A WEEK flew over the house in St. John’s Wood like a dream. Yet nothing could be more erroneous than to say that it flew the days went on feet of lead, not on wings—every hour was as long as a day. The room which had been devoted to Meredith became the centre of the house. The nurse, with her white cap and white apron, was now a recognized member of the family. She came and went when the doctor was with the patient, or when Gussy took her place, cheerful, though she had not very much that was encouraging to say. She told everybody who asked that the poor gentleman was very much the same, but her own opinion was that he was going on well. How he could be going on well while he remained unconscious she could not indeed say.
Gussy spent a great deal of her time by that melancholy sick-bed. There is no such melancholy sick-bed. The breathing form from which the soul seems to have departed is a terrible sight to have before one’s eyes day by day.
Gussy had not the use and wont of nursing, and Meredith lying thus helpless before her, rapt from the world and all its ways, with pathetic eyes that saw nothing, acquired the new power of utter and saddest helplessness over the woman who loved him. She would have taken the nurse’s place permanently had she been permitted. She was never weary, or would never, at least, acknowledge it, but she grew thinner and paler, disinclined to say anything, sitting silent at the meals over which she still dutifully presided, and doing everything she had been in the habit of doing with a sort of solemnity, as if that sick-bed, death-bed—which was it?—had made the rest of the world unreal to her.
Dolff had become silent, too. He came to no resolution, did nothing; fell back into a sort of sullen use and wont. But all the gayety which he had brought to the house in the days of the music-hall songs, all the attempts to please which had gratified his family during the time when Janet was the light of his eyes, had departed. He no longer spoke to Janet or cared for her society, though he would sit and gaze at her sometimes with the strange, stern expression which was altogether unlike Dolff.
That this change should have been caused by Mr. Meredith’s accident was very bewildering to Mrs. Harwood, who, to tell the truth, soon became very weary of Meredith’s accident, and longed for his recovery chiefly as a means of getting him away. She did not for a moment believe that it was the effect of this which had changed Dolff. She believed that there must have been some quarrel with Janet—a premature proposal, perhaps, which the governess had rejected. A pretty thing indeed, Mrs. Harwood could not but reflect angrily, that a little governess should reject her son! but yet no doubt the best thing that could have happened. This she felt was what it must have been, and she was glad of it, on the whole, though angry with Janet for having treated Dolff as she wished him to be treated. She would have been much more angry had Janet accepted his boyish proposal. As it was, all would no doubt turn out for the best; but she resented her boy’s changed looks, and could not but feel a grudge against Janet for causing them.
To tell the truth, in the blank of that anxious week, when everybody was absorbed in Meredith’s condition, and the house was exceedingly dull and the days very long, Janet would not have objected to resume her friendly relations with Dolff. Her mind had got over the horror of the position, and somebody to talk to would have been pleasant to her. But Dolff was not disposed to listen to the voice of the charmer. He gazed at her for long times together without saying a word, but it was the stare of anger he directed upon her, and not that of love.
In the meantime the police were coming and going about the house, bringing reports which Dolff had been deputed to hear and examine. Gussy herself for a day or two had insisted upon doing this herself, but presently, as she became more and more engrossed in the sick-room, it became impracticable. She had offered a reward for the ruffian who had so desperately assaulted her lover, and the list of men who had been taken up in succession, examined, and dismissed as having no evidence against them, seemed endless; though no one would seem to have been more likely than another. Dolff was made after a great struggle to take this duty upon him, and stolidly heard the stories which were brought to him, making no remark. Scarcely a day passed in which a detective did not appear with the account of a failure; all of which Dolff listened to in a grave, dazed manner, as if he but partially understood.
As it happened, however, there were some who admired this manner as judicial; and even Gussy in her trouble approved with a smile her brother’s action for her, and said in her grave, but gentle voice that it was a good thing he was showing himself so well adapted for his future profession.
The sight of these officials arriving almost daily gave Janet always a pang. She was never sure that things might not some day become intolerable to Dolff—that he might not cast off this dreadful bondage that was eating into his soul, and startle everybody by saying that the man was found, that he was here ready to give himself up, and that it was Janet that was the cause. Thus she was never at rest—she had no certainty of him, no confidence. It seemed to her that the question stood always open, that there was no telling when it might burst forth as fresh as at first, and become a story which would be edifying to all the world.
Dolff, however, had no intention of this kind, nor had he any fear. He knew she would not betray him, and he did not care whether she did so or not. He went on dully, as it was his nature to do, taking no initiative. He was not one who would ever have taken the grave step of giving himself up: but had anyone said to him, “Thou art the man”—had anyone asked him, “Did you do it?” he would not have denied it. And perhaps to be found out was the least miserable thing which could have happened to this unfortunate boy.
They were all sitting in the drawing-room dully enough, after the first week was over. Julia, perhaps, was happiest, who was left quite to herself, and who lay on the rug all the evening with a succession of novels, with her selection of which nobody attempted to interfere. She got them from the library herself, neither her mother nor anyone else attempting to control her. Mrs. Harwood, too, with a piece of white fleecy knitting on her knees, perhaps, was not more dull than usual. She regretted much not to hear Dolff’s cheerful voice; but then, of course, singing was impossible, and he had never been a great talker; and if there had been an unfortunate explanation between him and Janet it was all very comprehensible, poor boy. No doubt he would get over it. Young men always did get over these things; but the good mother began to turn over in her mind the desirability of getting rid of Janet—not in any hasty way, of course, but quietly, during the next term, so that Dolff might not be made uncomfortable again by the too close vicinity of the girl who had been so silly as to refuse him. She thought this over while Janet wound her wool for her, and while she called the girl “My dear,” and was quite affectionate to her; but these are things which occur continually in domestic life. Dolff was seated at a little distance, with a book open before him; but he did not make any pretence at reading. His eyes were often intent upon Janet from behind the page, and she was conscious of the look, but asked herself why? for there was no love now in Dolff’s sullen eyes.
This silent party, enlivened chiefly by Mrs. Harwood’s occasional advices or directions to Janet about the winding of the wool, had been passing the evening together, as they often did, with scarcely a change of attitude; and when the door opened suddenly they all looked up with expectation, hoping at least for a break in the monotony somehow. It was Gussy who stood in the doorway, her eyes shining with moisture and joy, and a little flush of color on her face.
“Oh,” she said, “he has spoken, he has come to himself!” She came round quickly to Mrs. Harwood, and, throwing her arms round her mother, sank down upon her knees by the side of the chair. “Oh, mamma,” she said, “he has come to himself: all in a moment, when we were looking for nothing but another miserable night.” She knelt there, facing them all with that sudden revelation of happiness in her face. “He knew me,” she said. “I went and kissed him, I was so happy. I thought it might help him to wake up and throw the stupor off—but chiefly because I could not help it, because I was so happy.”
“My darling!” said Mrs. Harwood, taking her into her arms.
Dolff and Janet, who were the spectators of this scene, unconsciously and involuntarily looked at each other, as poor Gussy made her confession. Their eyes had never willingly met before, but something, neither could tell what, compelled them to this involuntary, more than involuntary, unwilling confidence. They looked at each other, the sharers of a secret which neither dared reveal. Janet’s pale face was suddenly suffused with burning color—and Dolff looked at her with a dull flame in his eyes. The thought flashed through both their minds with one impulse.
Poor Gussy, betraying herself in the rapture of her gladness over her false lover’s recovery, had not the faintest conception of this dark secret: but to hear of that sacred kiss of joy aroused something of the old fury in Dolff’s mind. He could not bear that Gussy should disclose her weakness, and in presence of the other, the woman for whom this man had nearly died. To sit composedly in the same room, as if they knew no better, to hear these innocent words, to see the full faith of the deceived but happy woman, who had thus her betrothed given back to her from the gates of death, was to Dolff unbearable. He sprang up from his seat, casting a look at Janet of rage and reproach unspeakable, and hurried to the door.
“Oh, Dolff!” said Gussy, springing up and hurrying after him, “you must not, you must not! The nurse says we cannot be too careful; to look at him even might be too much—even I must not go back to-night.”
“I was not going near—the fellow,” said Dolff, sullenly.
“Oh, I know what your impulse was! Dear Dolff, you have been so kind, so sympathetic, never saying anything. And perhaps you thought I didn’t see it: but I have been very greatful to you—very grateful, all the time. Now I can speak,” Gussy cried. “Oh, what a time it has been! I was beginning to despair. It looks like a year since that dreadful night. Oh, thank you all, you have been so good to me—Janet, too. And now at last I dare to hope. But you must not go near him, nobody must go.” Gussy loosed her hands from her brother’s arm, and sat down on the chair he had left. “I can have the pleasure of a cry now,” she said, smiling pathetically upon them all.
“We’re not crying people in the family, are we, mamma? but it is a great relief when you have been down to the very gates of the grave and come back.”
“I hope now you will let them bring you something to eat,” said Mrs. Harwood; “you have not had a proper meal for a week. Tell Priscilla to bring a tray, Ju, and some champagne. She must have a little support before the reaction sets in. I know what it is,” said the mother, shaking her head; “now that her mind is solaced she will find out that she is as weak as water. And, my dear, you’ll not be able to nurse him when nursing will be a real pleasure, when you will see him come round every day—if you don’t take care.”
“Oh, whatever you please, mamma,” said Gussy, in the docility of her happiness. She added, “Tell Dolff not to go. He must not—not for any reason—be disturbed to-night.”
“I going—to disturb him? I wouldn’t—not for a fortune; but I can’t stand this any longer. Gussy crying, and all the rest—I am going away.”
“Not out?” said his mother, anxiously. To think there should never be a good thing without the ugly shadow of a trouble after it! He had quarrelled with Janet, and now there was nothing to keep him indoors, to make home agreeable to him. “It is quite late, my dear,” she said. “I was just going to bed. Don’t, oh! don’t go out to-night.”
“Don’t, Dolff: somebody might be wanted to run for the doctor.”
“Did I say that I was going out? I am going to my room. I am going to do some work. Everything here is swallowed up in Meredith, I know; no one thinks of my comfort. But, after all, I’m something more than a man kept on the premises to run for a doctor. I am going to my room to do some work. Good-night.”
“Good-night, dear boy,” said his mother, holding out her hand to him. “Yes, go and do a little work—that’s always good for you. Don’t take him at his word, Gussy. He is as glad as any of us; but that’s a boy’s way.”
“I know, mamma,” said Gussy, with a serene smile. She beamed upon her sullen brother as if his very ill-humor were something to thank him for. “They will never let one see what they feel,” she said.
Had she but known! Dolff went to his room with a surging of blood to his head and trouble in his heart. It was partly relief—for no doubt to be free of the horror of blood-guiltiness was much: and his heart was unspeakably lightened by the thought that Meredith had recovered, that his own hasty fury, the boiling rage into which he had been driven, was not to have fatal consequences. There was to be no stigma on his soul. He need not now spend all his life with blood upon his head, never knowing when he might be found out and hunted down.
But this very relief opened the doors of his mind to the sentiments which had been repressed under the influence of that horror and fear. That Gussy should believe in the man whom he had heard and seen so false—so false! who had jeered and laughed at her devotion and talked of her to another woman, another traitor! that she should hang over his bed and kiss him when he came back to himself! Dolff ground his teeth and muttered an oath of fury. The last thing in the fellow’s consciousness must be that lingering talk with Janet, holding her hands, making love to her—and the next would be Gussy’s kiss! Dolff felt that he could not bear it—the villain, the rascal, the cad!
And now he would be courted and petted back to life, he would be surrounded continually by the tenderest care and attention, he would be caressed, and flattered, and consoled, while he, Dolff was desired to be in the house solely that he might, if necessary, run for the doctor! It was too much. Dolff set his teeth, and the thought flashed through his mind that if he had such a deceiver in his hands, nobody near! But if it had not been for the relief of knowing that he had failed that time he would not have dared to think such a thought now.