"GIVE NANCY TO ME!"
Having examined his patient, Dr. Hicks came out into the verandah in order to confer with Mayne. His face was alarmingly grave, and he spoke with his eyes anxiously fixed on the communicating doors,—and in a lowered voice.
"He's pretty bad; high fever, temperature 104; his arm is frightfully swelled—it's the bite. I am sending for a nurse and vaccine, also for my wife. She's uncommonly capable, and always comes well up to scratch on these occasions, and of course, we must have some woman here to look after Nancy—in case of"—he hesitated for a second, and added—"delirium and complications."
"You don't mean to say it's as serious as all that?" cried Mayne, aghast.
"I'm afraid it is; but I'll move heaven and earth to pull Travers through. We can spare anyone, sooner than the Earl,—as we call him."
"Can't I go some message, or be of some use? For God's sake give me a job," and Mayne paused, half choked. "You see, it was through saving me, that Travers is like this!"
"Oh, all right," agreed the doctor briskly, "then you can ride down to Tirraputty, and send off a couple of wires. It will take you about three hours to get there,—riding hard."
"What about Mrs. Ffinch's car? I can drive a motor."
"She's away in it herself!—gone for a week's tour. She took my girl Jessie, and Nellie Meach, and left no address. 'Expect me when you see me' style. Ah, here comes Nancy!" as the girl, now looking strangely worn, and haggard, came into the verandah.
"What are you two conspiring about?" she asked, with a startled expression.
"I'm only telling Mayne a piece of news. Mrs. Ffinch is away on a motor tour."
"Oh!"—evidently relieved—"is that all?"
"Word of honour, yes," the doctor lied with emphasis.
"Won't you stay and have something?" she urged.
"Oh, well, I don't mind. Just anything at all—a bit of cold meat, and a hunch of bread.—I'll ask for a shake-down, too."
"A shake-down!" staring at him with widely-opened eyes; "then you think——" and she paused, unable to utter another syllable, or articulate her heartsick uneasiness.
"I think you're a silly girl!" he said brusquely. "You know as well as I do, that I must dress your father's arm every three hours. You'd like him to have the very best attention, my dear, wouldn't you? It isn't everyone I'd do as much for. I can tell you,—losing my dinner, and sleeping out. I'm sending Mayne here to Tirraputty to wire for a nurse."
"A nurse! Certainly not!" protested Nancy with energy. "I am his nurse."
"Now, my good Nancy, if you are going to be silly and obstructive, and to stand in the way of what is necessary for your father, I'd like to know what I'm to do with you?"
"But a nurse—an utter stranger!"
"Yes, a professional, clear-headed, experienced woman, who has no emotions—to counteract her work."
"Father won't have her!!" declared the girl triumphantly.
"He will, if you ask him," rejoined the doctor. "My dear child, I had no idea you were so set upon your own way."
"Then I am to realize that father is—in danger?" she demanded, with trembling lips.
"Nothing of the sort," he replied, now lying boldly and well. "You are to realize that you must be a sensible girl, and instead of fighting against remedies, and the doctor, to help him with your last breath."
Nancy gazed at him steadily, and after a moment's silence, she said:
"All right, you need not ask me to do my best," and she returned to the sick-room.
At eight o'clock the following morning, when, stiff and weary, Mayne dismounted from his cob, he found that a dark cloud had settled down on Fairplains. In the verandah, he discovered an anxious gathering, talking together in low voices, and in groups. Here were Ted and Nicky, Tom Pollard, young Meach—and Mrs. Hicks. They each nodded a welcome, and the lady advanced, and said:
"I came over early; he is worse. The fever is septic," she added, and her round black eyes filled with tears.
"He is sleeping all right," announced Dr. Hicks, who joined them; "so is Nancy,—I put something in her tea. She was up all night, poor child, and is thoroughly worn out. The nurse will be here about eleven,—and another doctor."
"It's too awful!" stammered Mayne, who had grown ghastly white. "Do you know, Mrs. Hicks, that by rights, I should be in Travers' place?"
"Tut, tut, tut!" she protested, giving him a push; "you go and have a bath, and some breakfast."
"Tell me," appealing to her husband, "will he get over it? Is there no chance?"
"There may be a turn at sundown, please God."
"If not——?"
"These cases last about four days—that brute's claws were so many poison-bags."
Without another word, Dr. Hicks turned away.
At noon, the nurse and specialist, arrived together, and presently there ensued grave consultations, whisperings, and ominous shaking of heads.
On account of its superior size, and in spite of Nancy's frenzied entreaties, the patient was moved into the drawing-room,—the most spacious apartment in the bungalow, with a northern aspect.
Mayne did not venture to speak to Nancy, who looked as if she scarcely recognized him, when she flitted about like a wraith between the sick-room, and verandah. Kindly, vulgar Mrs. Hicks, at whom he used to laugh, was now his support and comfort. She brought him bulletins, insisted on his taking food, and appeared to keep the whole establishment together; interviewing callers, writing chits, dispatching messengers, concocting dainties, and altogether reversing Mayne's opinion of "silly Mrs. Hicks." For her part, she was sincerely sorry for this worn, haggard-looking young man, who seemed to dread the impending tragedy, almost as much as Travers' own daughter.
Once or twice Mayne had been permitted to stand in the door of the drawing-room, and there exchange a few words with the patient. Quite late that evening, when he was disconsolately pacing the avenue, Mrs. Hicks came out, and joined him.
"How has he been since sundown?" he inquired.
"Neither better nor worse. We have sent for Mr. Brownlow, the padre; he will be here early to-morrow evening. Anyway, he'd have had to come up for the funeral."
"The funeral! Oh, good Lord!" exclaimed Mayne in a choked voice, "surely you are not thinking of that?"
"Now don't you go and break down, my dear boy," said Mrs. Hicks, thumping him on the back; "we must all keep up; while there's life there's hope, and we have to put on a bold face before Nancy. I have contrived to get her to bed. He sent her. May God forgive me for all the lies I've told that poor child. If this ends badly, it'll break her heart. Poor dear! I can't think whatever is to become of her? She won't have a penny of her own in the wide world,—and there's no relations to speak of."
"What—no relations?" repeated Mayne incredulously.
"None that would come forward, anyhow. Her mother was an orphan, and Travers' people broke with him; first of all, because he married a governess, and lastly, because he lost his money. However, if Nancy has no belongings, she has lots of friends up here; we will all do what we can. Well now, I see Francis—he wants me," and she hastily abandoned her companion, leaving him to meditate upon her information.
Mayne went slowly down to the tennis ground; the tennis ground, entirely secluded, was a refuge, and here he could hold a long and uninterrupted conference with himself. Considering the affair from every point of view, he soon arrived at the conclusion, that he was solely responsible for Nancy's future. Why should these good, kind-hearted people offer her a shelter, when he, who was accountable for a tragedy, that cost her a parent and a home, made no effort to provide for her?
During one whole hour, he did a sort of meditative "sentry go" up and down the kunkur courts. Mrs. Hicks' illuminating remarks, had presented Nancy's situation, in its true light: the girl had no relations, no income, and would be entirely dependent on the charity of her kind-hearted neighbours; and he was answerable for the fact, that she would be left homeless, and penniless. If her father had not interfered when the panther attacked him, in another second, the brute would have torn his throat out—the blow, transferred her fury to Travers. But for Travers, he would now be lying in a new grave in the garden. The least he could do, was to provide a home for Travers' daughter—though nothing could make up to her, for the one she was about to lose. Had his mother been like the usual run of mothers, Nancy could have lived with her; unfortunately there were half a dozen "buts," and Lady Torquilstone abhorred girls.
There was one alternative;—vainly he thrust this from him; but it returned again, and yet again, to confront him inflexibly. Yes, he was powerless against the malignity of events, powerless to evade the inevitable. He must marry Nancy. It was the only thing to do! He would thankfully have given her half his income; but, it was not to be supposed, that she would accept his money; she might look upon it as the price of blood!
He liked Nancy, she was a really good sporting sort; straight as a die, a capital pal; but as a wife—he would not know what to make of her? She would be such an unlikely and unaccountable Mrs. Mayne. She looked a mere flapper too, in spite of her eighteen years, and was occasionally capable of the most startling behaviour. He recalled the kiss she had offered him on her birthday, and her various tomboy tricks. What would the regiment think of Nancy? and what would Nancy think of the regiment?
After many pacings to and fro, his mind became definitely resolved. There are moments in the lives of individuals, when their conduct has to be decided, not by material profit, but by instinctive loyalty to what is best in their nature; and although marriage was the last step Mayne had intended to take, nevertheless he determined to adventure the great plunge! Yes, his decision was unalterably fixed, there was actual relief in the sensation. He was turning about for the fiftieth time when he noticed a figure in the moonlight beckoning to him violently from the top of the steps. It was Mrs. Hicks, who screamed out:
"So you're down there, are you? I could not find you! Been looking for you all over the place. He has been asking for you, and the doctors say you may go in, and stay a quarter of an hour."
As Mayne entered the sick-room, he noticed even within the last few hours, a grave change in Travers: a change that was the unmistakable forerunner of the last change of all. The sick man's face looked drawn, his sunken eyes extraordinarily bright and restless,—with a sort of watching expression. There was also some strange element in the room: something that seemed to be waiting—the silence was pregnant, with significance.
"My dear fellow, I'm very glad to see you," Travers began, in a thin weak voice; "come and sit down. They are making out that I am in a bad way, and won't allow anyone near me, but Nancy, poor girl. I may pull through, and I hope I shall, for her sake; she's such a child to be left all alone to battle with the world."
"Not alone," said Mayne gravely, "as long as I am to the fore. By rights I should be lying there instead of you, and if the worst——" He could not go on.
"You are very good, my boy! Although I have only known you for six weeks, I am as fond of you as of an old friend,—and indeed you seem so. I've never saved money until lately. There will be enough for Nancy's passage, and perhaps my sister may take the child; she was a spoiled beauty, and is now, to all accounts, a hard, selfish woman. She and I have not spoken for twenty years. Still Nancy is her niece—her only near relative."
"Look here, sir," interrupted Mayne, "by rights I should be in your place,—it was all my fault. I was in too great a hurry. I blundered shockingly when I aimed, so deadly keen to shoot Sam's panther; but I only enraged her, and made her charge. You knew my father, and are good enough to say, you like me. I have five hundred a year, besides my pay—give Nancy into my care. Give Nancy—to me!"
Travers gazed at him steadily; the sunken dark eyes were interrogative.
"As my wife, of course," he continued nervously. "I swear to you, that I'll look upon her as a sacred trust, and do all I can to make her happy. As it is, we are capital friends; I believe she likes me—and I am awfully fond of her. We really know one another far better than most people who marry—having lived here together for the last six weeks. What do you say?"
"I am a bit surprised," replied Travers at last: "although the notion of my little Nance being married seems preposterous, you have lifted a heavy load off my mind, and God bless you." He put out a burning hand, which Mayne wrung. Then he added, "But I cannot allow you to talk as if I had sacrificed myself; it was all in the day's work, the fortune of war—and—I'll be with my other Nancy before long."
"May I speak to Nancy?" asked Mayne, after a short silence, "or shall I wait?"
"No, I never was a fellow to put off things. I'll see her as soon as possible,—and look here, Derek," and he gazed up at him appealingly, "would you think I was rushing you, if I asked you to have the marriage before I go? Then she will not be left so desolate, my poor little darling. She will have her natural protector. Do you mind? I know—it may seem a bit sudden."
"No," replied Mayne firmly. "I think it will be best. I'll make arrangements at once."
"All right, then I'll have a talk to Nancy by and by, and you shall hear what she says. Of course I know there's never been any sort of flirting, or love-making between you—she's just a child! but I'd leave her with a happy mind, if I knew that my little girl was in the care of a good, honest fellow, like yourself. It will be a queer coincidence if Derek Mayne's son is to be the husband of my daughter. The parson will be here to-morrow, and may find two jobs. Ah, Nurse, all right—I'll stop! No, I've not been doing myself any harm—very much the other way. Good-night, my boy."