."
"Yes, yes," said Agatha, who was trembling still. The tears rose to her eyes. "I am not really a coward," said she very bravely, "and at first I didn't mind. I bore it quite well; but he was so strong, and I didn't know where he was going, and"—with a shudder—"it was so horrid being rushed along like that." Here she covered her eyes with her hands and burst into tears. "Oh! now you will think me a coward," sobbed she like any child.
"I know what I think you, long ago," said Dillwyn.
"Let me tell you how it all was," said he; "and sit down while I tell you. You are quite unstrung, and no wonder. You are, in my opinion, the bravest girl I ever met."
"Oh no!" said she.
"The bravest girl I ever met," repeated he firmly. "Poor Edwy! Who would not be horrified by him in his excited moments? But the fact is, his mother has met with an accident, and is, I fear, at death's door."
"Mrs. Darkham!" Agatha roused herself from her nervous agitation and looked at him.
"Yes. She went out early this morning shopping in the town, and coming down that hilly part of the High Street she slipped on an orange-peel, and came with fearful force upon the flags. You know what a heavy woman she is?"
"Yes, yes. Poor thing!"
"She was taken home quite insensible. Darkham was out, but was sent for, and it appears it was some time before he returned. In the meantime poor Edwy had crept into the room where she was lying, and the servants told me the sight of the blood—she had cut the back of her head slightly—affected Edwy horribly. First he flew to her and then recoiled. They said he did not know her lying there so still.
"He went away, but came back again and flung himself upon her, and great, difficult tears fell from his eyes. I was there then, and so was the father. It was pitiful beyond words. I raised him and tried to calm him.
"He got up suddenly and ran round the bed to me. He took my arm and pointed to the door. I believe now he was trying to tell me that he was going to bring you to the succour of his mother."
"Poor, poor boy!" Agatha sighed quickly. "It is not hopeless, at all events?" questioned she.
"Who can say? Darkham thinks it is, and I—well, I have seen cases as bad recover. But that is nothing. It is undoubtedly a very bad case. She is a heavy woman, you know, and a fall like that—and concussion—I am going up there again this evening in consultation with Dr. Bland."
"Ah!" said Agatha quickly. There was relief in her tone. She could not have explained it to herself, but she was glad that so respectable a man as Dr. Bland had been called in for consultation.
Dillwyn looked at her questioningly.
"You thought it would be some other man?"
"Yes. But I am glad it is Dr. Bland. He—-"
"Is not so old as most of the old figure-heads in the county," said Dillwyn with a smile, who had suffered a good deal from the medical fossils in the surrounding neighbourhood since he came to Rickton. "Darkham sent for me first. I was the nearest, you know."
"Yes," said Agatha. "And the cleverest," she would have added had she dared to give her heartcarte blanche.
"It was all very sad, and the poor boy so helpless. I am sure I am reading the riddle correctly when I say he ran to you to get you to come to his mother in her extremity—-"
"I wish I had gone," Agatha said quickly. She half rose. "Oh, perhaps I ought to go. Has she no woman with her?"
"She has two," said Dillwyn quietly. "You would be in the way if you went there now. Two nurses engaged by Darkham are in constant attendance on her. Don't distress yourself about that—and will you think of yourself a little now? If you won't, I shall thinkforyou. You must go back to the house, and to your room, and try to sleep, if possible, for the next two or three hours."
"As for that!" said she—a faint laugh broke from her.
"You won't do what I tell you, then?" said he. He had taken her hand as if to draw it within his arm, but he held it now in his own whilst questioning her.
"To do what you tell me?" She reddened vividly.
"Yes; why not?" His tone was calm, but the hand clasping hers tightened its grasp. It was as though he could not let her go.
There was a pause. Agatha made an effort to draw her hand from his, but he held it manfully.
"Why shouldn't you do what is good for you?" asked he at last.
"And what is the good of a doctor if he can't suggest useful remedies? I am a doctor, and, therefore, why shouldn't you do what I tell you?"
"Oh, if you put it that way," said she.
"Then you are going to obey me?"
She gave him a little glance.
At this they both laughed. Agatha still a little nervously. She did not, however, resist him any further, and presently he had taken her back across the lawn and on to the balcony, where Mrs. Greatorex met them.
She had seen Dillwyn spring though the laurels, and had known Agatha was safe. She met him now with extended hand.
"Thank you a thousand times, Dr. Dillwyn," said she, "for your happy appearance on the scene a moment ago. I warned Agatha about that repulsive boy, but she would not listen to me. However, I am sure there was nothing really serious about it."
Her manner was kind, but reserved. She had noticed his attentions to Agatha, and was not yet sure whether they ought to be encouraged or rejected.
He was poor, and though Reginald Greatorex had, in a sense, placed him here, still, she knew that "old skinflint"—I regret that that was the name she applied to her brother-in-law in her private hours—was certainly not to be depended upon. This rather presumptuous young doctor would never get a penny out of Reginald Greatorex if he hoped for a thousand years. Hadshe not hoped?
And yet, though she assured herself Dillwyn had no chance of old Reginald's money, still, the very fact that hemighthave a chance rendered the young man distasteful in her eyes. A protege of Reginald's would always be a blur upon the landscape of her life.
"No, I think not," said Dillwyn; "yet your niece has certainly been subjected to a severe shock. That unfortunate boy was greatly disturbed in mind, and, as it appears, ran to Miss Nesbitt at once for comfort. He meant nothing beyond a desire to gain help for his mother, who is very ill."
"Mrs Darkham is ill?"
"Yes, seriously so."
"Good heavens! Nothing infectious, I hope? Oh, Agatha! And you have been with her son just now! My dear"—drawing herself back hurriedly—"had you not better go in and get disinfected? Sulphur is very good, and—-"
"I don't think you need be alarmed in this instance," said Dillwyn coldly; "concussion of the brain is not catching."
At this moment the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside could be heard, and a laugh—gay, sweet.
Round the corner now came the elder Miss Firs-Robinson, with Elfrida in her train, and Mr. Blount, the curate, in Elfrida's. And after them a young man—rather short and stout, with clothes that suggested London, and an unfathomable air. It was Mr. Browne, who, when anything was on, could never keep his finger out of the pie.
Mrs. Greatorex turned quickly to Agatha.
"Not a word about that wretched idiot," she said in a low tone.
"And stay for awhile; the servants will be sure to talk, and I should like these people, who"—with a contemptuous shrug— "are inveterate gossips, to see that nothing really has happened."
"But your niece—-" protested Dillwyn, seeing Agatha's exhausted air.
"My aunt is right," said Agatha quickly, fearing a collision between the two—the young doctor's eyes, indeed, were burning fiercely. She moved forward at once to meet the coming guests, greeted old Miss Firs-Robinson with calm courtesy, and kissed Elfrida—Elfrida, who looked back at her keenly for a moment, then pressed her into a seat beside her, and pulled up a cushion behind her back. It occurred to Dillwyn that he rather liked Elfrida. He bade good-bye to Mrs. Greatorex, who seemed delighted to say good-bye to him. And another good-bye to Agatha, holding her hand until he met her eyes.
As he went another guest came—Lord Ambert.
Mrs. Greatorex received him with effusion, and gave him a chair near herself.
"A frightful thing, dear Mrs. Greatorex!" said Miss Firs-Robinson. She sank into a wicker seat upon the balcony with tremendous effect. Every one thought the balcony was going down. Providentially, it rebounded from the shock, and was itself again.
"A frightful thing, indeed!" said Mr. Browne, who had subsided near Agatha and Elfrida. "It has been a most merciful deliverance. I thought we were all going to the lower regions, didn't you?"
"After all, it wouldn't be far!" said Agatha, thinking of the depth of the small balcony—one so near the ground.
"My dear girl, consider! Even the very doughtiest scientists have failed to find the number of descending acres that divide our comparatively pleasant home from—-"
"From what?"
"Well," said Mr. Browne, "really I hardly like to name it in a select assembly like this. But I believe nasty people call it— hell!"
"Oh, Dicky!" said Agatha. He was an old friend of hers. He was an old friend of a lot of people. One had only to know Dicky Browne for ten days to be quite a century-old friend of his. At this moment Lord Ambert strolled towards them and up to Elfrida.
"I knew it would startle you, but you insisted," said Dicky Browne reproachfully.
"What nonsense!" said Elfrida. "You know auntie was talking of this sad affair about Mrs. Darkham."
"Yes," said the curate gravely. "She is dying, I hear, poor soul!"
"Oh no!" from all, which did not mean a contradiction.
"I am sorry to say it is true. I heard this morning there was no hope."
"After all, she is no great loss," said Elfrida, with a sort of determination in her tone.
"Sheisa loss," said the curate, defying her valiantly, openly, and to her face. "She will be a loss to that poor son of hers, whom Heaven, in a wisdom unknown to us, has afflicted."
"Oh,youknow everything," said Elfrida, with a shrug of her dainty shoulders. She almost turned her back on him. Lord Ambert came forward and whispered a word or two in her ear. She laughed. The curate fell back. Dicky, laying a hand upon his arm, drew him away from the group and into the shadow of some large tubs filled with shrubs.
Miss Firs-Robinson had been gaining a loose rein to her sympathetic tendencies. And to Mrs. Greatorex!
"A shocking affair! Poor dear creature! Rather—er— behindhand in some little ways; but such an end! Of course, Dr. Dillwyn has told you all the facts of the case, but the details, they are so interesting; but no doubt you've heard 'em."
Mrs. Greatorex, who would have given worlds to say she had, was so carried away by her desire to learn the smallest minutiae of the tragedy upon thespotthat she gave way, and confessed that she knew little or nothing of the terrible affair. She made the handsome admission with quite an air, however. She did it admirably, but she played rather above the head of her companion, who did not understand her in the least.
"Law, my dear, how out of the world you are!" said that worthy, with a patronising smile that filled the soul of Mrs. Greatorex with wrath. "Well, I keep my eyes open and my ears too, and now I'll tell you."
Mrs. Greatorex made a movement as if to crush her with a well-applied word or two, but she checked herself. If she offended old Miss Firs-Robinson, she would learn nothing about Mrs. Darkham's accident. If she endured her in silence, all the gossip of the neighbourhood would be hers in five minutes. And five minutes was not long to endure any one. Dr. Dillwyn had been vague, and too much taken up with Agatha (she would have to put an end to that presently) to tell her anything worth hearing, and so she had heard nothing beyond the mere fact of the fall.
"Yes?" said she carefully.
Tea had been brought out by one of the small maids, who had now ceased from her trembling, and Mrs. Greatorex stood up to pour it out.
"She's dying," said Miss Firs-Robinson; "not a doubt of it! She's heavy, you know; and her head came with an awful thud on the ground. Concussion, that's what it is. They say the boy—that unfortunate creature, you know—was in a frightful state; but they do say that the husband bore it wonderfully."
"Scandalous gossip!" said Mrs. Greatorex, drawing back and letting the tea overflow in the cup.
"Why?" asked Miss Firs-Robinson, who, if a gossip, was, at all events, not a hypocrite. "I should think he'd be glad enough to get rid of her—decently, you know—decently."
"Dear Miss Firs-Robinson, surely you don't quite mean what you say!"
"Indeed I do, my dear. If people are tied together, and don't like each other, they had better be separated."
"Good heavens, this is heresy!" said Mr. Browne. "You'll get taken up, Miss Robinson, if you don't look out."
"Not me!" said the old maid, with her loud, hearty laugh. "No such luck. Nobody ever wanted me in all my born days, except 'Frida. And I stick to what I say. It's my opinion that poor Mrs. Darkham didn't have altogether a good time with her husband."
"Ah, you are evidently prejudiced!" said Mrs. Greatorex sweetly.
"And prejudiced people, you know, have no opinions."
"I don't agree with you there."
"It is true, nevertheless. They merely adopt the thoughts of those who think as they do, and suit their opinions to their likes and dislikes. Unbiased judgement is beyond them."
"Then I'm not prejudiced," said old Miss Firs-Robinson, with another laugh. "Your words prove it, because I beg you to understand I have as sound an opinion as any one I know on most matters. And I don't suit it to my likes or dislikes either, because I never could bear Mrs. Darkham; yet I think there is some good in her."
"Who is Mrs. Darkham?" asked Mr. Browne. "That big red woman with the voice of a costermonger I met here last year?"
"Yes. She slipped on an orange-peel yesterday, and is now hardly expected to recover."
"After all, there is something in orange-peel," said Mr. Browne thoughtfully.
"You think her death will be welcomed by some people?" asked Miss Firs-Robinson, pushing up her pince-nez into better position for battle. She had always suspected Mrs. Darkham's relations with her husband; though, evidently, Mrs. Greatorex had not.
"By herself! Herself!" said Mr. Browne severely. "Just think of the burden she has had to carry about with her for all these past years."
"There, you see!" cried Miss Firs-Robinson triumphantly to Mrs. Greatorex. "Dicky has noticed it too."
It was delightful for her to know that somebody besides herself had seen that the poor woman now lying low had not been altogether kindly treated by her husband.
"I don't know what he has noticed," said Mrs. Greatorex coldly.
"And I think, Richard," casting a chilly glance at Mr. Browne, who took it and apparently was lost in wonder over it, "it would be wiser if you abstained from open condemnation of things of which you know absolutely nothing!"
"I'm in it, as usual," said Mr. Browne, with an air of tender resignation. "But why these cold glances? I've seen her, you know, and seeing is believing. Surely, I must know something— some little thing!"
"Of course," said Miss Firs-Robinson triumphantly. "To see her was enough, poor creature! So dull—so sat upon!"
"Did he do that?" asked Mr. Browne, with perhaps too lively an interest. "Dared he sit upon her? Well, she'd tempt one that way, you know."
"I agree with you, Richard," said Mrs. Greatorex, with a friendly inclination towards him.
"Dicky does not mean that," said Miss Firs-Robinson angrily. "He knows, because I've told him, that her husband made her life a burden to her."
"Oh, but, really, it was her flesh I alluded to, you know, not her husband—not her husband, you know!" said Mr. Browne, with a reproachful glance at the irate dames on his left, and a sharp attack on the sponge-cake on his right. The tea-table is fatally near him. "Her—eh—well, it must be a burden to her, you know, and no doubt, poor creature! she'll be glad to lay it down."
He has now got a considerable portion of the sponge-cake in his possession, and is waxing quite Christian in his air and smile. The smile, indeed, is seraphic.
"I believe you've been taking us in all the time," said Miss Firs-Robinson at last. She was broad-minded, and could laugh at her own small defects at times. Mrs. Greatorex could not, however, and had turned away, and was talking to Lord Ambert, who was giving her rather curt replies, as he wanted to make the running with the small heiress as strong as possible, and grudged a moment taken from his stride. The small heiress, who was flirting assiduously with the unfortunate curate, was well aware of his impatience with Mrs. Greatorex, and laughed in her dainty lace sleeves about it.
"I am afraid auntie is not orthodox," said she, looking at Tom Blount, who was still hovering round her, out of two very unorthodox blue eyes. She was alluding to her aunt's late openly-expressed opinion that married people unsuited to each other were better apart. "Are you, auntie?"
Auntie drew near at this challenge; when would she not draw near when that pretty voice summoned her?
"I don't know what I am," said that stout lady, with a beneficent smile. "But, 'on my, if it came to living with Dr. Darkham all my life, I'd cry 'No, thank you!'"
"Oh, auntie, now you are giving yourself away indeed! You are uncharitable, and Mr. Blount will put you down as incorrigible," said her niece, retreating behind the fan she held, as if horrified.
Evidently, she was ashamed of herself, thought her aunt. Blount, however, was filled with unhappy certainty that she was laughing.
"Don't mind her, Mr. Blount," said old Miss Robinson very kindly.
"I know you won't do anything of the kind."
"Ah, Lord Ambert—going?"
"Yes—aw—just dropped in for a moment, you know. Good-bye," to Elfrida, who smiled at him.
"See you at the Stackfords' on Tuesday?"
"I think not." She still smiled at him, her lovely little face a picture. "This sudden illness of Mrs. Darkham's—it casts a sort of gloom, you see."
"Yes; it would be inhuman," said the curate suddenly, "to go to a tennis-party, or a party of any kind, when that poor woman is lying at death's door."
"A merely plebeian idea, I assure you, Miss Robinson," said Ambert, taking Elfrida's hand and pressing it in a tender fashion. "I trust you will not let yourself be influenced by it, and that I shall see you on Tuesday." He paused. "I shall see you to-morrow, at all events!"
He pressed her hand again, bowed to Agatha—he had already made his adieux to Mrs. Greatorex—gave a nod to Dicky Browne, who seemed delighted with him in some strange way, and without so much as a glance at the curate, though, certainly, courtesy demanded as much as that, he went his way.