Chapter XVIII: Clouds and Sunshine

Olive heard all her uncle had to relate of the condition in which he found Allan, and, stealing away, she assumed her hat and sunshade, and, accompanied by Clairette, undeterred by any risks she might run in a strange place, issued into the somewhat European-looking streets of Ismailia, over which she could see the great palace of the Khedive looming in the distance, about two miles off; and obtaining the guidance of a passing soldier--a Seaforth Highlander--she bent her steps direct to the military hospital.

In the depth of her love, in the keenness of her anxiety--her remorse, too, for all she had, in some sense unwittingly, made Allan endure--she cast the idea of strict propriety and the amenities of society to the winds, and, following the generous impulses of her own heart, resolved to see Allan, if she could, without delay.

She passed the temporary burying-ground, with its rows of labelled tent-pegs, without a shudder, as she knew not what lay there; anon past wards where lay patients suffering from sunstroke and ophthalmia, as she could see by the sufferers wearing blue-veils and dark glasses, till she was ushered into a species of office, where a staff-surgeon in undress uniform greeted her with some surprise and _empressement_.

He had not seen an English girl--especially one of Olive's style and beauty--for a considerable time past, perhaps, and he looked with genuine interest on Olive, her half-opened mouth, her soft, earnest eyes, her trembling lips, and the tears that clung to her long lashes.

Shyly she asked if it were possible to see Captain Graham, of the Black Watch, who was a patient.

He smiled, and shook his head.

'Do permit me, sir,' she asked, with half-clasped hands and her eyes full of entreaty.

'Do be reasonable, Miss--Raymond,' said he, glancing at her card, which an orderly had given him. 'Your presence would but excite him too much. It will be folly on your part to undo all our precautions simply from a mere desire, however natural, to speak with or see Captain Graham.'

'Oh, sir, if you knew all!'

'All that can be done for him is being done. Besides, there is danger in being near him.'

'Danger!'

'To you.'

'I care not. Why?'

'Enteric fever takes a typhoid form at times.'

'Fear not for me--I am his cousin--his promised wife!' urged Olive, piteously.

'Come with me, then, but softly; this way,' said the surgeon, and, taking her hand, he led her across a corridor, where hospital orderlies, men of the Army Hospital Corps, nurses, and others were hovering, and where Olive narrowly escaped the shock of seeing a fever-stricken and attenuated corpse carried out, and into a plain, white-washed room, where on a camp-bed--one of those brought from Arabi's camp--Allan lay asleep.

Olive, in obedience to a mute sign from the doctor, made no nearer approach, or attempt to touch or wake him, but she restrained her heavy sobs with difficulty, for the sight of how wan and worn, hollow-cheeked and pale he was, and how every way wasted, wrung her loving heart to the core.

Kneeling down by his bedside, she lightly touched with her lips his thin white hand that lay upon the coverlit, a mute action which, in one so charming as she looked, stirred even the heart of the staff-surgeon, and then she stole softly away.

'Is there any hope?' she asked, in a choking voice.

As the doctor did not speak, she looked in his face and seemed to see her answer there.

'He cannot recover, you fear?' said she.

'I fear not, Miss Raymond,' said the doctor, in a low voice.

She leant for a moment against the table, and felt giddy.

Then, bowing to the staff-surgeon, she drew her veil close over her face, took the arm of Clairette to steady her footsteps, and quitted the sad place in a tumult of grief and horror.

Night came on--the hot Egyptian night--and Allan as he tossed restlessly on his pillow, all unconscious of who had visited him, as he looked wearily round his bare and strange-like apartment by the subdued light of a shaded lamp, pondered doubtfully whether it had been a dream or a reality that he had that forenoon spoken with and seen his father, Lord Aberfeldie, and, in the weakness and confusion of his mind, he was somewhat inclined to think the whole thing was the effect of fevered fancy.

Ere long Olive was to have him all to herself!

In a beautiful little villa near the Lake of Timsah--one built for the famous Toulba Pasha, the friend of Arabi--in view of all the fleet that lay anchored there, Allan, after a little time, found himself in a luxurious apartment, furnished in European style, yet fitted up and decorated in the Egyptian manner, with gaily-painted arabesques.

The windows opened upon an arcaded verandah, the slender pillars of which were rose-coloured marble, with quaint capitals of purest alabaster, from which sprung horse-shoe arches elaborately carved and inscribed with verses from the Koran.

Palm-trees, feathery-branched bananas, and arched rows of orange-trees shaded the lovely garden walks, all mosaic with polished pebbles; and there, amid the rose-trees and beds of tulip bordered by myrtle, a white marble fountain spouted, the very plash of its ceaselessly falling water seeming to cool the heated air; and, in view of all this, Allan Graham lay on his couch in the care of his mother and sister, but more often with Olive alone, for she had constituted herself by right his nurse, and ere long Eveline found a sufficient occupation for herself. How, the reader may guess.

As for Allan and Olive, their reconciliation came speedily about, as such things never take long in real life if they are to take place at all; and the few minutes that followed are not very describable, as they remained, hand clasped in hand, in silence but with a happiness and content that were inexpressible,--'one of those rare periods in life when we forget our mortality and believe that heaven has begun for us.'

At first Allan, fearful of some infectious nature in his ailment, had implored Olive to leave him.

'Go--go, Olive!' he exclaimed, faintly; 'do not come near me.'

'You dislike me so--so much?' said Olive, more faintly still.

'Oh, no, oh, no--not that, not that, when I now know all.'

'Why then, Allan?'

'Because all the doctors tell me that there is something typhoid in this Egyptian enteric fever, and if it were to affect you----'

'Allan!' she exclaimed, reproachfully; and, pressing her lips to his, added, 'if you die, let me die too.'

'Olive!'

'Do you doubt me now?'

'Oh, no--oh, no, my darling; but do leave me.'

'Why?'

'Because this sick-room is no place for you.'

But Olive in the depth of her love was resolute, and kept her place as a watcher by his pillow, and day after day, with only short intervals of rest, was she there unvaryingly; and as she bent over Allan's sick-bed she felt how true it is that 'all the forces of our nature rush towards the channels of pity, of patience, and of love, and sweep down the choking drift of our quarrels, our debates, our would-be wisdom, and our clamorous, selfish desires.'

Allan's life was for a time hovering in the balance, and Olive, as she sat by his pillow looking out on the Lake of Timsah, recalled the pleasant days of their childhood at Dundargue, where they had plaited rushes beside the trouting stream, and he had garlanded her hair with scarlet poppies and yellow cowslips, and he used to call her his little queen and wifie, while the great clouds cast their flying shadows over the green Sidlaw hills and the bonnie Carse of Gowrie.

'Days gone beyond recall, save in memory!'

But, when she feared he might be going out from her sight for ever, her heart crew cold and seemed to die within her.

She watched him when he lay motionless and asleep, when his irregular breathing stirred his sunburned throat and broad chest, when the perspiration of fever rolled in globules over his forehead, and when the cold shivering of the ague followed, till by watching and confinement her cheek grew pale as Allan's.

There was always a profound and oppressive stillness about the house and room. She heard no sound but his breathing and the ticking of a French clock upon a console table.

Her hand it was that was ever ready to give the compounded drinks the doctor ordered, and when ere long he became convalescent, to her joy, she accompanied him in his drives around Ismailia, to Nefische and Serapium, and along the banks of the Great Bitter Lake, where the lofty white Indian 'troopers' could be seen under steam, and boats like those that are to be seen on the Nile at Cairo in hundreds--elegant barques with long sail-yards and fantastic canvas that fly with wonderful velocity, and are so ingeniously carved and painted, fitted up with carpeted cabins, and deck awnings of brilliant colours as a protection from the heat.

So the days stole on, and, as Allan's fever seemed to pass away, he and Olive became supremely happy--she all the more so that she had been his chief nurse. 'Nothing,' says a writer, 'tones down a young girl's passion into apparent friendship like nursing the man she loves in illness. Of course it is there, ready to break out with the old strength hereafter; but for the time the sense of utter weakness on his side, of protection on hers--the perfect unquestioned familiarity, the constant companionship--have done away with all the old reserve, and doubt, and mystery which to unsophisticated young women is the very food of love.'

We have said that while all this was in progress Eveline had found an occupation for herself.

It was very natural that Evan Cameron should call at the villa by the Lake of Timsah to inquire for his friend and comrade, and it was also natural that he should meet, incidentally, Lady Puddicombe, which event came to pass on the very day that Lord and Lady Aberfeldie had taken the train to Grand Cairo, to be present at the St. Andrew Festival, held by the Highland Brigade in the magnificent restaurant in the Ezeb Keyah Gardens.

Evan was suddenly ushered in upon her by old Mr. Tappleton, the butler, who had charge of the household at Ismailia, and whose rubicund face became quite radiant when he saw the familiar uniform of the Black Watch.

A little cap of snowy white lace rested on her soft brown hair; all the rich beauty promised but a short time ago had been amply fulfilled, amid the sorrow she had endured, or in the dignity of her girlish widowhood.

A film seemed to pass over Evan's handsome eyes; a tremulous sensation, hitherto unknown, seemed to thrill over his nerves, and he was for a moment more full of emotion than herself; but he did not, as she expected, hasten to take her in his arms.

'Lady Puddicombe!' he exclaimed, while playing irresolutely with the red hackle in his tropical helmet.

'I am not the wife of Sir Paget now,' said Eveline, sweetly and simply.

'What then?'

'His widow. Is it possible you did not know?'

'He is--dead then!'

'Yes, Evan--killed by a fall from a horse. I am in weeds, don't you see?'

And, if a tearless, a very peerless little widow she looked.

Then a half-stifled cry escaped her as she fell upon his breast, and her white hands groped feebly, as one might do in the dark, about his shoulders, as her arms sought to go round his neck. In her crape dress she seemed to appeal to him and to his tenderness, more eloquently than she had ever done in the past time, and he gazed into her delicate face, as he took it caressingly between his hands, with a growing intensity that showed how he had hungered for the sight of it.

The first strong tide of emotion swept over that parted pair, meeting now so differently from how they had ever expected to meet again.

In the intensity of her joy, Eveline had closed her eyes, as if the light of day had proved too much for them; then their long lashes began to quiver, the lids unclosed, and the dear eyes were again turned wonderingly, searchingly, and lovingly on Evan Cameron's face.

She was _free_.

His pulses quickened at the thought. He had never ceased to love her--never ceased to wish she should be his. Sir Paget was dead--dead as Julius Cæsar--and he, Evan Cameron, had been in possession of a treasure without knowing it--the free and unfettered love of Eveline!

'Dead fires are difficult to re-light,' said she, waggishly, while twirling the ends of his moustache with her fairy fingers.

'But, Eveline, with me the fire was never dead--as I loved you with a love that partook of adoration in the dear past days at Dundargue, so I love you still!'

'My poor, dear Evan!' cooed the girl.

'Yes--poor indeed--without you.'

So true it was that 'the thing we look forward to,' as George Eliot says, 'often comes to pass; but never precisely as we have imagined it to ourselves.'

Could Eveline ever have looked forward to this when at Hurdell Hall--to see Evan Cameron in life again, and feel his tender kisses on her lips and eyes?

Evan had loved Eveline as a maiden; he had trained himself to suffer, endure, and think of her as a wife; but now he thanked God that he had not to think of her as a mother--the mother of a wretched little Puddicombe!

Lady Aberfeldie, who had fresh views concerning her daughter, was somewhat irate when--on her return from the city of the Caliphs and Khedives--the latter, with perfect deliberation, informed her that Evan Cameron had been at the villa to see Allan, and had paid her a long visit.

'He spoke of his old fancy for you, no doubt?' said Lady Aberfeldie, rather freezingly.

'He did, mamma,' was the candid reply.

'He had not the hardihood to ask you to marry him?'

'Mamma!'

'Already--I mean.'

'Of course not.'

'But I suppose he will presume to do so in time?'

'I have no doubt of it, dearest mamma,' replied Eveline, attempting to kiss her; but my Lady Aberfeldie was in no fit of effusion, and coldly tendered her cheek. 'Was not his escape miraculous, mamma?'

'I admit that it was; and now----'

'Just learn this, dearest mamma; I married a short time ago to please you, and, now that God in His goodness has spared and restored Evan to me, I shall marry next to please myself.'

'It is very strange how some girls get it into their head that there is a special virtue in a man because he is poor.'

'Evan isn't poor now,' replied Eveline, stoutly. 'Stratherroch is nearly free, and, if it were not, I have enough for two.'

'Your jointure dies with you,' said Lady Aberfeldie, sourly.

'Dear Evan will never think of that, mamma; and long before _that_ day comes every acre, every tuft of heather in Stratherroch will be disencumbered and free.'

'You have schemed out the whole programme. But as your father's daughter, and the widow of Sir Paget Puddicombe, Baronet, you are entitled to look higher.'

'I don't want to do so, mamma,' said Eveline, coyly and laughingly; 'you see, it is only a case of "heaping up riches, and ye know not who shall gather them."'

Eveline was in a kind of triumphant and defiant mood, such as her mother had never seen her in before, for she added,

'The whirligig of time brings curious things to pass, so Lady Puddicombe will be Mrs. Cameron of Stratherroch after all.'

So the days stole on pleasantly by the Lake of Timsah. Allan grew well rapidly, and, now that she was free and under better auspices, Evan Cameron daily discovered in Eveline some new trait of character that rendered her more worthy of his love and esteem--or indicative that those qualities of passion and tenderness that first excited his interest in her had ripened under all she had undergone--the sorrow and separation that had tried and purified their mutual love, as gold is tried by fire.

We have said that the reconciliation of Allan and Olive came about, and rapidly, too.

'Only love me, Allan,' whispered the girl, as she nestled her sweet face in his neck; 'only love me as you did in the old days at Dundargue, and I shall be so happy. Without your love I could not live.'

'By your strange actions you destroyed my faith in you, darling--and yet I loved you still. Oh, think over it all, and consider if you did not try me sorely, for there was a powerful appearance of deception that was unworthy of us both.'

Her beautiful eyes were moist with tears; her hands stole into his, and he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, while a torrent of thankfulness and joy overwhelmed her heart.

'And so that wretched photo was the key to your apparently inexplicable conduct?'

'Yes,' replied Olive, weeping, while Allan kissed away her tears.

'Why did you not confide freely in me?'

'I was too terrified--too mortified to do so, and you were so proud, so suspicious of me. I writhed in secret under the imputation that that man had it in his power to cast upon me with the tampered miniature. I was weak, foolish, Allan, and every act of mine seemed to be a mistake and misplaced; but now----'

'All is over, and all forgotten.'

'Thank heaven for its goodness, Allan. You never wrote to me after that parting at Southsea. Save in your letter to your mother after Tel-el-Kebir, you never once referred to me, and then only in terms of scorn and invective. Oh, Allan, Allan, all that was very hard to bear.'

But Allan found ample means of consoling her now.

'How happy I am,' said Lady Aberfeldie, as she nestled both their heads together on her motherly breast; 'ever since you two were little children, how I prayed for this; I reared and taught you to this end, and God has seen fit in His goodness to accomplish it.'

And now, having brought our 'heroes and heroines,' to use the old novelist's phraseology, to this point, need we follow them into the region of wedding-bells, wedding-cakes, favours, rice, and old slippers?

We think not.

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.