CHAPTER XVII.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 432, 28 December 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER XVII.

' BKSURGAM.' ND how is your oatient tonight, Mrs Otis? Any change for the better yet ?' " Dr. Graves asked the question, blustering in like the god of the wind. A high gale, roared without, a tew feathery flakes floated t>ast the windows in the stormy twilight. In' the little sitting - room of the widow Otis' 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 mile from any other habitation, and flanked on one side by a low, grey Methodist chapel set in the centre of. a graveyard. The white and grey hcadetones glimmered athwart the" wintry gloaming, now, like white and grey ghosts. Mrs Obis, sitting placidly before her pleasant fire, got up as Dr. Graves comes noisily in. She was the neatest of all little women, done up in a spotless dress of bombazine, a spotless white neckerchief and widow's cap, and a pale, placid,, motherly face.- - > - - • Good evening. Dr.. Graves. I thought ib was Henr>. Come to the fire— bitterly cold, is ifc nob, 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 bho blaze. • Where is Henry? I wanted to see him.' ' 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'am — 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 everything falls to that pitiful, pettifogging little screw of an attorney, Peter Dangerfield— everything-, 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 nob 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 gob to work now, Mrs Otis— got to go out into the hard world and earn the bread and beef of everyday life. Nursery governess or something of that sorb ; she isn't qualified even for that, poor thing 1 , poor thing- !' •But, Doctor Graves, this seems a little too dreadful— too cruel. Where are all her friends — all our resident gentry ? Must 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 generously enough — the Talbots, for instance, and old Mansfield^the lawyer. Bub she's a young woman of a very uncommon stamp, ma'am, and charity'scharity gloss ib over as you may. She has acted very strangely from the first, in the last way any reasonable man might expect. Bub you never can tell by what you previously knew of her how a woman 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 sorb 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 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 waa daintily neat and clean. The last rays of the chill January day came through the muslin curtains and fell upon Gaston 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 breabhing, his fluttering pulse were barely perceptible— no more. His damp, dark hair fell loose and. curly over the white pillows, and in all its spectra) bloodlessness his rarely perfect face kept its dark Southern beauty still. Dr. Graves took his wrist between his fingers and thumb, drew out his watch, gave his head a little professional shake, and prepared to count with that owl-like solemnity of visage venerable physicians counting a pabienb's pulse ever dowear.» And over her coal fire little Mrs Otis sat and mused sadly enough on bhe fate of that unhappy young lady who a few brief days ago had been the brightest and most blissful of petted heiresses and happy brides 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,' she thought, with that glow of pride widowed mothers of only sons always feel. 'No doubt she knew, if others are too stupid to find it out, hoWidever-he is, how erood, how thoughtful,- how, kind ! No woman could ever be more 'tender in a sick room than he ; and if ib be possible for earbhly physicians or earbhly drugs to bring bhis ill-fated young man round, Henry is the one to do ib. Bub I.doubciib— l doubt it. 1 He looks like death, and he knows nothing or nobody. Hark! here as Henry now !' ' - >' . >She, -started forward. .The front hall'door opened,, ?a f > quick .footstep, crossed bhe passage, the. sitting-room door was flung wide, and Mr -Henrys Otis; 'booted, and spurred,' stood, pale as a ghost; before his mother.'; -r >h '< . . . „ • >> „, ,?Henry l\ the word was a low, frightened bub Henry Otis' eyes turned from her . to, the bedroom.' < - '' ■ < ' j - * 'Is she here ? Who is that?'', He strode across the room to the inner chamber, then iell backfwith a look pf^sick disappointment. •, Dr> Graves 1' lie; said/ -♦ only you. And I was sure I should find her here.' * Find whom here ? What do you mean,' young man;?T, '-»/'?.. V.w'A 1" ,/„ *i, mean Miss Dangerfield. What ! don't you know V She ran- away either Usb night

jor this. mo^nfn'gh'ronilsMraVobdrand no tale or tidings of netware to bo found. I thought she might have come here to— to see.him.' . , > , He crossed abruptly to 'tho fire, an I stood staring >infco it with a ' greatly disturbed face. -. ' -h ' • Run away !' the widow and the doctor both exclaimed. •• Yes — run away —to her death, most hkely.' - , ( ' • Henry ! Good Heaven !' ' Women have been driven fco their death before now by men—girls have committed suicide for lees than shc.hns undergone. It is nob those who make most outcry over their troubles who feel the deepest. What has Bhe to live for—robbed 6t all at one blow?' Ho .spoke bitterly— more bitterly than they dreamed he felt. Months ago he had lifted hiß eyes to the darkly brilliant heiress of Scarswood,' and had been mad enough to fall injove with her. To him shehad looked tho fairest, brightest, best of women, and not his own 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 I'-he looked angrily toward the sick room -' I feel as though I should like to strangle him. If she is dead, then Peter Dangerfield and Gaston Dan tree are as surely murderers as ever Cain was.' * Mr Henry Otis,' exclaimed Dr. Graves, with asperity, ' will you restrain this incoherent language and violent manner, and tell us in a composed and Christian way what has happened? Miss Dangern'eld went homo all right after the funeral, with Miss Talbot. Did she run away herself, in the night, or did Peter Dangerfield turn her ' 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 Misa Dangerfield left the house alone on foot, looking more ike ncr own ghost, the landlord says, tha« herself. Her French maid Ninon let her in a little before midnight — she gave tho girl money, bade her good-night and left her. In the morning she was gone. Search has .been made, but no trace of her as yet has been obtained. My own opinion is that she has made away wibk herself.' * And my own opinion is, she has done nothing of the sorb !' curtly interposod Dr. Graves. 'Only arrant cowards commit suicide, and whatever blood flows in Misa Dangerfield's veins, there is not one drop of the coward in it. ' She will live and to terrible purpose, as Peter Dangerfield, Gaston Dantree, and that other little villain Vavasor will yet 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, slender, sombre figure—its black robes, its white face, and great solemn eyes — there stood Katherine Dangerfield. He could nob 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, sw«et voice that haunted him for ever after his life long. * May I come in ? It is very cold, and I want bo" see Aim. 1 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 haye 1 spoken died on his lips. She stood before him alite, 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. ♦My child ! my child !' Mrs Otis said, with a motherly cry ; • thank Heaven, you are alive, and have come to us. Sib 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 Heave Castleford, and I could not go, you know, without seeing Gaston, poor fellow. I would have come before, bub I— l don't know— my head feels all wrong somehow, and I think 1 hare been half asleep all day. And the walk was so long— so long, and so cold— oh me ! and I was so dizzy and stupid all the way. How warm your fire is, and how nice ib is to sib hevo !' Her voice died drowsily away, her head drooped against the back of the chair, her eyelid 3 fell keavily. The three about her looked in one another's startled faces in dead silence. What did this mean ? IMy child — Miss DangerfieW !' Mrs Otis murmured. * Oh, look up ; 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. Has 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— l want to sleep now.' Her eyes closed heaviJy again, her mind was wandering. Her troubles had been too much for her then, after all, and had turned her brain. Dr. Graves bents over her and shook her slightly. * Katherine ! Katherine !' he called ; 'rouse up — Gaston has come— Gaston is here I 1I 1 She sat up and gazed at him, a bewildered look in her eyes. •Who calls?' she asked. «Oh, Dr. Graveß, is ib 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.'' She rose up suddenly, fully herself.: *I am going away, and I want to see Gaston. How is he to-night, Mr Otiß?' ' ' . • Much as he has been from the first,, Miss Dangerfield— little better, little worse.' 'But he will nob die ? Mr Obis,' you told' me he would nob die !' ' I think he will not ; 1 have seen wowe ' cases recover. It is a sorb.of ' concussion of the brain. He does not/ suffer, or at 1 least is conscious of no suffering. s * Thank Heaven for that !' she said softly. 'May, l see him at once now— and alone?, I don't; know w,hen ,1 may see, Bim again y and, Mr)Otis,',,youhave been so kind, will you take care of him for me uhtil he i«> quite well again ? ! , I can't bay ; you nb^r— l am poor— bufcsome.dayjif X live," I will.' • I 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 ;thet old bright grace.' - .' Thank you. JL t knew I m'igiifc t'rusbjyou, I must' go before it gets too late* Please take me to him at once.'* ~ ' .\ . * . ;

'He led her. to the chamber llporJ iw^ifce,cold arid mobjonjegs r , in "the fust-fading 'daylight, GastonjDantreVUay. She had not seen him since >thab fatal wedding night, and now she saw , him again —thus., She stood an instanb; then she entered and closed the door., rj They 'heard/ the soft , rustle of her dress as she knelt by the bedside, then silence fell. No one spoke. The momenta pawed ; the night had, entirely shut down; the wind howled through the desolate churchyard, whoso ghostly gravestones they could see glancing in the .darkness. A hushed expectation held them— of what they knew not — a strange, prophetic sort of awe. Mrs Otis was the first. to move. The mantelclock struck six ; she turned softly and lie the lamp, then stood waiting again. Five minutes — ten — 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., ' She has been there long enough. It is no place for her in her present stafce, Mrs Otis, do you go and toll 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. j ' Open the door, mother !' called the voice j of her son, sounding strange and husky — ' open at once !' Mrs Obis obeyed— ever so little al first, and not looking in. •Miss Katharine,' she called, 'may I enter ?' Still no response. Then she opened che door wide, and recoiled wibh a cry. ♦Henry, the child has fallen— she has fainted !' Henry Otis was in the room before the words were spoken. KabWino was lying on her face on bhe floor by bhe bedside, where she had softly fallen. In one second she was uplifbed in Henry Otis' arms and borne out into the light Her head fell limp over his arm, her eyes were closed, her feabures rigid. He laid her upon a sofa — bhe two doctors bont over her — one wibh his hand on her heart, the other on her pulse. The heart lay still, the pulse beafc no longer. Rigid, white, stark she . lay, already growing cold. | ' Oh, Henry, speak !' his imother cried, i • Doctor ftraves, toll me, has she fainted ?' The elder doctor removed his hand from her heart, and sbood up very pale himself in the lamplight. 1 Nob fainted, madam,' he said, quietly ; • dead !' (To be continued.)