“Hummmm-m,” the pessimist hesitated. “Not a very great deal, provided the transportation is done on a water-mattress and by very careful bearers; but no doubt the infirmary of the Castle—about which I have heard so much”—here he bowed first to the Duke and then to the Duchess—“can be called upon for all appliances necessary.”
“And,” resumed Salvières, “will it be impossible, say in a few days, to put the—patient on a yacht and take him back to his own land? He—he—is an American.”
“In this season, Monsieur le Duc, la belle saison,” the great man addressed responded, visibly undeterred by a newly awakened squall that was shrieking its way around and around the “Station,” “I should say not; but with your permission my colleague and I will answer your question after a second examination of the patient, when he has been removed from here. You have no doubt considered the necessity of our spending the night at Salvières.”
“Certainly,” Tatiana and Jean exclaimed together. “Jean,” she went on, “will you be so good as to give orders to have ‘Mr. Harrington’ moved to the Louis XI. suite on the ground floor of the west wing. The ground floor will be advisable, messieurs, is it not so? Besides, it is in the newer portion of the house and very comfortably installed,” and she turned to the doctors.
To this they agreed, much impressed, in spite of their professional phlegm, by the simplicity with which this Duchess referred to a wing dating back five hundred years as the “newer portion” of her Castle.
Two hours later the transit had been accomplished and Preston Wynne was resting in the high-ceiled room where once the King of “many watches” had slept. The doctors’ opinion before their departure the next morning—by means of another special train, their valuable presence being peremptorily required in Paris—was to the effect that “Mr. Harrington” would in all human probability recover consciousness within the next few hours. They would, as promised, despatch a medical student de troisième année to Salvières, as also an orderly, to take full charge of the patient and accompany him to America, were the voyage decided upon. Money, they were told, was no object, and so they might well believe when thinking of the plethoric cheques folded in their respective pocket-books! Hope of complete or even partial recovery, they repeated, there was none—none whatsoever—and it was with a heavy heart that Tatiana, after seeing them off, turned her steps to the sick-room.
Her feelings were hardly to be analyzed as she came to the bedside and looked long and intently at the boyish face on the low, hard pillow scarcely elevating it from the smoothly drawn sheet. With his eyes closed, his hair swept back from the forehead, very white, and breathing very softly, Preston Wynne seemed to have recovered some of childhood’s lines. He was barely twenty-six, but just then he gave the impression of sixteen rather, and Tatiana sighed. “What a pity,” she murmured; and quite in spite of herself, for she was a singularly merciful and forgiving woman, she felt a sudden wave of disgust sweep over her as she thought of Laurence lying in princely state in the old chapel, and of this her fifth and last victim. Basil, Piotr, Marguerite, Neville, and now this poor young stranger who had, according to his own broken and wandering words, tried to resist her fascination. Had any one ever heard of such inconceivable ill-fortune, of such persistent mischance, as had befallen those who had loved her? Well, she had paid the price; not only of her peculiar reading of the plighted faith, but of that fault, perhaps far more heinous yet—a total lack of heart, of gratitude, and of motherhood. Still Tatiana could not bring it upon herself to say the “repose in peace” which comes so readily to Russian lips whenever they think of those that are no more, and, slipping into an arm-chair at the foot of Preston’s bed, she sat, her eyes fixed upon the quiet figure before her. A bunch of sun-rays, clean-washed by the storm, was thrusting its golden points through the lace of the undercurtains, and after a while Tatiana turned her eyes toward them, though her thoughts were far away. She did not notice the passing of the hours, and the light was beginning to veil itself when she suddenly became aware that Preston was awake and looking straight at her, perfectly calm and reasonable.
With a nervous start she rose and came closer to him. “How are you now?” she asked in as matter-of-fact a tone as she could summon to her assistance.
“I am all right, I believe, except that I feel lame all over,” he replied, smiling in that peculiarly winning fashion she had always liked. “We were wrecked—” he continued, puckering his brows in puzzlement. “When you moved, madame, I was just trying to piece the last few hours together.”
“Yes,” she encouraged, “but don’t do it too fast. You have gone through a great deal, Mr. Wynne, and rest is what you need most. Are you thirsty?”