a shadow, not hers, which moved, kept mary silently employed. she was watching it. she was not conscious of having spoken a single word from the moment of farewell to her mother until her arrival at hill-street. duplessis had accompanied her from door to door. she cannot have been aware of it, or she would have dismissed him at victoria.
not that he had been obtrusive—far otherwise. he saw to everything, and what conversation there had been, he had made it. she might have been grateful to him for all this, had she observed it. once only had a cry escaped her. “he is dying. he will die thinking me wicked. what shall i do?”
he had answered her. “no. he is a just man. you have nothing you need fear to tell him.”
“he is dying,” she repeated, her eyes fixed upon the dun waste of houses and chimney-stacks. duplessis could not doubt this. it seemed as certain to him as to her. he, too, discerned the moving shadow.
as he helped her out of the cab in hill-street the carriage came quickly up and the rector of misperton in it. he and she met on the pavement. duplessis lifted his hat, re-entered the cab and departed—seen, therefore, by the rector, by musters, and the carriage-groom, and by the stately butler and his familiar at the open door. she and james germain went up the steps without greeting. as she went straightforward to the stairs she heard the rector’s inquiry, “well, greatorex?” and greatorex’s reply, “the doctors are there, sir. there is no change.”
she went lightly up the stair, to the door of her husband’s room; she knocked lightly. a nurse opened. “who is it, please! i don’t think——”
“i am mrs. germain. i must come in.”
mrs. james, the doctrine of the soul’s immortality lambent upon her features, stood by the window talking in whispers to a great physician. another, equally imposing, was by the bed, his hand on the sick man’s pulse. at mary’s entry the lady broke away and came towards her. the light of conflict was in her eyes, tight upon her lips; she was prepared for reproof in any form—but none came. mary did not see her. she walked past her on tiptoe, to the edge of the bed, and sat herself in a chair which stood there, and looked at the shadow which was not her own. it hovered, now, moved no more. sir lambton tweedale, his investigation ended, joined his colleague by the window.
mary thought that he was dead. he lay on his back with nearly closed eyes, and she could discern no movement for breath. his face was colourless, and so frail, so diaphanous did he look, she thought that she could see the colour of his eyes through the lids, a haunting thought. he seemed to be watching her through them, as if they were a thin veil—to be reading her, whether guilty or not. of pity for him lying there so noble, so patient, and so fordone; of awe before his remoteness from her lot, his immortal indifference; of remorse for what had been, or a shudder for what might have been—she had none. but her eyes watched him intently, with a new power in them, a fierce and feverish light—as if she had the will and the means to draw the dead back to life. for one half-hour only, to fulfil one need. he must hear her tell him her story; and then he might die in peace.
one of the great pair came to where she sat on the watch, and bowed. “mrs. germain, i think?”
she nodded sharply, without turning her eyes.
“i could—we could—have wished that you had received earlier notice of this serious turn. it seems to have been mr. germain’s express desire that you should not be needlessly alarmed. he was perfectly conscious and master of himself twenty-four hours ago. but a great change took place yesterday afternoon, it appears. neither sir lambton nor myself can be held answerable for——”
she stopped him by an impatient movement of her head. “do you think he is—in danger?”
“undoubtedly. it is right that you should know that it is serious.”
“he will die?”
“ah, we must not say that.”
she looked him through and through. “then he is not dead?”
“no, no.”
“thank you. that is all i want to know.”
the learned pair went out together and mrs. james with them. the nurse remained—to drink her tea and hover. she was very ready with whispers; but mary sat, with fixed, intense eyes, willing her husband to live, and asked for no details. by-and-by the rector came in on noiseless feet and stood by her. between these two there had always been sympathy; generosity on his part repaid with gratitude on hers. but now she would not turn her head. nor even, when she felt his hand touch gently on her shoulder and stay there, could she bring herself to acknowledge the kindly act.
he remained by her so for a long time. then, “my child,” he said, “have you had any tea?”
she shook her head. “no, thank you. i don’t want any.”
“it could be brought you here.”
“no, thank you.”
“you must be brave, mary.”
ah, she knew that! “i must, indeed,” she said.
“remember, please, that i knew of this no sooner than you did.”
she started, she flushed. what did this mean, then? was it possible that mrs. james—for reasons—ah, and if it was, did it matter? did anything matter? only one thing—and that was of her provision. she resumed her hungry, patient watch.
the rector still stood by her, his hand on her shoulder.
“be patient, my dear. trust the future to the good god.”
she said, “i do. but he will not die yet. i am sure.”
“ah, my dear—” he began, in his despair. but she spoke on vehemently.
“he cannot—he will not. he will know me again presently—and speak to me. that is necessary for us both. we have things to talk about. then he will die.”
the rector shrank. “you talk strangely. what do we know? my dear old brother! . . . will you not come and rest—after your—?” he stopped there, and she understood his reason.
“i’m not at all tired,” she told him. “i shall sit here until he wakes, and knows me. i can rest here quite well. i don’t want any food or anything.” the rector urged her no more, and presently left her.
she sat on through the dinner-hour, the change of nurses, motionless and absorbed. once the patient stirred, sighed, muttered with his lips. listening to him, breathless herself, she could now hear his breath—so short and light it was that she must have overlooked it all these hours. from this time onwards through the ministrations of the night-nurse, through visits of the rector, through ominous absence of visits from the rector’s wife, through the bustling entry of dr. goodlake and his voluble explanations—double pneumonia—absence of will-effort—and the like—she was in a fever of hope and anticipation, waiting, like one tense at the starting-post, for the signal.
at midnight mr. germain stirred and began to moan, regularly, hopelessly, in a way to break your heart. this, too, her certainty gave her the heart to endure. such nourishment as he could be given set him wandering. he spoke ramblingly—often of her—cited scripture—“my darling from the lions,” she caught; and “the lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet.” once he cried aloud, “ha! tell wilbraham i will not see him—” and again, moaning, “no, no, it is untrue—it cannot be true.” there followed a time of broken sleep—at three o’clock, with a grey line of light between the curtains, she saw his open eyes fixed earnestly upon her.
she was on her knees by the bed in a moment. “i am here,” she said. “do you know me?”
his lips moved, “yes.”
“i was at home when i heard of your illness—but i did not go home when i left you. i went to the north to consult a friend—about myself. do you hear me? can you hear me?”
again he sighed “yes.” his eyes were fixed upon hers—with interest, she thought—but without any judgment. the night-nurse discreetly left the room.
she asked his patience, and plunged into her story—her story and his own, with tristram’s part interwoven. “there was one who used to see me,” was her way of bringing in duplessis, and after that tristram was “he” throughout. she would not use his name; felt she could not, and knew that she need not. full understanding lay behind those unwinking, charged eyes, terribly watchful and indifferent to anything but curiosity. she saw them as the patient eyes of an investigator, expectant of a final experiment. “i have studied this case for three years—now, at last, i am to have it.” he knew everything—had known everything from the beginning: she had no news for him; “how she would put it,” was what he was waiting for—for that only she had drawn him back to life.
this knowledge, this realization drove her to candour past belief. she felt as if she was stripping herself for public exhibition—found herself talking in a dry voice of lovers’ intimacies and of still more secret things—of things which women feel but do not even think. she had to examine herself unflinchingly during this confession, which reduced itself, for lack of matter, to one of motives. in the course of it she had to face a fact never faced before only felt. she could not love tristram, she did not love germain—whom, then, did she love? the fine colour flushed her cheeks, the true light flamed in her eyes as she told herself—and then told her husband.
“i know myself now. there is one man who could do with me as he pleased. but he will do nothing with me. i trust him utterly; he has changed me. he has given me a soul, i think. he has taught me the worth of things which i never valued before; and what life is, and happiness, and truth. it is through him that i went home and faced what i was afraid of—left him and all the wonderful things he could make me see. i might never see him again—but i left him. i am doing what he would wish now in telling you all this. untruth is impossible to him, and must never be possible to me again. that is why i have waited here to tell you. i had to tell you—i had to tell myself. now i have told you everything——”
she stopped there because she felt that if she were to go on she would have to be insincere. contrition for what she had done and allowed to be done in the days of her blank ignorance, prayers for forgiveness, promises of amendment—such things, proper for bedside confession—what would they imply, what involve? that she loved this poor watcher? alas! pity might have urged her to deceive him so; but she dared not deceive him—and, moreover, she was certain that he could not now be deceived. the light of another world shone upon him, shone through him, and enabled him to read hearts. she did not shrink from this supernatural power of his—if it had been profitable she would have given him her life-blood. it seemed to her as clear as daylight that the utmost she could do for him had now been done—when she had discharged her conscience before him, and cleared her honour. she believed that he would feel himself honoured by that act; and as she stooped over him to kiss him she told him as much.
“it is kind of you to have listened to me. you have done me so much honour, so much kindness—but this is the greatest you have ever done me. do you understand that i feel it so?” for a moment his terrible intelligence pored upon her as she hung over his bed. it searched her, explored her, wondered, judged. a flicker of a smile—a momentary relaxation of his rigid lips—a faint wavering of his attention; then he signed, and closed his eyelids down. the strain was over, she had been heard, assessed, acquitted. when the night-nurse came in she found the patient at peace, and mary germain crouched on the floor asleep, her head upon the edge of the bed.
