A DARKENED KOOM
The ‘comatose’ state, to use the language of the doctors, into which Gorman O’Shea had fallen, had continued so long as to excite the greatest apprehensions of his friends; for although not amounting to complete insensibility, it left him so apathetic and indifferent to everything and every one, that the girls Kate and Nina, in pure despair, had given up reading or talking to him, and passed their hours of ‘watching’ in perfect silence in the half-darkened room.
The stern immobility of his pale features, the glassy and meaningless stare of his large blue eyes, the unvarying rhythm of a long-drawn respiration, were signs that at length became more painful to contemplate than evidences of actual suffering; and as day by day went on, and interest grew more and more eager about the trial, which was fixed for the coming assize, it was pitiable to see him, whose fate was so deeply pledged on the issue, unconscious of all that went on around him, and not caring to know any of those details the very least of which might determine his future lot.
The instructions drawn up for the defence were sadly in need of the sort of information which the sick man alone could supply; and Nina and Kate had both been entreated to watch for the first favourable moment that should present itself, and ask certain questions, the answers to which would be of the last importance.
Though Gill’s affidavit gave many evidences of unscrupulous falsehood, there was no counter-evidence to set against it, and O’Shea’s counsel complained strongly of the meagre instructions which were briefed to him in the case, and his utter inability to construct a defence upon them.
‘He said he would tell me something this evening, Kate,’ said Nina; ‘so, if you will let me, I will go in your place and remind him of his promise.’
This hopeful sign of returning intelligence was so gratifying to Kate that she readily consented to the proposition of her cousin taking her ‘watch,’ and, if possible, learning something of his wishes.
‘He said it,’ continued Nina, ‘like one talking to himself, and it was not easy to follow him. The words, as well as I could make out, were, “I will say it to-day—this evening, if I can. When it is said”—here he muttered something, but I cannot say whether the words were, “My mind will be at rest,” or “I shall be at rest for evermore.”’
Kate did not utter a word, but her eyes swam, and two large tears stole slowly down her face.
‘His own conviction is that he is dying,’ said Nina; but Kate never spoke.
‘The doctors persist,’ continued Nina, ‘in declaring that this depression is only a well-known symptom of the attack, and that all affections of the brain are marked by a certain tone of despondency. They even say more, and that the cases where this symptom predominates are more frequently followed by recovery. Are you listening to me, child?’
‘No; I was following some thoughts of my own.’
‘I was merely telling you why I think he is getting better.’
Kate leaned her head on her cousin’s shoulder, and she did not speak. The heaving motion of her shoulders and her chest betrayed the agitation she could not subdue.
‘I wish his aunt were here; I see how her absence frets him. Is she too ill for the journey?’ asked Nina.
‘She says not, and she seems in some way to be coerced by others; but a telegram this morning announces she would try and reach Kilgobbin this evening.’
‘What could coercion mean? Surely this is mere fancy?’
‘I am not so certain of that. The convent has great hopes of inheriting her fortune. She is rich, and she is a devout Catholic; and we have heard of cases where zeal for the Church has pushed discretion very far.’
‘What a worldly creature it is!’ cried Nina; ‘and who would have suspected it?’
‘I do not see the worldliness of my believing that people will do much to serve the cause they follow. When chemists tell us that there is no finding such a thing as a glass of pure water, where are we to go for pure motives?’
‘To one’s heart, of course,’ said Nina; but the curl of her perfectly-cut lip as she said it, scarcely vouched for the sincerity.
On that same evening, just as the last flickerings of twilight were dying away, Nina stole into the sick-room, and took her place noiselessly beside the bed.
Slowly moving his arm without turning his head, or by any gesture whatever acknowledging her presence, he took her hand and pressed it to his burning lips, and then laid it upon his cheek. She made no effort to withdraw her hand, and sat perfectly still and motionless.
‘Are we alone?’ whispered he, in a voice hardly audible.
‘Yes, quite alone.’
‘If I should say what—displease you,’ faltered he, his agitation making speech even more difficult; ‘how shall I tell?’ And once more he pressed her hand to his lips.
‘No, no; have no fears of displeasing me. Say what you would like to tell me.’
‘It is this, then,’ said he, with an effort. ‘I am dying with my secret in my heart. I am dying, to carry away with me the love I am not to tell—my love for you, Kate.’
‘I am not Kate,’ was almost on her lips; but her struggle to keep silent was aided by that desire so strong in her nature—to follow out a situation of difficulty to the end. She did not love him, nor did she desire his love; but a strange sense of injury at hearing his profession of love for another shot a pang of intense suffering through her heart, and she lay back in her chair with a cold feeling of sickness like fainting. The overpowering passion of her nature was jealousy; and to share even the admiration of a salon, the ‘passing homage,’ as such deference is called, with another, was a something no effort of her generosity could compass.
Though she did not speak, she suffered her hand to remain unresistingly within his own. After a short pause he went on: ‘I thought yesterday that I was dying; and in my rambling intellect I thought I took leave of you; and do you know my last words—my last words, Kate?’
‘No; what were they?’
‘My last words were these: “Beware of the Greek; have no friendship with the Greek.”’
‘And why that warning?’ said she, in a low, faint voice.
‘She is not of us, Kate; none of her ways or thoughts are ours, nor would they suit us. She is subtle, and clever, and sly; and these only mislead those who lead simple lives.’
‘May it not be that you wrong her?’
‘I have tried to learn her nature.’
‘Not to love it?’
‘I believe I was beginning to love her—just when you were cold to me. You remember when?’
‘I do; and it was this coldness was the cause? Was it the only cause?’
‘No, no. She has wiles and ways which, with her beauty, make her nigh irresistible.’
‘And now you are cured of this passion? There is no trace of it in your breast?’
‘Not a vestige. But why speak of her?’
‘Perhaps I am jealous.’
Once more he pressed his lips to her hand, and kissed it rapturously.
‘No, Kate,’ cried he, ‘none but you have the place in my heart. Whenever I have tried a treason, it has turned against me. Is there light enough in the room to find a small portfolio of red-brown leather? It is on that table yonder.’
Had the darkness been not almost complete, Nina would scarcely have ventured to rise and cross the room, so fearful was she of being recognised.
‘It is locked,’ said she, as she laid it beside him on the bed; but touching a secret spring, he opened it, and passed his fingers hurriedly through the papers within.
‘I believe it must be this,’ said he. ‘I think I know the feel of the paper. It is a telegram from my aunt; the doctor gave it to me last night. We read it over together four or five times. This is it, and these are the words: “If Kate will be your wife, the estate of O’Shea’s Barn is your own for ever.”’
‘Is she to have no time to think over this offer?’ asked she.
‘Would you like candles, miss?’ asked a maid-servant, of whose presence there neither of the others had been aware.
‘No, nor are you wanted,’ said Nina haughtily, as she arose; while it was not without some difficulty she withdrew her hand from the sick man’s grasp.
‘I know,’ said he falteringly, ‘you would not leave me if you had not left hope to keep me company in your absence. Is not that so, Kate?’
‘Bye-bye,’ said she softly, and stole away.