Maggie paused. She expected to feel Annabel’s arms round her neck; she waited impatiently for this last crowning moment of bliss. Her own happiness caused her to lower her eyes; her joy was so dazzling that for a moment she felt she must shade their brilliance even from Annabel’s gaze.
Instead of the pressure of loving arms, however, and the warm kiss of sympathy, there came a low cry from the lips of the sick girl. She made an effort to say something, but words failed her: the next moment she was unconscious. Maggie rushed to the bell, and gave an alarm, which brought Miss Heath and one or two servants to the room.
A doctor was speedily sent for, and Maggie Oliphant was banished from the room. She never saw Annabel Lee again. That night the sick girl was removed to the hospital, which was in a building apart from the Halls, and two days afterwards she was dead.
Typhus fever was raging at Kingsdene at this time, and Annabel Lee had taken it in its most virulent form. The doctors (and two or three were summoned) gave up all hope of saving her life from the first. Maggie also gave up hope. She accused herself of having caused her friend’s death; she believed that the shock of her tidings had killed Annabel, who, already suffering from fever, had not strength to bear the agony of knowing that Hammond’s love was given to Maggie.
On the night of Annabel’s death, Maggie wrote to Hammond refusing his offer of marriage, but giving no reason for doing so. After posting her letter, she lay down on her own sick bed, and nearly died of the fever which had taken Annabel away.
All these things happened a year ago. The agitation caused by the death of one so young, beautiful, and beloved had subsided. People could talk calmly of Annabel, and although for a long time her room had remained vacant, it was now occupied by a girl in all respects her opposite.
Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more, and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery, which were seriously undermining her health, and ruining what was best of her character.
On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in costly furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping over her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel’s death, Maggie had vowed a vow to her own heart never, under any circumstances, to consent to be Hammond’s wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well, as the days and months went by, that its weight was crushing her life, was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent indifference, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy. The thought of him mingled with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie consulted no one on this subject. Annabel’s unhappy story lay buried with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes.
“I am too weak for this to go on any longer,” she said to herself. “I shall leave St. Benet’s at the end of the present term. What is the winning of a tripos to me? what do I want with honours and distinctions? Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavour in it. I loved Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel’s heart. Without meaning it, I caused my darling’s death, and now my own heart is broken, for I love Geoffrey—I love him, and I can never, under any circumstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me—he thinks me cold, wicked, heartless—and I can never, never set myself right with him. Soon he will grow tired of me, and give his heart to someone else, and perhaps marry someone else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes, whatever happens, I must go away from St. Benet’s.”
Maggie’s tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive her head was no better.