She did not faint, she did not scream; one faint, low, wailing1 cry broke from her, and then she stood, rigid2 and immovable, her eyes open and staring, her lips parted, and every vestige3 of colour gone from her face. One hand clasped her throat; the other, clenched4 and rigid, rested on the table.
Robert Gregory forgot his own heavy interest in the news, forgot that a fortune might have been gained or lost by the few words of that telegram. Sophy's face frightened him as he had never been frightened before. He spoke5 to her, he called her every loving name; but it was of no avail. No movement of the rigid face, no change in the fixed6 eyes, showed that she had heard him. He dared not touch her; she might break into dreadful shrieks—her reason might be gone. What was he to do? He pealed7 at the bell, and then went to the door, and told the waiter who answered it to beg the landlady8 to come up instantly. In another minute the landlady arrived, all of a fluster—as she afterwards expressed it when describing the matter—at this sudden summons, and at the brief account the waiter had given her of the manner of Robert Gregory.
"My wife has had a terrible shock; she has just heard of the sudden death of her father, and I don't know what to do with her. She does not hear me; I am afraid she is going to be ill or something terrible. For God's sake speak to her, or do something or other." Such was the hurried greeting which met her at the door.
The landlady was somewhat accustomed to sudden emergencies, but she saw at a glance that this was beyond her, and she said to the waiter, who had followed her up, to hear, if possible, what was the matter,—
"James, the lady is ill. Send Hannah here with some cold water, and my scent9 bottle, and run across to Dr. Cope's opposite, and tell him to come over at once. If he is out, run for the nearest doctor."
Then, closing the door, she advanced towards Sophy.
"Don'tye, don'tye, take on so, dear!" she said, in a kind, motherly way, as if she was speaking to a little child; "don't, now, for your husband's sake; try and rouse yourself, dear." But it was no use. There was a slight, a very slight quiver of the eyelids10, but no other sign of life or movement.
The landlady paused. She was almost as much frightened at Sophy's face as Robert Gregory had been, and she dared not touch the rigid hand. They stood, one on each side of her, watching her helplessly; with faces almost as much blanched11 by apprehension12 as was her own and listening breathlessly for the footstep of the doctor outside. It was not long in coming, although it seemed an age to them. He entered quietly: a tall, slight man, with silvered hair, and took the whole state of things in at a glance.
"A sudden shock?" he asked; and then gave orders to the servant to bring such things as were necessary. Then he spoke to Sophy, and put his finger upon the motionless wrist. "It is a serious case, sir," he said to Robert, "very serious; the shock to the brain has been very great. I must bleed her; it is the only thing to be done. Help me to place her upon the sofa."
Between them they gently lifted the rigid figure and placed her, half sitting, half lying, upon the sofa. There was no sign of consciousness. In another minute the doctor had opened a vein13 in her arm. At first no blood came, then a few dark drops, and then gradually a steady stream.
The doctor gave a sigh of relief. Still the blood flowed, on and on, till Robert Gregory was frightened at the quantity, and looked anxiously at the doctor, who, with his fingers on her pulse, was watching Sophy's face. Presently a change came over the stony14 expression, the eyes lost their fixed look, the eyelids began to droop15 down, and the whole figure to yield; then, as she fell back on the sofa, he prepared to stop the bleeding.
It had had its effect; Sophy had fainted. The first crisis was over, but not as yet was the danger past. Very anxiously they watched her waking, and intense was the relief when they found that she was conscious of what had happened; but there were still grave apprehensions16 for the future. Weak as she was, she was in a state of almost delirious17 grief and excitement; indeed, at times her mind wandered.
No reproaches which the Misses Harmer had lavished18 upon her were one-tenth as severe as those she bestowed19 upon herself. Over and over again she called herself her grandfather's murderess. Constantly she pictured up harrowing scenes of his death, and how he had died, invoking20 the curse of heaven upon her and hers with his latest breath. Above all, she insisted on returning at any rate to London, that Robert might go down to Canterbury to hear the particulars.
The doctor had a long talk next day with Robert, who explained, to some extent, the facts of the case.
"I hardly know what to do, Mr. Gregory. Your wife is in a most critical state. She has set her mind upon going to London, and ill as she is, I almost question whether there would not be less danger in her doing so than remaining here in her present state of nervous anxiety. It is most essential that, if possible, her mind should be relieved of the present strain, and that she should obtain some intelligence as to the last moments of her adopted father. You tell me that he had a seizure21 before; it is likely, therefore, that the present attack was very sudden, and in that case he may not—probably would not—have said anything against her. This alone would be a relief to her; and, at any rate, she would be pacified22 by knowing that she was doing all she could to learn the truth. I fear that brain fever will be the termination of her attack, but its character may be modified if her present anxiety is to some extent allayed23. By applying to-day at the railway office, you can have a carriage with a sleeping couch ready by to-morrow, and I should advise your taking her up without delay. Of course, upon your arrival there, you will at once call in medical assistance."
And so it was carried out. Sophy bore the journey better than could have been anticipated; indeed, the very fact that she was getting nearer to Canterbury soothed24 and satisfied her. But she was still in an almost delirious state of remorse25 and grief. The doctor who was called in to her had shaken his head in talking over her case with her husband, and had told him that unless her mind could be relieved from the terrible weight upon it, he would not answer for her reason.
And so, leaving a nurse to take care of Sophy, Robert Gregory went down to Canterbury and saw Dr. Ashleigh. The news which he brought back of Mr. Harmer's forgiveness before his death, saved her from an attack of brain fever, if not from entire loss of reason. And yet, although it allayed her fears, and relieved her mind of the harrowing pictures of her grandfather's death which she had before conjured26 up so constantly, it scarcely lessened27 her sorrow and remorse; indeed, the knowledge that his forgiveness had been so instant, and his last thoughts those of kindness to her, caused her to reproach herself more than ever; but her grief was now quieter, and the doctor believed that she would escape the fever he had feared for her. She could now shed tears, and in long and bitter fits of crying found exhaustion28 and relief. In another two or three days she was calmer and better.
Robert had been everything which was kind and consoling to her, and very gentle and thoughtful in his talk and manners. In her wildest outbursts of grief she had never blamed him for his share in her fault, and would not listen to the reproaches which, in the hope of relieving her conscience somewhat, he would have gladly bestowed upon himself. But this Sophy would not allow. He had not deceived a benefactor29; he had been actuated only by his love for her, and his entreaties30 for her to elope with him had been but natural; it was she only who had been wrong and wicked in neglecting her plain duty, and in deceiving her more than father; and upon her, and her only, must the blame and grief fall.
She was very quiet and pale, as she lay that day that he had gone down to the funeral, and she waited and thought all those long hours that he was abroad. She thought a good deal of the future, and planned that they should go upon the Continent first for a while, and upon their return spend the great proportion of their income in doing good, living quietly themselves upon very little; she thought that in any other way she should feel as if this fortune were a curse to her, for it had never even occurred to her that Mr. Harmer might have altered his will.
It was late in the evening before Robert returned; he came in quiet and grave, but with no sign of passion or disappointment upon his face as he kissed her, and asked her how she had been all the long day. Robert Gregory was not a good man. In many respects he was bad and vicious; but, as in most men, there was some good in him, and what there was came out at its brightest in his relations with Sophy.
Deep as had been his disappointment, bitter and fierce the invectives and curses which, during his journey, he had showered upon the Misses Harmer, his own unfortunate luck, and upon the world in general, yet, as he approached the hotel, he curbed31 himself in, and became calm and quiet. As he thought of her love and suffering, of the sacrifices her attachment32 for him would entail33 upon her, and upon her trust in himself, he determined34 that, come what might, she should not see his disappointment, and that in addition to her other troubles, she should never come to know that he had married her for her money; and as he came into the room where she was lying, pale and weak, upon the sofa, his brow cleared, his voice softened35, and he tried, and tried hard, that she should see no sign in his face of that bitter sense of disappointment he was feeling in his breast.
Sophy answered his inquiries36 as to her health, and then, as he sat down on a chair close to the sofa, so that she could lean her head upon his arm, and look up into his face, she said,—
"I am afraid that this has been a very painful day for you, Robert?"
"Not very pleasant, love," he said, almost cheerfully; "but, of course, I had made up my mind for that."
"Did you see the Misses Harmer, Robert, and did they say anything about me?"
"I saw them, Sophy, but we did not exchange many words."
"More so, Sophy; he could not have been more kind; he took me back in his carriage to the station."
Sophy looked pleased. There was a little silence. Robert did not know how to announce his intelligence, and his wife considered all that part of the affair as so much a matter of course that she did not even think it necessary to ask any question about it. In a short time Sophy went on,—
"Do you know, Robert, I have been thinking so much about the future, and I think that when we come back from our travels we ought to put aside almost all our money to do good with."
"My dear," Robert said, gently, "I hardly think we need enter into that now, for an event has occurred which will alter all our plans. The fact is, darling, the will is missing."
"The will missing, Robert!" Sophy repeated, opening her eyes in astonishment—"how can it be missing?"
"It is a curious business, darling, and looks very bad. Mr. Harmer, it seems, had it down some little time since to make some slight alteration38. We know that he did not destroy it upon that morning, but it is not to be found, and there is strong reason for supposing that the Misses Harmer have concealed39 it. In that case, although it may yet turn up, still we must look the worst in the face, and consider that it is very probable that it may never be heard of again."
"And in that case should I get nothing?" Sophy asked, eagerly.
"Not one penny, Sophy; it will all go to the Misses Harmer."
Sophy closed her eyes, and leaned back, with a faint "Thank God!" She looked upon it as a punishment—as a sort of atonement for her fault. Then in an instant a fresh thought struck her. How would Robert bear it? Would he love her any the less, now she was penniless, instead of being a great heiress? And she looked up again with a frightened, inquiring glance into his eyes. He bore it well, and said, gently,—
"We must bear it bravely, Sophy. It is, of course, a heavy blow. I have never disguised from you how I am situated40. Still, darling, we must do our best, and I have no doubt we shall pull through somehow. I am very sorry for your sake, dear, and I bitterly accuse myself for tempting41 you. It will be a different life from what you expected, but I will try hard to make it easy for you."
He spoke tenderly and earnestly, for he, at the time, almost felt what he said. Sophy had raised herself, and, as he finished, was crying softly, with her head upon his shoulder, but her tears were quite different to those which she had shed during the last week.
"I am not crying, Robert, because I have lost the fortune—I am crying because I am so happy. I know now that you love me quite for my own sake, and not for my money."
"You did not doubt it, did you, Sophy?" her husband asked, rather reproachfully, although he felt that he was but a hypocrite while he said so.
"I never really doubted you, Robert—no, no—I would not have married you if I had. At times, when I felt low, I could not help wondering how much my money had to do with it, but I always drove away the thought, dearest, as an injustice42 to you; and now I shall never think so again. Do you know, Robert, this news has been quite a relief to me? I should always have felt that the wealth was a burden; and now that I am punished for my fault, I shall not reproach myself quite so much with it. But I am sorry for your sake, dear. It must be a great blow for you, and I feel how kind it is of you to hide your disappointment for my sake. I will try very hard, Robert, to make it up to you by loving you more and more; and you shall see what a useful little wife I will make you as soon as I get strong again, which I mean to do very fast now."
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1
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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7
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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10
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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11
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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12
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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13
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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21
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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27
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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31
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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36
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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38
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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39
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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40
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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41
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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42
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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