“MY DEAREST MARY,
“I have been very anxious lately about my friend Herbert Field, and I want you to do me a great favour. You know that he is not very strong, and some time ago he caught a horrid cold which he seems quite unable to shake, off. He refuses to take proper care of himself, and he looks very ill and thin. Our doctor has been attending him, but he grows no better, and I am dreadfully alarmed. I don’t know what I should do if anything happened to him. At last I have been able to persuade him to come to London to see a specialist. Do you think Dr. Hurrell would look at him if I brought Mr. Field up next Saturday? Of course I would pay the ordinary fees, but there is no need that Herbert should know this. He can manage to get away early on Saturday morning, if you will get me an appointment we would drive straight to Dr. Hurrell. May we come to luncheon with you afterwards?
“Yours affectionately,
“BELLA LANGTON,”
When Frank came in to tea, as was his habit whenever he had time, Miss Ley showed him the letter, and afterwards wrote back to say that Dr. Hurrell would be pleased to see the invalid at twelve on the following Saturday.
“I don’t suppose he has anything the matter with him,” said Frank, “but I don’t mind having a look. And tell her she can keep her confounded fees.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Frank,” replied Miss Ley.
At the appointed hour Bella and Herbert were shown into his consulting-room. The youth was shy and ill at ease.
“Now, will you go into the waiting-room, Miss Langton?” said Frank. “I’ll send for you later.”
Bella, somewhat impressed by his professional manner, retired, and Frank examined his patient’s face slowly, as though he sought the hidden springs of character. Herbert watched with apprehension the grave man in front of him.
“I don’t think I’ve really got anything much the matter with me; only Miss Langton was anxious.”
“Medical men would starve if they depended only on the diseased,” answered Frank. “You’d better take off your things.”
Herbert reddened at the discomfort of undressing himself before a stranger. The doctor noted the milky whiteness of his skin, and the emaciation of his body, which revealed the entire form of the skeleton; he took the boy’s hand and looked at the long fingers with nails slightly bent over.
“Have you ever spat any blood?”
“No.”
“D’you sweat at night at all?”
“I never used to, but this last week I have a bit.”
“I believe most of your relations are dead, aren’t they?”
“All of them.”
“What did they die of?”
“My father died of consumption, and my sister also.”
Frank said nothing, but his face grew somewhat graver as he heard the bad history. He began to percuss the boy’s chest.
“I can find nothing abnormal there,” he said.
Then he took his stethoscope and listened.
“Say ninety-nine. Now cough. Breathe deeply.”
He went over every inch carefully, but found nothing more than might be due to an attack of bronchitis. But before putting down the stethoscope he applied it again to the apex of the lung, just above the collar-bone.
“Breathe deeply.”
Then very distinctly he heard a slight crackling sound, which the hectic flush on Herbert’s cheeks, the symptoms and the history, had led him to expect. Once more he percussed, more carefully still, and the note was dull. There could be little doubt about the diagnosis.
“You can put on your clothes,” he said, sitting down at his desk to write notes of the case.
Without a word Herbert dressed himself. He waited till the doctor finished.
“Is there anything the matter with me?” he asked.
Frank looked at him gravely.
“Nothing very serious. I’ll talk to Miss Langton if you’ll get her to come here.”
“I’d sooner hear myself, if you don’t mind,” said Herbert, flushing. “I’m not afraid to be told anything.”
“You need not be very much alarmed, you know,” answered Frank in a moment, with a brief hesitation which did not escape Herbert. “You have râles at the right apex. At first I didn’t hear them.”
“What does that mean?” A cold shiver of dread ran through him so that his hands and feet felt horribly cold; there was a slight tremor in his voice when he asked a further question. “Is it the same as my father and my sister?”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Frank.
And the shadow of Death stood suddenly in the room, patient and sinister; and each knew that henceforward it would never leave the young man’s side; it would sit by him at table silently, and lie in his bed at night; and when he read, a long finger would underline the words to remind him that he was a prisoner condemned. When the wind, marching through the country, sang to himself like a strong-limbed ploughboy, Death, whistling in his ears, would mock the tune softly; when he looked at the rising sun which coloured the mist like a chalcedony, purple and rosy and green, Death would snigger at his delight in the sad world’s beauty. An icy hand gripped his heart so that he felt sick with dread and anguish; he could not repress the sob torn from him by bitter agony. Frank was ashamed to look at that boyish face, so frank and fair, distraught with terror, and he cast down his eyes. Then, to hide himself, Herbert went to the window and looked out: opposite, the houses were gray, ugly, and monotonous, and the heavy sky lowered as though verily it would crush the earth; but he saw life like a pageant processioning before him, and the azure heaven more profound than the rich enamel of an old French jewel, the ploughed fields gaining in the sunshine the various colour of the jasper, and the elm-trees more sombre than jade. He was like a man in a deep chasm who scans at noon the stars which those who live in daylight cannot see.
Frank’s voice came to him like a sound from another world.
“I wouldn’t take it too much to heart if I were you. With care you may easily recover, and after all, plenty of people have lived to a ripe old age with tuberculous lungs.”
“My sister was only ill four months, and my father less than a year.”
His pale face expressed no emotion, so that Frank could only divine the fear that made his heart sink; he had seen many take the sentence of death, and knew that in comparison the final agony itself was small indeed. It was the most awful moment in life, and it must have been a cruel god who was not satisfied with that instant of hopeless misery to punish all the sins and follies of mankind: beside it all human suffering, the death of children or the ingratitude of friends, loss of honour or of wealth, sank into insignificance. It was the bitter, bitter cup that each must drink because man had raised himself above the beasts.
Frank rang the bell.
“Ask Miss Langton to be so good as to come here,” he told the servant who answered.
She looked anxiously from Frank to Herbert standing at the window, his back turned; and the two men’s silence, the doctor’s grave constraint, filled her with terrified foreboding.
“Herbert, what’s the matter?” she cried. “What has he told you?”
The boy turned round.
“Only that I shall never do anything in the world now. And I shall die like a dog and leave behind me the sunshine and the blue sky and the trees.”
Bella cried out, and then despair settled in her eyes, and helplessly the tears ran down her cheeks.
“How could you be so cruel?” she said to Frank. “Oh, Herbert, perhaps it’s not true. . . . What’s to be done, Dr. Hurrell? Can’t you save him somehow?”
She sank into a chair and sobbed. The boy placed his hand on her shoulder gently.
“Don’t cry, dear. In my heart of hearts I knew, but I tried not to believe it. After all, it can’t be helped. I shall just have to go through with it like everyone else.”
“It seems so hard and meaningless,” she groaned. “It can’t be true.”
Herbert looked at her without answering, as though her anguish were a curious thing which excited in him no emotion. In a little while, with a sigh, Bella rose to her feet and dried her eyes.
“Come away, Herbert,” she said. “Let us go back to Mary.”
“D’you mind if I go by myself? I feel I can’t talk to anyone just now. I should like to be alone for a bit to think it out.”
“You must do as you choose, Herbert.”
“Good-bye, Dr. Hurrell, and thanks.”
With eager, pain-filled eyes Bella watched him go, and she, too, felt that something strange was in him, so that she dared not thwart his wish; when he spoke there was an inflexion in his voice which she had never heard before. But presently, with a great effort gathering herself together, she turned to Frank.
“Now, will you tell me exactly what should be done?” she said, with an attempt at the decisive manner she used in the conduct of charitable enterprises at Tercanbury.
“First of all get the fact into your head that there is no immediate cause for alarm. I’m afraid there’s no doubt that tubercle is there, but the damage at present is very small. He wants care and proper treatment.... Is he entirely dependent for means upon his occupation?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is it possible for him to go away? He ought to winter abroad—not only for the climate, but also because new scenes will distract his mind.”
“Oh, I would so gladly pay for him, but he’d never accept a penny from me. Is it his only chance of life?”
“I can’t say that. The human body is a machine which constantly acts counter to expectation; sometimes with every organ diseased it still manages to dodder along.”
Bella did not listen, for suddenly an idea had flashed cross her mind. She blushed furiously, but all the same it seemed excellent; her heart beat madly, and an ecstatic happiness lifted her up. She rose from the chair.
“I dare say I can manage something, after all. I must go and talk to Miss Ley. Good-bye.”
She gave him her hand and left him wondering what had caused in her this sudden change, for the depression had vanished before something which quickened her gait and rendered her step elastic.
“Well, what did Frank tell you?” asked Miss Ley, when she had kissed Bella.
“He says that Herbert has consumption and must spend the winter abroad.”
“I’m very sorry; but is that possible?”
“Only if I take him.”
“My dear, how can you?” cried Miss Ley, astonished.
Bella hesitated and blushed.
“I’m going to ask him to marry me. It’s no good now to counterfeit modesty and all the rest of it. It’s the only way I can save his life, and after all, I love him better than anyone else in the world. When I told you a month ago that it was impossible I should care for a boy almost young enough to be my son, I lied. I fought against it then as something shameful and ridiculous, but I’ve loved him from the very first day I saw him.”
Bella’s vehement seriousness alone prevented Miss Ley from indulging in her usual irony. She carefully repressed the smile which struggled to gain possession of her lips.
“Your father will never consent, my dear,” she said gravely.
“I hope he will when I explain the circumstances. I’m afraid he’ll be dreadfully distressed, but if he refuses I shall remember that I’m a grown woman, capable of judging for myself.”
“I don’t know what he’ll do without you. He’s entirely dependent on you for all his comfort and all his happiness.”
“I’ve served him for forty years. I gave him all my youth, not because it was my duty, but because I loved him. Now someone needs me more than he does. My father is rich; he has a comfortable home, books and friends, and health. Herbert has nothing but me. If I take care of him, I may give him a few more years of life, and if he dies I can soothe his last days.”
Miss Langton spoke rapidly, with such determination that the elder woman saw it was useless to argue; her whole mind was set on this idea, and neither the persuasion of friends nor the entreaties of a father would hinder her.
“And what does the young man say to it?” asked Miss Ley.
“The thought has never entered his head. He looks upon me as a middle-aged woman to whom all things of love are absurd. Sometimes he’s laughed at me because I’m so practical and matter-of-fact.”
“Where is he?”
Before Bella could answer there was a ring at the door, and they heard Herbert ask the butler if Miss Langton had come in.
“There he is!” cried Bella. “Let me go to him now, Mary. He’s going up to the drawing-room. Oh, I feel so dreadfully nervous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bella,” answered Miss Ley, smiling. “I’ve never seen a woman about to propose marriage to the object of her affections who was quite so self-possessed as you.”
But at the door Miss Langton stopped, and with a very piteous expression looked at her friend.
“Oh, I wish I weren’t so old, Mary. Tell me honestly, am I awfully plain?”
“You’ re a great deal too good for a silly young hobbledehoy, my dear,” said Miss Ley, hiding by roughness of manner something very like a sob. “If he had any sense, he’d have insisted on marrying you three months ago.”
When Bella closed the door. Miss Ley’s eye caught the bronze statue of Narcissus, standing on a pedestal in that eternal attitude of adorable affectation, one long forefinger outstretched, and his listening head bent slightly to one side. She addressed him irritably.
“I wish you wouldn’t look so shocked and puzzled and self-conscious of your beauty. You ought to know that when love and self-sacrifice are combined in the heart of a middle-aged woman, nothing on earth will prevent her from acting like a perfect lunatic. In your day the old maid was unknown, and you can’t possibly understand her emotions, for, extraordinary as it may appear, even old maids are human. And if you are scandalized at this disproportion of ages, know that you are an idiot, ignorant of the elements both of psychology and of physiology. And I myself have adored generations of young men, though the relations between us have invariably remained strictly platonic.’
Narcissus, listening intently to the dying cries of Echo, remained indifferent to Miss Ley’s harangue, and she turned away impatiently.
Entering the drawing-room, Bella found Herbert standing at the window, and he came towards her with a smile. She saw that already he was more collected, and though his face was pale and grave, it bore no longer that disfigurement of fear.
“You didn’t think it unkind of me to leave you to come home by yourself, did you?” he asked gently. “I was a little bothered just then, and I felt if I weren’t alone I should make a fool of myself.”
She took his hand and held it.
“You know that I can never think anything you do unkind. But tell me now if you have decided anything.” She hesitated, but it seemed futile to utter expressions of regret; for at that moment how could they comfort him? “I should like you to know that you can depend on me always.”
“It’s very good of you. I don’t know that there’s anything much to decide. I dare say I shall soon get used to the idea of not looking into the future, but it’ll be rather hard at first, because it was all I had at that dreary bank. I shall stay there as long as I can, and when I grow too ill I must try and get into the hospital. I dare say the Dean will help me to be admitted.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that! It’s too horrible,” cried Bella wretchedly. “Isn’t there anything I can do? I feel so utterly helpless.”
He looked at her for a while.
“Well, yes, there is,” he answered presently. “There’s one thing I wished to ask you, Bella. You’ve been an awfully good friend to me, and now I want you more than ever.”
“I’ll do anything you wish,” she said, with beating heart.
“I’m afraid it’s very selfish. But I don’t want you to go away this winter—in case anything happened. You know my sister died three months after the first symptoms were noticed.”
“I’d do so much more for you than that.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders, and gazed into his blue, sad eyes; searchingly she scrutinized his face, paler than ever and more exquisitely transparent, and his soft mouth, tremulous still with the horror of death. She remembered his mouth and his eyes when they were merry with boyish laughter and his cheeks flushed with excitement at his own gay rhetoric. Then she looked down.
“I wonder if you could bring yourself to marry me.”
Although her eyes were turned away, she knew that he blushed deeply, and hopelessly, full of shame, she dropped her hands. It seemed an intolerable time before he answered.
“I’m not so selfish as all that,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
“Yes, I was afraid the thought would disgust you,” she said, with a sob.
“Bella, how can you say that! Don’t you know that I should have been proud? Don’t you know that you’re the only woman I’ve ever liked? But I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me. I’ve seen people die of consumption, and I know the ghastliness of it. D’you think I would let you nurse me and do all the odious things that are needful? And you might get ill, too. Oh no, Bella, don’t think me ungrateful, but I couldn’t marry you.”
“D’you think it would be a sacrifice to me?” she asked in tragic tones. “My poor boy, you never saw that I loved you with all my soul, and when you were so happy and careless my heart felt as though it would break because I was old and plain. You’ve forgotten that one day you kissed my hands: it was only a joke to you, but when you’d gone I cried bitterly. You’d never have done it except that you thought I was forty and it couldn’t matter. And when you took my arm sometimes I felt sick with love. And now, I suppose, you utterly despise me.”
She broke down, sobbing; but in a little while impatiently she brushed away her tears and faced him with a sort of despairing pride.
“After, all what am I but a middle-aged woman? I’ve never been even pretty, and my mind is narrow because I’ve lived all my life among paltry things, and I’m stupid and dull. Why should I think you would care to marry me because I love you like a fool?”
“Oh, Bella, Bella, don’t say that. You break my heart.”
“And you thought it was self-sacrifice on my part! I was only asking you because I wanted to be with you every moment—if you fell ill, I couldn’t bear that anyone else should touch you. I’ve been lonely in my life, so dreadfully lonely, and I was making one last bid for happiness.”
She sank into a chair and hid her face, but Herbert, kneeling beside her, took her hands.
“Look at me, Bella.... I thought you only suggested it because you know I ought to leave the bank, and have someone to look after me. I never suspected that you really cared for me. And I’m ashamed because I was blind. But don’t you know that there’s nothing I should like better than to be with you always? Then I should care nothing for my illness, because it would have brought me a greater happiness than I ever dared to hope for. Bella, if you don’t mind that I’m poor and ill and unworthy of you, will you marry me?”
On a sudden she stopped in the middle of her silent crying and a radiant smile chased away the sorrow. For one moment, while she realized the meaning of his words, she looked at him half in doubt; then, bending down, she kissed his hands.
“Oh, my dearest, you’ve made me so happy.”
When at last they went to Miss Ley, Bella’s tear-filled eyes shone with unspeakable bliss; and the elder woman, looking at Herbert, no longer wondered at her cousin’s infatuation, for his face, so candid and sweet, was like the face of a young beautiful saint in an old picture.