Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “It generally does towards morning,” said the sister, in a low voice, in answer to Ghisleri’s inquiry as to whether this was a really favourable symptom of a change for the better.

  The night passed wearily. Pietro felt that he was of little use, unless his presence in the house afforded Laura some sort of moral support. So far as the nursing was concerned, the sister neither needed nor expected any assistance. Towards five o’clock, Laura entered the room. On waking from her sleep, she had seen Donald seated in Ghisleri’s place, and had wondered why the latter had gone away.

  “He seems better,” she whispered, bending over her husband, and softly smoothing the thick brown hair from his forehead.

  “The temperature has fallen,” answered Ghisleri, giving her the only encouragement he could.

  “Thank God!” Laura sat down by the opposite side of the bed. Presently, by a sign, she asked Ghisleri whether he would not go home.

  “I will wait in the drawing-room until the doctor comes, and the other sister has arrived for the day,” he said, coming to her side.

  She merely nodded, and he quietly went out. Before long, Donald brought him some coffee, and he sat where he had sat in the early part of the night, anxiously awaiting the doctor’s coming.

  There was little enough to be learned, when the latter actually came. A very bad case, he said, so bad that he would not be averse to asking the opinion of a colleague, — and later, the same colleague came, saw Arden, shook his head, and said that it was the worst case he had ever seen, but that the treatment so far was perfectly correct.

  There was nothing to be done, but to take the best care possible of the patient. Ghisleri had no hope whatever, and Laura became almost totally silent. She could not be paler than she was, but Pietro almost fancied that she was growing hourly thinner, while the sad eyes seemed to sink deeper and deeper beneath the marble brow. He went home for a few hours to dress, and returned at midday. The loss of one night’s rest had not even told upon his face, but his expression was grave and reserved in the extreme, and his manner even more than usually quiet. Laura had not slept since her nap in the drawing-room, and looked exhausted, though she was not yet really tired out. Ghisleri thought it was time to speak seriously to her.

  “My dear Lady Herbert,” he said, “forgive me for being quite frank. This is not a time for turning phrases. You must positively rest, or you will break down and you may be dangerously ill yourself.”

  “I do not feel tired,” she said.

  “Your nerves keep you up. I entreat you to think of what I say, and I must say it. You may risk your own life, if you please; it is natural that you should run at least the risk of contagion, but you have no right to risk another life than your own by uselessly wearing out your strength. Besides, Arden is unconscious now; when he begins to recover he will need you far more, and will not need me at all.”

  A very slight blush rose in Laura’s pale cheeks, and she turned away her face. A short pause followed.

  “I think you are right,” she said at last. Then, without looking at him, she left the room.

  Ghisleri watched her until she disappeared, and there was a strange expression in his usually hard blue eyes. It seemed as though the woman could do nothing without touching some sensitive, sympathetic chord in his inner nature, though her presence left him apparently perfectly cold and indifferent. Yet he had known himself so long, that he dreaded the sensation, and his ever-ready self-contempt rose at the idea that he could possibly find himself capable of loving his friend’s wife, even in the most distant future. Besides, there was nothing at all really resembling love in what he felt, so far as he could judge. If it ever developed into love, it would turn out to be a love so far nobler than anything there had been in his life, as to be at present beyond his comprehension.

  He did not see Laura again for several hours. He spent the day in Arden’s room, and for the first time felt that he was of use when his strength was needed to lift the frail body from one bed to the other. Arden grew rapidly worse, Ghisleri thought, and the doctor confirmed his opinion when he came for the third time that day.

  “To be quite frank,” he said gravely, as he took leave of Pietro in the hall, “I have no hope of his recovery, and I doubt whether he will last until to-morrow night.”

  This was no surprise to Ghisleri, who knew how little strength of resistance lay in the crippled frame. He bent his head in silence as the physician went out, and he almost shivered as he thought of what was before him. He knew now that he must stand by Laura’s side at the near last moment of great suffering, when she was to see the one being she loved pass away before her eyes. He was more than ever glad that he had induced her to rest. Arden’s mind was still wandering, and she could be of no immediate use.

  So the day ended at last and the night began and wore on, much like the previous one, saving that the anxiety of all was trebled. The other sister had returned, and Ghisleri saw by her face that she had no hope. With the same faultless regularity she performed her duties through the long hours.

  Towards midnight Laura and Ghisleri met in the drawing-room. For several minutes she stood in silence before the fire. Pietro could see that her lips were trembling as though she were on the point of bursting into tears. He knew how proud she must be, and he moved away towards the door. She heard his step behind her, and without turning round she beckoned to him with her hand to stay. He came back and stood at a little distance from her. Still she was silent for a moment; then she spoke.

  “It is coming,” she said unsteadily. “You must help me to bear it.”

  “I will do my best,” answered Ghisleri, earnestly.

  Another pause followed. Then again she made a gesture, hurried and almost violent, bidding him leave her. Before he could reach the door he heard her first sob, and as he closed it behind him the storm of her passionate grief broke upon the silence of the night. He was not a man easily moved to any outward demonstration of feeling, but the tears stood in his eyes as he went back to Arden’s bedside, and they were not for the friend he was so soon to lose.

  The sick man was unconscious and lay quite still on his back with closed lids. The sister was on her feet, watching him intently. She shook her head sadly when Ghisleri looked at her. The end was not far off, as she in her great experience well knew. In hot haste Pietro sent for the doctor, with a message saying that Lord Herbert was dying. But when he came he admitted reluctantly that he could do nothing; there was no hope even of prolonging life until morning.

  “Lady Herbert should be told the truth,” he said. “If you wish it I will wait in another room until the end.”

  “I think it would be better. Lady Herbert knows that there is no hope, but she will feel less nervous if you are at hand. How long do you expect — ?”

  “He will not live many minutes after he comes to himself, I should say. The little strength there was is all gone. There will be a lucid interval of a few moments, and then the heart will stop. It was always defective.”

  “Then Lady Herbert ought to be with him now, in case it comes,” said Ghisleri.

  He left the doctor in the little room which Arden had used as a study, and went back to the drawing-room, feeling that one of the hardest moments of his life had come. Laura was seated in a deep chair, leaning back, her eyes half-closed and her cheeks still wet with tears. She started as Ghisleri entered.

  “The doctor has seen him again,” he said. “If you are able, it would be better—” He stopped, for he saw that she understood.

  They went back together. As they entered the room they heard Arden’s weak voice.

  “Laura, darling, where are you?” he was asking. Ghisleri saw that he was quite in possession of his faculties and went quietly out, leaving him with his wife and the sister.

  “I am here, love,” Laura answered, coming swiftly up to his side and supporting him as he tried to sit up.

  “It was so long,” he said faintly. “I am so glad you have come, dear.”
/>   “You must not try to talk. You must not tire yourself.”

  “It can make no difference now,” he answered, letting his head rest upon her shoulder. “I must speak, dear one — this once before I die. Yes, I know I am dying. It is better so. I have had in you all that God has to give, all the happiness of a long life, in these short months.”

  He paused and drew a painful breath. Laura’s face was like alabaster, but she did not break down again now until all was over.

  “I owe it all to you — my life’s love. You have given me so much, and I have given you so little. But God will give it all back to you, dear, some day. There is one thing I must say — oh, my breath!”

  He gasped in an agonised way, and almost choked. Laura thought it was the end, but he rallied again presently.

  “One thing, darling — you must remember, if you have loved me — ah, and you have, dear — that no promise binds you. You must try and think that if you forego any happiness for the memory of me, you will be taking that same happiness from me as well as from yourself. It will be right and just that you should marry if you wish to.”

  “Oh, Herbert! Herbert!” cried Laura, pressing him to her, “do not talk so!”

  “Promise me that you will never think yourself bound,” he said earnestly, speaking with more and more effort. “I shall not die happily unless you do.”

  Laura bowed her head.

  “I promise it, dear, because you wish it.”

  “Thank you, love.”

  He was silent for some time. He seemed to be thinking, or at least trying to collect his last thoughts.

  “If it is a little girl, call her Laura,” he said, in a breaking voice. “Then I shall know her in heaven, if she comes to me before you.”

  “Or else Herbert,” said Laura, softly.

  He moved his head a little in assent.

  “Darling,” he said presently, “always remember that my last breath is a blessing for you.”

  Very tenderly she pressed him to her heart and kissed him. Not till long afterwards did she realise the perfect unselfishness of the man’s end, nor how every word so painfully spoken was meant to forestall and soothe her coming sorrow.

  “Say a prayer for me, darling — it is not far off. Say something in your own words — they will be better heard.”

  Still supporting him against her breast, Laura raised her eyes heavenwards. The sister, little used to seeing men die without comfort of Holy Church, knelt down by the table. Then Laura’s soft voice was heard in the quiet chamber.

  “Almighty God, I beseech Thee to receive the soul of this pure and true-hearted man amongst the spotless ones that are with Thee, to forgive all his sins, if any are yet unforgiven, and to render to him in heavenly joy all the happiness he has brought her who loves him on earth, through our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen.”

  She ceased, forcing back the tears. He moved his head a little and kissed the hand that supported him. A long silence followed.

  “I thought Ghisleri came to the door with you and went out again,” he said very feebly.

  “Would you like to see him, darling?”

  “Yes. He is a dear friend — better in every way than any one knows.”

  At a word from Laura the sister rose and called Pietro. He was waiting in the passage. He came to the bedside and stood opposite to Laura, bending down and pressing Arden’s wasted hand; he was very pale.

  “Ghisleri — dear old friend — good-bye — I am going. Take care of her — you and Harry—” He gasped for breath.

  “So help me God, I will do my best,” answered Pietro, solemnly.

  Arden gave him one grateful look. Then with a last effort he drew Laura’s face to his and kissed her once more.

  “Love — love — love—”

  The light went out in his eyes and Herbert Arden was dead, dying as he had lived of late, and perhaps all his life, unselfish in every thought and deed.

  With a cry that seemed to break her heart, Laura fell forward upon the shadowy form that seemed so unnaturally small as it lay there under the white coverlet. Ghisleri knelt in silence a few minutes beside his dead friend, and then rose to his feet.

  “She has fainted,” said the sister softly. “If you could lift her with me—”

  But Ghisleri needed no help as he lifted the unconscious woman in his arms and carried her swiftly from the room. He laid her upon the very sofa on which he had seen her fall asleep on the previous night, and rang for Donald as he had then done.

  “His lordship is dead,” he said in a low voice, as the Scotchman entered. “Her ladyship has fainted. Please send me her maid.”

  Donald turned very white and left the room without a word. When Laura came to herself the women were with her and Ghisleri was gone. With an experienced man’s coolness he gave all necessary orders, and foresaw details which no one else would have remembered. Then he went back to the chamber of death. No strange, unloving hands should touch the frail body of the man he had known so well. Pietro Ghisleri, who, as the world said, “never cared,” was oddly sensitive at times. On that memorable night he would let no one help him in performing the last offices for Herbert Arden. When Laura next saw her husband, the calm and beautiful face lay on its snowy pillow surrounded with masses of white flowers. That was at daybreak.

  Late on the following night Ghisleri followed the men who bore the heavy burden down the stairs. A quiet-looking woman of middle age met them and crossed herself as she waited for them to pass her on the landing. She came to take care of Herbert Arden’s son.

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE SEASON HAD begun, but Pietro Ghisleri had little heart for going into the world. Apart from the very sad scenes of which he had been a witness so recently, he really mourned the loss of his friend with a sincerity for which few would have given him credit. It would, of course, have been an exaggeration to act as though Arden had been his brother and to cast himself off from society for several months; but during a fortnight after he had laid Lord Herbert in the Protestant Cemetery at Monte Testaccio, he was seen nowhere. He went, indeed, to the house of the Contessa dell’ Armi, but he made his visits at hours when no one else was received, as everybody knew, and he consequently saw none of his acquaintances except in the street. Twice daily at first, and then once, he went to the door of the Tempietto and sent up for news of Laura and the child. Strange to say, after the first three or four days the news became uniformly good. Ghisleri learned that the little boy had come into the world sound and strong at all points, without the slightest apparent tendency to inherit his father’s physical defects which, indeed, had been wholly the result of accident. The Princess of Gerano who, by Laura’s express wish, had been kept in ignorance of Arden’s illness on the first day and had not learned that he was seriously ill until he was actually dead, had now established herself permanently at the Tempietto, and her presence doubtless did much towards hastening her daughter’s recovery. It was wonderful that Laura should have escaped the fever, still more so that she should rally so rapidly from a series of shocks which might have ruined an ordinary constitution; but Laura was very strong.

  The Princess told Ghisleri that the child seemed to have taken Herbert’s place. He was to be called Herbert too, and the other dearly loved one who had borne the name was never spoken of. No one would ever know what Laura felt, but those who knew her well guessed at the depth of a sorrow beyond words or outward signs of grief. In the meanwhile life revived in her and she began to live for her child, as she had lived for her husband, loving the baby boy with a twofold love, for himself and for his father’s sake.

  Ghisleri had written to the Marquess of Lulworth, Arden’s brother, but a letter from him to Arden himself arrived on the day after the latter’s death, telling him that Lord and Lady Lulworth were just starting to go round the world in their yacht. The Lulworths were people whose movements it was impossible to foretell, and after sending a number of telegrams to ports they were likely to touch at, Ghisleri abandoned all hope
of hearing from them for a long time.

  Meanwhile, he ascertained that Laura was likely to be hampered for ready money. Her mother’s private resources were very slender, and Laura was far too proud to accept any assistance from Adele Savelli’s father. She could not dispose, as a matter of fact, of anything which her husband had left her except the actual ready money which happened to be in the house; for she could not even draw upon his letters of credit until the will was proved and the legal formalities all carried out. It was natural, too, that at such a time she should neither be aware of her position nor give a thought to such a trivial matter as household expenses.

  One morning Donald came to Ghisleri’s rooms in considerable distress, to ask advice of his master’s old friend. He would not disturb Lady Herbert, he said, and he was ashamed to tell the Princess that there was no money in the house. Ghisleri’s first impulse was to give him all the cash he had; but he reflected that in the first place the sum might not be sufficient, for Donald, in a rather broken voice, had referred to “the necessary expenses when his lordship died,” and which must now be met: and secondly, Pietro felt that when Laura came to know the truth she would not like to find herself under a serious obligation to him.