CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

THIS CRISIS.

By my advice, then, Linny said nothing to Hallett about where she was going, and as I had stayed at home from the works on purpose, we started in pretty good time for Westmouth Street, my companion's flushed cheeks making her look extremely bright and pretty. She was terribly nervous though, and when we neared the door I feared that she would not muster up courage enough to enter.

"I feel as if I dare not meet her, Antony," she faltered.

"What nonsense!" I said, smiling. "Why, she is gentleness and tenderness itself. Come, be a woman."

"It is not that," she whispered. "There is so much more behind. Take me back, Antony. Why does she want to see me?"

"I don't know," I replied; "but you may be sure that it is for some good purpose."

"Do--do you think she will be angry with me--about--about, you know whom I mean? Do you think it is to reproach me?"

"I am sure it is not, Linny. Come, come, make an effort. I don't know, but I feel sure it is to try and help poor Hallett."

"Do you think so?" she faltered, "or is this only to persuade me to go on? Oh, Antony, you cannot think how my heart beats with dread. I am afraid of this Miss Carr, and feel as if I ought to hate her."

"Come along, you foolish girl," I said; and, yielding to me, I led her up to the door, when we were admitted, and at once ushered into the drawing-room.

I did not at first see Miss Carr, but the door had hardly closed before I heard the rustle of her dress, and the next moment Linny was folded in her arms, and returning the embrace.

I stood for a moment listening to Linny's pa.s.sionate sobs, and then stole softly away, going down into the dining-room to stand gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing of the pa.s.sers-by, only in imagination the scene upstairs, and wondering why Miss Carr had sent for Linny.

I was kept in doubt for quite an hour, and then the servant came and asked me to step upstairs, where, to my surprise, I found Miss Carr dressed for going out.

She held out her hand to me as I entered, and pressed mine.

"Don't speak to me, Antony," she whispered, in a broken voice. "I am going home with Linny Hallett."

"You--going home--with--"

The rest died on my lips as I saw her draw down her veil to hide her convulsed face, and then, without a word, she rang the bell, the door was opened for us, and, feeling like one in a dream, I walked in silence by their side to the house in Great Ormond Street, where, as I placed my latchkey in the door, it was s.n.a.t.c.hed open, and Mary, with her face red with weeping, stood there.

"Oh, Miss Linny! Oh, Master Antony!" she sobbed, "I'm so glad you've come. The doctor sent me out of the room, and I've been waiting for you."

"Is my brother worse?" sobbed Linny hysterically.

"Yes, yes, my dear, I'm--I'm afraid so;" and as she spoke, a hand clutched mine, and I heard Miss Carr moan:

"G.o.d help me! Am I too late?"

Linny was already half up the first flight, when Miss Carr whispered to me in agonised tones:

"Take me to him, Antony, quick. This is no time for pride and shame."

With my heart beating painfully, I led her upstairs, and, as we reached the first floor, we met the doctor coming down.

I felt Miss Carr's hand pressing mine convulsively, and I spoke, my voice sounding hoa.r.s.e and strange.

"Is he worse, doctor?"

"I'm afraid he cannot last many hours longer," he said. "I have done all I can, but I have a patient a few streets off whom I must see, and I will return in a short time. He must not be left."

"Shall I go in and try to prepare him for your coming?" I whispered to Miss Carr, as we stood outside his door.

"No, no!" she cried. "Take me to him at once, or I cannot bear it.

Don't speak to me, Antony. Don't let anybody speak to me; but you must not leave me for a moment."

Linny was at the door, standing with the handle in her hand, but she drew back as we approached, and then ran sobbing into the next room, where Mrs Hallett was sitting helpless and alone.

I obeyed Miss Carr, leading her quickly inside, and closing the door, where she stood for a moment with one hand pressing her breast; then she hastily tore off bonnet and veil, gazing at the pale face and great dreamy eyes fixed wistfully upon the window.

The noise of our entry, slight as it was, seemed to rouse him, for he turned his gaze heavily from the light towards where we stood, and I saw that he held in his thin wasted hand a little grey kid glove, the glove we had found in Epping Forest that happy day when we met the sisters in our wait.

But that was forgotten in the change I saw come over the poor fellow's face. It seemed to light up; the dull dreamy eyes dilated; a look of dread, of wonder, or joy seemed to come into them, and then he seemed to make an effort, and stared wildly round the room, but only to gaze at Miss Carr again as she stood with her hands half raised in a beseeching way, till, with a wild cry, his head seemed to fall back and he lay without motion.

I heard steps outside, but I darted to the door, and stopped Linny and Mary from entering, hardly knowing what I did, as Miss Carr took a step or two forward, and threw herself upon her knees by the bed, dinging to his hands, placing one arm beneath the helpless head, and sobbing and moaning pa.s.sionately.

"I have killed him--I have killed him! and I came that he might live.

Stephen, my love, my hero, speak to me--speak to me! G.o.d of heaven, spare him to me, or let me die?"

I was one moment about to summon help, the next prepared to defend the door against all comers, and again the next ready to stop my ears and flee from the room. But she had bidden me stay, and not leave her, and I felt it a painful duty to be her companion at such a time. So there I stayed, throwing myself in a chair by the door, my head bent down, seeming to see all, to identify every act, but with my face buried in my hands, though hearing every impa.s.sioned word.

"No," I heard him say softly; "no: such words as those would have brought me from the grave. But why--why did you come?"

"I could bear it no longer," she moaned. "I have fought against it till my life has been one long agony. I have felt that my place was here--at your side--that my words, my prayers would make you live; and yet I have stayed away, letting my pride--my fear of the world--dictate, when my heart told me that you loved me and were almost dying for my sake."

"Loved you!" he whispered faintly; "loved you--Miriam, I dare not say how much!"

His voice was the merest whisper, and in my dread I started up, and approached them, fearing the worst; but there was such a smile of peace and restfulness upon his lips as Miss Carr bent over him, that I dared not interrupt them, the feeling being upon me that if he was to die it would be better so.

There was a long silence then, one which he broke at last.

"Why did you come?" he said.

The words seemed to electrify her, and she raised her head to gaze on his face.

"Why did I come?" she whispered; "because they told me you were dying, and I could bear it no longer. I came to tell you of my love, of the love I have fought against so long, but only to make it grow. To tell you, my poor brave hero, that the world is nothing to us, and that we must be estranged no more. Stephen, I love you with all my soul, and you must live--live to call me wife--live to protect me, for I want your help and your brave right hand to be my defence. This is unwomanly-- shameless, if you will--but do you think I have not known your love for me, and the true brave fight that you have made? Has not my heart shared your every hope, and sorrowed with you when you have failed?

And, poor weak fool that I have been, have I not stood aloof, saying that you should come to me, and yet worshipped you--reverenced you the more for your honour and your pride? But that is all past now. It is not too late. Live for me, Stephen, my own brave martyr, and let the past be one long sad dream: for I love you, I love you, G.o.d only knows how well!" She hid her burning, agitated face in his breast, and his two thin hands tremblingly and slowly rose to clasp her head; and there the white fingers lay motionless in the rich, dark hair.

There was again a pause, which he was the first to break, and his voice was still but a whisper, as he muttered something that I did not hear, though I gathered it from her smothered reply.

"Oh, no, no: let there be an end to that!" she sobbed. "Money?

Fortune? Why should that keep us apart, when it might help you in your gallant fight? Let me be your help and stay. Stephen--Stephen!" she wailed piteously, "have I not asked you--I, a woman--to make me your wife?"

"Yes," he said softly, and I heard him sigh; "but it cannot be--it cannot be."