Part 65 (1/2)

Yes, something had happened. He had never really held up his head after that second parting with Edith. For days he had lain prostrate, so near to death that they thought death surely must come. But by the end of a week he was better--as much better at least as he ever would be in this world.

”Victor,” his aunt would cry out, ”I wish--I _wish_ you would consult a physician about this affection of the heart. I am frightened for you--it is not like anything else. There is this famous German--do go to see him to please me.”

”To please you, my dear aunt--my good, patient nurse--I would do much,” her nephew was wont to answer with a smile. ”Believe me your fears are groundless, however. Death takes the hopeful and happy, and pa.s.ses by such wretches as I am. It all comes of weakness of body and depression of mind; there's nothing serious the matter.

If I get worse, you may depend upon it, I'll go and consult Herr Von Werter.”

Then it was that he began his nightly duty--the one joy left in his joyless life. Lady Helena and Inez returned to St. John's Wood. And Sir Victor, from his lodgings in Fenton's Hotel, followed his wife home every evening. It was his first thought when he arose in the morning, the one hope that upheld him all the long, weary, aimless day--the one wild delight that was like a spasm, half pain, half joy--when the dusk fell to see her slender figure come forth, to follow his darling, himself unseen, as he fancied, to her humble home. To watch near it, to look up at her lighted windows with eyes full of such love and longing as no words can ever picture, and then, s.h.i.+vering in the rising night wind, to hail a hansom and go home--to live only in the thought of another meeting on the morrow.

Whatever the weather, it has been said, he went. On many occasions he returned drenched through, with chattering teeth and livid lips.

Then would follow long, fever-tossed, sleepless nights, and a morning of utter prostration, mental and physical.

But come what might, while he was able to stand, he must return to his post--to his wife.

But Nature, defied long, claimed her penalty at last. There came a day when Sir Victor could rise from his bed no more, when the heart spasms, in their anguish, grew even more than his resolute will could bear. A day when in dire alarm Lady Helena and Inez were once more summoned by faithful Jamison, and when at last--at last the infallible German doctor was sent for.

The interview between physician and patient was long and strictly private. When Herr Von Werter went away at last his phlegmatic Teuton face was set with an unwonted expression of pity and pain.

After an interval of almost unendurable suspense, Lady Helena was sent for by her nephew, to be told the result. He lay upon a low sofa, wheeled near the window. The last light of the September day streamed in and fell full upon his face--perhaps that was what glorified it and gave it such a radiant look. A faint smile lingered on his lips, his eyes had a far-off, dreamy look, and were fixed on the rosy evening sky. A strange, unearthly, exalted look altogether, that made his aunt's heart sink like stone.

”Well?” She said it in a tense sort of whisper, longing for, yet dreading, the reply. He turned to her, that smile still on his lips, still in his eyes. He had not looked so well for months. He took her hand.

”Aunt,” he said, ”you have heard of doomed men sentenced to death receiving their reprieve at the last hour? I think I know to-day how those men must feel. My reprieve has come.”

”Victor!” It was a gasp. ”Dr. Von Werter says you will recover!”

His eyes turned from her to that radiant brightness in the September sky.

”It is aneurism of the heart. Dr. Von Werter says I won't live three weeks.”

They were down in Ches.h.i.+re. They had taken him home while there was yet time, by slow and easy stages. They took him to Catheron Royals--it was his wish, and they lived but to gratify his wishes now.

The grand old house was as it had been left a year ago--fitted up resplendently for a bride--a bride who had never come. There was one particular room to which he desired to be taken, a s.p.a.cious and sumptuous chamber, all purple and gilding, and there they laid him upon the bed, from which he would never rise.

It was the close of September now, the days golden and mellow, beautiful with the rich beauty of early autumn, before decay has come. He had grown rapidly worse since that memorable interview with the German doctor, and paralysis, that ”death in life” was preceding the fatal footsteps of aneurism of the heart. His lower limbs were paralyzed. The end was very near now. On the last day of September Herr Von Werter paid his last visit.

”It's of no use, madame,” he said to Lady Helena; ”I can do nothing--nothing whatever. He won't last the week out.”

The young baronet turned his serene eyes, serene at last with the awful serenity that precedes the end. He had heard the fiat not intended for his ears.

”You are sure of this, doctor? _Sure_, mind! I won't last the week out?”

”It is impossible, Sir Victor. I always tell my patients the truth.

Your disease is beyond the reach of all earthly skill. The end may come at any moment--in no case can you survive the week.”

His serene face did not change. He turned to his aunt with a smile that was often on his lips now:

”At last,” he said softly; ”at last my darling may come to me--at last I may tell her all. Thank G.o.d for this hour of release. Aunt Helena, send for Edith at once.”

By the night train, a few hours later, Inez Catheron went up to London. As Madame Mirebeau's young women a.s.sembled next morning, she was there before them, waiting to see Miss Stuart.

Edith came--a foreknowledge of the truth in her mind. The interview was brief. She left at once in company with Miss Catheron, and Madame Mirebeau's establishment was to know her no more.