IN an upper room, whose window looked into a mass of bare branches, Lady Eliza lay dying. This last act she was accomplishing with a deliberation which she had given to nothing else in her life; for it was two days since the little knot of horrified sportsmen had lifted her on to the hurdle which someone had run to fetch from a neighbouring farm. Rocket, unhurt, but for a scratch or two, had rolled over her twice and she had not fallen clear.
The hounds had just killed when Cecilia, summoned by a stranger who had pursued her for nearly half a mile, came galloping back to find her unconscious figure laid upon the grass. The men who stood round made way for her as she sprang from her horse. She went down on her knees beside her aunt and took one of her helpless hands.
‘She is not dead?’ she said, looking at Fullarton with wild eyes.
She was not dead, and, but for a few bruises, there were no marks to show what had happened; for her injuries were internal, and, when, at last, the endless journey home was over and the two doctors from Kaims had made their examination, Cecilia had heard the truth. The plum-coloured habit might be put away, for its disreputable career was done and Lady Eliza would not need it again. She had had her last ride. In a few days she would come out of the house; but, for the first time, perhaps, since it had known her, she would pass the stable door without going in.
She had been carried every step of the way home, Cecilia and Fullarton riding one on either side, and, while someone had gone to Kaims for a doctor, another had pushed his tired horse forward to Morphie to get a carriage. But, when it met them a few miles from the end of their march, it had been found impossible to transfer her to it, for consciousness was returning and each moment was agony. The men had expressed their willingness to go on, and Robert, though stiff from his fall, had taken his turn manfully. A mattress had been spread on the large dining-room table and on it they had laid the hurdle with its load. Another doctor had been brought from the town to assist his partner in the examination he thought fit to make before risking the difficult transport upstairs. Fullarton, when it was over, had taken one of the men apart. It might be hours, it might even be a couple of days, he was told. It was likely that there would be suffering, but there would be no pain at the end, he thought. The spine, as well as other organs, was injured.
And so, at last, they had carried her up to her own room. Cecilia was anxious to have one on the ground-floor made ready, but she had prayed to be taken to the familiar place, and the doctors, knowing that nothing could avail now, one way or the other, had let her have her will.
She had never had any doubts about her own condition. Before Cecilia nerved herself to tell her the verdict that had been passed, she had spoken.
‘Cecilia, my little girl,’ she had said, ‘what will become of you? What will you do? If it were not for you, child, God knows I should not mind going. But I can do nothing for you.’
‘If I could only go with you,’ whispered Cecilia, laying her face down on the sheet.
‘Perhaps I was wrong,’ continued Lady Eliza, ‘perhaps I have done harm. I knew how little I could leave you; there were others who would have taken you. And you were such a nice little girl, Cecilia, but so thin and shy ... and I shall not see you for a long time ... we went to see the horses ... look, child!... tell James to come here. Can’t you see that the mare’s head-collar is coming off?... Run, Cecilia, I tell you!’
In the intervals between the pain and delirium which tortured her for the first few nights and days, her one cry was about Cecilia—what would become of Cecilia?
Through the dark hours the girl sat soothing her and holding the feverish hand as she listened to the rambling talk. Now she was with the horses, now back in the old days when her brother was alive, now talking to Fullarton, now straying among the events of the past months; but always returning again to what weighed on her mind, Cecilia’s future. Occasionally she would speak to her as though she were Fullarton, or Fordyce, or even James the groom. Worst of all were the times when her pain was almost more than she could bear.
A woman had been got from the town to help in nursing her, a good enough soul, but, with one of those strange whims which torment the sick, Lady Eliza could not endure her in the room, and she sat in the dressing-room waiting to do anything that was wanted. Trained nurses were unknown outside hospitals in those days.
Robert had remained all night at Morphie after the accident and had sat by the bedside while she was conscious of his presence.
‘I owe you my life,’ he said to her; ‘oh, Eliza! why did you do that? My worthless existence could have so well been spared!’
He went home in the morning, to return again later, and Cecilia, who had been resting, went back to her post. The doctor now said that his patient might linger for days and departed to his business in Kaims for a few hours.
‘Robert!’ said Lady Eliza, suddenly.
‘It is I, ma’am; here I am,’ answered the girl, laying her fingers upon her arm; there was no recognition in the eyes which stared, with unnatural brilliance, into her face.
‘Robert,’ said the voice from the bed, ‘I can never go to Whanland; you shall not try to take me there ... she is not there—I know that very well—she is out on the sands—dead and buried under the sand—— But she can’t marry him.... I could never see her if she went to Whanland.... How can I part with her? Cecilia, you will not go?’
‘Here I am, dearest aunt, here I am.’ She leaned over Lady Eliza. ‘You can see me; I am close to you.’
‘Is that impostor gone?’ asked Lady Eliza.
‘Yes, yes, he has gone,’ answered Cecilia, in a choked voice.
A look came into Lady Eliza’s face as though her true mind were battling, like a swimmer, with the waves of delirium.
‘I have never told Cecilia that he is Fullarton’s son,’ she said, ‘I have never told anyone.... She was a bad woman—she has taken him from me and now her son will take my little girl.... Mr. Speid, your face is cut—come away—come away. Cecilia, we will go to the house.... But that is Fullarton standing there. Robert, I want to say something to you. Robert, you know I did not mean to speak like that! Dear Robert, have you forgiven me?... But what can I do about my little girl? What can I do for her, Fullarton?’
She held Cecilia’s fingers convulsively. The girl kept her hand closed round the feeble one on the bed-cover, as though she would put her own life and strength into it with her grasp; she fancied sometimes that it quieted the sick woman in some strange way. She sat behind the curtain like a stone; there was little time to think over what she had just heard, for the wheels of the doctor’s gig were sounding in the avenue and she must collect herself to meet him. He was to stay for the night. But now everything that had been dark was plain to her. Her lover was Fullarton’s son! Down to the very depths she saw into her aunt’s heart, and tears, as hot as any she had shed for her own griefs, fell from her eyes.
‘Thank God, I did what I could for her,’ she said.
The night that followed was quieter than the one preceding it and she sat up, having had a long rest, insisting that the doctor should go to bed; while her aunt’s mind ran on things which were for her ears alone, she did not wish for his presence. Towards morning he came in and forced her to leave the bedside, and, worn out, she slept on till it was almost noon. She awoke to find him standing over her.
‘Lady Eliza is conscious,’ he said, ‘and she is not suffering—at least, not in body. But she is very uneasy and anxious to see you. I fancy there is something on her mind. Do what you can to soothe her, Miss Raeburn, for I doubt if she will last the day; all we can hope for her now is an easy death.’
Lady Eliza lay with her eyes closed; as Cecilia entered she opened them and smiled. She went to the bed.
‘How tired you look,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘It will soon be over, my dear, and we shall have parted at last. Don’t cry, child. What a good girl you have been! Ah, my dear, I could die happy if it were not for you. I have nothing to leave you but a few pounds a year and my own belongings and the horses. Morphie will go to relations I have never seen. What am I to do for you? What are you to do? Oh, Cecilia! I should have laid by more. But I never thought of this—of dying like this—and I looked to your marrying. I have been a bad friend to you—I see that now that I come to lie here.’
‘If you speak in that way you will break my heart,’ said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands.
‘Come close; come where I can see you. You must make me a promise,’ said Lady Eliza; ‘you must promise me that you will marry. Crauford Fordyce will come back—I know that he will, for Fullarton has told me so. I said it was useless, but that is different now. Cecilia, I can’t leave you like this, with no one to protect you and no money—promise me when he comes, that you will say yes.’
‘Oh, aunt! oh, dear aunt!’ cried Cecilia. ‘Oh, not that, not that!’
‘Promise me,’ urged Lady Eliza.
‘Oh, anything but that—do not ask me that! There is only one man in the world I can ever love. It is the same now as on the day he left.’
‘Love is not for everybody,’ said Lady Eliza, slowly. ‘Some have to do without it all their lives.’
There was no sound in the room for a little time.
‘The world looks different now,’ began Lady Eliza again; ‘I don’t know if I was right to do as I did about Gilbert Sp—about Whanland. I am a wicked woman, my dear, and I cannot forgive—but you don’t know about that.’
‘If he comes back, aunt—if he comes back?’
‘But you cannot wait all your life for that. He is gone and he has said he will not come back. Put that away from you; I am thinking only of you—believe me, my darling. I beg of you, Cecilia, I pray you. You know I shall never be able to ask anything again, soon.’
‘Give me time,’ she sobbed, terribly moved.
‘In a year, Cecilia—in a year?’
Cecilia rose and went to the window. Outside, over the bare boughs, some pigeons from the dovecot were whirling in the air. Her heart was tortured within her. Crauford was almost abhorrent to her but it seemed as though the relentless driving of fate were forcing her towards him. She saw no escape. Why had Gilbert gone! His letter had made no mention of Fullarton’s name and he had only written that he could not ask her to share with him a position, which, as he now knew, was thoroughly understood by the world and which she would find unbearable. In his honesty, he had said nothing that should make her think of him as anything but a bygone episode in her life, no vow of love, none of remembrance. Even if she knew where he had gone she could not appeal to him after that. She looked back at Lady Eliza’s face on the pillow, now so white, with the shadow of coming death traced on it. She had thought that she had given up all to buy her peace, but it seemed as if there were still a higher price to be paid. As she thought of Crauford, of his dull vanity, of his slow perceptions, of his all-sufficing egotism, she shuddered. His personality was odious to her. She hated his heavy, smooth, coarse face and his heavier manner, never so hateful as when he deemed himself most pleasant. She must think of herself, not as a woman with a soul and a body, but as a dead thing that can neither feel nor hope. What mattered it what became of her now? She had lost all, absolutely all. It only remained for her to secure a quiet end to the one creature left her for a pitiful few hours.
She went back and stood by the pillow. The dumb question that met her touched her to the heart.
‘I will promise what you wish,’ she said, steadily. ‘In a year I will marry him if he asks me. But if, if’—she faltered for a moment and turned away—‘not if Gilbert Speid comes back. Aunt, tell me that I have made you happy!’
‘I can rest now,’ said Lady Eliza.
In spite of the predictions of the doctor, the days went on and still she lingered, steadily losing strength, but with a mind at ease and a simple acceptance of her case. She had not cared for Crauford, but he would stand between Cecilia and a life of poverty, of even possible hardship, and she knew that his faults were those that could only injure himself. He would never be unkind to his wife, she felt sure. The world was too bad a place for a beautiful young woman to stand alone in, and Gilbert would not come back. Why should he when the causes of his going could not be altered? Now, lying at the gate of another life, this one, as she said, looked different. Cecilia had told her, months ago, that she could never marry Speid, but her vision had cleared enough to show her that she should not have believed her. However, he was gone.
Her mind was generally clear now: bouts of pain there were, and, at night, hours of wandering talk; but her days were calm, and, as life lost its grip, suffering was loosening its hold too.
It was late one night when Cecilia, grudging every moment spent away from the bedside, saw that a change had come over her. She had been sleeping, more the sleep of exhaustion than of rest, and, as she awoke, the girl knew that their parting must be near. The doctor was due at any moment, for he slept at Morphie every night, going to his other patients in the day; he was a hard-worked man. She sat listening for his coming.
The house was very quiet as she heard his wheels roll into the courtyard. His answer to her question was the one she expected; there was little time left. She ran out to the stable herself and sent a man on horseback to Fullarton.
‘Lose no time,’ she said, as she saw him turn away.
When she re-entered the room the doctor looked at her with meaning eyes.
‘I feel very weak,’ said Lady Eliza, ‘don’t go far from me, my dear. Cecilia, is Fullarton here?’
‘I have sent for him.’
She took her seat again within sight of the eyes that always sought her own; they were calm now and she knew that the chain which had held the passing soul back from peace was broken, for she had broken it with her own hand. Whatever the consequences, whatever she might be called upon to go through, she was glad. When the time should come to face the cost, she would find courage for it.
‘You do not wish to see the minister again?’ she asked, in a little time. He had visited Lady Eliza once.
‘There is no more to say. Cecilia, do you think I shall go before Fullarton comes?’
‘I have told them to be quick. They have taken Rocket.’
‘Oh—Rocket. I shall not see Rocket again. She was a good mare. But I must not think of that now; perhaps I have thought too much of horses.’
It was nearly an hour since her messenger had gone when Cecilia looked anxiously at the clock. The doctor had given Lady Eliza what stimulant she could swallow to keep her alive till Fullarton should come, and, though she could scarcely turn her head, her dying ears were listening for his step at the door. It came at last.
‘I am here, my lady,’ he whispered, as he took Cecilia’s place.
‘I have been wearying for you, Robert,’ she said, ‘it is time to say good-bye. You have been good to me.’
He slipped his arm under the pillow and raised her till her head leaned against his shoulder. She was past feeling pain. Instead of the wig she had always insisted upon wearing, a few light locks of her own grey hair strayed on her forehead from under the lace-edged scarf Cecilia had put round her, softening her face. She looked strangely young.
Robert could not speak.
‘Eliza——’ he began, but his voice broke.
‘Be good to Cecilia, Fullarton. My little girl—if I had done differently——’
Cecilia rose from her knees and leaned over Fullarton to kiss her.
‘Aunt, I have promised. All will be well with me.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. I am happy. Robert——’
With an effort she raised her hand, whiter, more fragile than when he had admired it as they sat in the garden; even in her death she remembered that moment. And, as, for the first and last time in her life, he laid his lips upon it, the light in her eyes went out.
*****
It was nearing sunrise when he left Cecilia in the dark house, and daylight was beginning to look blue through the chinks of the shutter as it met the shine of the candles.
‘I will come back to-day,’ he said; ‘there will be a great many things I must help you about. To-morrow you must come to Fullarton.’
‘And leave her?’ she exclaimed.
‘If her friendship for me had been less,’ said he, as they parted, ‘you and I would have been happier to-day. My God! what a sacrifice!’
‘Do you call that friendship?’ she cried, facing him, straight and white in the dimness of the hall. ‘Is that what you call friendship? Mr. Fullarton, have you never understood?’
*****
Fullarton rode home in the breaking morning, his long coat buttoned high round his neck. It was chilly and the new day was rising on a world poor and grey, a world which, yesterday, had held more than he understood, and to-day, would hold less than he needed. His loss was heavy on him and he knew that he would feel it more each hour. But what bore him down was the tardy understanding of what he had done when he forged the link just broken. He had accepted a life as a gift, without thanks and without the knowledge of what he did, for he had been too intent upon himself to see the proportions of anything.
Now only was he to realize how much she had lightened for him the burden of his barren life. How often he had seen in her face the forgiveness of his ungracious words, the condoning of his little selfishnesses, how often known her patience with his ill-humours! She, who was so impatient, had she ever been ungentle with him? Once only. It was not so many months since she had asked his pardon for it as they sat on the garden bench. With what magnanimity he had forgiven her!
He entered the house and sat down at the pale fire which a housemaid had just lit. His heart was too worn, too numb, too old for tears; it could only ache. His butler, an Englishman who had been with him twenty years, came in and put some wine on the table, but he did not turn his head; the man poured out a glass and brought it to him.
‘It will do you good, sir,’ he said, ‘and your bed is ready upstairs. You should try to sleep, sir, if you are going to see her ladyship again to-day.’
Robert looked up.
‘Her ladyship is dead,’ he said.