Walden was instantly all earnest attention.
“Who is Santori?” he asked.
“Santori,” replied Forsyth, “is a great Italian, whose scientific researches into medicine and surgery have won him the honour of all nations, save and except the British. We are very insular, my dear Walden! — we never will tolerate the ‘furriner’ even if he brings us health and healing in his hand! Santori is a medical ‘furriner,’ therefore he is generally despised by the English medical profession. But I’m a Scotsman — I’ve no prejudices except my own!” And he laughed— “And I acknowledge Santori as one of the greatest men of the age. He is a scientist as well as a surgeon — and his great ‘speciality’ is the spine and nerves. Now I have never quite explained to you the nature of Miss Vancourt’s injuries, and there is no need even now to particularise them. The main point of her case is that in the condition she is now, she must remain a cripple for life, — and” here he hesitated,— “that life cannot, I fear, be a very long one.”
Walden turned his head away for a moment.
“Go on!” he said huskily.
“At the same time,” continued Dr. Forsyth, gently— “there are no bones broken, — all the mischief is centred in damage to the spine. I sent, as you know, for Wentworth Glynn, our best specialist in this country, and he assured me there was no hope whatever of any change for the better. Yesterday, I happened to see in the papers that Santori had arrived in London for a few weeks, and, acting on a sudden inspiration, I wrote him a letter at once, explaining the whole case, and asking him to meet me in consultation. He has wired an answer to-day, saying he will be here to-morrow.”
Walden’s eyes were full of sorrowful pain and yearning.
“Well!” he said, with a slight sigh— “And what then?”
“What then?” responded Dr. ‘Jimmy’ cheerfully— “Why nothing, — except that it will be more satisfactory to everyone concerned, — and to me particularly — to have his opinion.”
There was a pause. John gazed down into the fire as though he saw a whole world of mingled grief and joy reflected in its crimson glow. Then, suddenly lifting his head, he looked his friend full in the face.
“Forsyth,” — he said— “I think I ought to tell you — you ought to know — I am going to marry her!”
Without a word, ‘Jimmy’ gripped his hand and pressed it hard. Then he turned very abruptly, and walked up and down the little room. And presently he drew out his glasses and polished them vigorously though they were in no need of this process.
“I thought you would!” he said, after a while— “Of course I saw how the land lay! I knew you loved her—”
“I suppose that was easy to guess!” said John, a warm flush of colour rising to his brows as he spoke— “But you could not have imagined for a moment that she would love me! Yet she does! That is the wonder of it! I am such an old humdrum fellow — and she is so young and bright and pretty! It seems so strange that she should care!”
Dr. Forsyth looked at him with an appreciative twinkle in his eye. Then he laid a friendly hand upon his shoulder,
“You are a quaint creature, John!” he said— “Yet, do you know, I rather like your humdrum ways? I do, positively! And if I were a woman, I think I should esteem myself fortunate if I got you for a husband! I really should! You certainly don’t suffer from swelled head, John — that’s a great point in your favour!”
He laughed, — and John laughed with him. Then, drawing their chairs to opposite sides of the fire, they talked for an hour or more on the subject that was most interesting to them both, John was for marrying Maryllia as soon as possible— “in order that I may have the right to watch over her,” he urged, and Forsyth agreed.
“But wait till Santori has seen her, and given his opinion,” — he said— “If he comes, as his telegram says he will to-morrow, we can take him entirely into our confidence, to decide what is best for her peace and pleasure. The ceremony of marriage can be gone through privately at the Manor, — by the way, why don’t you ask your friend the Bishop to officiate? I suppose he knows the position?”
“He knows much, but not all,” — said John— “I wrote to him about the accident of course — and have written to him frequently since, but I did not think I should ever have such news to tell him as I have now!” His eyes darkened with deep feeling. “He has had his own tragedy — he will understand mine!”
A silence fell between them, — and soon after, Forsyth took his leave. Walden, left alone, and deeply conscious of the new responsibility he had taken upon his life, set to work to get through his parish business for the evening, in order to have time to devote to Maryllia the next day, and, writing a long letter to Bishop Brent, he told him all the history of his late-found happiness, — his hopes, his sorrows, his fears — and his intention to show what a man’s true love could be to a woman whom unkind destiny had deprived of all the natural joys of living. He added to this letter a few words referring to Forsyth’s information respecting the Italian specialist, Santori, who had been sent for to see Maryllia and pronounce on her condition— “but I fear,” he wrote, “that there is nothing to be done, save to resign ourselves to the apparently cruel and incomprehensible will of God, which in this case has declared itself in favour of allowing the innocent to suffer.”
Next morning he awoke to find the sun shining brightly from a sky almost clear blue, save for a few scattered grey fleecy clouds, — and, stepping out into his garden, the first thing he noticed was a root of primroses breaking shyly into flower. Seeing Bainton trimming the shrubbery close by, he called his attention to it.
“Spring is evidently on the way, Bainton!” he said cheerily, “We are getting past the white into the gold again!”
“Ay, Passon, that we be!” rejoined Bainton, with a smile— “An’ please the Lord, we’ll soon get from the gold into the blue, an’ from the blue into the rose! For that’s allus the way o’ the year, — first little white shaky blossoms wot’s a bit afraid of theirselves, lest the frost should nip ’em, — and then the deep an’ the pale an’ the bright gold blossoms, which just laughs at dull weather — an’ then the blue o’ the forget-me-nots an’ wood-bells, — an’ the red o’ the roses to crown all. An’ mebbe,” he continued, with a shrewd upward glance at his master’s face— “when the roses come, there’ll be a bit of orange-blossom to keep ’em company—”
John started, — and then his kind smile, so warm and sunny and sweet, shone like a beam of light itself across his features.
“What, Bainton!” he said— “So you know all about it already!”
Bainton began to chuckle irrepressibly.
“Well, if the village ain’t a liar from its one end to its t’otherest, then I knows!” he declared triumphantly— “Lord love ye, Passon, you don’t s’pose ye can keep any secrets in this ’ere parish? They knows all about ye ‘fore ye knows yerself! — an’ Missis Spruce she came down from the Manor last night in such a state o’ fluster as never was, an’ she sez, all shakin’ like an’ smilin’— ‘Miss Maryllia’s goin’ to be married,’ sez she, an’ we up an’ sez to ‘er— ‘What, is the Dook goin’ to ‘ave her just the same though she can’t walk no more?’ an’ she sez: ‘Dook, not a bit of it! There’s a better man than any Dook close by an’ it’s ’im she’s goin’ to ‘ave an’ nobody else, an’ it’s Passon Walden,’ sez she, an’ with that we all gives a big shout, an’ she busts out cryin’ an’ laughin’ together, an’ we all doos the same like the nesh fools we are when a bit o’ news pleases us like, — an’ — an’—” Here Bainton’s voice grew rather husky and tremulous as he proceeded— “so of course the news went right through the village two minutes arterwards. An’ it’s all we could do to keep from comin’ up outside ’ere an’ givin’ ye a rousin’ cheer ‘fore goin’ to bed, onny Mr. Netlips ’e said it wouldn’t be ‘commensurate,’ wotever that is, so we just left it. Howsomever, I made up my mind I’d be the first to wish ye joy, Passon! — an’ I wish it tr
ue!”
Silently Walden held out his hand. Bainton grasped it with affectionate respect in his own horny palm.
“Not that I’d ‘ave ever thought you’d a’ bin a marryin’ man, Passon!” he averred, his shrewd eyes lighting up with the kindliest humour— “But it’s never too late to mend!”
Walden laughed.
“That’s true, Bainton! It’s never too late to repent of one’s follies and begin to be wise! Thank you for all your good wishes — they come from the heart, I know! But” — and his smile softened into an earnest gravity of expression— “they must be for her — for Miss Maryllia — not for me! I am already happier than I deserve — but she needs everyone’s good thoughts and prayers to help her to bear her enforced helplessness — she is very brave — yet — it is hard—”
He broke off, not trusting himself to say more.
“It’s hard — it’s powerful hard!” agreed Bainton, sympathetically— “Such a wife as she’d a’ made t’ye, Passon, if she’d been as she was when she come in smilin’ an’ trippin’ across this lawn by your side, an’ ye broke off a bit o’ your best lilac for her! There’s the very bush — all leafless twigs now, but strong an’ ‘elthy an’ ready to bloom again! Ah! I remember that day well!— ’twas the same day as ye sat under the apple tree arter she was gone an’ fastened a threepenny bit with a ‘ole in it to ye’re watch chain! I seed it! An’ I was fair mazed over that ‘oley bit, — but I found out all about it! — hor-hor-hor!” and Bainton began to laugh with exceeding delight at his own perspicuity— “A few minutes’ gossip with old Missis Tapple at the post-office did it! — hor-hor-hor! for she told me, bless ‘er heart! — as ‘ow Miss Vancourt ‘ad given it t’ye for fun, as a sort o’ reward like for sendin’ off some telegrams for ‘er! Hor- hor! There’s naught like a village for findin’ out everybody’s little secrets, an’ our village beats every other one I ever heard tell on at that kind o’ work, it do reely now! I say, Passon, when they was spreadin’ all the stories round about you an’ Miss Vancourt, I could a’ told a tale about the ‘oley bit, couldn’t I?”
“You could indeed!” laughed John, good-naturedly— “and yet — I suppose you didn’t!”
“Not I!” said Bainton, stoutly— “I do talk a bit, but I ain’t Missis Spruce, nor I ain’t turned into a telephone tube yet. Mebbe I will when I’m a bit older. ‘Ave ye heard, Passon, as ‘ow Oliver Leach is dead?”
“Yes, — Dr. Forsyth told me last night.”
“Now d’ye think a man like ’im is gone to Heaven!” demanded Bainton- -”Honest an’ true, d’ye think the Lord Almighty wants ’im?”
John was rather non-plussed. His garrulous gardener watched his face with attentive interest.
“Don’t ye answer unless ye like, Passon!” he observed, sagaciously— “I don’t want to make ye say things which ain’t orthodox! You keep a still tongue, an’ I shall understand!”
John took the hint. He ‘kept a still tongue’ — and turned back from the garden into the house. Bainton chuckled softly.
“Passon can’t lie!” he said to himself— “He couldn’t do it to save his life! That’s just the best of ’im! Now if he’d begun tellin’ me that he was sure that blackhearted rascal ‘ad gone to keep company with the angels I’d a nigh despised im! — I would reely now!”
That same morning, when John walked up to the Manor again, he entered it as a privileged person, invested with new authority. Cicely ran to meet him, and frankly put up her face to be kissed.
“A thousand and one congratulations!” she said— “I knew this would come! — I was sure of it! But the credit of the first guess is due to the Mooncalf, — Julian, you know! — he’s a poet, and he made up a whole romance about you and Maryllia the first day he ever saw you with her!”
“Did he?” — and Walden smiled— “Well, he was right! I am very happy, Cicely!”
“So am I!” And the ‘Goblin’ clasped her hands affectionately across his arm— “You are just the very man I should have chosen for Maryllia! — the only man, in fact — I’ve never met anybody else worthy of her! But oh, if she were only strong and well! Do you know that Dr. Forsyth is bringing another specialist to see her this afternoon?”
“Yes, I know!”
“And there’s other news for you this morning” — pursued Cicely, a broad smile lighting up her face and eyes— “Very amusing news! Lord Roxmouth is married!”
“Married!” exclaimed Walden, incredulously— “Not possible!”
“Come and see the wedding cards!” — and Cicely, laughing outright, caught his hand, and pulled him along into the morning room, where Maryllia, with her couch turned so that she could see the first glimpse of her lover as he entered the doorway, was eagerly awaiting his approach— “Maryllia, here’s John! Prove to him at once please that Mrs. Fred’s millions are lost to you forever!”
Maryllia laughed, and blushed sweetly too, as John bent over her and kissed her with a very expressive look of tenderness, not to say proprietorship.
“It’s true, John!” she said— “Lord Roxmouth has married Aunt Emily!”
John’s blue eyes lighted with sudden laughter.
“Well done!” he exclaimed, gaily— “Anything for the millions, evidently! What a comfort to think he has secured them at last! And so you have become the niece instead of the wife of the future duke, my Maryllia! When and where were they married?”
“Last week at the Embassy in Paris. Cicely wrote to Aunt Emily at New Year, telling her that though I was much better, the doctors had said I should be a cripple for life. Well, we never had any answer at all to that letter, — not a word of regret, or affection or sympathy. Then, — this morning — behold! — the Roxmouth wedding cards!”
She took a silver-bordered envelope lying on a little table close beside her, and drawing out from it the cards in question, held them up to his view. Walden glanced at them with a touch of contempt.
“Shall I wire our united heartiest congratulations?” he queried, smiling— “And add that we are engaged to be married?”
“Do!” said Maryllia, clasping his hand in her own and kissing it— “Go and send the wire off through dear old Mrs. Tapple! And then all the village will know how happy I am!”
“How happy WE are,” — corrected John— “I think they know that already, Maryllia! But it shall be well impressed upon them!”
Later on, when he was in the village, making his usual round of visits among the sick and poor, and receiving the affectionate good wishes of many who had heard the news of his betrothal, he saw Dr. Forsyth driving up to the Manor in his gig with another man beside him, who, as he rightly guessed, was no other than the celebrated Italian specialist, Santori. Forsyth had promised to come and tell him the result of the consultation as soon as he knew it himself, and Walden waited for him hour after hour with increasing impatience. At last he appeared, — pale, and evidently under the influence of some strongly suppressed excitement.
“Walden,” — he said, without preface or hesitation— “are you prepared to face a great crisis?”
Walden’s heart almost stood still. Had anything happened to Maryllia in the short space of time which had elapsed since he saw her last?
“What do you mean?!” he faltered— “I could not bear to lose her — now—”
“You must lose her in a year at the utmost, if you do not run the risk of losing her to save her now,” — said Forsyth, bluntly— “Santori has seen her — and — keep cool, John! — he says there is just one chance of restoring her to her former health and activity again, but it is a chance fraught with imminent danger to her life. He will not risk it without her full consent, — and (knowing you are her betrothed husband) — yours. It is a very serious and difficult operation, — she may live through it, and she may not.”
“I will not have it!” said Walden, quickly, almost fiercely, “She shall not be touched—”
“Wait!” continued Forsyth, regarding him steadily— “
In her present condition, she will die in a year. She must. There is no help for it. If Santori operates — and he is quite willing to undertake it — she may live, — and not only may she live, but she may be absolutely strong and well again, — able to walk and ride, and enjoy her life to the full. It rests with her and with you to decide, — yes or no!”
Walden was silent.
“I may as well tell you,” — went on Forsyth— “that she — Miss Vancourt herself, — is ready to risk it. Santori has gone back to London to- night, — but if we agree to place her under his hands he will come and perform the operation next week.”
“Next week!” murmured Walden, faintly— “Must it be so soon?”
“The sooner the better,” — said Forsyth, quietly, yet firmly, “Come, John, face this thing out! I am thinking of the chance of her happiness as well as yours. Is it worth while to sacrifice the whole of a young life’s possible activity for the sake of one year’s certainty of helplessness with death at the end? Wrestle the facts out with yourself; — go and see her to-night. And after you have talked it over together, let me know.”
He went out then, and left Walden alone to face this new dark cloud of anxiety and suspense that seemed to loom over a sky which he imagined had just cleared. But when he saw Maryllia that evening, her face reflected nothing but sunshine, and her eyes were radiant with hope.
“I must take this chance, John!” she said— “Do not withhold your consent! Think what it means to us both if this great surgeon is able to set me on my feet again! — and he is so kind and gentle! — he says he has every hope of success! What happiness it will be for me if I can be all in all to you, John! — a real true wife, instead of a poor helpless invalid dependent on your daily care! — oh John, let me show you how much I love you by facing this ordeal, and trying to save my life for your sake!”
He drew her into his arms, and folded her close to his heart.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 646
