*IV.*
Malcolm Stewart went down to Southampton to meet the ship and bring Johnback to London.
"No excitement," the doctor had said, and so he had gone alone.
Now that young Stewart had really accomplished the task of getting backto England, his false strength deserted him and he became weaker thanbefore. The two men, the sturdy father and the wasted son, made thejourney to town, John being carried to and from the railway carriages.
For a moment, when he reached London, and the carriage was turning intoGrosvenor Square, he rallied a little and insisted on getting out of thecarriage himself, and walking up the steps, leaning heavily on hisfather’s arm.
"We won’t frighten the Little Madre," he had said.
The tall, womanly figure of the Little Madre. who had been standing bythe window for the last hour, appeared at the door, silently holding outher arms.
After awhile they got him up to his own room and to bed, and all day theLittle Madre sat by him, tending to his few wants. Once he fell asleep,and when he awoke the room was full of flowers.
"What is it?" he asked his mother feebly, "Where did they come from?"
"From friends," she said, rising and moving from one great bunch toanother. "The white and pink roses are from Cousin Kenneth’s wife," andso she went on. "The heather and the bracken came without a name. Ithink they must be from Rob—don’t you?"
She paused, turning to him questioningly. Stewart swallowed.
"Probably," he said, in a low voice.
"The Camerons sent the lilies, and those red roses are from the oldMajor of the Department—you should read the card," she smiled proudly,coming back to his bed.
He smiled at her eagerness, and laid the card down.
"That’s pretty nice, isn’t it?" he asked.
And then he looked up at her.
"But the violets?" he asked slowly. "Who left the violets?"
"The violets are from Cary," she replied, meeting his look.
A slow flush mounted over his pale face.
"Please bring them here."
She did so, holding them close to his face that he might smell of thembefore she put the little vase on the table by him. He took them out ofthe water, feebly, and laid them on the bed.
"Everyone is awfully kind," he said, "and I don’t deserve the fuss.Have—many inquired—to-day?"
"All my visiting list," she replied, laughingly, "and a good many morebesides. Why the officers—" she paused, shaking her head.
"Has—Cary called?" he asked, looking hard at the foot board of the bed.
"Yes, and left the flowers herself. You are to see her—" she broke off,anxiously watching the haggard face that he turned quickly to her own.
"When?"
"In three or four days—if you are stronger. She shall be the first."
His mother leaned over him, stroking his hair from his forehead. He mether eyes gravely.
The late sunlight sifted through the drawn curtains and touched theflowers; their exquisite odor crept through the stillness of the room asthe sweet memory of an old song steals through the silent chambers ofthe heart.
"I love her," he said simply. "I have loved her always," he said, stilllooking into her eyes.
She smiled.
"I have known it always," she answered.
But the four days lengthened into four weeks before he saw Cary. Thatnight the half healed wound reopened, and he had a sinking spell.
The next morning before the news had had time to become generally known,Trevelyan mysteriously appeared at the house on Grosvenor Square, andwent straight to Stewart’s room.
"You go and lie down," he said briefly to his aunt, who had been up allnight, "I guess I ought to know how to take care of him. I did it oncebefore in India. I won’t leave you until I’ve pulled him through."
And then Trevelyan and Death fought it out again, and Trevelyan beatback the Shadowy Presence in the great still London house, as he haddone weeks before in the government hospital in India. He hardly leftthe sick room, and he seemed scarcely ever to sleep. He would sit forhours at a time, his finger on Stewart’s pulse; quieting his ravings andforcing back the fever by the might of his own will.
Except in the dim sick room where Stewart lived again in delirium thenight of the perilous ride, over the great Grosvenor Square house restedthe hush of grave sickness and impending death. The servant stationedat the door, guarded against the possible ringing of the muffled bell,and answered inquiries, and received the cards left, and the offeringsof flowers. None ever reached Stewart’s darkened room except the smallbunch of violets that came daily, and which his mother would bring upand place on the table by his bed, hoping in woman-fashion that theperfume might attract and hold his wandering faculties, or arouse himfrom the stupor into which he would fall from time to time; but it neverdid. If she had ever dreamed of the exquisite torture the flowers andtheir scent were to Trevelyan, she would have placed them with theothers down stairs, but Trevelyan never told, and she never knew themoments in which the perfume seemed to drive him mad.
Once she suggested getting a professional nurse to relieve him, butcatching sight of Trevelyan’s face she had stopped short.
"There! Forgive me," she said. "It is not that I don’t trust you, oram ungrateful or believe that anyone else could do so well, but I amafraid for you."
"I’m all right," Trevelyan had answered shortly.
"You are unselfish; you are only thinking of us and of John. You arealways thinking and doing for John."
"Don’t!" he interrupted, and through the dimness of the room she couldsee that his face quivered, and she wondered.
"I could not get along without you," she went on. "None of us could,and it has been you who have pulled him through so far."
She looked toward the long, motionless figure on the bed.
"I shall pull him through to-night and to-morrow, and to-morrow again,and next week—until he is out of danger," said Trevleyan.
That was the day the two doctors had given Stewart up.
The crisis came and passed, and Stewart lived.
When the thralldom and the stupor of the fever had partly lifted, andbefore Stewart came to himself, Trevelyan left and went back to Scotlandand to old Mactier, nor could anyone persuade him to remain.
Days later, when Stewart was sitting up, he saw Cary for the first time.
"There is some one waiting outside whom you will be glad to see," hismother had said.
"It is Cary? You are going to let me see Cary?" he cried.
"If you will be good and not talk," she answered, leaving the door ajar.
Stewart turned his face to the door, pressing his long, thin fingersresting on his knee, close together.
She came in carrying a bunch of violets, and stood by his chair, lookingdown at him. He looked up at her, and it seemed to him that she wasbeautiful, and her voice the sweetest he had ever heard.
"I have waited and wanted so to give you these myself," she said, "andyou have frightened us all so."
She spoke with the simplicity of a little girl, but there was a qualityin her voice that Stewart had not heard before, and he knew that Caryhad become a woman.
He clung to her hand in parting with that pathetic bodily weakness thatmakes a man, in illness, like a child.
"Don’t go yet," he pleaded, "You’ve been here such a little while. Oh,_please_ don’t go!"
She patted his hand.
"I will come again," she said, and on her way to the door, she keptlooking back at him and smiling. He sat motionless until her lightfootstep was lost in the distance, and all day he sat quiet, scarcelyspeaking, dreaming of her.
The next day he waited, expecting her, but she did not come; nor thenext.
"What’s become of Cary?" he asked on the third day of his mother. "Whydon’t she come any more?"
"I suppose she thinks you’re out of danger now, and she may have otherthings to do.
"
"If that isn’t just the way of women! Coming all the time when a chapdon’t know anything or anybody, and then just when he needs cheering—"he broke off, pulling viciously at the shawl over his feet.
His mother smiled, knowing better "the way of women."
But two days later, when Cary called again, she spoke to her of hisloneliness.
"He gets tired of the home faces," she said, "and he isn’t strong enoughyet to see the men or strangers. Perhaps if you could read aloud to himnow and then——"
"Why, of course I could," said Cary, and after that she came oftener.They would carry Stewart down to his mother’s cheerful little sittingroom, and there one or more of the family would gather and Cary wouldtalk or read aloud. At such times Stewart would lean back in his chairamong his pillows and remain silent, content to look at her and tolisten to her voice. One day they were left alone together. He remainedquiet, his eyes fixed on her. Presently she finished the chapter andturned the page.
"I think that was a pretty strong scene, don’t you?" she asked, pausingfor a moment before she went on, and peering at him gravely over the topof the book.
"Yes—it was," he answered absently.
"You weren’t listening to a word of it," she exclaimed reproachfully.
He laughed.
"To tell you the truth—no. Put the wretched old thing down and talk tome."
She laid the book down as he had bidden, but she played nervously withthe leaves.
"What shall I talk about?"
"Oh, anything—yourself."
"Upon my word, but you’re polite. There isn’t an earthly thing to tellabout myself," she added, "And I don’t know any topic that wouldinterest you. There’s that House of Commons speech, of course, but——"
"Then I’ll talk to you."
"Oh, you _mustn’t_!" She looked up startled, "Sir Archibald said youwere not to exert yourself."
"Confound the old codger, anyway! Does he expect to keep me tongue-tiedthe rest of my life?"
Cary laughed.
"You’re cross to-day," she said. "You’re getting better. It’s a suresign."
Stewart leaned forward suddenly; then he leaned back and traced anoutline of a sword on the leather arm of the chair.
"Did you know," he asked her slowly, "that as far as the Service isconcerned, I’m done for—that I’ll never be well enough for it again;that I’ve been injured beyond hope for the Service; that I’ve had toresign?"
"Yes," said Cary gently, looking hard at the book in her lap.
"Thirty and—done for," he said bitterly, "All the Woolwich years tocount for nothing; all the study; all the ambition, all the—hope, tocount for nothing!" His finger paused in tracing the outline of thesword.
"Oh, you mustn’t say that," cried Cary, "you must remember what you’vedone already—more than many older officers do in their whole lives. Andthen—"
He interrupted her.
"That sounds well," he said. "But life isn’t worth much to a man whenhe’s laid on the shelf just when he’s beginning to live— But the wastedyears and the inactive life ahead!" He went on rapidly, beating thefist of one hand against the palm of the other. "Oh, think whatinactivity will mean after the life I’ve been trained to, and workedfor, and loved!"
She sat silent, her heart throbbing with a great pity.
"To have to think of myself—to look out for draughts like a sickly,nervous old man!" Something rose in Stewart’s throat, and he coughed."Can’t ever command the men again! Can’t lead them to battle, or everfeel the soft earth under me, or see the stars and the night through theflap of my tent! To have to give up trying to be something, or dosomething—at thirty!"
He stopped short.
The book fell from Cary’s lap to the floor, and she stooped to pick itup with swimming eyes. He caught sight of her face and he leanedforward; all the anger and all the resentment gone from his voice—meltedby her tears.
"Bah!" he said, "That’s just about the fate I’m fit for if I haven’t gotany more grit than that! Of course I didn’t mean it, and you must tryand forget it. Of course the Service is out of the question, but I_will_ make something of my life! And I’m awfully glad, too, for whatI’ve had of it, and—been allowed to do. I’m glad for the Woolwich yearsand—and the training—and—all that! Of course it hasn’t been lost. AndI’m glad I’ve done something for the Service—even in a little way, andsaved—" he caught himself up suddenly.
Cary rose, her tears dried by the burning fever in her eyes. Shefinished the sentence.
"Saved Robert from exposure!"
He looked up quickly.
"I—I don’t understand you."
"Oh, yes, you do too," said Cary, breathing hard. "You think I don’tknow all about it! I do, though!"
"How?"
"Robert told me himself."
Stewart drew a deep breath and looked away. There was a long silence inthe room. After awhile she went up to the big leather chair and laid onehand on the back of it and bent her head, looking down at him.
"Johnny?"
He looked up, his firm mouth working.
"Johnny, you’re the best man that ever lived!"
"Oh, Cary!" he said, and he tried to laugh.
She nodded decidedly.
"But I know. Robert told me what you’d been to him, and—he didn’t sparehimself."
Stewart stared straight ahead of him.
"Poor Rob," he said. "Poor boy!"
Cary moved off to the window and looked out, absent-mindedly, foldingthe edge of the curtain with her fingers.
"It’s all like a terrible dream," she said slowly, "and I keep thinkingI’ll awake. It doesn’t seem possible. I keep remembering the time hesaved us in that awful storm, years ago at home,and—it—doesn’t—seem—possible!"
"No, but it’s all too true," said Stewart.
Cary wheeled around, facing the room.
"And I am responsible. It was through his love for me!" she cried.
Stewart shook his head.
"You tried to help him. I tried to help him—all the fellows did, but hejust let himself go. When a man like that wants something, he sweepseverything out of his way and rushes on blindly."
"Oh, but it was the love for me!" said Cary; then suddenly: "How youshielded him!"
"Do you think I did right? After all, perhaps, I wasn’t meant for theService. If I had done all my duty—"
"I think you did right," said Cary, looking down with grave eyes at herlocked fingers, and she came back into the room and sat down, "Shall Itell you why I think so?"
"Yes."
"No exposure could remedy the hurt he gave himself—to his own manhoodand his own honor—" she broke off, and then went on hurriedly. "Oh, ifhe could only have realized what that meant—keeping his honor clean—"she broke off again, and Stewart looked away so that he might not seeher face. She went on.
"The survey was made all right and so it was not the hurt to the Serviceit might have been, but only to himself; and your punishment in forcinghim to resign was severe enough! His own remorse makes up the rest, andthe two may bring him another chance." She paused.
Stewart leaned his head on his hand, his elbow on the arm of the chair,and looked fixedly off into space.
"Perhaps you’re right—I guess you are," he said, slowly. "I thoughtsomething like that at the time. It may be the saving of him. I didn’tdo an officer’s whole duty, but I tried to be just. I tried to sparehim and—and—" he hesitated, "those at home. I suppose another man mighthave told. I just held my tongue. It was an accident—my seeing. I wasworried over the boy and couldn’t keep away—" he was speakingdisjointedly. "I loved the Service. God! how I loved it, and Icouldn’t bear that he might really harm it some time, so I made him getout. But I couldn’t disgrace him; have him court-marshaled andcashiered, or—or pay the penalty—" he broke off, and Cary rose to go.
"He is paying the penalty," she said. "He pays i
t with every breath hedraws."
"Yes; and they tell me that twice he has nursed me and saved me, and Inever knew!"
Cary looked down thoughtfully at Stewart’s thin hand resting on the armof the chair, and Stewart looked at her and the silence grew and grew.If only he knew whether——
She looked up quickly, as though divining his thoughts, and she flusheda little.
"We will keep the secret," she said, "you and I—won’t we? And we willtry and help him? Do you know, I believe he’ll take his ambition andcourage and—love," the flush mounted higher, "and remould his life?"She hesitated, "Even hopeless love—" and then she broke off, turning herface away. Stewart did not speak or move.
"Then it isn’t Robert," he said to himself after she had gone,"Then—it—isn’t—Robert!"