The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance
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His face was pale and drooped forward, so that she could only see his forehead. His clothes were, like hers, torn and ragged, and-yes, there was something the matter with his clothes she had not noticed before-something that was not the matter with hers-they were wet! Wet! Wet with what?
Here by this shoulder, close to which she rested her head, his coat was wet and clammy. Clammy!
"Charlie! Charlie! I am very sorry for all I have done-all the trouble I have caused you and poor dear aunt. Will you not speak to me? Scold me if you like, but speak!" she said pleadingly. She stretched out both her hands and touched his left hand. She lifted that hand; there was no resistance. She let that hand go; it fell inertly back. Then she shook herself free from the arm that held her; it dropped down nervelessly behind her back.
"My God!" she cried, "what is the matter?" She turned towards him. She put one of her hands on his forehead. She touched his cheek. Both were cold. She raised his head. It wagged to either side, and then fell forward again until the chin rested on the chest.
Then she shrieked. The cabman heard her and drew up. He clambered down out of his seat and looked into the cab.
"What's the matter?" asked the man. "Oh, I don't know! I don't know! Look!"
"Wake up, sir, wake up. The young lady is frightened. Wake up, sir!" The man shook Cheyne, and raised his hand, and struck his thigh, but there was no response.
"Why, he's wet!" cried the man; "he's wet all over! What wet him?"
"I don't know. Oh Heaven, be merciful to me, and do not drive me mad! I was in a house that caught fire-the one you saw burning-and he saved me!"
The man opened the cab and looked carefully up and down Cheyne. Then he looked at the floor of the cab close to where Cheyne sat, and glancing up with a face full of fear, he cried: "Why, it's blood. He's all wet with blood! Look!"
May turned her eyes down, and saw upon the floor of the cab a large pool of blood close to the left leg. She did not shriek. She turned deadly pale, and said to the man: "Quick, quick; quick as you can go! Eight, Tenby Terrace!"
The man clambered up into his seat, and, whipping the horse, drove off at the top of the beast's speed.
In less than ten minutes he drew up at the door of Miss Traynor's house, jumped down and knocked loudly. The man whom Cheyne had set to watch the side door opened it and came out. In a minute Anne appeared at the front-door. Both were dressed, and ran forward hastily towards the cab. By this time May had alighted, and was standing at one side of the cab, while the driver stood at the other.
Anne uttered a cry of delight at seeing May, but the girl pointed into the cab, saying: "Make haste, get him up to the spare room at once."
The two men lifted him out of the cab and carried him slowly and with difficulty upstairs, and laid him on the bed in the small spare room. The cab was immediately sent for a surgeon, and May sat down by Cheyne's side to watch.
Miss Traynor had gone to bed that night and was now asleep. May did not know what to do, except to try and force a few teaspoonfuls of brandy into Cheyne's mouth. Fortunately the surgeon was at home, and in a few minutes his tread was heard on the stairs. May told the surgeon all she knew, and then she and Anne went out of the room, leaving the surgeon and the man Cheyne had sent together.
For upwards of an hour May had to wait before the surgeon opened the door; then he came downstairs with a very grave face.
The surgeon said Mr. Cheyne was now conscious, but very low.
May had given the injured man's old name in order, if possible, to avoid attracting particular attention to the circumstances out of which the case arose, or the case itself. The patient had lost a very large, an exceedingly large, quantity of blood. Only he happened to have a splendid constitution and youth, he must have succumbed in the cab. His right arm and left leg had been severely torn by splinters and nails. Some of the splinters had remained in the flesh, and had had to be extracted. The sufferer had been overtaxed at the time he received the injuries. He had, the surgeon gathered from him, been two days in great mental excitement, eating little, and moving about continually. Then at the fire he had made prodigious efforts. The speaker had questioned him in detail on this part of the case, and felt sure that few men, few of even the strongest men in their freshest vigour, could have accomplished the feats performed by him in that emergency. Even if he had come out of that fierce ordeal of physical strength unscathed, there would in all likelihood be a great reaction and depression of vital power. But the great loss of blood coming at such a moment made the case one of great anxiety-of the gravest anxiety.
Was his life in danger?
Well, the life of anyone who got a cut or a scrape was to a certain extent in danger, for many things might assail that cut or proceed from it. There was another thing which complicated this case, namely, the fact that where these fresh cuts and scrapes appeared were others not quite healed, This gave the case an ugly appearance.
Would Dr. Fernbeck wish for assistance? He could have any one he liked.
Well, up to this there was no immediate cause of alarm. But let him see.
Yes, he should like to meet the man who attended for those older cuts and bruises. It would be useful to meet that man. Where was he to be found?
It was Dr. Oliver Rowland, of Barnardstown.
And where were those injuries received?
At Silver Bay.
What! Was the Mr. Cheyne upstairs the Mr. Cheyne of the celebrated, of the immortal swim to the yacht Seabird?
Yes.
And consequently he was the Duke of Shropshire?
Yes.
And possibly a brother to the lady the speaker had then the honour of addressing?
No. And would Dr. Fernbeck have the goodness not to say anything about the patient's rank, or even the name she had given him? as, for some sufficient reason, the Duke was in London, and had been for some days under an incognito.
Dr. Fernbeck promised to respect the incognito, and say nothing about the case. He would at once telegraph to Dr. Oliver Rowland, at Barnardstown, asking him to come up and consult with him. Let him see; it was now five o'clock. There was no use in telegraphing before eight, as the office at Barnardstown was sure not to be open until then. By nine or half-past nine he should have a reply from Dr. Oliver Rowland, and by ten he would be at Tenby Terrace again.
Might she go up and sit with the patient?
Was the lady whom he had the honour of addressing the Miss Marion Durrant of whom his grace had spoken, and whom his grace so much desired to see?
Her name was Marion Durrant.
Then she might go up, but no one else was to go into the room save the man whom he had left with the patient, and who would be relieved in a few hours by a professional nurse. In the meantime, the patient was not to be excited or allowed to excite himself. Excitement of any kind might produce the gravest, the very gravest, results.
When Dr. Fernbeck had gone. May went into the little sitting-room for a moment, to think. She had told Anne not to rouse her aunt, for, knowing what a poor sleeper she always was, and having heard how she had sat up the night before, and feeling that the poor old helpless woman would be unable to render any assistance, and that the sense of her uselessness would only pain her. May had resolved to let Miss Traynor sleep on. But, now she was about to go up and see him, what would he say? what should she say?
The thoughts which had passed through her mind in the cab, having been nearly all based on the belief that he was at the time deliberately keeping silence, were now worthless, and she had no clue to what had really been, in his mind, for she did not know at what precise moment he had fainted. He may have been semi-unconscious at the instant he helped her in. Owing to her own terror and excitement she had not noticed the blood on his clothes; and as he wore black, and the blood came from within, it had no other effect on the clothes but to make them damp and clammy.
But what would he say? what should she say? It was impossible to answer these questions. Let her go to him at once. That was the only way to solve the riddle.
CHAPTER XV.
THE MARRIAGE OF CHARLIE AND MAY
She stole up noiselessly and knocked at the door. The man who was minding Cheyne opened the door and let her in. She went to the foot of the bed and looked at the poor pale face, now trying to force the pallid flesh into a smile.
"May," said a voice she hardly knew, it was so weak and thin, "come and sit by me, dearest. I want to speak to you." He looked at the man and said: "I am much obliged to you. You will leave us a little while, if you please."
The man withdrew.
"Dearest," he said again, and paused and smiled that pale sad smile. "Dearest." Again he stopped; the repetition of the word, and the sight of her face, seemed to be the only thing he then cared for.
"Oh Charlie! oh Charlie!" she cried and covered her face with her hands.
"May," he whispered, "take my hand. I cannot lift it now. I should not mind my weakness, only that I cannot take your hand, dearest."
She took his hand in hers, and cherished it against her bosom for awhile, and then put it down on the counterpane, and laid her warm young cheek upon it, and bathed it with her tears.
"Oh Charlie, Charlie! This is awful. Oh God, give me strength!"
Again he tried to smile, and said: "May, you must not fret yourself in this way. You must not, dearest. You ask for strength. Why you are a Goliath compared to me now. It is not so long ago, only a few days since, I was counted a strong man, could do things with my arms no man of the company could do. But now I cannot get a kiss of my sweetheart unless she comes and kisses me. I cannot raise my stupid old head so as to touch my sweetheart's lips."
She bent over him and kissed his forehead, his lips, her tears falling so fast the while that she could scarcely see.
"When I was on the roof that time, and you were in that room, I could have torn up those rafters with my hands, I could have pushed a wall down with my back, I could have taken a chimney-stack in my arms and dragged it up by the roots. Now, May, I could not lift one of the braids of your beautiful hair, dearest. If it was our bridal-day I could not put the ring on your finger."
Her heart was breaking. She leaned over him and whispered with passionate entreaty into his ear: "But, Charlie, Charlie, you will put it on another day. Some day soon, won't you, my heart's darling?"
"Not very soon," he said; "I am not sure I shall ever put that ring on your finger now, dearest." Still he smiled.
"But oh, my Charlie! I did not mean what I said when I wrote that dreadful note. I am only a weak girl, not a strong man like you."
"Strong man!" he repeated in a tone of amusement. "I cannot be a very strong man, can I, when I have swum to the life-buoy, see the ship bearing down to take me up, and yet feel my hand relaxing on the buoy so that I shall not be able to float until she is near enough to take me on board."
May did not understand that he was speaking metaphorically, and thought his mind was wandering back to that great swim which had made his name famous. But she did not want his mind to go so far afield now. She wanted to keep his mind as close as she possibly could to herself. So she said: "But you will give me that plain gold band soon?"
"No; not soon. It can't be soon."
"I mean as soon as you are quite well."
"That may not be very soon, dearest."
"Oh yes it will."
He smiled. "May, do they not say marriages are made in Heaven?"
"Yes, Charlie."
"I am greatly afraid I am not good enough to have my marriage made there; but if I am, you may be sure we shall be married, not soon, but-by-and-by."
Again she missed his meaning. "Soon or by-and-by are all the same to me, so long as you forgive me and take me back to your heart."
"You have never been out of my heart, child, never for a minute."
"But I have behaved very badly, Charlie."
"You did what you thought was best; and no one can do more than that."
"And you forgive me?"
"Dearest, I have nothing to forgive."
"But, my darling, my poor heart's darling, only for me you would now be strong and well."
"Do you think I could ever be strong and well again if any harm had come to you in that blazing house?"
She was conscious that this was special pleading on her behalf; that it was not sound; but she could not find out the flaw, and for awhile she sat tranquil, holding his hand.
He was silent for a long time, and at last May knew by his breathing that he slept. She sat as the morning wore on, and still he slept. At last she released his hand and went downstairs. It was now nine o'clock, and her aunt was in the little breakfast-parlour.
Miss Traynor had not recovered from the shock of her niece's flight, and, although Anne had told her of Marion's return, she was still too feeble to understand the full import of that event. Indeed she was never very clear as to Marion's flight, and had dim doubts as to whether the whole thing was not a dream. Anne had also told the invalid that Mr. Cheyne had been put to bed in the spare room, and that the doctor had come and said he was very bad.
When May saw her aunt she ran to her, and throwing her arms round the old woman's shoulders, burst into a passionate flood of tears, but said no word; her heart was too full for speech.
"There now, my child! there now, my child! Don't cry. I am very glad you came back. We are all very glad you came back. It was very wrong of you to go out this bitterly cold weather without anything to put round you when you were coming home. I did not mind your going in the least, but you must never again do such a thing without taking a cloak or a shawl with you. Charlie, your Charlie, was very uneasy too at your not having even a silk handkerchief to put about your neck when you came out of the theatre."
May did not say anything, but, sliding down on her knees, buried her head in the old woman's lap, thinking:
"Oh, my aunt, my poor good aunt, has my folly struck you down too!"
At ten o'clock Dr. Fernbeck came. He had had a telegram from Dr. Oliver Rowland, who was already on the way up, as he felt most deeply interested in the case. Then Dr. Fernbeck went up to the sickroom, and upon coming down reported the patient in pretty much the same condition as in the early morning. Yes, Miss Durrant might go up and stop with the patient, but she must not let him talk. No, not even for a minute. It was imperative that he should be kept quiet. Miss Durrant's presence would be more conducive, no doubt, to his quiet than her absence, but there must be no talking. He would come again in the afternoon with Dr. Rowland.
So Marion went up again to the bedroom, and took his hand and held it for his comfort-he was now awake-and wept quietly for her own heart's ease. He wished to speak, but she would not allow him, and told him if he made any new attempt in that direction she would be compelled to leave the room, as her orders allowed of no exception; upon which he smiled and remained silent, with his pale face turned towards her and his weary eyes fixed upon her face.
Shortly after this the professional nurse arrived, but she was told she would not be wanted in the sick-room as a watcher-not for the present at least, and that she might rest below until need arose for her upstairs.
It was four o'clock when Dr. Fernbeck came again. This time he was accompanied by Dr. Oliver Rowland. The two medical men spent half-an hour in the sick-room, and then came down, saying that, as Sir Francis Granby had seen the patient in his former illness, it could do no harm if he saw him now in this. Dr. Rowland would remain in attendance while Dr. Fernbeck went to fetch Sir Frederick, and a cabman was sent for Mr. Macklin, of the firm of Macklin and Dowell, solicitors to the patient, as the latter had some business matters of importance to communicate to Mr. Macklin.
It was judged best that, until Sir Francis had seen the sufferer, Miss Durrant should not visit him. It was more than likely Sir Francis would not be there for an hour, and Dr. Rowland suggested that Miss Durrant should take some refreshment, a glass of wine and a biscuit, and lie down and try and sleep. Dr. Rowland promised to call her when the great doctor had seen the injured man.
And May, being half distracted and quite weak, ate a biscuit and drank a glass of wine, and lay down as she had been bid. In a few minutes she was asleep. She was exhausted, and she slept profoundly, dreamlessly, for hours. When she woke up the west was all aglow. With a pang of grief that she had allowed herself to sleep so long, and a feeling of indignation against Dr. Rowland, who had promised to wake her when Sir Francis Granby was gone, she rose and went out on the narrow landing, at the farther end of which was the room in which he lay.
Just at that moment the door of the sick-room opened, and three men descended the stairs and went into the little drawing-room, which had in the morning been used a consulting-room by the two doctors. She remained standing on the landing until she heard the drawing-room door open, and then the front door, and finally a carriage drive away. Then she ran down.
She met Dr. Rowland in the hall, and said eagerly:
"Well?"
"Sir Francis Granby has just left," said Rowland gravely. "Doctor Fernbeck could not get him until now. He was out of town. This will explain why I did not call you."
"Yes, yes. But what does he-what do you all think?"
"That the case is serious, very serious."
"But Doctor Fernbeck thought the case very serious this morning. Is he worse?"
"That is a thing hard to say. The symptoms are but very slightly changed."
"But you think he will be quite well again in a few days?"
"Ah, well-a few days? Not quite so soon as that."
"But soon?"
"He is very ill."
"But he is enormously strong, and he is young."
"These are two points in any man's favour."
"Are they not in his favour now?"
"We are most anxious,"
"Ah, I see you mean that he will die."
"No, we do not say he must die."
"Doctor Rowland, may I go to him? He was very dear to me."
"I know, child. I know-you may go to him," said the Radical doctor, turning into the drawing-room and putting his hand before his face.
She went upstairs with a slow step. When she entered the room, Cheyne said to her: "Come here, little May, and sit down beside me, and take my hand as you did awhile ago. I want to say something to you."
She did as he told her without saying a word. He went on:
"When you were last here you asked me if we should not be married soon, and I said I feared not. I have changed my opinion. I now think we shall be married very soon. At once."
She turned and looked at him. His face was turned towards the window, through which the red disc of the setting sun was clearly visible above the distant housetops. The ruddy light fell on his face and made him look more like his old self. She said nothing, but kept her piteous eyes on his face. He smiled.
"We are alone now, and I suppose we are not likely to be interrupted for a little time. In that little time, dearest, let us get married."
Still she said nothing. She thought his mind was wandering.
"Little Marion, I have forgotten to get a wedding-ring, and even if I had one I could not put it on your finger. I have not the strength left. But then, out there is the great red ring of the sun, and if you hold my hand in yours until it goes down below those housetops, I shall feel that we are married. It is the poor conceit, dearest, of a Fleet Street hack who is weak and spent, and-and-and-well, never mind 'and' what. Will you do it, dearest, to humour a whim? and then I shall sleep sounder this night than ever, for I shall know that nothing can ever part us, for I shall believe this is a real marriage-as real as though it were performed in the dear old Abbey. Now, dearest, the ring begins to dip. Hold my hand and let us be silent until we can see it no more."
In silence they both watched the sun as it sank. She held his hand in both hers. When she could no longer see the sun she turned to him, and said:
"Charlie, it is set."
With a prodigious effort he raised himself in the bed, and, throwing out both his arms towards her, cried in a voice of agony and love: "Marion! Marion, my wife-my dearest! My wife, Marion!" and then fell back, to see the sun no more.
Dr. Rowland heard that cry, and hurried upstairs. He knew what had happened. He took her by the hand.
"Come with me, child, come with me;" and saying these words he led Marion away out of the chamber of death.
THE END