The Star-Gazers

Volume Three – Chapter Fifteen.

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 Three – Chapter Sixteen.

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.