Chapter XIII: Part 13

It is of no use to disguise the truth, for no matter whether Matthew Sinkins was in his Sunday best, or in his regular carpenter's fustian, he always exhaled a peculiar odour of glue. Certainly it was often dashed with sawdust, suggestive of cellars and wine, or the fragrant resinous scent of newly cut satin shavings; but the glue overbore the rest, and maintained itself so persistently that, even during the week when Sinkins had the French polishing job at Brackley, and the naphtha and shellac clung to his clothes, there, making itself perceptible, was the regular good old carpenter's shop smell of glue.

Thompson said to Mason that it was disgusting, but she told him frankly that it was a good, clean, wholesome smell, and far preferable to that of the stables.

This, with toss of the head soon after Thompson's arrival, for, in spite of bygones he found on getting himself driven over from The Warren, quite a warm welcome from old friends, one and all being eager to talk over the past and learn everything that could be pumped out of Thompson respecting his master's doings since that terrible night.

Thompson was in the stable-yard smoking a cigar--a very excellent cigar, that had cost somewhere about a shilling--rather an extravagance for a young man in his position of life, but as it was one out of his master's box, the expense did not fall upon him; and had any one suggested that it was not honest for him to smoke the captain's cigars he would have looked at him with astonishment, and asked whether he knew the meaning of the word perquisites.

It was a very excellent cigar, and being so it might have been supposed to have a soothing effect; but whatever may have been its sedative qualities they were not apparent, for Thompson's face was gloomy, consequent upon his having seen Matthew Sinkins go up to the side door with his basket of tools hanging from his shoulder, and kept in that position by the hammer being thrust through one of the handles, that handle being passed through its fellow.

"Him here, again?" exclaimed Thompson. "He's always hanging about the place. Well, it's as free for me as for him, I suppose. I shall go and see."

Thompson who was a smart, dapper-looking swarthy man, with closely cut hair, very small mutton chop whiskers, and dark beady eyes, threw away the half-smoked cigar, gave a touch to his carefully-tied white cravat, glanced down at his brightly polished boots, and let his eyes rest upon his very closely fitting Bedford cord trousers before crossing the yard, whistling in a nonchalant manner, and walking into the servants' hall, where Matthew Sinkins was waiting with his tool basket on the floor by his side.

"Hallo, chips!" said Thompson, condescendingly, "how's trade?"

"Pretty tidy, Mr Thompson," said the carpenter, slowly, and taking out the two-foot rule which dwelt in a long narrow pocket down one leg of his trousers, but sheathing it again directly, as if it were a weapon which he did not at present need.

"Glad of it," said Thompson. "Haven't they asked you to have a horn of ale?"

"Yes, Mr Thompson; oh, yes. Miss Mason has gone to get one for me from Mr Morris."

"Oh! has she?" said Thompson; and this news was of so discomforting a nature that he was taken a little aback. "Job on?"

"Yes, Mr Thompson, I'm wanted. You're here again, then. Thought you was going abroad."

"No," said Thompson, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and see-sawing himself to and fro, from toe to heel and back. "No, we're not gone yet, Mr Sinkins; and if it's any pleasure to you to know it, I don't see any likelihood of our going for some time to come. What have you got to say to that?"

Mr Sinkin's big hand went deliberately down the leg of his trousers, and he half drew out the rule again, as if he meant to measure the captain's attendant, but he allowed the narrow strip of boxwood to glide back into its place and breathed hard.

"I say, what have you got to say to that, Mr Sinkins?" said Thompson, nodding his head a good deal, and unconsciously making himself wonderfully like a pugnacious bantam cock ruffling himself in the presence of a heavy, stolid, barn-door fowl.

"Got to say to it?" replied Sinkins, calmly.

"Yes, sir, got to say to it, sir," cried Thompson, with an irritating air of superiority that appeared to suggest that he had got the carpenter in a corner now, from which he did not mean to let him escape until he had answered the question put to him so sharply.

Sinkins seemed to feel that his rule was necessary once again, but the boxwood was allowed to slip back as its master shook his head, and said in a slow serious way,--

"I haven't got anything to say to it, Mr Thompson, sir."

"Oh, you haven't."

"No, sir," replied the carpenter stolidly. "If I was to say a lot to it, I don't see as it would make any difference one way or the other."

"No, sir, I should think it wouldn't," cried Thompson; and just then Miss Mason, the brisk-looking, dark-eyed, ale-bearing Hebe of two-and-twenty, came in, looking as if she were wearing an altered silk dress that had once been the property of Glynne Day.

"Oh, you are here, Mr Thompson, are you?" she said with a voice full of acidity.

"Yes, ma'am, I am here," said Thompson, sharply.

"Perhaps you'll come up as soon as you've drunk your ale, Mr Sinkins," said Miss Mason, sweetly. "I'll show you which room."

Matthew placed the horn at his lips, and removed it so reluctantly that it ceased to be a horn of plenty, and he set it back upon the table with a sigh. He stooped then and took the handle of his hammer, lifting the tool basket, so that chisels and screws, and drivers, gimlets, saws, and planes, all jumbled up together, as they were swung round upon the strong man's shoulder, but only to be swung off again and carried in the hand, as being more suitable in so grand a place as Brackley Hall.

"Are you quite ready, Mr Sinkins," said Miss Mason, in a tone of voice that seemed quite affectionate.

"Yes, miss, I'm quite ready."

"Come along, then, Mr Sinkins," said Mason; and with what was meant for a haughty look at the captain's man, she led the way through the door opening on to the back staircase, sending the said door back with unnecessary violence as Mr Thompson essayed to follow, but only essayed for fear of being ordered back.

"There's something up," he said. "That fellow's seen something about master, and been tale-bearing. And so he's to go up there all alone, easing and repairing doors as the old major's 'most banged off the hinges in his passions, and she's to stand by a-giving of him instructions, and all to aggravate and annoy me."

He took a turn up and down the hall, screwing his doubled-up fist in his left hand, and grinding his teeth with rage.

"Yes; that's what it's for, just to aggravate and annoy me, and him smelling that awful of glue! Bah! It's disgusting. A low, common, heavy-looking country bumpkin of a carpenter, as has never been hardly outside his village, and can only just sign his name with a square pencil, pointed up with a chisel. I say it's disgusting."

Thompson took another turn or two up and down the hall, to ease his wounded pride, and then went on again talking to himself till he caught sight of the empty, unoffending horn, which he smote with his doubled fist, striking out at it scientifically from the shoulder, and sent it flying to the other end of the hall.

"Here, what I want to know," said Thompson, is this--"Am I going to pull this here off, or am I not?"

There was no answer to the question, so the man sat down astride of a form, as if it had been a horse, folded his arms exceedingly tight, and scowled at the door that had been shut against him, devoured by jealously, and picturing in his mind other matters beside the easing of doors and tightening of hinges, for he was measuring other people's conduct, not by Mr Sinkins' footrule, but by his own bushel.

"I can't stand it," he muttered at last. "I must have a quiet pipe."

Striding out of the hall as if he were on duty, he marched right out across the park and into the lane, from whence he struck into the first opening in the fir woods where the shade seemed to calm him; and, taking out a pipe-case, he extracted a very black _bruyere_ root pipe, filled it, stuck it in his mouth, and then, seeking for a match in his vest pocket, he lit it deftly by giving it a rub on the leg of his trousers, puffed his tobacco into incandescence, and then threw the glowing vesta, like a hand grenade, over his left shoulder.

There was a sharp ejaculation, and then,--"Confound your insolence, fellow!" Thompson started round, and found himself facing the major, trowel in one hand, malacca cane in the other.

"That light hit me in the face, sir. Do you know, sir, that you may set the woods on fire, sir?" cried the major. "What! Thompson! 'Tention! What the devil are you doing here?"

The man gave a sharp look to left and right, and then, from old habit, obeyed the imperious military order, and drew himself upright, staring straight before him--"eyes front."

"You scoundrel!" cried the major, seizing him by the collar, and holding his cane threateningly, as the idea of some peril to his niece flashed across his mind. "You've brought a note or some message to the Hall."

"No, sir! really, sir, I haven't, sir."

"Don't dare to lie to me, you dog!" cried the major, with the stick moving up and down, and Thompson's eyes following it, in the full belief that at any moment it might fall upon his shoulders.

"It's gospel truth, sir," he cried. "I haven't got no note. How could I have?"

"Where's your master?"

"Off, sir."

"Off? What do you mean? Isn't he at The Warren?"

"No, sir; he only sent me down to fetch his things."

"Ah!" cried the major; "and here with some message."

"No, sir, that he didn't, sir. I come over here of my own self."

"What do you mean by `off'?" cried the major. "You don't go from here till you confess the truth. After what happened how dare you set foot on these grounds! I say, where is your master?"

"Gone abroad, sir."

"Is that the truth?--Here, I was a bit hasty.--A sovereign, my lad.-- Now, then, tell me. Your master sent you down here?"

"Only to The Warren, sir, to fetch his things, because he wasn't coming down again."

The major looked at him searchingly.

"Let me see," he said, sharply; "he was to be married the other day, wasn't he?"

"Yes, sir," said Thompson, with a peculiar look as he held the sovereign in his pocket, and ran a finger nail round the milled edge.

"What do you mean by that, sir?" cried the major suspiciously, and the stick was raised again. "Wasn't he married?"

"Well, he may have been since, sir, but that other didn't come off."

"What?"

"Well, sir, the fact is, master was going to be, but there was a little trouble, sir, about another lady who lived in these parts, and when it come out about the wedding as was to be very quiet in London, there was a bit of a fuss."

"Humph! well, that is nothing to me, my man. I made a mistake, and I ask your pardon."

"It's all right, sir, and thank you kindly," said Thompson. "It was Ben Hayle's daughter, sir, Miss Judith, who used to be at The Warren before they were sent away."

The major had turned his back to go, but the man's words arrested him, and, in spite of himself, he listened.

"Ben Hayle come to Long's, sir, in Bond Street, where we was staying, and got to see master. I was packing up, because master was going on the Continong next day, and there was a tremenjus row, all in whispers like, because I was in the next room, but Ben Hayle got louder and louder, and I couldn't help hearing all the last of it."

"There, that will do. I don't want to hear any more."

"No, sir, certainly not," said Thompson; "but master didn't go to the church with Miss Emlin, sir, and from what I heered he went abroad next night, sir."

"Alone?"

"No, sir," said Thompson, smiling.

"Poor Glynne!" muttered the major as he turned away. "The man is a disgrace to the service. An utter scoundrel. Gone abroad. No, he would not go alone."

Thompson, left in the wood, took out and looked at the sovereign, and concluded that he would not go to the Hall again.

Volume 3, Chapter XIV.

FAR SEEING.

"Poor old soul, she can't be long for this world," said Oldroyd one day on receiving a message from Lindham, and, mounting Peter, he rode over across the commons to the old cottage.

"Oh, you've come at last, then," said the old woman, raising herself in bed and frowning heavily. "There, don't you go telling me no lies. I know where you've been wasting the parish time as you're paid for."

"Wasting the time?" said Oldroyd, laughing.

"Ah, it's nothing to make fun of. When I told you to take to Miss Lucy, I didn't mean you to go courting for months, but to marry her and done with it, so as she might be a bit useful, visiting and nursing some o' the sick folk on your rounds."

"Why, you dissatisfied old woman," cried Oldroyd merrily, "I rode over as soon as I got your message."

"Well, then, why don't you do me some good at once, and not stand talking. If you knowed the aggynies I suffer, you wouldn't stand talking. You heered the news?"

"What, about the French?"

"Tchut! What do I know about the French? I mean about my grandbairn."

"Miss Hayle? No."

"The captain took her off, and we thought he'd married her, you know, but he didn't."

"Poor girl!" said Oldroyd, sadly.

"Bah! I haven't patience with her. Got her head turned up at The Warren, being with that girl there; and then, in spite of all I said, and her father said, she must be always thinking of the captain, and breaking her heart when she heard he was going to marry first this one and then that. She got so that at last he had only to hold up his finger and say come, and away she went; and now she's back in London, left to shift for herself, with lots of fine clothes. She's writ home to her father for help. But we shall see--we shall see."

"A scoundrel!" exclaimed Oldroyd.

"Yes, he's a bad un," said the old woman, "a reg'lar bad un, but he'll get his deserts; you see if he don't. Ben Hayle arn't Sir John Day up at the Hall. He won't let my gentleman off so easy; you see if he do. Ah, it's a strange world, doctor, and I begin to think it gets worse and worse."

Oldroyd listened to a good deal more of the old lady's moralising about the state of the world, as he ministered to her "aggynies," and finally left, after undertaking to call again very soon.

"Mind, you shut the door!" shouted the old woman; "the haps don't fit well. You must try it after you've let go."

"I'll mind," said Oldroyd good-humouredly; and, mounting Peter, he was thoughtfully jogging homeward, when the pony stopped in front of a gate, on which a man was seated--the pony having apparently recognised an old patient, and paused for the doctor to have a chat.

"Do, sir?" said the man, getting down slowly and touching his hat.

"Ah, Hayle, glad to see you looking so strong again."

"Ay, sir," said the man, smiling sadly; "you ought to be proud o' me, and make a show of what you've done for me. 'Bout your best job, warn't I?"

"Well, I suppose you were, in surgery," said Oldroyd, looking hard at the man's pinched face and settled frown; "but, I say, my man, hadn't you better drop that life now, and try something different?"

"Easier said than done, doctor," replied Hayle grimly. "Give a dog a bad name and hang him. Nobody wouldn't employ me. S'pose I said to you. `Change your life and turn parson.' Wouldn't be easy, would it?"

Oldroyd shook his head.

"Perhaps not," he said; "but you're too good a man for a poacher. Look here, Hayle; Morton has left and gone to Lord Bogmere's. Sir John Day is very friendly to me. Let me go and state your case to him frankly."

"Wouldn't be no good, sir."

"Don't say that. He's a thorough English gentleman, always ready to do anyone a good turn. I believe in you, Hayle; and if I say to him that you would gladly come and serve him faithfully, I should say so believing honestly that you would. Shall I speak to him?"

"Thank you kindly, sir, but not now. I've got too much else on my mind," said Hayle, gazing at the doctor searchingly. "Been to see the old lady?"

"Yes."

"Did--did she tell you any news?"

Oldroyd nodded.

"Ah, she would," said the ex-keeper thoughtfully. "Hah! he's a bad un; but I didn't think he'd be quite so bad as that to her; for she's a handsome gal, doctor--a handsome gal."

"More's the pity," thought Oldroyd, though he did not speak.

"It's well for him that I haven't run again him, I can tell you. Don't happen to know where the captain is, do you, sir?"

"No, I have not the least idea; and if I had, I don't think I should tell you."

"S'pose not, doctor," said the man, with a strange laugh, "seeing what's coming off."

"Why; what are you going to do?"

"Do, sir," said Hayle slowly, as he leaned on the gate, and looked down the dark path in the wood. "When I was a young man, and made up my mind to trap a hare or a fezzan, or p'raps only a rabbud, I trapped it. P'r'aps I didn't the first time; p'raps I didn't the second or third; but I kept on at it till I did, and I'm going to trap him."

"What, Captain Rolph! Make him pay for the injury to your daughter?"

"I'm going to see if he'll make it up to her first. If he won't, I'll make him pay."

"Make it up! Do you mean marry her?"

"Yes; that's what I mean, sir," said Hayle slowly, and then, turning round to face the doctor, and fix him with his big dark eyes. "He shall pay his debt if he don't marry her!"

"Do you mean in money--breach of promise?"

"No," said the man, speaking to him fiercely. "No money wouldn't pay my gal nor me. He took a fancy to her, and she liked him, and I forgive him for his cunning way of following her when I was laid by. I forgive him, too, for what he did to me. It was fair fight so far, but it was his gun as shot me that night. I didn't bear no malice again him for all that, as long as he was square toward Judith; but he's thrown her off, and I'm going to see him about it."

"Man, man, what are you going to do?" cried Oldroyd.

"What am I going to do?" roared Hayle, blazing up into sudden fury. "You're going to marry sweet young Miss Lucy, yonder. S'pose eighteen or nineteen years, by-and-by, doctor, there's another Miss Lucy as you're very proud on. You're genteel people, we're not; but the stuff's all the same. I was proud o' my Judith, same as you'll be proud of your Miss Lucy when she comes. What am I going to do? What would you do to the man as took her from you, and when his fancy was over sent her off?"

Oldroyd stood gazing at the fierce face before him.

"Doctor, when I heerd first as he'd thrown her over, I said to myself, `He's a proud chap--proud of his strong body, and his running and racing: he shall know what it is to suffer now. Curse him, I'll break him across my knee.' Then I stopped and thought, doctor, and made up my mind that he should marry her, and if he don't--"

Hayle stopped short, with his lips tightened and his fists clenched; and then, in a curiously furtive way, he turned his face aside, sprang lightly over the gate into the wood, and disappeared from the doctor's sight.

"If I had done that fellow a deadly wrong I should not feel very happy and comfortable in my own mind," said Oldroyd, as he looked in the direction in which the man had disappeared. "Ah, well, it's no business of mine; and, thank goodness, I lead too busy a life to have many of the temptations talked of by good old Doctor Watts."

"Now, then, I've taken my physic," he added, after a few minutes' thought, and with a cheery smile on his countenance, "so I'll go and have my sugar. Go on, Peter."

Peter went on, and, as if knowing where to go, took the doctor straight to The Firs.

Volume 3, Chapter XV.

THE IMAGE FADES.

"Oh, how you startled me."

"Can't help being ugly," said Oldroyd merrily. "Eliza said you had come in, and were down the garden, so I took the liberty of following."

"Does mamma know?" said Lucy, with a guilty look at the house.

"I really can't tell," said Oldroyd, smiling. "I shall not look for her permission now, since I consider myself your duly qualified medical attendant, your life physician, I hope."

"Really, Mr Oldroyd," said Lucy, "you need not feel my pulse to-day."

"Indeed, but I must," he said; "and look into your eyes to see if they are clear."

"What nonsense!" said Lucy. "I suppose next you'll want me to put out my tongue."

"No," he said laughing, "your lips will do."

"Philip! For shame! Anyone might have seen. You shouldn't."

"Save that I would not have anyone witness of so holy a joy as that kiss was to me," whispered Oldroyd, "the whole world might see my love for you, little wife to be. There's no shame in it, Lucy. I am so happy. And you?"

"I'm very, very miserable," she cried, looking in his face with eyes that denied the fact.

"Then you are to tell me your trouble," he whispered, fondly, "and I am to console you."

"But I don't think you can, Philip."

"Well, let us hear," he said. "What is the trouble?"

"It is about poor Moray."

"Ah! Yes!" said Oldroyd slowly.

"And Glynne!"

"Whom you have just been to see, eh?"

"Yes."

"I once knew a case," said Oldroyd, "where two people were most tenderly attached to each other--the gentleman far more so than the lady; but they, loving as they did, were kept apart by foolish doubts and misconceptions and pride."

"It is not true," said Lucy sharply.

"That they were kept apart like that?"

"No; that--that--"

"The gentleman was more deeply touched than the lady? No; that part is not true. It was just the reverse."

"And that is not true either," said Lucy archly.

"Well, we'll not argue the point," said Oldroyd, laughing. "But I'll go on. In their case no one interfered to set matters straight, and they only came right through the tender affection and good heart of the dearest little girl who ever lived."

"You may say that again, Philip," said Lucy, nestling to him, and looking up through a veil of tears; "but it isn't a bit true. I'm afraid I was very, very weak, and proud and foolish, and I feel now as if I could never forgive myself for much that I have done."

"I'll forgive you, and you shall forgive me," said Oldroyd. "And now I don't think I need go on speaking in parables. I only wanted to point out the difference. Our trouble arranged itself without the help of friends. That of someone else ought soon to be set right, with two such energetic people as ourselves to help."

"But sometimes interference makes matters worse," sighed Lucy.

"Yes; because those who see about these matters are ignorant pretenders. Now, we are both duly qualified practitioners, Lucy, and, I think, can settle the matter right off, and cure them both."

"But how? It is so dreadful."

"Lucy, Lucy!"

It was a sharp, agonised call, as of one in extreme anguish, and, startled by the cry, Lucy sprang up and ran towards the house, closely followed by Oldroyd.

"Mamma, dear mamma, what is it?" she cried.

"Your brother. Oh, thank heaven, Mr Oldroyd, you are here."

"What is it?" cried Oldroyd, catching Mrs Alleyne's white and trembling hand.

"I--I went--I ventured to go into the observatory just now, my son seemed so quiet, and--oh, heaven, what have I done that I should suffer this?"

It was a wild appeal, uttered by one in deep agony of spirit, as Mrs Alleyne reeled, and would have fallen, had not Oldroyd caught her in his arms, and gently lowered her on the carpet.

"Only fainting," he whispered. "Let her lie; loosen her dress, and bathe her face. I'll run on to your brother."

Satisfied that he was not wanted there, and, giving Lucy an encouraging nod, Oldroyd ran quickly along the passage to the observatory, whose door he found open, but almost in total darkness, for the shutters were carefully closed, and the shaded lamp gave so little light, save in one place on the far side of the table, that he was compelled to cross the great room cautiously, for fear of falling over some one or other of the philosophical instruments, whose places the student often changed.

On reaching the table, he could see that Alleyne was lying prone upon the well-worn rug before his chair; and, making his way to the window, Oldroyd tore open the shutters, admitting a burst of sunshine, and completely changing the aspect of the great dusty place.

Going back to the table, he took in the position at a glance. There were bottles there, in a little rack such a chemist would use, and one stood alone.

He caught it up, removed the stopper, then put it down with an impatient "Pish!" and was turning to the prostrate man, when, previously hidden by a book, another stopper caught his eye, and, drawing in his breath with a loud hiss, he sprang to Alleyne's side, to find that the fingers of his right hand tightly clasped a small cut-glass bottle, the one to which the stopper belonged.

"I was afraid so," muttered Oldroyd, with his eyes scanning the white, fixed countenance before him. "He must have taken it as he stood by the table, and fallen at once. Poor fellow! Poor fellow! He must have been mad."

These words were uttered as, with all the prompt decision of a medical man, Oldroyd was examining his friend; his first act being to ascertain what the little bottle had contained.

It was no easy task to free it from the stiffened fingers; but he tore it away at last, held it to the light, to his nostrils, and then set it quickly upon the table, with an impatient exclamation.

"And I call myself a practised doctor," he muttered, "and let my fancy carry me away as it did. Poor fellow! He must have felt it coming on, and tried that ammonia to keep off the sensation. Suffered from it before, perhaps," he continued, as he laid Alleyne's head more easily, tore open his handkerchief and collar; and then, after drawing up the lids and examining the pupils of his eyes, he hurriedly threw open both windows, and caught up a chart from a side table.

His next act was to ring the bell furiously, and then return to Alleyne's side and begin fanning his head vigorously.

It was Lucy who answered the bell, running in exclaiming,--

"Oh, Philip, what is it, pray?"

"Don't make a fuss, darling," he said, quickly. "Be a firm little woman. I want your help. Cold water, a big basin, sponge, brandy, vinegar. Quick?"

Lucy made an effort to compose herself, and the prompt order had its due effect, for she ran out, to return in a few minutes laden with all Oldroyd had demanded.

"That's right," he said, quickly; and in answer to Lucy's inquiring eyes, "A fit, dear. He has overdone it. Exhaustion. Brain symptoms. Over pressure. That's well. Now, the brandy. Here, you take this card and keep on fanning, while I bathe his head with the spirit and water. We must cool his head. Fan away. Be calm now. A doctor's wife must not cry. That's brave."

All the while he was applying the sponge, saturated with spirit and water, to Alleyne's temples, and checking Lucy when she seemed disposed to break down, the result being that she worked busily and well.

"Well done, brave little woman," he cried, encouragingly. "It is a regular fit of exhaustion, and we must not let it come to anything more. Give me the fan, dear. No, go on. I'll apply some more water. Evaporates quickly, you see, and relieves the brain. Spirit stimulates, even taken through the pores like that. Good heavens, what a mat of hair. Quick! Scissors. I must get rid of some of this."

He now took the extemporised fan from Lucy's fingers, using it energetically, while she rose from her knees, and ran to get a pair of her sharpest scissors, with which Oldroyd remorselessly sheared off the long unkempt locks from his patient's temples.

Meanwhile Alleyne lay there perfectly motionless, breathing heavily, and with a strange fixed look in his eyes. At times a slight spasm seemed to convulse him, but only to be succeeded by long intervals of rigidity, during which Lucy plied the fan, gazing at her brother with horror-stricken eyes, while Oldroyd continued the cold bathing in the most matter-of-fact manner.

"If we could get some ice," muttered Oldroyd, as as he laid a cool hand upon his patient's head; and just then Mrs Alleyne, looking very white and weak, came into the room.

"I am better now," she whispered. "It was very foolish of me. What can I do?"

"Nothing, at present," replied Oldroyd. "Yes; send to the Hall. I know they have ice there. Ask Sir John Day to let us have some at once."

Mrs Alleyne darted an agonised look at her son, and then glided out of the room, when Lucy looked up piteously at Oldroyd.

"Pray, pray, tell me the truth," she whispered; "does this mean--death?"

"Heaven forbid!" he replied, quickly. "It is a bad fit, but a man may have several such as this and live to seventy. Lucy, we were looking about for a means to a certain--keep on fanning, my dear, that's right-- certain end."

"I don't understand you," she said piteously.

"Alleyne--Glynne--to bring them together. This is her work--thinking of her and over-toiling. Surely her place is here."

Lucy heaved a sigh, but she held her peace, and busily wafted the cool air to her brother's forehead.

Mrs Alleyne returned, to kneel down a short distance away, in obedience to a whisper from the doctor; and then an hour passed, and there was no change, while hope seemed to be slowly departing from poor Lucy's eyes.

Suddenly a horse's feet were heard coming at a gallop, and a minute or two later there was a tap at the door.

"I came on at once," said Sir John, entering on tiptoe. "My brother is having the ice well opened, and he will be over directly with one of the men. Now, Mr Oldroyd, what can I do? I have the cob outside. Shall I--don't be offended, you might like help--shall I gallop over and get Doctor Blunt."

"It is not necessary," said Oldroyd thoughtfully, "but it would be more satisfactory to all parties. I should be glad if you could go, Sir John."

"Yes; exactly. How is he?"

"There's no change, and not likely to be for some time," replied Oldroyd, quietly.

Sir John looked pityingly at Alleyne, turned to Mrs Alleyne, took her hand and pressed it gently. Then, bending over Lucy, he took her hand in his.

"Keep a good heart, my dear," he whispered. "He'll be better soon;" and going out on tiptoe, it hardly seemed a minute before the regular beat of his horse's hoofs could be heard dying away in the distance.

A few minutes later the rumble of wheels was heard, and directly after Eliza came to the door with a pail of ice.

"And Major Day's in the dining-room, please, ma'am," whispered the girl, in a broken voice; "and is master better, and can he do anything?"

"Go and speak to him, Lucy. Here, your handkerchief first. That's right!" said Oldroyd sharply. "Now, the smallest pieces of the ice. That's right. Go and say--No change. Perhaps he'll sit down and wait."

As he spoke, with Mrs Alleyne's help, he was busily arranging the smaller fragments from the pail of ice in a couple of handkerchiefs, and applying them to his patient's head.

"There," he said, "that's better than all our fanning. Now, I hope to see some difference."

The change was long in coming, Alleyne remaining perfectly insensible for hour after hour. Towards evening the principal physician of the neighbourhood arrived, and was for some time with the sick man, returning afterwards to where Mrs Alleyne, Lucy, Sir John, and the major were, waiting impatiently for news.

He said he was not surprised at the seizure, upon learning the history of the case from his friend, Mr Oldroyd, upon whose treatment he could make no change whatever.

"Then you think the worst!" cried Mrs Alleyne piteously.

"Pardon me, my dear madam; not at all. There are cases that time alone can decide. The ailment has been growing for many months. Your son must have had premonitory warnings, attacks of faintness, and the like; for he had provided himself with a strong preparation of ammonia; but he has not been leading a life that would improve the general state of his health. Over-study and general mental anxiety have, no doubt, been the causes of this attack; and as it has taken months to reach this culmination, it will take a long time to bring him back to health."

"Then you think there is no danger?" said Sir John eagerly.

"I think there is great danger, Sir John; but I hope that we shall be able to successfully ward it off."

Oldroyd and Mrs Alleyne resumed their places by the patient, the observatory being turned into a sick chamber, and mattresses and bedding were brought down; and there the astronomer lay, in the midst of the trophies of his study, his instruments and his piles of notes; the great grim tubes pointing through the opened shutters at the far-off worlds, towards which it almost seemed as if--weary with the struggle to reach them while chained to earth--he was about to wing his flight.

Lucy came in on tiptoe to bend forward over her brother, but Oldroyd rose.

"Go back, dear," he said, "and get some refreshment. It is time you dined."

"Dined!--at a time like this!" she said reproachfully.

"Yes; at a time like this. It will be a case of long nights of watching. He must not be left, and we must have strength to attend him through it all. Leave it to me, dear, and do as I wish."

Lucy bent down and kissed his hand in token of obedience, and soon after joined Sir John and the major in the dining-room.

"Can I do anything else now?" said Sir John; "if not, I'll go. I promised Glynne to go back with news as soon as there was any to carry. Are you coming, Jem?"

"No," said the major quietly. "I'm going to stop and help, if it's only to see that Miss Lucy here has rest and food."

Volume 3, Chapter XVI.

CELESTIAL MATTERS.

Sir John nodded and went straight back to Brackley to find Glynne dressed and impatiently pacing the drawing-room, pale even to ghastliness, and with eyes dilated and looking large and wild.

"How long you have been!" she panted, catching his hand. "Tell me quickly--how is he? Tell me the worst."

"The worst is that he is very bad. It is a serious seizure, my dear, but the doctors give hope."

"Father, this long waiting has been more than I could bear," she cried hysterically. "I felt as if I should go mad. Now take me there--at once."

"Take you--to The Firs?"

"Yes; now. The carriage is ready. I told them to have it waiting."

"But, Glynne--my darling, is it--is it quite right that you should go? Well, perhaps as Lucy's friend."

"I am not going as Lucy's friend, father," cried Glynne; "this is no time for paltry subterfuge. I am going to him who is stricken down. I must go; I cannot stay away."

Sir John looked serious, but beyond knitting his brows, he said nothing, only rang for the carriage, and then hurried away to fortify himself with a tumbler of claret and some biscuits.

In a few minutes they were being rapidly driven to The Firs, Glynne remaining perfectly silent till they were near the gates, when she laid her hand upon her father's.

"Don't think me strange," she said in a low voice. "I feel as if I must go to him now. I may never hear his voice again."

They were shown into the drawing-room, where, at Oldroyd's wish, Mrs Alleyne had been taken by Lucy to partake of some refreshment, and, as Glynne advanced into the dimly-lighted room, their neighbour rose from her seat and stood confronting her.

"Well?" she said bitterly; "have you come to see your work?"

Glynne did not speak, but catching at Mrs Alleyne's hand, sank upon her knees, while Sir John drew back with Lucy.

"Why do you come here?" said Mrs Alleyne, after a pause, painful in its silence to all.

The door closed softly just then, and Glynne started and glanced round to see that she was alone with Mrs Alleyne. Then she uttered a low, weary cry.

"You do not know--you do not know how I have suffered, or you would not speak to me like this," she whispered.

"Suffered!" retorted Mrs Alleyne, bitterly; "what have your sufferings been to his? Woman, you came upon this house like a curse, to play with his true, noble heart; and when you had, with your vile coquetry, won it, you tossed it from you with insult, leaving him to suffer patiently, till nature could bear no more; and now you have come to look upon the wreck you have made. But you were not to go unpunished. Do you hear me, woman--he, my brave, true son, is stricken to his death."

"No, no, no," cried Glynne, flinging her arms round Mrs Alleyne; "it is not true--he is not dying--he shall not die, for I love him; I love him with all my weary heart."

"You?" cried Mrs Alleyne, striving to free herself from the frantic grasp that was about her.

"Yes; I--even now," cried Glynne, rising and clinging to her firmly; "it is true that I loved him from the first. How could I help loving one so wise and true?"

"And yet you trifled with him," cried Mrs Alleyne fiercely.

"No; it was with my own heart," sobbed Glynne, "I did not know. What could I do? You know all. I seemed to wake at last standing upon the brink of an abyss;" and then, "Mrs Alleyne, is there to be no pardon for such as I? Was my act such a crime in the sight of Heaven that the rest of my life was to be blasted, for he loved me--he loved me with all his heart."

Mrs Alleyne shuddered and shrank away. "Are you, too, pitiless?" cried Glynne. "You must know all--how he loved me, and loves me still. Has he told you all?"

"Told me--all? What do you mean?"

"Must I speak to you?" whispered Glynne hoarsely, as she sank upon her knees and clung to Mrs Alleyne's dress, "I would have given the world to go back upon my promise, for I knew how he loved me, but in my blindness I said it was too late."

"Yes; it was too late," said Mrs Alleyne coldly. "But you will let me see him. Let me go to him. I ask no more. Let me be at his side, for it may be that I can save his life. Then--send me away, and let me have but one thought--that I have given life to him I loved. Mrs Alleyne, have I not suffered enough? Have some pity on me. Have pity on your son."

Mrs Alleyne caught her by the shoulder and drew her nearer, so that she could gaze into the thin, white face; and, as she studied its lines of care, her fierce look softened, and she caught Glynne tightly to her breast, sobbing over her wildly, and crying from time to time, "My child!--my poor child!"

Some time had passed before they went in softly, hand in hand, to where Oldroyd sat by his patient's head.

The doctor did not look in the least surprised, but nodded his head as if it was exactly what he had expected, and, after bending down over Alleyne for a moment, he left the room.

And so it was, that when reason began to resume its seat in Moray Alleyne's mind, his eyes rested upon the pale, careworn face of Glynne. For she had stayed. There was no question of her leaving The Firs while the patient was in danger, and when the peril seemed past she still stayed, to glide large-eyed, pale and patient about the quiet chamber, Mrs Alleyne giving up to her, as her hand smoothed the pillow and lent support, when, feeble as an infant, Moray lay breathing the summer breeze which came perfumed through the pines.

It was when speech had returned that Glynne sat near him one evening, watching his white face with its grey silken hair, and the heavy beard which had been spared by the doctor when his patient was at the worst.

Neither had spoken for some time, but gazed, each with a strange yearning, in the other's eyes. For it had been coming for days, and instinctively they knew that it must come that night--the end, and with it a long farewell, perhaps only to meet again upon the further shore.

Glynne was the first to speak, and it was in a whisper.

"Moray, when I knew that you were stricken down, I prayed that I might come to you, and struggle with the deadly shade to save your life."

He looked at her with a wistful gaze, and his lips trembled as he closed his eyes.

"My work is done now. Forgive me for coming. I cannot touch your hand again."

"No," he said sadly; and his voice was so low and deep that she bent forward to hear his words, and lowered her face into her hands that she might not let him see the agony and despair working, as she bent to her unhappy fate.

For there had been some vague, undefined idea floating through her brain, that he might have said one gentle, sorrowing, pitying sentence before she went--he, the man whom she knew now to have loved her tenderly and well. But he had acquiesced so readily. That simple little "no" had gone to her heart like a stiletto thrust. She, degraded as she was, could not take him by the hand again.

Then she started up to gaze at him wildly and reproachfully, for he repeated the negative, and added,--

"Better, may be, dear, that I had died, as perhaps I shall before long. But, before you go, take with you the knowledge that I loved you dearly from the first. Ah, Glynne, what might have been!"

"Yes, what might have been!" she said sadly. "Better too that I had died, as I have often prayed that I might; but I was mad to offer such a prayer, for my work in life was not at an end. I did not know then. I know now, and my task is done."

He was silent then, and she rose to go.

"Good-bye," she whispered. "We shall never meet again."

She had glided to the door, and her hand was raised to the fastening, when he cried faintly,--

"Stop!"

A low sigh escaped her lips.

Was he, then, going to speak one loving word to soften the bitterness of the last farewell? Her eyes brightened at the thought, and she turned and took a step or two towards him, with outstretched hands, which fell to her sides as she uttered a groan full of the despair at her heart.

"No, no: don't touch me," he cried wildly. "You--innocent and sinned against--cannot take me by the hand again. Listen, Glynne, I must tell you before you go. It will be our secret, dear, for the confession to another, and my punishment, would mean fresh suffering and agony to you."

"I--I do not understand you," she faltered, as she looked at him wildly.

"No; it has been my secret until now. Glynne, dear, in my mad despair, I had gone to watch your window from the fir wood, as I had watched it scores of times before, and I said. `It is for the last time. To-morrow she belongs to him, and I will not degrade the idol of my love by thoughts that are not true.' I reached the place sacred to me for my sorrow, but that night I could not rest there. It was as if something impelled me, against which I fought for hours before it mastered me, and as if by a strange magnetism--an evil planet attracted to a good--I was drawn nearer and nearer to the spot which contained all I held dear in life."

A faint ejaculation, half wonder, half horror, escaped Glynne's lips, and, with one quick movement she was close to his side, bending over him and gazing with wildly dilated eyes at the dimly-seen face upon the pillow, the faint smile upon his lips, as he referred to her in his astronomical simile, seeming almost repellent at such a time.

"I felt guilty, dear," he went on, and she shivered while he turned his face a little toward the faint light of the window, and was silent for a few moments, while a fit of trembling came upon Glynne, and she had to catch at the bed and support herself.

"I was not master of myself, dear. I loved you, and in my madness, weak from my bitter struggle with the power which led me on, I stole like some guilty wretch across the park till I reached the garden, and there I once more paused to renew the fight--to master the desire to be near you for the last time and then go back."

"Oh, Moray, Moray," she cried, with a piteous moan, and she sank upon her knees, uttering low, hysterical sobs.

"My poor lost love!" he whispered faintly; and his hand was laid feebly upon her bent head, which sank lower at his touch. "It was in vain. I can hardly recall it dear, for I tell you I must have been mad, but I crept closer and closer till I was beneath your window, and could touch the long, rope-like stems that reached from where I stood praying for your happiness, and a wild and guilty joy thrilled me, for I touched the tendrils which clung around the chamber which held you, my love--my love!"

"Moray!" she cried wildly; and in ecstasy of horror, wonder, and confused thought mingled, she clasped her arms about his neck, and buried her burning face in his breast.

"Ah!" he sighed; and his trembling hands rose to press her head closer and closer to his fluttering heart.

A few moments only, and then she started from him.

"No, no," she cried wildly, as she cast back the thought which, for a moment, she had gladly harboured. "Impossible! It could not be."

"I speak the truth," he said gently. "I must tell you now--while there is time."

She clasped her hands, and her fingers seemed to grow into her flesh with the agonised pressure as she crouched there, trembling, by his bed, her lips apart, her throat dry, and her breath coming and going with a harsh laboured sound, while his came feebly, and his words were harder to hear in the darkness which now shrouded them.

"Yes," he sighed; "I must tell you before it is too late."

He was silent for a moment or two, and then went on, with every word sending a pang of agony and shame through his listener's ears.

"Glynne, dearest, since that night I have often prayed that I might die, but death is long in coming to those who ask its help. I had raised my hand to steal one leaf from the creeper, when it fell to my side. Yes," he said, with a hurried intensity now taking the place of his feeble whisper, "I remember--I see all clearly now. I had raised my hand, but it fell to my side, and a pang of horror shot through me, for there was the noise of struggling overhead, faint, half-stifled cries, and then the baying of a dog. For a moment I was dazed, then I turned to run to the door and raise an alarm, when a cry rang out again, and, for the first time, I knew that it came from your window above my head."

He stopped, panting heavily, and Glynne, trembling violently now, drew nearer and nearer to him, with the darkness closing in, and Alleyne's face dimly seen on the grey pillow.

"Listen," he went on; "it was dark--so dark that I could hardly see that your window was thrown wide; but it was as if a horrible scene were being flashed into my brain, as I ran back over the short grass to stand beneath and begin to climb up by the thick rope-like stems that ran above. Then, as I grasped them, they were shaken violently; a man who had climbed out slipped rapidly down, and I seized him. But he was lithe and active, as I was slow, heavy, and unused to such an effort. He shook himself free, but I grasped him again, and once more he escaped me. But again I tried to seize him, and this time he struck at me, and I felt a sharp blade pass through my hand.

"It gave him a few moments' start, but not more; and as he ran, a madman was at his heels. Yes, a madman, for the passion within me was not that of one in the full possession of his senses."

Alleyne paused for a few moments, and, as Glynne's hands once more, tremblingly and with a pleading gesture, stole to his breast, his, cold and dank in their touch, slowly pressed them to his heart, and held them there.

"Guilty," he murmured, "but for your sake, dearest, and there must be forgiveness. For my love was strong, and the maddening feeling within me burned, as in my rage I tore on after the dark shadow that was hurrying away."

He was silent again for a few minutes, and once more Glynne's head went down till her forehead rested upon the cold, dank hands which prisoned hers against the labouring heart beneath.

He spoke again, hurriedly and excitedly now, but the coherency of his narrative was at an end.

"Some day," he babbled hurriedly, "she shall know--my sweet, pure angel--what--who says that?--a lie--pure--pure as heaven above. No-- never take her hand in mine--a murderer's hand.--Hah! dog--at last. Mother--Lucy--it has eaten my heart away--what do you say--her disgrace? I tell you she is pure as those above--but there is his blood upon my hands. I cannot--dare not go to her now. What--they have found him? Yes, I know you--Caleb Kent--no use to struggle--there--wretch--venomous hound--down into the black slime. Dead? Who said that? I did not know till I loosened my grasp. There, amongst the cotton rushes--my hands all wet and numbed--blood? No, the cold, black bog water. I killed him--I did not know till he was dead, mother. There, dear, I have told you. Nearly two years now. Let them find him. For her sake I could not speak. Can you say, dear, that it was guilt? There--some day she must know--some day, when we are old and grey, and life's passions have burned to their sad, grey ashes, and once more I can tell her how I loved."