Chapter XV: The Marriage of Charlie and May

She stole up noiselessly and knocked at the door. The man who was minding Cheyne opened the door and let her in. She went to the foot of the bed and looked at the poor pale face, now trying to force the pallid flesh into a smile.

"May," said a voice she hardly knew, it was so weak and thin, "come and sit by me, dearest. I want to speak to you." He looked at the man and said: "I am much obliged to you. You will leave us a little while, if you please."

The man withdrew.

"Dearest," he said again, and paused and smiled that pale sad smile. "Dearest." Again he stopped; the repetition of the word, and the sight of her face, seemed to be the only thing he then cared for.

"Oh Charlie! oh Charlie!" she cried and covered her face with her hands.

"May," he whispered, "take my hand. I cannot lift it now. I should not mind my weakness, only that I cannot take your hand, dearest."

She took his hand in hers, and cherished it against her bosom for awhile, and then put it down on the counterpane, and laid her warm young cheek upon it, and bathed it with her tears.

"Oh Charlie, Charlie! This is awful. Oh God, give me strength!"

Again he tried to smile, and said: "May, you must not fret yourself in this way. You must not, dearest. You ask for strength. Why you are a Goliath compared to me now. It is not so long ago, only a few days since, I was counted a strong man, could do things with my arms no man of the company could do. But now I cannot get a kiss of my sweetheart unless she comes and kisses me. I cannot raise my stupid old head so as to touch my sweetheart's lips."

She bent over him and kissed his forehead, his lips, her tears falling so fast the while that she could scarcely see.

"When I was on the roof that time, and you were in that room, I could have torn up those rafters with my hands, I could have pushed a wall down with my back, I could have taken a chimney-stack in my arms and dragged it up by the roots. Now, May, I could not lift one of the braids of your beautiful hair, dearest. If it was our bridal-day I could not put the ring on your finger."

Her heart was breaking. She leaned over him and whispered with passionate entreaty into his ear: "But, Charlie, Charlie, you will put it on another day. Some day soon, won't you, my heart's darling?"

"Not very soon," he said; "I am not sure I shall ever put that ring on your finger now, dearest." Still he smiled.

"But oh, my Charlie! I did not mean what I said when I wrote that dreadful note. I am only a weak girl, not a strong man like you."

"Strong man!" he repeated in a tone of amusement. "I cannot be a very strong man, can I, when I have swum to the life-buoy, see the ship bearing down to take me up, and yet feel my hand relaxing on the buoy so that I shall not be able to float until she is near enough to take me on board."

May did not understand that he was speaking metaphorically, and thought his mind was wandering back to that great swim which had made his name famous. But she did not want his mind to go so far afield now. She wanted to keep his mind as close as she possibly could to herself. So she said: "But you will give me that plain gold band soon?"

"No; not soon. It can't be soon."

"I mean as soon as you are quite well."

"That may not be very soon, dearest."

"Oh yes it will."

He smiled. "May, do they not say marriages are made in Heaven?"

"Yes, Charlie."

"I am greatly afraid I am not good enough to have my marriage made there; but if I am, you may be sure we shall be married, not soon, but--by-and-by."

Again she missed his meaning. "Soon or by-and-by are all the same to me, so long as you forgive me and take me back to your heart."

"You have never been out of my heart, child, never for a minute."

"But I have behaved very badly, Charlie."

"You did what you thought was best; and no one can do more than that."

"And you forgive me?"

"Dearest, I have nothing to forgive."

"But, my darling, my poor heart's darling, only for me you would now be strong and well."

"Do you think I could ever be strong and well again if any harm had come to you in that blazing house?"

She was conscious that this was special pleading on her behalf; that it was not sound; but she could not find out the flaw, and for awhile she sat tranquil, holding his hand.

He was silent for a long time, and at last May knew by his breathing that he slept. She sat as the morning wore on, and still he slept. At last she released his hand and went downstairs. It was now nine o'clock, and her aunt was in the little breakfast-parlour.

Miss Traynor had not recovered from the shock of her niece's flight, and, although Anne had told her of Marion's return, she was still too feeble to understand the full import of that event. Indeed she was never very clear as to Marion's flight, and had dim doubts as to whether the whole thing was not a dream. Anne had also told the invalid that Mr. Cheyne had been put to bed in the spare room, and that the doctor had come and said he was very bad.

When May saw her aunt she ran to her, and throwing her arms round the old woman's shoulders, burst into a passionate flood of tears, but said no word; her heart was too full for speech.

"There now, my child! there now, my child! Don't cry. I am very glad you came back. We are all very glad you came back. It was very wrong of you to go out this bitterly cold weather without anything to put round you when you were coming home. I did not mind your going in the least, but you must never again do such a thing without taking a cloak or a shawl with you. Charlie, your Charlie, was very uneasy too at your not having even a silk handkerchief to put about your neck when you came out of the theatre."

May did not say anything, but, sliding down on her knees, buried her head in the old woman's lap, thinking:

"Oh, my aunt, my poor good aunt, has my folly struck you down too!"

At ten o'clock Dr. Fernbeck came. He had had a telegram from Dr. Oliver Rowland, who was already on the way up, as he felt most deeply interested in the case. Then Dr. Fernbeck went up to the sickroom, and upon coming down reported the patient in pretty much the same condition as in the early morning. Yes, Miss Durrant might go up and stop with the patient, but she must not let him talk. No, not even for a minute. It was imperative that he should be kept quiet. Miss Durrant's presence would be more conducive, no doubt, to his quiet than her absence, but there must be no talking. He would come again in the afternoon with Dr. Rowland.

So Marion went up again to the bedroom, and took his hand and held it for his comfort--he was now awake--and wept quietly for her own heart's ease. He wished to speak, but she would not allow him, and told him if he made any new attempt in that direction she would be compelled to leave the room, as her orders allowed of no exception; upon which he smiled and remained silent, with his pale face turned towards her and his weary eyes fixed upon her face.

Shortly after this the professional nurse arrived, but she was told she would not be wanted in the sick-room as a watcher--not for the present at least, and that she might rest below until need arose for her upstairs.

It was four o'clock when Dr. Fernbeck came again. This time he was accompanied by Dr. Oliver Rowland. The two medical men spent half-an hour in the sick-room, and then came down, saying that, as Sir Francis Granby had seen the patient in his former illness, it could do no harm if he saw him now in this. Dr. Rowland would remain in attendance while Dr. Fernbeck went to fetch Sir Frederick, and a cabman was sent for Mr. Macklin, of the firm of Macklin and Dowell, solicitors to the patient, as the latter had some business matters of importance to communicate to Mr. Macklin.

It was judged best that, until Sir Francis had seen the sufferer, Miss Durrant should not visit him. It was more than likely Sir Francis would not be there for an hour, and Dr. Rowland suggested that Miss Durrant should take some refreshment, a glass of wine and a biscuit, and lie down and try and sleep. Dr. Rowland promised to call her when the great doctor had seen the injured man.

And May, being half distracted and quite weak, ate a biscuit and drank a glass of wine, and lay down as she had been bid. In a few minutes she was asleep. She was exhausted, and she slept profoundly, dreamlessly, for hours. When she woke up the west was all aglow. With a pang of grief that she had allowed herself to sleep so long, and a feeling of indignation against Dr. Rowland, who had promised to wake her when Sir Francis Granby was gone, she rose and went out on the narrow landing, at the farther end of which was the room in which he lay.

Just at that moment the door of the sick-room opened, and three men descended the stairs and went into the little drawing-room, which had in the morning been used a consulting-room by the two doctors. She remained standing on the landing until she heard the drawing-room door open, and then the front door, and finally a carriage drive away. Then she ran down.

She met Dr. Rowland in the hall, and said eagerly:

"Well?"

"Sir Francis Granby has just left," said Rowland gravely. "Doctor Fernbeck could not get him until now. He was out of town. This will explain why I did not call you."

"Yes, yes. But what does he--what do you all think?"

"That the case is serious, very serious."

"But Doctor Fernbeck thought the case very serious this morning. Is he worse?"

"That is a thing hard to say. The symptoms are but very slightly changed."

"But you think he will be quite well again in a few days?"

"Ah, well--a few days? Not quite so soon as that."

"But soon?"

"He is very ill."

"But he is enormously strong, and he is young."

"These are two points in any man's favour."

"Are they not in his favour _now?_"

"We are most anxious,"

"Ah, I see you mean that he will die."

"No, we do not say he must die."

"Doctor Rowland, may I go to him? He was very dear to me."

"I know, child. I know--you may go to him," said the Radical doctor, turning into the drawing-room and putting his hand before his face.

She went upstairs with a slow step. When she entered the room, Cheyne said to her: "Come here, little May, and sit down beside me, and take my hand as you did awhile ago. I want to say something to you."

She did as he told her without saying a word. He went on:

"When you were last here you asked me if we should not be married soon, and I said I feared not. I have changed my opinion. I now think we shall be married very soon. At once."

She turned and looked at him. His face was turned towards the window, through which the red disc of the setting sun was clearly visible above the distant housetops. The ruddy light fell on his face and made him look more like his old self. She said nothing, but kept her piteous eyes on his face. He smiled.

"We are alone now, and I suppose we are not likely to be interrupted for a little time. In that little time, dearest, let us get married."

Still she said nothing. She thought his mind was wandering.

"Little Marion, I have forgotten to get a wedding-ring, and even if I had one I could not put it on your finger. I have not the strength left. But then, out there is the great red ring of the sun, and if you hold my hand in yours until it goes down below those housetops, I shall feel that we are married. It is the poor conceit, dearest, of a Fleet Street hack who is weak and spent, and--and--and--well, never mind 'and' what. Will you do it, dearest, to humour a whim? and then I shall sleep sounder this night than ever, for I shall know that nothing can ever part us, for I shall believe this is a real marriage--as real as though it were performed in the dear old Abbey. Now, dearest, the ring begins to dip. Hold my hand and let us be silent until we can see it no more."

In silence they both watched the sun as it sank. She held his hand in both hers. When she could no longer see the sun she turned to him, and said:

"Charlie, it is set."

With a prodigious effort he raised himself in the bed, and, throwing out both his arms towards her, cried in a voice of agony and love: "Marion! Marion, my wife--my dearest! My wife, Marion!" and then fell back, to see the sun no more.

Dr. Rowland heard that cry, and hurried upstairs. He knew what had happened. He took her by the hand.

"Come with me, child, come with me;" and saying these words he led Marion away out of the chamber of death.

_THE END_.

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Duke's Sweetheart, by Richard Dowling