“Don’t be alarmed; there is nothing to call for any immediate apprehension. It is only if you want to procure any modification—any change in a will, or detail of that kind.”
“You mean about Stella,” she said. “I don’t know what he has done about Stella; he never tells me anything. Is it necessary to trouble him, doctor? If he has not changed his will it will be all right; if he has destroyed it without making another it will still be all right, for some one told me that in that case we should share alike—is that the law? Then no harm can come to Stella. Oh, that we should be discussing in this calm way what might happen—after!” Two big tears fell from Katherine’s eyes. “If the worst were to happen even,” she said; “if Stella were left out—it would still be all right, doctor, so long as I was there to see justice done.”
“Dear Katherine!” he said, just touching her hand for a moment. She scarcely perceived in her agitation that he had left out the prefix, and the look which he gave her made no impression on her preoccupied mind. “You will remember,” he said, “that I am to be called instantly if anything unusual happens, and that I shall always be ready—to do the best I can for him, and to stand by you—to the end.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
This made again a delay in Dr. Burnet’s plans. You cannot begin to make love to a girl when you have just told her of the serious illness, not likely to end in anything but death, which is hovering over her father. It is true that old Tredgold was not, could not, be the object of any passionate devotion on the part of his daughter. But even when the tie is so slight that, once broken, it has but a small effect on life, yet the prospect of that breaking is always appalling, more or less worse than the event itself. All that a man can say in such circumstances, Dr. Burnet said—that he would be at her service night or day, that everything he could do or think of he would do, and stand by her to the last. That was far more appropriate than professions of love, and it was a little trying to him to find that she had not even noticed how he looked at her, or that he said, “Dear Katherine!” which, to be sure, he had no right to say. She was not even aware of it! which is discouraging to a man.
Dr. Burnet was a good doctor, he knew what he was about; and it was not long before his prophecy came true. Mr. Tredgold was seized with an alarming attack in the spring, which brought him to the very verge of the grave, and from which at one time it was not expected he would ever rally. The old man was very ill, but very strong in spirit, and fought with his disease like a lion; one would have said a good old man to see him lying there with no apparent trouble on his mind, nothing to pre-occupy time or draw him away from the immediate necessity of battling for his life, which he did with a courage worthy of a better cause. His coolness, his self-possession, his readiness to second every remedy, and give himself every chance, was the admiration of the watchers, doctors, and nurses alike, who were all on the alert to help him, and conquer the enemy. Could there be a better cause than fighting for your life? Not one at least of more intimate interest for the combatant; though whether it is worth so much trouble when a man is over seventy, and can look forward to nothing better than the existence of an invalid, is a question which might well be debated. Mr. Tredgold, however, had no doubt on the subject. He knew that he possessed in this life a great many things he liked—what he would have in another he had very little idea. Probably, according to all that he had ever heard, there would be no money there, and if any difference between the beggar and the rich man, a difference in favour of the former. He did not at all desire to enter into that state of affairs. And the curious thing was that it could never be discovered that he had anything on his mind. He did not ask for Stella, as the large circle of watchers outside who read the bulletins at the lodge, and discussed the whole matter with the greatest interest, feeling it to be as good as a play, fondly hoped. He never said a word that could be construed into a wish for her, never, indeed, mentioned her name. He did not even desire to have Katherine by him, it was said; he preferred the nurses, saying in his characteristic way that they were paid for it, that it was their business, and that he never in anything cared for amateurs; he said amateurs, as was natural, and it was exactly the sentiment which everybody had expected from Mr. Tredgold. But never to ask for Stella, never to call upon her at his worst moment, never to be troubled by any thought of injustice done to her, that was the extraordinary thing which the community could not understand. Most people had expected a tragic scene of remorse, telegrams flying over land and sea, at the cost of a sovereign a word—but what was that to Mr. Tredgold?—calling Stella home. The good people were confounded to hear, day by day, that no telegram had been sent. It would have been a distinction for the little post-office in Sliplin to have a telegram of such a character to transmit to India. The postmistress awaited, feeling as if she were an inferior, but still very important, personage in the play, attending her call to go on. But the call never came. When the patient was at his worst various ladies in the place, and I need not say Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay, had many whispered conferences with the people at the post. “No telegram yet? Is it possible?”
“No, indeed, ma’am, not a word.”
“I wonder at you for expecting it now,” cried Miss Mildmay, angry at the failure of all those hopes which she had entertained as warmly as anyone. “What use would it be. She couldn’t come now; he’ll be gone, poor man, weeks and weeks before Stella could be here.”
But Mr. Tredgold did not go, and then it began to be understood that he never meant nor expected to go, and that this was the reason why he did not disturb himself about Stella. The spectators were half satisfied, yet half aggrieved, by this conclusion, and felt, as he got slowly better, that they had been cheated out of their play; however, he was an old man, and the doctor shook his head over all the triumphant accounts of his recovery which were made in the local papers; and there was yet hope of a tragedy preceded by a reconciliation, and the restoration of Stella to all her rights. Dr. Burnet was, throughout the whole illness, beyond praise. He was at the Cliff at every available moment, watching every symptom. Not a day elapsed that he did not see Katherine two or three times to console her about her father, or to explain anything new that had occurred. They were together so much that some people said they looked as if they had been not only lovers but married for years, so complete seemed their confidence in each other and the way they understood each other. A glance at Dr. Burnet’s face was enough for Katherine. She knew what it meant without another word; while he divined her anxiety, her apprehensions, her depression, as the long days went on without any need of explanation. “As soon as the old man is well enough there will, of course, be a marriage,” it was generally said. “And, of course, the doctor will go and live there,” said Mrs. Shanks, “such a comfort to have the doctor always on the spot—and what a happy thing for poor Mr. Tredgold that it should be his son-in-law—a member of his family.”
“Mr. Tredgold will never have a son-in-law in his house,” said Miss Mildmay, “if Katherine is expecting that she is reckoning without her father. I don’t believe that will ever be a marriage whatever you may say. What! send off Sir Charles Somers, a man with something at least to show for himself, and take in Dr. Burnet? I think, Jane Shanks, that you must be off your head!”