Chapter XII: Fanny and Inez

Inez, who had passed a restless night, had been told the conditions on which Fanny was permitted to come to her, and this detracted somewhat from her anticipated pleasure in having her there. But her father had given his word, and it was sacred to her. All night Mark had staid by her, while Tom sat outside, trying to devise some means of returning the diamonds without exciting suspicion. He could hear Inez every time she moved or spoke, and that was some comfort. Once, during an interval when the pain in her heart was not so great, she said to her father, “Tell me how it happened, and when? The other marriage, I mean, and tell me about Tom,—when he was somebody else.”

Mark, who shrank from this ordeal which he had feared might come, said to her, “You are not strong enough, daughter. Wait awhile.”

“No,” she answered. “There is no waiting for me. I want to know now how you came to marry that proud lady. Were you like her? Like her people, I mean? and was Tom with you?”

Very briefly Mark told as much of his story as he thought necessary, omitting ’Tina and the finding of Tom in Boston where he rescued him from the street. Everything was softened and the life at Ridgefield dwelt upon at length, while Inez listened as to an interesting romance. It did not seem quite real to her that her father was once in a position so different from that which he now occupied. The change of names troubled her and twice she repeated “Mark Hilton,—Jefferson Wilkes,” as if accustoming herself to the sound. Once when her father made an allusion to the present as if to explain, she said, “No, no. I can’t bear that, now or ever. There is no excuse. You are my father, and I must love you always,—and Tom, who is not Tom at all!”

Tom was on his feet and in the room in a moment, standing where she could not see him, as she went on very slowly, for her breathing was difficult.

“It seems odd, but I am glad you were once a gentleman like those at the hotel, and lived in a grand house like Fanny’s, but I like better to hear of the woods and river and meadows and ponds in—what was the place?—Where Tom gathered the lilies.”

“Ridgefield,” Mark replied, trying to stop her as he saw how exhausted she seemed.

“Let me talk while I can,” she said. “I can’t speak of the past when Fanny comes if she is not to know you are her father. No one need to know it or the change of names. You are Mr. Rayborne, and Tom is Tom. I cannot think of him as Jeff, or you as Mr. Hilton. You are father and he is Tom till I die.”

“She does care for me a little. Thank God for that,” Tom thought, as he crept back to his post on the stairs.

It was beginning to get light, and not long after sunrise a buggy driven by an employee from Clark’s stopped at the foot of the hill leading to the cottage. Mark saw Fanny as she ran up the path, and went to meet her. In her flushed, eager face there was a look which he had seen often in his own face when he was a boy, and this it was which made him call her “My child” as he led her into the house and told her how low Inez was and how necessary that she should be kept quiet and not excited in any way.

“Her mother died of heart trouble. Inez may go the same way if we are not careful,” he said.

“I will be very careful,” Fanny answered, as she followed him to Inez’s room.

The curtains were drawn over the windows, but it was light enough for Fanny to see the great change in Inez. Her eyes were sunken, but unnaturally bright. There was a drawn look about her mouth and her cheeks had lost much of their roundness, but were red with fever spots, which contrasted sharply with the pallor of her lips.

“Fanny, oh Fanny! I am so glad you have come,” she said, trying to rise and opening and shutting her fingers rapidly. Then exerting all her strength she threw her arms around Fanny’s neck and burst into tears while her father tried to quiet her. “Don’t stop me,” she said. “I must cry or my heart will burst, and my head, too,—it aches so hard. Fanny, Fanny! You don’t know all your coming to me means. Now put me back on my pillow and sit where I can see you without turning my eyes. I am tired all over.”

Her arms fell helpless on the bed and she scarcely seemed to breathe.

“I don’t understand it,” Fanny said in a low tone to Mr. Hilton.

Inez heard her and before her father could reply she whispered, “Don’t try to understand, or speak of it. Just sit by me.”

All day Fanny sat by her, knowing that whenever Inez’s eyes were open, they were fixed on her with a look which began to make her uncomfortable.

“What is it, Inez? Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked at last.

Inez did not answer at once, but her hand moved slowly towards Fanny’s, which chanced to be lying on the bed near her. For a time she regarded it intently, evidently contrasting its whiteness and softness with her own larger brown hands.

“We are not much alike, but you love me and are not ashamed of me,” she said.

“Ashamed of you!” Fanny repeated. “Why should I be?”

“And you will stay with me? It can’t be long,” Inez continued.

“Yes, I will stay,” Fanny answered involuntarily.

Then she remembered her mother, who was expecting her back that night, or the next day, at the farthest. What would she say?

“I’ll stay a week any way. Inez must be better by that time,” she thought, and wrote to her mother to that effect, suggesting that if she were not comfortable at Clark’s she go on to San Francisco, where she would join her later.

Mrs. Prescott was greatly agitated when she received this note, and insisted that Celine should go to the cottage and bring Fanny away. She would have gone herself, but for the dread of meeting Mark again and being compelled to see Inez and possibly Tom. She could not go, but Celine must. Celine, who had been in the family since Helen was a young lady, understood her perfectly, and understood Fanny too. If the latter had made up her mind to stay with Inez, she would stay, and after a little she succeeded in making her mistress see that it was better to let her daughter alone.

“But I shall not go to San Francisco and leave her behind. I am very comfortable here and shall stay till she joins me,” Mrs. Prescott said, adding after a moment’s thought, “I don’t know what the surroundings are at that cottage. Plain, of course, and not what Fanny is accustomed to. She will be worn out with the watching and the change. I think you’d better go and see to her.”

This was a great concession and Fanny felt it as such when she received her mother’s letter offering Celine.

“It is kind in you, mamma,” she wrote in reply, “but Celine is not necessary. There is a woman in the kitchen and I don’t know what I should do with a maid. I am waited on now by everybody as if I were a princess, and Inez couldn’t see strangers. Keep Celine for yourself, and don’t worry about me.”

After the receipt of this note Mrs. Prescott settled down to wait Fanny’s pleasure and fret at the prolonged delay. Inez did not improve, except that her voice was a little stronger and Fanny could talk with her longer at a time and not tire her. One day after the stage had passed Tom brought a small package sent from San Francisco to Inez in care of her father. It was the watch which a lady had been commissioned to buy as a testimonial of the gratitude of the passengers who had been in the stage on the day of the hold up. Fanny had hoped to select it herself, but when she saw it she felt that she could not have chosen better. It was a little diamond jeweled stem winder, with Inez’s name on the inside lid and the date of the hold up.

“Something for you from San Francisco,” Fanny said as she put the box on the bed before Inez, whose eyes grew very bright and questioning when she saw what it contained.

“A watch! the thing I have always wanted. How did it come to me? I don’t understand,” she said.

Fanny explained why it was sent and how glad the passengers were to send it. It was the first time any allusion had been made to the attempted robbery. Mr. Hilton had warned Fanny not to speak of it and she had been careful not to do so. Now she said as little as possible and was glad that Inez did not seem greatly excited.

“I’ll keep it under my pillow,” she said, and several times that day Fanny saw her looking at it, particularly at her name and the date. “I wish ‘July —’ wasn’t there. It brings the dreadful day back to me, and I see him and hear him and hear my scream, which must have filled the valley,” she said.

“You will get over that when you are stronger,” Fanny suggested.

“Maybe,” Inez replied, and Fanny noticed that after that the watch lay a little away from her instead of under her pillow.

The next morning Inez handed it to her, saying, “Will you think me foolish if I ask you to take it away. Doesn’t it tick very loudly?”

Fanny did not think so, and Inez continued: “I had father put it on the bureau and the table and at last in the drawer last night, but I could hear it saying ‘_halt, halt_,’ just as _he_ said it. I am sorry, but I can’t bear it. Take it away.”

With a feeling of disappointment Fanny took it from her and said, “Shall I give it to Mr. Hardy to keep for you until you are better?”

“No, no; oh no, not to Tom; anything but that,” Inez exclaimed, and greatly puzzled Fanny put the watch in her travelling bag down stairs where she was sure the fancied _halt_ could not be heard.

Inez’s attitude towards Tom had troubled Fanny from the first. She never asked for him, and if he came into her room and spoke to her, his visit was sure to be followed by a chill, or headache. At last Fanny spoke of it to Mr. Rayborne, who replied, “Inez is rather fanciful. It is part of the disease to turn against your best friend. Perhaps Tom had better stay away.” After that he staid away, but Fanny frequently found him near the door when she went out and in.

“I am here to see if there is anything I can do,” he said in explanation, offering to go for whatever she wanted and saving her many steps up and down the stairs.

Towards her father Inez’s manner was different. She seldom spoke to him, but she allowed him to sit by her and once she took his hand with a look in her eyes which he could not misunderstand, and he said to her, “Yes, daughter, I promise before Heaven _that work_ is finished for me and Tom, too. I can answer for him.”

Fanny’s step was heard outside and he stopped abruptly, but Inez seemed brighter and better for what he had said. He was constantly in the sick room, frequently sitting in the shadow where he could see not only the fever stained face with the sunken eyes in which the shadow of a great horror was still visible, but the fair, blue eyed girl who filled him with pride and an intense desire to take her in his arms and call her his daughter.