Chapter XLIV

“Ah! let none other alien spell so’er
But only the One Hope’s, One name be there—
Not less nor more, but even that word alone.”

ROSSETTI.

It was six o’clock and growing dark, only across the fields, rich with a late harvest, the last light caught colour from the golden corn, lying in rippling fields beneath the hills. The air was fresh and sweet, and the shadows lay sharp and clear over the country. Reggie drove very fast, and Daphne saw nothing but old memories.

“Is he dying?” she said at last.

“Yes,” said Reggie.

“Oh!——” murmured Daphne. Reggie lashed the horse, it danced a little, and quickened its pace. Daphne did not notice that they were driving much too fast. “Reggie,” she said at last, “why did you call me ‘Miss Fordington’? I don’t believe you were a bit glad to see me!” Reggie was simply furious; that she could dare to make him such a speech at the present moment, showed that she was not only thoroughly bad, but cruelly heartless. That at the time, when the man who ought to have been her husband was dying, she could observe the greeting of another man, struck him as about the lowest and vainest thing he could imagine.

“I do not think we need discuss my feelings,” he said, “they are not your concern, nor ought they to be.” Daphne looked at him in hurt surprise.

“Oh! Reggie!” she said, “I can’t understand you.”

“It is just as well,” he said coldly, “that you should not.” They barely escaped running over a child, and Daphne caught his arm in terror. Then he looked at her, it was a look of such absolute disgust that it stung her like a whip.

“Does he suppose I am trying to flirt with him?” she thought. Her only wish now was for the drive to end. The garden was deserted, everyone had left but Lilian. She stood in the hall to welcome Daphne; it was years since they had met, and Lilian held her close to her, in silence. Reggie did not see their meeting, he drove furiously to the station and caught the last train up. There was nothing especial for him to do in town, so he took the night express to Scotland, but his troubled thoughts kept pace even with the Edinburgh express.

“Am I too late?” said Daphne. Lilian shook her head, and they went upstairs hand in hand.

“It has been a fight against the hours,” Lilian told her, “but I do not think he could die until he saw you.”

“And his—wife?” said Daphne.

“Is dressing for dinner,” replied Lilian simply. “He will not see her, and she would not go to him if she could, I think. Oh! my dear, it’s a terrible business.”

“Oh, Arthur,” said Daphne, “I can’t imagine him helpless——” she bit her lips to keep the tears back. “I only knew this afternoon,” she explained.

The surgeon’s room had that atmosphere of utter calm, and order in which the mind has only itself to fight against. All the windows were wide open, and by the light of the shaded lamp, Daphne saw his grey face, propped up by many pillows. His hands plucked at the counterpane, with futile, unpausing fingers. Daphne remembered how they had boasted of them in hospital, as the most beautifully formed hands in London, and she understood that their work was done, as no amount of mere terrible reports of him could have shown her. Hope can keep alive against all reason, until sight stuns it with reality. When she saw his face, the rest of the world vanished, and she knew that nothing at all existed but his fight with the unseen. She did not notice Katherine until the other pointed out to her, the little compromises with death that he himself had brought down with him. Then she left them. Daphne sat by his side and put her hand over one of his. He looked at her and smiled as a child does who has been looking for its mother.

He had passed beyond surprises, and forgotten all his troubles, but he knew that she was there.

“It’s all right, Daphne,” he said, “they told you it was all right, didn’t they?” he repeated, frowning a little.

“Yes,” said Daphne, “it is _quite—quite_ all right now.” He was satisfied, and lay watching her face in absolute restfulness, only his fingers still picked fruitlessly at the counterpane.

Three hours later Katherine looked in at them, they neither of them moved, and until she died she never forgot the picture that they made. The fire-light (which in spite of the summer the chill of failing life made good to him) flickered “with subtle sound of flame.” And the moonbeams flooded the room. Daphne was still beside him, but now her arm lay beneath his head holding him up, her other hand was on his, and her dark eyes were filled with light. When Katherine saw his face, she came in, and closed the door, for she saw that there was another presence in the room. The end had come, but they neither of them heard her.

“God keep you, Arthur,” Daphne said. For a moment the old, amused look came back into his failing eyes.

“He—won’t—let—go!” he whispered. The effort was too much for him, the breath stopped with one short gasp. His weight on her arm was terribly heavy. She looked at Katherine.

“I don’t see why _you_ should cry,” she said. Then her own lips quivered, she buried her head in her hands. Steps sounded outside the door, and Katherine went to it.

“I’m his nurse!” sobbed Miss Smith. “I always nursed his cases!”

“Yes! yes,” said Katherine gently, “but he doesn’t want either of us now, he——” Miss Smith broke away from her, and rushed into Rosamonde’s room.

“You’ve killed your husband!” she cried. “Do you hear me? You’ve killed your husband!”

“Oh! how horrible!” cried Rosamonde. “How dare you frighten me so, I sha’n’t be able to go to sleep, I must have some——”

“No! you don’t!” cried Miss Smith, her sobs ceased. She began to make Rosamonde some coffee on a spirit lamp.

Arthur had done the kindest thing he could for her when he gave her something to do for him. Almost as kind as if he had known, but it was always impossible to tell what he knew.