‘Is she going to die, Philip?’ asked Kate.
‘She is very faint,’ he replied, ‘She has been too much excited, but she may rally yet. Go and send me a nurse, and do not return yourself.’
Kate walked softly down the ward, the tears falling fast from her eyes. She was no longer grieving over her own troubles, but for the hopeful, cheery, brave old woman, who had met her long-lost son again in such a manner, and at such a moment as this. She waited in the matron’s parlour until a message was brought to her that Mrs. Duffy was sleeping again, with her son watching and waiting beside her. Then she returned home with her father.
‘I’ve not the shadow of a doubt Duffy’s the man,’ shouted Dr. Layard to her, above the noise of the train; ‘but the thing cannot be brought home to him. The old woman is as true as truth itself, but she is labouring under a delusion. She no more believes that her son was the man who shot at her than I believe that you did it. I question whether she would believe Duffy himself if he owned it to her, which he must not do. I’ve told him so. I said, “Duffy, I feel pretty sure you are the villain that did it, and if she dies I’ll do my best to prove it. But never you tell your mother it was yourself; it would go far to break her heart.” And he said, “I’ll never speak a word about it, one way or the other, sir.” Oh! Duffy did it!’
‘Do you think she will die?’ asked Kate.
‘Carey will do his best for her,’ said Dr. Layard; ‘I never saw such a change in a young fellow as there is in Carey. He is as dull as a beetle; just when he has got all he has been striving for, too! I don’t understand it.’
Kate believed she understood it, but she kept silence. It was not likely he could feel happy and at ease in her presence or her father’s if he had a spark of feeling; and he certainly possessed a good deal of feeling. She had caught his eye once during the strange interview round Mrs. Duffy’s bed, and they had looked at one another with a sympathy which had seemed at the moment the most natural thing in the world. She had called him Philip, too! How her cheeks burned at the very recollection. She wished she had preserved to the end an icy dignity of manner towards him; but she had altogether forgotten herself, and it had been a happier moment than she had felt for these four weeks past. Perhaps utter forgetfulness of self is the only real happiness.
The next morning Kate was once more sitting alone before the fire in the breakfast-room, with nothing particular to do, until it was time to start for Lentford once more, when the servant brought in a large official-looking cover, with the words ‘Dead Letter Office’ printed upon it, and addressed ‘Miss Kate Layard, Ilverton.’ It was the first time in her life that Kate had ever received such an ominous-looking packet. She opened it with some trepidation, and drew from it her own brief note to Philip Carey, written four weeks before. The envelope bore several postmarks upon it, with directions to try one town after another—Liverpool, then Manchester, then London—but it was several minutes before she discovered how it had all happened. Her own handwriting lay before her eyes, or she could never have believed it: she had directed her letter to ‘Dr. Carey, Everton Square, Liverpool.’
How Kate had come to write Liverpool instead of Lentford she could never understand. It was true Philip had gone to Liverpool after leaving Ilverton, but how stupid of her to make such a dreadful mistake! Then he, too, had been passing through as miserable a time as herself. He must have come to the conclusion that she did not care for him, and that she had not even the grace to thank him for the love he had bestowed upon her in vain. What could he have thought of her? It must have been a pain to him. She would make it up to him in some way.
Kate’s brain was in a whirl all the way to Lentford. She walked up the broad steps of the hospital portico like one in a dream. The fat porter, in his handsome livery, nodded pleasantly at her; and the students, hurrying along the broad corridors, took off their hats to Dr. Layard’s pretty daughter. She had to pass by a recess as large as a good-sized room, with benches round and across it, upon which were seated rows of poor patients, waiting humbly for their turn to go in and see the doctor. The doorkeeper had just opened the door an inch or two, and Kate saw Philip Carey’s face, grave and care-worn, listening to a poor woman who was just going away by another entrance. She laid her hand upon the arm of the patient who was going in, and passed on into the room instead. ‘Philip,’ she said, her face flushing at his look of amazement, ‘I am only going to stay one moment. I have been so miserable. I wrote this four weeks ago.’