Mrs. Geoffrey Part 66

Nicholas, who had left the room again, returns now, bringing with him a gla.s.s of wine, which he compels her to swallow, and then, pale and frightened, but calmer than she was before, she leaves the house, and starts with Geoffrey for the gamekeeper's lodge, where lies the man they had so dreaded, impotent in the arms of death.

Night is creeping up over the land. Already in the heavens the pale crescent moon just born rides silently,--

"Wi' the auld moon in hir arme,"

A deep hush has fallen upon everything. The air is cold and piercing.

Mona shivers, and draws even closer to Geoffrey, as, mute, yet full of saddest thought, they move through the leafless wood.

As they get within view of the windows of Rawson's cottage, they are met by Dr. Bland, who has seen them coming, and has hurried out to receive them.

"Now, this is kind,--very kind," says the little man, approvingly, shaking both their hands. "And so soon, too; no time lost. Poor soul! he is calling incessantly for you, my dear Mrs. Geoffrey. It is a sad case,--very--very. Away from every one he knows. But come in; come in."

He draws Mrs. Geoffrey's hand through his arm, and goes towards the lodge.

"Is there no hope?" asks Geoffrey, gravely.

"None; none. It would be useless to say otherwise. Internal hemorrhage has set in. A few hours, perhaps less, must end it. He knows it himself, poor boy!"

"Oh! can nothing be done?" asks Mona, turning to him eyes full of entreaty.

"My dear, what I could do, I have done," says the little man, patting her hand in his kind fatherly fashion; "but he has gone beyond human skill. And now one thing: you have come here, I know, with the tender thought of soothing his last hours: therefore I entreat you to be calm and very quiet. Emotion will only distress him, and, if you feel too nervous, you know--perhaps--eh?"

"I shall not be too nervous," says Mona, but her face blanches afresh even as she speaks; and Geoffrey sees it.

"If it is too much for you, darling, say so," whispers he; "or shall I go with you?"

"It is better she should go alone," says Dr. Bland. "He would be quite unequal to two; and besides,--pardon me,--from what he has said to me I fear there were unpleasant pa.s.sages between you and him."

"There were," confesses Geoffrey, reluctantly, and in a low tone. "I wish now from my soul it had been otherwise. I regret much that has taken place."

"We all have regrets at times, dear boy, the very best of us," says the little doctor, blowing his nose: "who among us is faultless? And really the circ.u.mstances were very trying for you,--very--eh? Yes, of course one understands, you know; but death heals all divisions, and he is hurrying to his last account, poor lad, all too soon."

They have entered the cottage by this time, and are standing in the tiny hall.

"Open that door, Mrs. Geoffrey," says the doctor pointing to his right hand. "I saw you coming, and have prepared him for the interview. I shall be just here, or in the next room, if you should want me. But I can do little for him more than I have done."

"You will be near too, Geoffrey?" murmurs Mona, falteringly.

"Yes, yes; I promise for him," says Dr. Bland. "In fact, I have something to say to your husband that must be told at once."

Then Mona, opening the door indicated to her by the doctor, goes into the chamber beyond, and is lost to their view for some time.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

HOW MONA COMFORTS PAUL RODNEY--HOW NIGHT AND DEATH DESCEND TOGETHER--AND HOW PAUL RODNEY DISPOSES OF HIS PROPERTY.

On a low bed, with his eyes fastened eagerly upon the door, lies Paul Rodney, the dews of death already on his face.

There is no disfigurement about him to be seen, no stain of blood, no ugly mark; yet he is touched by the pale hand of the destroyer, and is sinking, dying, withering beneath it. He has aged at least ten years within the last fatal hour, while in his eyes lies an expression so full of hungry expectancy and keen longing as amounts almost to anguish.

As Mona advances to his side, through the gathering gloom of fast approaching night, pale almost as he is, and trembling in every limb, this miserable anxiety dies out of his face, leaving behind it a rest and peace unutterable.

To her it is an awful moment. Never before has she stood face to face with dissolution, to wait for the snapping of the chain,--the breaking of the bowl. "Neither the sun nor death," says La Rochefoucauld, "can be looked at steadily;" and now "Death's thousand doors stand open" to receive this man that but an hour agone was full of life as she is now.

His pulses throbbed, his blood coursed lightly through his veins, the grave seemed a far-off destination; yet here he lies, smitten to the earth, beaten down and trodden under, with nothing further to antic.i.p.ate but the last change of all.

"O Death! thou strange, mysterious power, seen every day yet never understood but by the incommunicative dead, what art thou?"

"You have come," he says, with a quick sigh that be speaks relief. "I knew you would. I felt it; yet I feared. Oh, what comfort to see you again!"

Mona tries to say something,--anything that will be kind and sympathetic,--but words fail her. Her lips part, but no sound escapes them. The terrible reality of the moment terrifies and overcomes her.

"Do not try to make me any commonplace speeches," says Rodney, marking her hesitation. He speaks hastily, yet with evident difficulty. "I am dying. Nothing, can alter that. But death has brought you to my side again, so I cannot repine."

"But to find you like this"--begins Mona. And then overcome by grief and agitation, she covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears.

"Mona! Are you crying for me?" says Paul Rodney, as though surprised.

"Do not. Your tears hurt me more than this wound that has done me to death."

"Oh, if I had not given you that pistol," sobs Mona, who cannot conquer the horror of the thought that she has helped him to his death, "you would be alive and strong now."

"Yes,--and miserable! you forget to add that. Now everything seems squared. In the grave neither grief nor revenge can find a place. And as for you, what have you to do with my fate?--nothing. What should you not return to me my own? and why should I not die by the weapon I had dared to level against yourself? There is a justice in it that smacks of Sadlers' Wells."

He actually laughs, though faintly, and Mona looks up. Perhaps he has forced himself to this vague touch of merriment (that is even sadder than tears) just to please and rouse her from her despondency,--because the laugh dies almost as it is born, and an additional pallor covers his lips in its stead.

"Listen to me," he goes on, in a lower key, and with some slight signs of exhaustion. "I am glad to die,--unfeignedly glad: therefore rejoice with me! Why should you waste a tear on such as I am? Do you remember how I told you (barely two hours ago) that my life had come to an end where other fellows hope to begin theirs? I hardly knew myself how prophetic my words would prove."

"It is terrible, terrible," says Mona, piteously sinking on her knees beside the bed. One of his hands is lying outside the coverlet, and, with a gesture full of tender regret, she lays her own upon it.

"Are you in pain?" she says, in a low, fearful tone. "Do you suffer much?"

"I suffer nothing: I have no pain now. I am inexpressibly, happy,"

replies he, with a smile radiant, though languid. Forgetful of his unfortunate state, he raises his other hand, and, bringing it across the bed, tries to place it on Mona's. But the action is too much for him.

His face takes a leaden hue, more ghastly than its former pallor, and, in spite of an heroic effort to suppress it, a deep groan escapes him.

"Ah!" says Mona, springing to her feet, and turning to the door, as though to summon aid; but he stops her by a gesture.

"No, it is nothing. It will be over in a moment," gasps he. "Give me some brandy, and help me to cheat Death of his prey for a little time, if it be possible."

Seeing brandy, on a table near, she pours a little into a gla.s.s with a shaking hand, and pa.s.sing her arm beneath his neck, holds it to his parched lips.

It revives him somewhat. And presently the intenser pallor dies away, and speech returns to him.

"Do not call for a.s.sistance," he whispers, imploringly. "They can do me no good. Stay with me. Do not forsake me. Swear you will remain with me to--to the end."