At the very hour of that fine August morning that Mr. Charles Marsh and Miss Cherrie Nettleby had the surgery of Dr. Leach so comfortably to themselves, that medical gentleman up at Redmon, helping its mistress to fight out a battle with death. Yes, on that hot summer morning Lady Leroy was likely to die, stood even within the portal of the Valley of the Shadow, and Redmon and all earthly possessions seem about to slip from her forever. Good-natured Miss Jo, in the early morning, had sent up a present of a basket of cucumbers and lettuce, of both of which specimens of the vegetable kingdom Mrs. Leroy had partaken, well soaked in vinegar, as a sharpener to breakfast appetite. The consequence was, that before that repast was well down, she was seized with such convulsive cramps as only cholera patients ever know. Brandy applied inwardly, and hot flannel and severe rubbing applied outwardly, being without avail, Dr. Leach was sent for in hot haste. The old woman was in agonies, and Nathalie frightened nearly out of her wits. Dr. Leach looked grave, but did his best. For some hours it was quite uncertain whether he or the grim Rider of the Pale Horse would gain the battle: but victory seated herself at last on the medical banner of the Speckport physician. Mrs. Leroy, totally exhausted with her fierce sufferings, took an opiate and fell asleep, and the doctor took his hat to leave.
"She'll do well enough now, Miss Natty," he said, "only pitch the cucumbers into the fire the first thing. She'll be all right to-morrow."
Nathalie sat patiently down in the steaming and oppressive sick-room, to keep watch. The house was as still as a tomb; Midge was buried in the regions below, and the sick woman slept long and profoundly.
Nathalie took a book, and, absorbed by it, did not notice when Lady Leroy awoke. Awake she did, after some hours, and lay there quite still, looking at the young girl, and thinking. Of what? Of the long and weary months that young girl had in a manner buried herself alive in this living tomb of a house, to minister to her, to arrange all her business, to read to her, to talk to her, to do her all manner of good service, and to bear patiently her querulousness and caprice. It had been a lonely and eerie life for her, but when had she ever complained? and now what was she to gain by it all! For one act of disobedience she was disinherited—all these months and years wasted for nothing. She had come there in the belief—implanted by Mrs. Leroy herself—that she was to be the heiress of Redmon. Had she any right to go back from her word—to make her memory accursed—to go into that shadowy and unknown world opening before her with a lie on her soul? Dared she do it? She had an awful fear of death, this miserly old woman—an awful fear of what lay beyond death; and yet, with strange inconsistency, she felt herself on the verge of the grave—a long life of sin lying behind her, and making no effort to atone—only letting herself drift on. Yet is the inconsistency strange? Are we not, every one of us, doing the same? We are younger, perhaps, and fuller of life; yet do we not know the terrible truth, that death and ourselves are divided but by a single step?
Nathalie, bending over her book, all her fair hair dropping loose about her, saw not the eyes so closely watching her. How pale she looked. Perhaps it was the fright, not yet over; perhaps the heat; but her face was like a lily-leaf. While she watched her, Midge came softly in, and Mrs. Leroy closed her eyes again.
"Is she sleeping still?" Midge asked, looking toward the bed.
"Yes," said Nathalie, glancing up.
Midge bustled out, and presently returned with a cup of tea.
"Who do you think was here this morning to say good-bye?" she asked, while Nathalie was drinking it.
"I don't know. Who?"