Chapter XXI: A Misapprehension Removed

THE village of Dunsted lay some seven miles from Burford. The drive thither seemed to me interminable; for my head still throbbed with pain, and even the easy rolling of Mabel's carriage was almost more than I could bear. Mabel kept telling me that the air would do me good, and indeed the light, damp wind which blew in at the window was grateful to my heated brow, though it made me shiver.

Mabel talked fast to me as we went along; but I heeded little her account of the individuals who lived in this house or in that, and what sort of people they were. I was too languid even to observe with any interest the fields and hedgerows we were passing, and the tokens they gave of spring's advance—the yellow catkins drooping from the black boughs, the feathery grey-green clusters of the willow-palm, the pink, swelling buds of the sycamores, or the blue-green spiral shafts and long, slender buds of daffodils rising amidst the grass of orchards.

"Now, Dorothy, do rouse yourself and try to look less martyr-like; for here we are at the Vicarage," said Mabel at last. "I shall wish I had not brought you, if you persist in wearing so melancholy a look."

We were approaching a long, low house, standing out from a background of leafless trees, and facing a flat expanse of lawn. The bare brown stems of creepers clung about the porch and lower windows; crocuses were blooming sparsely in the borders beneath. Doubtless it was a pretty place in summer-time; but now it looked cold and dreary.

At Mabel's word of command, I roused myself as bid, and tried to meet amiably the social duty before me. We followed the maid who admitted us across a wide hall to a small but pleasant drawing-room. The room looked full of people as we entered, and the atmosphere was very warm.

Mrs. Gower, a tall, graceful-looking woman, with dark hair and eyes, whose face somehow seemed familiar to me, though I had not seen her before, exclaimed at the coldness of my hand as she took it in hers—

"You are not used to taking such long drives in order to visit friends, which is one of the trying necessities of a country life," she said, kindly, unaware that I had had more experience of country customs than of town ways.

With that, she insisted on placing me in a chair near the fire.

I sat down, feeling too listless to resist, though I shrank from the warm blaze; for if my hands were cold, my head was almost unbearably hot and heavy. Such a buzz of talking sounded all around me! Mabel was greeting one acquaintance after another in her pretty, gracious manner. But whose was the voice with clear, liquid tones, which, though low, was heard before any other? Why did it send such a thrill through me? Where and when had I heard that voice before? I turned a little in my chair, and looked around me.

Near the window, and rather behind me, sat a golden-haired, blue-eyed girl, wearing a gown of dark blue cloth, with collar and cuffs of rich velvet. A simple gown enough; yet its style and fit made it seem one with the perfectly-moulded form it covered, and its dark hue set off to full advantage the exquisite, flowerlike beauty of the fair, delicate-tinted face and the flossy golden locks.

She sat the centre of a little group, who watched her with admiring glances, as they listened to her words, and seemed to care to look at no one else. And no wonder; for a prettier girl one could not hope to see. I had noted her beauty before to-day; but new I had a fresh revelation of it, and it wounded me like a sword-thrust.

Rose Carsdale! Leonard Glynne's "fiancée!" How strange, how inexplicable seemed her appearance in this quiet country vicarage!

Whilst I marvelled, the little group was suddenly broken up.

"Rose, dear," said Mrs. Gower, "let me introduce you to Mrs. Steinthorpe."

The girl rose and came forward with light, gliding step. How I envied her, her perfect ease of manner and the graceful way in which she went through the ceremony of introduction to my stately little sister.

"No wonder," I said to myself—"no wonder he was attracted to her."

But I started, and every nerve began to tingle, when I found that Mrs. Gower was about to introduce Miss Carsdale to me. My name seemed to cause her surprise as she heard it. She cast a keener glance at me—then smiled with sudden recognition.

"Why, Miss Carmichael!" she exclaimed. "We scarcely seem to meet as strangers. You were at Mrs. Lyell's, and I often saw you passing in and out of her gates. I wanted to know you then, and I asked Leonard Glynne to bring it about; but he failed, as men generally do in arranging such things."

"Leonard Glynne!" exclaimed Mrs. Gower. "Does Miss Carmichael know Leonard Glynne?"

"Why, of course, Marion," returned Miss Carsdale. "This is the Miss Carmichael who was with Mrs. Lyell for some months. You must have heard of her from Leonard."

"Yes, to be sure; my cousin has spoken to me of that Miss Carmichael," said Mrs. Gower; "but I did not know that she had any connection with this neighbourhood. I could not guess that she was Mrs. Steinthorpe's sister. But, believe me, Miss Carmichael, I am very glad to discover this second link of acquaintance with you."

Since I felt hot and confused before, what was I now? For a few moments the room seemed to go round with me. Mrs. Gower, Leonard's cousin! What did it all mean? How I responded to their words I know not. Happily for me, the departure of some of the visitors made a little diversion, and I had time to recover myself somewhat ere Rose, having bid them good-bye, took a seat beside me. She appeared pleased to make my acquaintance.

"Is Mrs. Gower, Leonard Glynne's cousin?" I asked her.

"Yes. Did you not know that?" she said, with an air of surprise.

"No; I had not an idea of it. Mabel only mentioned her as Mrs. Gower, and she had forgotten your name, so that gave me no light."

"Indeed! Then this is an afternoon of surprises to you as well as to Marion. But you must remember Leonard's going to his cousin Marion's wedding in August of the year before last? Ah, but perhaps you were in trouble at that time. That would make you forget it."

Her voice softened as she said the last words with a gentle, compassionate glance at my mourning attire.

"I do remember it," I said, rather tremulously; "and I can remember now that Mr. Glynne told me that his cousin was going to marry a clergyman—a Mr. Gower. Strange! I did not think of it before. I have been wondering what association I had with the name."

"Yes, it is strange how names will sometimes haunt our minds, and yet memory refuse to give us the clue to them. But, Miss, Carmichael, I cannot tell you how glad I am that we have met to-day. You know I have seen a good deal of dear Mrs. Lyell lately, and I need not say that she has often spoken of you. What she has told me has made me feel much sympathy for you."

The girl's manner was very kind; her sympathy, I felt, was genuine; yet its touch seemed to bruise me. I was conscious of nothing but pain. Past, present, future—all my life seemed fraught with pain.

"You were at Hastings with Mrs. Lyell," I said, feeling that words were expected of me.

"Yes, I came here from Hastings. My mother is there now; but Mrs. Lyell, she tells me, has gone home. Leonard was with us for a few days. He was out of sorts and needed a change; but I do not think he enjoyed it very much. You see, it was dull for him, poor fellow."

I did not see. I could not understand how Leonard should find it dull. I looked in astonishment at Miss Carsdale. My wondering gaze seemed to perplex her. Her questioning eyes drew from me an explanation.

"How could he be dull, if you were there?" I said, bluntly.

She looked surprised; then coloured, and answered laughingly—

"Why, very easily. Did you mean that as a compliment? Well, if my society could have kept Leonard from being dull, he had but little of it. I must tell you that my particular friend—my Mr. Glynne—happened to be at Hastings at the same time, so you see—"

She paused in blushing confusion, sure that I should know how to fill in the pause.

But I could only say, falteringly, scarcely articulately—

"Your Mr. Glynne! What do you mean? Are there two Mr. Glynnes?"

"Why, yes; surely you know. You have heard Leonard speak of his cousin Henry, Marion's brother?"

Had I heard of this individual? I could not tell, I could not think. My head was throbbing so wildly, it seemed as if a hammer were beating within my brain. I was trembling from head to foot.

Miss Carsdale bent towards me with a look of consternation.

"Oh, surely, surely," she murmured, "you did not think I was engaged to Leonard Glynne?"

"Yes, I thought so," I whispered.

"Oh, you made a great mistake," she replied, in the same low, confidential tone. "Leonard has long been a dear friend to me; but it was—because of Henry. I must tell you that there were great difficulties in the way of our engagement. For some time mamma refused her consent, because Henry's prospects were not good. She said that I should break her heart if I married him, and she has always been so delicate, poor, dear mamma! that I could not but submit to her will. She forbade me to see Henry or write to him, and she took me about from place to place, hoping I should forget him. But that was impossible. It was only through Leonard—who has been such a friend to us both—that I could get any news of Henry, or he of me."

Thus she explained, and for a while I followed her meaning, taking in the bitter truth that I had tortured myself with a causeless jealousy, since Leonard had been at once the friend of Miss Carsdale and of her lover, and his interest in her arose from his desire to smooth their roughened course of love. But with the knowledge, the pain in my head increased to torture, my limbs grew stiff and numb, whilst about my brow a furnace-like heat seemed to glow. The confused throbbing changed to a roaring in my ears that drowned every other sound; then all consciousness left me, as I felt myself filling backwards, backwards, in a darkness as of night.

How long my swoon lasted I know not; but the pale, agitated faces I saw about me when consciousness returned told me that my illness was deemed serious. Only Mabel remained calm and capable. She decided that I must be got home at once, and would not hear of Mrs. Gower sending for a doctor.

"Dorothy is well enough now to bear the drive," she said; "and as soon as we reach home, I will send for my own medical man."

But when I tried to rise, my head swam again, torturing pain in head and spine returned. It was as much as I could do, with all the help that was given to me, to drag myself to the carriage.

But Mabel's strong will prevailed; and it was well for the dwellers at the Vicarage that it did.

I have but a confused remembrance of that drive home—a memory of hopeless confusion and pain—of Mabel's speaking to me, and of my vainly endeavouring to attach some meaning to her words and answering in an incoherent, senseless way.

But I roused a little from my stupor as we neared The Towers. I remember alighting from the carriage, aided by Mabel and the footman, and staggering into the hall. There was a joyous shout, and little Percy came bounding to meet us. Where was the superior nurse, whose sole duty it was to guard this precious life?

"Run away, Percy! Run away! Keep him back, some one!" cried Mabel, in a voice sharp with fear.

But the little fellow had clutched my gown as I sank on to a seat in the hall, and when I saw the dear, sweet face held up beseechingly to me, I, not knowing what I did, bent and kissed the rosy mouth.

The next moment, Mabel dragged him away, and his childish screams tortured my head. But it was too late. Ah, if I had but known!

For, a little later, Mabel's medical man—not old Dr. Perrow, but a younger practitioner, who had lately settled in the neighbourhood, and whom Mabel had "taken up," extolling his skill at every opportunity, pronounced that I was sickening with scarlet fever. Stupefied as I was, I saw the sudden pallor that came to Mabel's face when the doctor uttered that word of terror, and I knew that it was not for me that she feared, but for little Percy.

The fever had been spreading amongst the poorer houses of Burford during the wet spring, and many little children had died of it. Mabel had had her fears, and had carefully screened her child from every possibility of infection.

Poor Mabel! But her presence of mind did not desert her, alarmed as she must have been. She thought of everything that should be done, and gave calm and clear directions to her servants.

I was removed to the rooms within one of the towers. Mr. Steinthorpe had occupied them in his bachelor days. But since he married, they had been rarely used. The passage leading to them was shut off from the rest of the house by a heavy baize door; so that practically they constituted a separate dwelling, and secured for me the isolation that the nature of my illness demanded.

Salome was summoned to nurse me, and I need not say how willingly my old nurse came to me. All possible care and attention was bestowed on me by doctor and nurse. I lacked no comfort that money could procure; but I soon became too ill to know what was done for me, or who came or went.

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