Part 71 (1/2)

”You had a bad fall, my poor child. Be brave!--the doctor will help you.”

He longed to speak to her of her mother, to tell her the truth. It was borne in upon him that he _must_ tell her--if she was to die; that in the last strait, Alice's arms must be about her. But the doctor must decide.

Presently, she was a little easier. The warm stimulant dulled the consciousness which came in gusts.

Once or twice, as she recognized the faces near her, there was a touch of life, even of mockery. There was a moment when she smiled at Catharine--

”You're sweet. You won't say--'I told you so'!”

In one of the intervals when she seemed to have lapsed again into unconsciousness Meynell reported something of the search. They had found her a long distance from the path, at the foot of a steep and rocky scree, some twenty or thirty feet high, down which she must have slipped headlong. There she had lain for some eight hours in the storm before they found her. She neither moved nor spoke when they discovered her, nor had there been any sign of life, beyond the faint beating of the pulse, on the journey down.

The pale dawn was breaking when the doctor arrived. His verdict was at first not without hope. She _might_ live; if there were no internal injuries of importance. The next few hours would show. He sent his motor back to Whinborough Cottage Hospital for a couple of nurses, and prepared, himself, to stay the greater part of the day. He had just gone downstairs to speak to Meynell, and Catharine was sitting by the bed, when Hester once more roused herself.

”How that man hurt me!--don't let him come in again.”

Then, in a perfectly hard, clear voice, she added imperiously--”I want to see my mother.”

Catharine stooped toward her, in an agitation she found it difficult to conceal.

”Dear Hester!--we are sending a telegram as soon as the post-office is open to Lady Fox-Wilton.”

Hester moved her hand impatiently.

”She's not my mother, and I'm glad. Where is--_my mother_?” She laid a strange, deep emphasis on the word, opening her eyes wide and threateningly. Catharine understood at once that, in some undiscovered way, she knew what they had all been striving to keep from her. It was no time for questioning. Catharine rose quietly.

”She is here, Hester, I will go and tell her.”

Leaving one of the maids in charge, Catharine ran down to the doctor, who gave a reluctant consent, lest more harm should come of refusing the interview than of granting it. And as Catharine ran up again to Mary's room she had time to reflect, with self-reproach, on the strange completeness with which she at any rate had forgotten that frail ineffectual woman asleep in Mary's room from the moment of Hester's arrival till now.

But Mary had not forgotten her. When Catharine opened the door, it was to see a thin, phantom-like figure, standing fully dressed, and leaning on Mary's arm. Catharine went up to her with tears, and kissed her, holding her hands close.

”Hester asks for you--for her mother--her real mother. She knows.”

”_She knows_?” Alice stood paralyzed a moment, gazing at Catharine. Then the colour rushed back into her face. ”I am coming--I am coming--at once,” she said impetuously. ”I am quite strong. Don't help me, please.

And--let me go in alone. I won't do her harm. If you--and Mary--would stand by the door--I would call in a moment--if--”

They agreed. She went with tottering steps across the landing. On the threshold, Catharine paused; Mary remained a little behind. Alice went in and shut the door.

The blinds in Hester's room were up, and the snow-covered fells rising steeply above the house filled it with a wintry, reflected light; a dreary light, that a large fire could not dispel. On the white bed lay Hester, breathing quickly and shallowly; bright colour now in each sunken cheek. The doctor himself had cut off a great part of her hair--her glorious hair. The rest fell now in damp golden curls about her slender neck, beneath the cap-like bandage which hid the forehead and temples and gave her the look of a young nun. At first sight of her, Alice knew that she was doomed. Do what she would, she could not restrain the low cry which the sight tore from the depths of life.

Hester feebly beckoned. Alice came near, and took the right hand in hers, while Hester smiled, her eyelids fluttering. ”Mother!”--she said, so as scarcely to be heard--and then again--”_Mother_!”

Alice sank down beside her with a sob, and without a word they gazed into each other's eyes. Slowly Hester's filled with tears. But Alice's were dry. In her face there was as much ecstasy as anguish. It was the first look that Hester's _soul_ had ever given her. All the past was in it; and that strange sense, on both sides, that there was no future.

At last Alice murmured:

”How did you know?”

”Philip told me.”

The girl stopped abruptly. It had been on her tongue to say--”It was that made me go with him.”