For a moment she answered nothing; then she bent her face into her hands and her tears flowed. “O poor, poor Roger!” she cried.
Hubert watched her weeping in her ball-dress those primitive tears. “I have not given him up,” he said at last. “But suppose I had—” She raised her head and looked at him. “O,” he cried, “I should have a hundred things to say! Both as a clergyman and as a man, I should preach resignation. In this crisis, let me speak my mind. Roger is part of your childhood; your childhood’s at an end. Possibly, with it he too is to go! At all events you are not to feel that in losing him you lose everything. I protest! As you sit here he belongs to your past. Ask yourself what part he may play in your future. Believe me, you will have to settle it, you will have to choose. Here, in any case, your life begins. Your tears are for the dead past; this is the future, with its living needs. Roger’s fate is only one of them.”
She rose with her tears replaced by a passionate gravity. “Ah, you don’t know what you say!” she cried. “Talk of my future if you like, but not of my past! No one can speak of it, no one knows it! Such as you see me here, bedecked and bedizened, I am a penniless, homeless, friendless creature! But for Roger, I might be in the streets! Do you think I have forgotten it, that I ever can forget it? There are things that color one’s life, memories that last forever. I have my share! What am I to settle, between whom am I to choose? My love for Roger is no choice, it is part and parcel of my being!”
Hubert was inspired; he forgot everything but that she was lovely. “I wish to Heaven,” he cried, “that you had never ceased to be penniless and friendless! I wish Roger had left you alone and not smothered you beneath this terrible burden of gratitude! Give him back his gifts! Take all I have! In the streets? In the streets I should have found you, as lovely in your poverty as you are now in your finery, and a thousand times more free!” He seized her hand and met her eyes with irresistible ardor. Pain and pleasure, at once, possessed Nora’s heart. It was as if joy, bursting in, had trampled certain tender flowers that bloomed on the threshold. But Hubert had cried, “I love you! I love you!” and joy had taken up the words. She was unable to speak audibly; but in an instant she was spared the effort. The servant hastily came in with a note superscribed with her name. She motioned to Hubert to open it. He read it aloud. “Mr. Lawrence is sinking. You had better come. I send my carriage.” Nora’s voice came to her with a cry,—“He is dying, he is dying!”
In a minute’s time she found herself wrapped in her shawl and seated with Hubert in the doctor’s coupé. A few moments more and the doctor received them at the door of Roger’s room. They passed in, and Nora went straight to the bed. Hubert stood an instant and saw her drop on her knees beside the pillow. She flung back her shawl with vehemence, as if to release her arms; she was throwing them round her friend. Hubert went on into the adjoining chamber, of which the door stood open. The room was dark, the other lit by a night-lamp. He stood listening awhile, but heard nothing; then he began to walk slowly to and fro, past the doorway. He could see nothing but the shining train of Nora’s dress lying on the carpet beyond the angle of the bed. He wanted terribly to see more, but he feared to see too much. At moments he thought he heard whispers. This lasted some time; then the doctor came in, with what seemed to him an odd, unprofessional smile. “The young lady knows a few remedies not taught in the schools,” he whispered. “He has recognized her. He is good for to-night, at least. Half an hour ago he had no pulse at all, but this has started it. I will come back in an hour.” After he had gone Lucinda came, self-commissioned, and shut the door in Hubert’s face. He stood a moment, with an unreasoned sense of insult and defeat. Then he walked straight out of the house. But the next morning, after breakfast, a more generous sentiment moved him to return. The doctor was just coming away. “It was a Daniel come to judgment,” the doctor declared. “I verily believe she saved him. He will be sitting up in a fortnight.” Hubert learned that, having achieved her miracle, Nora had returned to Mrs. Keith’s. What arts she had used he was left to imagine. He had still a sore feeling of having just missed a crowning joy; but there might yet be time to grasp it. He felt, too, an urgent need of catching a glimpse of the afterglow of Nora’s mystical effluence. He repaired to Mrs. Keith’s, hoping to find the young girl alone. But the elder lady, as luck would have it, was established in the drawing-room, and she made haste to inform him that Nora, fatigued by her “watching,” had not yet left her room. But if Hubert was sombre, Mrs. Keith was radiant. Now was her chance to preach her promised sermon; she had just come into possession of facts that furnished a capital text.
“I suppose you will call me a meddling busybody,” she said. “I confess I seem to myself a model of forbearance. Be so good as to tell me in three words whether you are in love with Nora.”
Taken thus abruptly to task, Hubert, after a moment’s trepidation, kept his balance. He measured the situation at a glance, and pronounced it bad. But if heroic urbanity would save it, he would be urbane. “It is hardly a question to answer in two words,” he answered, with an ingenuous smile. “I wish you could tell me!”
“Really,” said Mrs. Keith, “it seems to me that by this time you might know. Tell me at least whether you are prepared to marry her?”
Hubert hesitated just an instant. “Of course not,—so long as I am not sure I am in love with her!”
“And pray when will you make up your mind? And what is to become of poor Nora meanwhile?”