CHAPTER XVII.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 430, 21 December 1889, Page 4

CHAPTER XVII.

' KESURGAM.' I q /fa ND how i 3 your patient toUjfll J/nSk change for the better yet ?' fp^M/uMvti Dr. Graves asked the quesfi raMm on » blustering in like the •ill j2wln god of the wind. A high jfjx^ gale roarei without, a GtfstZ-f*'"' few feathery flakes floated vast the windows in the stormy twilight. In the little sitting - room of the widow Otia' cottage a bright fire burned cheerily, the red, warm light streaming through the window-curtains far out upon the frostbound road. A frost-bound and lonely road, utterly forsaken this bleak January afternoon, on the very outskirts of Castleford, a full quarter of a milo from any other habitation, and flanked on one side by a low, grey Methodist chapel set in tho centre of a graveyard. The white and grey headstones glimmered athwart the wintry gloaming, now, like white and grey ghosts. Mrs Otis, sitting placidly before her pleasant fire, got up as Di\ Graves comes noisily in. She was the neatest of all little women, done up in a spotless dreas of bombazine, a spotless white neckerchief and widow's cap, and a pale, placid, motherly face. * Good evening, Dr. Graves. I thought it was Henrj. Come to the fire— bitterly cold, is it not, outside? My patient— well / don't see much improvement there, but Henry says he improves, and of course Henry knows best. Take the chair — do, and try and thaw out.' Dr. Graves took the cushioned rocker, and spread himself out luxuriously to the blaze. • Where is. Henry ? I wanted to see him.' 1 Oh, among his poor patients somewhere — he will be along to tea presently. Any news to-night, doctor ? I mean — ' ' You mean the Scarswood tragedy, of course, ma'atn— nobody in Sussex, I believe, talks of anything else latterly. No, no news, and no news in this case does not mean good news. The funeral is over, as you know, and ther* is no will, and every* thing falls to that pitiful, pettifogging little screw of an attorney, Peter Dangerfield — every thing, Mrs Otis —everything. He's Sir Peter now ; and among all the baronets who have reigned at Scarswood since the days of James 1., I don't believe such a baronet ever disgraced a good old name. She's not got a rap, not a farthing, ma'am — poor as a church mouse, and poorer, for church mice can steal, if they get a chance, and she can't. She's got to work now, Mm Otis—got to go out into the hard world and earn the bread and beef of everyday life. Nursery governess or something of that sort ; she isn't qualified even for that, poor thing, poor thing I s •But, Doctor Graves, this eeems a little too dreadful— too cruel. Where are all her friends — all our resident gentry ? Muat all turn their backs upon her because she chances not to be Sir John's real daughter ?' ' She's down in the world, Mrs Otis, and it's the way of the world to speed the miserable sinner who falls with a parting kick. Still in this case a few have come forward and offered her a home generouily enough — the Talbots, for instance, and old Mansfield the lawyer. But she's a young woman of a very uncommon stamp, ma'am, and charity's charity gloss it over as you may. She has acted very strangely from the first, in the la'3t way any reasonable man might expect. But you never can tell by what you previously knew of her how a u-oman will act in any given emergency. The Turks and other heathens who don't treat them as rational being? are in the right of it. They're not ! Don't laugh, Mrs Otis, it's nothing to laugh at. There's that young woman ! Quick-tempered, passionate, proud, generous, loving, just the sort of young woman to break out into tears and hysterics and sobs and reproaches, making the place too hot for everybody, tearing her hair and rending her garments. Well, how does she act instead ? Sits there like a stone, never says a word, never sheds a tear, and broods, broods in sullen silence. Women who don't cry and scold are women to be distrusted, ma'am. If I had seen her in hysterics I would have pitied her ; as it j is I honestly declare she frightens me. Now then, ma'am, I'll take a look at our \ wounded snake in the grass, and be off ' before it gets any later and colder.' He jumped up and stalked away to a large, airy chamber opening off this cosey sitting-room. Like everything else in and around the widow's cottage, it wag daintily neat and clean. The last rays of the chill January day came through the muslin curtains and fell upon Gas ton Dan tree, lying motionless upon the bed. It was an awfully death-like face— in his coffin the man would hardly look more ghastly, more utterly bloodless and lifeless than now. His faint breathing, his fluttering pulse wore barely perceptible— no more. His damp, dark hair fell loose and curly orer the white pillows, and in all its spectral bloodlessnots his rarely perfect face kept its dark Southern beauty still. Dr. Graves took his wrist between his fingers and thumb, draw out his watch, gave his head a little professional shake, and prepared to cbunt with that owl-like solemnity of yisage venerable physicians counting a patient's pulse ever do wear. And over her coal lire little Mrs Otis sab and mused sadly enough on the fate of that unhappy young lady who a few brief days ago had been the brightest and most blissful of petted heiresses and happy bridei elect. ' And how strange among all she knew — Dr. Graves and all — she should have chosen my Henry to come forward and cure the man she loved,' ihe thought, with that glow of pride widowed mother* , of only *ons always feel. 'No doubt she knew, if others are too stupid to find it out, how clever he is, how good, how thoughtful, how kind ! No woman could ever be more tender in a sick room than he ; and if it be possible for earthly physicians or earthly drugs to bring this ill-fated young man round, Henry is the one to do it. But I doubt it — I doubt it. He looks like death, and he knows nothing or nobody. Hark ! here is Henry now !' Sho started forward. The front ball door opened, a quick footstep crossed the passage, the sitting-room door was flung wide, and Mr Henry Otis, 'booted and spurred,' atsod pale as a ghost before big mother. * Henry !' the word was a low, frightened cry, but Henry Otis' eyes turned from her to the bedroom. ♦Is she here ? Who is that 1' He strode across the room to the inner chamber, then fell back with a look of sick disappointment. 'Dr Graves !' he Baid, • only you. And I was sure I should find her here.' • Find whom here ? What do yon mean, young man ?' * I mean Mmb Dangerfield. What ! don't you know ? She ran away either last night

or thia morning from Scarswood, and no tale or tidings of her are to bo found. I thought she might have come here to— to ; too him,' Ho crossed abruptly to the fire, and stood staring into it with a greatly disturbed face. ' Run away !' the widow and the doctor both exclaimed. * Yes — run away — to her death, most likely.' 1 Henry ! Good Heaven !' 1 Women have been driven to their death before now by men — girls have committed suicide for less than t>he has undergone. It is not those who make most outcry over their troubles who feel the deepest. What hus she to live for — robbed of all at one blow V He spoke bitterly—more bitterly than they dreamed he felt. Months ago he had lifted his eyes to the darkly brilliant heiress of Scarswood, and had been mad enough to fall in love with her. To him ehehad looked the fairest, brightest, best of women, and not his own mother had guessed it. But some of the sharp, cruel pain of loss broke out in his voice now. ' When 1 think of her, and of him — the traitor— the dastard !'-he looked angrily toward the sick room — ' 1 feel as though I should like to strangle him, If she if dead, then Peter Dangerfield and Gaston Dan tree are as surely murderers as ever Cain was.' • Mr Henry Otis,' exclaimed Dr. Graves, with asperity, 4 will you restrain this incoherent language and violent manner, and tell us in a composed and Christian way what has happened? Miss J^angertield went homo all right after the funeral, with Miss Talbot. Did she run away herself, in the night, or did Peter Dangerfield turn her out?' 1 Scarcely that, I think,' Henry Otis returned. * Even he would hardly dare do that. Miss Talbot left her at Scarswood and went home with her brother. About nine o'clock she suddenly made her appearance before the landlord of the "Silver Rose," where the woman Vavasor has been stopping, asked to see her, and was shown to her room. Mrs Vavasor was out, she returned in about half an hour, and they were shut up together until halfpast ten. Then Miss Dangerfield left the house alone on foot, looking more like her own ghost, the landlord saye, than herself. Her French maid Ninon let her in a little before midnight — she gave the girl money, bade her good-night and left her. In the morning she was gone. Search ha 3 been made, but no trace of her as yet has been obtained. My own opinion is that she has made away with herself.' 1 And my own opinion is, she has done nothing ot the sort !' curtly interposod Dr. Graves. • Only arrant cowards commit suicide, and whatever blood flows in Miss Dangerfield's veins, there is not one drop of the coward in it. She will live and to terrible purpose, as Peter Dangerfield, Gaston Dan tree* and that other little villain Vavasor will yefc find. Katherine Dangerfield, wherever she is in this, is not in the other world — take my word for that.' As he took up his gloves and hat, with the last emphatic words, there came a rap at the door. What presentiment was it sent Henry Otis to answer it with such a very unprofessional bound ? He threw it open, and — yes—there in the spectral, wintry dusk before him stood the tall, Blender, sombre figure — its black robes, its white face, and great solemn eyes — there stood Katherine Danoerfield. He could not speak a word ; the unutterable relief of seeing her alive and there, for a moment almost unmanned him. It was she who spoke first, in that faint, sweet voice that haunted him for ever after his life long. ' May I come in ? It is very cold, and I want to see him.' There was something so forlorn in her look, in her loneliness, in the soft, plaintive tone — something so like a spirit about her, that the words he would have spoken died on his lips. She atood before him alive, but surely death was pictured on her face. ' Come in,' he said simply ; and she glided past him, and into the presence of the other two. IMy child ! my child !' Mr 3 Otis said, with a motherly cry ; ' thank Heaven, you are alive, and have come to us. Sit down, ; let me warm your hands — poor, little frozen hands. Oh !my child, what a fright you have given us all ! Where in tho world have you been ?' She sank wearily down in the chair, and let her hands lie in the elder woman's warm clasp. • I hare been with Hannah,' she answered slowly ; 'at Bracken Hollow, with my nurse. And to-morrow I leave Castleford, and I could not go, you know, without seeing Gaston, poor fellow. I would have come before, but I— l don't know— my head feels all wrong somehow, and I think i have been half asleep all day. And the walk was so long — so long, and so cold — oh me ! and I was 60 dizzy and stupid all the way. How warm your fire is, and how nice it is to sit hero !' Her voice died drowsily away, her head drooped against the back of the chair, her eyelids fell heavily. The three about her looked in one another's startled faces in dead silence. What did this mean ? 'My child — Miss Dangerfield !' Mrs Otis murmured. ' Oh, look up j don't lie like that, Miss Katherine ! Miss Katherine !' • Yes, papa,' drowsily ; ' but I am so sleepy, and I don't want to get up to \ breakfast yet. Haa Gaston come ? It is cold for him to ride from Castleford tonight — and he hates tho cold — poor Gaston ! Call me when he comes, papa — I want to sleep now.' Her eyes closed heavily again, her mind was wandering. Her troubles had been too much for her then, after all, and had turned her brain. Dr. Graves bent over her and shook her slightly. 1 Katherine ! Katherine !' he called ; 'rouse up — Gaston has come — Gaston is here !' She sat up and gazed at him, a bewildered look in her eyes. •Who calls?' she asked. 'Oh, Dr. Graves, is it you ? Where am I ? Is papa sick again ? Why, this isn't — ' She looked around, and memory seemed slowly struggling back. ' Yes, I know now — this is Mr Otis' house — Gaston is here. 1 She rose up suddenly, fully herself. 'I am going away, and I want to see Gaston. How is he to-night, Mr Otis V I Much as he has been from the first, Miss Dangerfield — little better, little worse.' • But he will not die ? Mr Otis, you told me he would not die !' • I think he will not ; 1 have seen worse cases recover. It is a sorb of conclusion of the brain. He does not suffer, or at least is conscious of no suffering. • Thank Heaven for that !' she said softly. ♦ May I see him at once now— and alone ? I don't know when I may see him again ; and, Mr Obis, you have been so kind, will you take care of him for me until he is quite well again ? I can't pay you now— l am poor — but some day if I live, I will.' I 1 need no pay. For your sake, Miss Dangerfield, I will care for him gladly. I would cherish a dog that had been yours.' She held out her hand to him with the old bright grace. 1 Thank you. I knew I might trust you. • I must go before it gets too late. Please I take me to him at once.'

He lod her to the chamber door. W hite» cold and motionless, in the fast-fading daylight, Gaston Dantree lay. She had not seen him since that fatal wedding night, and now she saw him again —thus. She stood an instant ; then sho entered and closed the door. They heard the soft rustle of her dress as she knelt by the bedside, then silence fell. No one spoke. The moments passed ; the night had entirely shut down ; the wind howled through the desolate churchyard, whose ghostly gravestones they could gee glancing in the darkness. A hushed expectation held them— of what they knew not, — a strange, prophetic sort of awe. Mrs Otia was the first to move. The mantelclock struck six ; she turned softly and lit the lamp, then stood waiting again. Five minutes — ton— no sign, no sound from that inner room. Fifteen— twenty — the two men looked at each other uneasily. Twenty-five— thirty. Then Dr. Graves spoke. 4 She has been there long enough. It is no place for her in her present state. Mrs Otis, do you co and tell her to come out.' The little widow, full of foreboding, tiptoed to the door and rapped. No answer. A second tap, louder ; still no reply. A third rap— loudly this time, bub the only answers profoundest silence. • Open the door, mother !' called the voice of her son, sounding strange and husky—4 open at once !' Mrs Otis obeyed— ever so little at first, and not looking in. •Miss Katherine,' she called, 'may I enter V Still no response. Then she opened the door wide, and recoiled with a cry. •Henry, the child has fallen— she has fainted !' Henry Otis was in the room before the words were spoken. Katherino was lying on her face on the floor by the bedside, where sho had softly fallen. In one second she was uplifted in Henry Otis' arms and borne out into the light. Her head fell limp over his arm, her eyes were closed, her features rigid. He laid her upon a BO f a — the two doctors bent over her — one with his hand on her heart, the other on her pulse. The heart lay still, the pulse beat no longer. Rigid, white, stark she lav, already growing cold. "4" 4 Oh, Heury, speak !' his mother cried. « Doctor Graves, tell me, has she fainted t 1 The elder doctor removed bis hand from her heart, and stood up very pale himself in the lamplight. • Not fainted, madam,' he said, quietly ; ♦ dead !' (To oe continued.)