By the time Lynde had changed his wet clothing, the rain had turned into a dull drizzle1, which folded itself like a curtain about the valley. Mont Blanc, with its piled-up acres of desolation, loomed2 through the mist, a shapeless, immeasurable cloud, within whose shadow the little town was to live darkly, half blotted3 out, for the next four days.
Lynde spent the afternoon between his own chamber4 and the reading-room of the hotel, wandering restlessly from one to the other, and not venturing to halt at Mrs. Denham's door to inquire after Ruth. Though he held himself nearly guiltless in what had occurred, Mrs. Denham's rebuking5 tone and gesture had been none the less intolerable. He was impatient to learn Ruth's condition, and was growing every moment more anxious as he reflected on her extreme delicacy6 and the severe exposure she had undergone; but he could not bring himself just then to go to Mrs. Denham for information. He concluded to wait until he met her at dinner; but Mrs. Denham did not come down to the table d'hote.
The twilight7 fell earlier than usual, and the long evening set in. Lynde smoked his cigar gloomily at an open window looking upon the street. It was deserted8 and dismal9. Even the shop across the way, where they sold alpenstocks and wood-carvings and knick-knacks in polished lapis, was empty; in pleasant weather the shop was always crowded with curiosity- mongers. The raw wind spitefully blew the rain into Lynde's face as he looked out. "Quel temps de loup!" sighed a polite little French gentleman, making his unlighted cigarette an excuse for addressing Lynde. The wretched little French gentleman was perishing with a desire to say a thousand graceful10 things to somebody, but Lynde was in no mood for epigrams. He gave his interlocutor a light, and sheered off. In a corner of the reading-room was a tattered11 collection of Tauchnitz novels; Lynde picked up one and tried to read, but the slim types ran together and conveyed no meaning to him. It was becoming plain that he was to have no communication with the Denhams that night unless he assumed the initiative. He pencilled a line on the reverse of a visiting card and sent it up to Mrs. Denham's parlor12. The servant returned with the card on his waiter. The ladies had retired13. Then Lynde took himself off to bed disconsolately14.
It was nearly nine o'clock when he awoke the following morning. The storm had not lifted; the colorless clouds were still letting down a fine, vapory rain that blurred15 everything. As soon as he had breakfasted, Lynde went to Mrs. Denham's rooms. She answered his knock in person and invited him by a silent gesture to enter the parlor. He saw by the drawn17 expression of her countenance18 that she had not slept.
"You do not mean very ill?"
"I fear so. She has passed a dreadful night. I have had a doctor."
"Is it as serious as that? What does he say?"
"He says it is a severe cold, with symptoms of pneumonia21; but I do not think he knows," returned Mrs. Denham despairingly. "I must despatch22 a courier to my husband; our old family physician is now with him at Paris. I have just received a letter, and they are not coming this week! They must come at once. I do not know how to telegraph them, as they are about to change their hotel. Besides, I believe a telegram cannot be sent from here; the nearest office is at Geneva. I must send some messenger who will have intelligence enough to find Mr. Denham wherever he is."
"I will go."
"You?"
"Why not? I shall waste less time than another. There should be no mistake in the delivery of this message. A courier might get drunk, or be stupid. I can do nothing here. If it had not been for me, possibly this unfortunate thing would not have happened. I am determined23 to go, whether you consent or not."
"I shall be grateful to you all my life, Mr. Lynde. I should not have thought of asking such a favor. Ruth says I was rude to you yesterday. I did not mean to be. I was distracted with anxiety at having her out in such a storm. If there is any blame in the matter it is entirely24 mine. You forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Denham; blame rests on no one; neither you nor I could foresee the rain. Write a line to Mr. Denham while I pack my valise; I shall be ready in ten minutes. Who is his banker at Paris?" "I think he has none."
"How do you address your letters?"
"I have written but once since Mr. Denham's arrival, and then I directed the letter to the Hotel Walther."
"He has probably left his new address there. However, I shall have no difficulty in finding him. Mrs. Denham"--Lynde hesitated.
"Mr. Lynde?"
"Can I not see her a moment?"
"See Ruth?"
"My request appears strange to you, does it not? It would not appear strange if you knew all."
"All? I don't understand you," replied Mrs. Denham, resting her hand on the back of a chair and regarding him with slowly dilating25 pupils.
"If you knew how troubled I am--and how deeply I love her."
"You love Ruth!"
"More than I can tell you."
"Have you told HER?" Mrs. Denham demanded.
"Not in so many words."
Mrs. Denham slowly sank into the chair and for several seconds appeared completely oblivious26 of the young man's presence; then, turning sharply on Lynde, and half rising, she asked with a kind of fierceness, "Does Ruth know it?"
"A woman always knows when she is loved, I fancy. Miss Denham probably knew it before I did."
Mrs. Denham made an impatient gesture and subsided27 into the chair again. She remained silent a while, staring at the pattern of the carpet at her feet.
"Mr. Lynde," she said at length, "I was not prepared for this. The possibility that you might grow interested in my niece naturally occurred to me at first. I was pleased when I became convinced that the acquaintance between you had resolved itself into merely a friendly liking28. I was thrown off my guard by your seemingly frank manner. I trusted you. You have been alone with my niece but twice--once for only ten minutes. I will do you the justice to say that you have made the most of those two occasions."
"I made very little of those two occasions," said Lynde reflectively.
"I think you have been--treacherous!"
"I do not see what there can be of treachery in my admiring Miss Denham," he replied, with a flush. "I entered into no compact not to admire her."
"Mr. Lynde, Mr. Denham will not approve of this."
"Not at first, perhaps...but afterwards?"
"Neither now nor afterwards, Mr. Lynde."
"Why not?"
"He has other views for Ruth," said Mrs. Denham coldly.
"Other views!" repeated Lynde, paling. "I thought her free."
"She is not free in that sense."
The assertion Ruth had made to him the previous day on the mountain side, to the effect that she had never known any gentleman as intimately as she had known him, flashed across Lynde's memory. If Mr. Denham had views for her, certainly Ruth was either ignorant of them or opposed to them.
"Is Miss Ruth aware of Mr. Denham's intentions regarding her?"
"I must decline to answer you, Mr. Lynde," said Mrs. Denham, rising with something like haughtiness29 in her manner.
"You are right. I was wrong to speak at present. I cannot conceive what impelled30 me; it was neither the time nor the place. I beg you to consider everything unsaid, if you can, and I especially beg you not to mention this conversation in your note to Mr. Denham. The one important thing now is to have proper medical attendance for your niece. The rest will take care of itself."
Lynde bowed somewhat formally and was turning away, when Mrs. Denham laid her fingers lightly on the sleeve of his coat. "I am sorry I have pained you," she said, as if with a touch of remorse31.
"I confess I am pained," he replied, with the faintest smile, "but I am not discouraged, Mrs. Denham."
A quarter of an hour later Lynde was on the way to Geneva. Life and the world had somehow darkened for him within the hour. It seemed to him incredible that that was the same road over which he had passed so joyously32 two days before. The swollen33 torrents34 now rushed vengefully through the arches of the stone bridges; the low-hanging opaque35 clouds pressed the vitality36 out of the atmosphere; in the melancholy37 gray light the rain-soaked mountains wore a human aspect of dolor. He was not sorry when the mist gathered like frost on the carriage windows and shut the landscape from his sight.
The storm had been terrible in Geneva and in the neighborhood. It was a scene of devastation38 all along the road approaching the town. Most of the trees in the suburbs had been completely stripped of foliage39 by the hailstones; the leaves which still clung to the bent40 twigs41 were slit42 as if volleys of buckshot had been fired into them. But the saddest thing to see was field after field of rich grain mown within a few inches of the ground by those swift, keen sickles43 which no man's hand had held. In the section of the city through which Lynde passed to the railroad the streets were literally44 strewn with broken tiles and chimney-pots. In some places the brown and purple fragments lay ankle-deep, like leaves in autumn. Hundreds of houses had been unroofed and thousands of acres laid waste in a single night. It will take the poor of the canton fifty years to forget the summer storm of 1875.
By noon the next day Lynde was in Paris. As he stepped from the station and stood under the blue sky in the sparkling Parisian atmosphere, the gloom and desolation he had left behind at Geneva and Chamouni affected45 him like the remembrance of a nightmare. For a brief space he forgot his sorrowful errand; then it came back to him with its heaviness redoubled by the contrast. He threw his valise on the seat of a fiacre standing46 near the crossway, and drove to the office of Galignani in the Rue47 de Rivoli--the morgue in which the names of all foreign travellers are daily laid out for recognition. The third name Lynde fell upon was that of William Denham, Hotel Meurice. The young man motioned to the driver to follow him and halt at the hotel entrance, which was only a few steps further in the arcade48 facing the gardens of the Tuileries.
Mr. Denham was at breakfast in the small salon49 opening on the paved square formed by the four interior walls of the building; he had just seated himself at the table, which was laid for two persons, when the waiter brought him Mrs. Denham's note and Lynde's card. Mr. Denham glanced from one to the other, and then broke the seal of the envelope with a puzzled air which directly changed into a perturbed50 expression.
"Show the gentleman in here," he said, speaking over the top of the note-sheet to the servant, "and set another cover."
It was a strongly featured person of fifty or fifty-five, slightly bald, and closely shaven with the exception of a heavy iron-gray mustache, who rose from the chair and stepped forward to meet Lynde as he entered. Lynde's name was familiar to Mr. Denham, it having figured rather prominently in his wife's correspondence during the latter part of the sojourn51 at Geneva.
"You have placed us all under deep obligations to you, sir," said Mr. Denham, with a smile in which the severity of his features melted.
"The obligations are on my side, sir," replied Lynde. "I owe Mrs. Denham a great many kindnesses. I wish I could have found some happier way than the present to express my sense of them."
"I sincerely hope she was not justified52 in allowing you to take this long journey. I beg of you to tell me what has happened. Mrs. Denham has been anything but explicit53."
She had merely announced Ruth's illness, leaving it to Lynde to inform Mr. Denham of the particulars. That gentleman wrinkled his brows involuntarily as he listened to Lynde's account of his mountain excursion alone with Ruth and the result. "I have not seen Miss Denham since," said Lynde, concluding his statement, in which he had tripped and stumbled woefully. "I trust that Mrs. Denham's anxiety has exaggerated her niece's condition."
"Ruth is far from strong," replied Mr. Denham, "and my wife is almost morbidly54 quick to take alarm about her. In fact, we both are. Do you know how the trains run to Geneva? Is there anything earlier than the evening express?"
Lynde did not know.
"We will ascertain55 after breakfast," continued Mr. Denham. "Of course you have not breakfasted yet. You ought to be in appetite by this time. I am unusually late myself, this morning, and my friend, the doctor, is still later. We tired ourselves out yesterday in a jaunt56 to Fontainebleau. The doctor's an incorrigible57 sightseer. Ah, there he is! Mr. Lynde, my friend, Dr. Pendegrast."
Lynde did not start at hearing this unexpected name, though it pierced his ear like a sharp-pointed arrow. He was paralyzed for an instant; a blur16 came over his eyes, and he felt that his hands and feet were turning into ice However, he made an effort to rise and salute58 the elderly gentleman who stood at his side with a hand stretched out in the cordial American fashion.
Evidently Dr. Pendegrast did not recognize Lynde, in whose personal appearance three years had wrought59 many changes. The doctor himself had altered in no essential; he was at that period of man's life--between fifty and sixty--when ravaging60 time seems to give him a respite61 for a couple of lustrums. As soon as Lynde could regain62 his self-possession he examined Dr. Pendegrast with the forlorn hope that this was not HIS Dr. Pendegrast; but it was he, with those round eyes like small blue-faience saucers, and that slight, wiry figure. If any doubt had lingered in the young man's mind, it would have vanished as the doctor drew forth63 from his fob that same fat little gold watch, and turned it over on its back in the palm of his hand, just as he had done the day he invited Lynde to remain and dine with him at the asylum64.
"Why, bless me, Denham!" he exclaimed. laying his ear to the crystal of the time-piece as if he were sounding a doubtful lung, "my watch has run down--a thing that hasn't happened these twenty years." As he stood with his head inclined on one side, the doctor's cheery eyes inadvertently rested upon Mr. Denham's face and detected its unwonted disturbance65.
"Mr. Lynde has just come from Chamouni," said Mr. Denham, answering the doctor's mute interrogation. "It seems that Ruth is ill."
Dr. Pendegrast glanced at Lynde and turned to Mr. Denham again.
"I imagine it is only a cold," Mr. Denham continued. "She was caught in a rain-storm on the mountain and got very wet. Mrs. Denham is of course worried about her, and Mr. Lynde has been kind enough to come all the way to Paris for us."
"That WAS very kind in him."
Dr. Pendegrast drew a chair up to the table and began questioning Lynde. Beyond satisfying such of the doctor's inquiries66 as he could, Lynde did not speak during the meal. He managed to swallow a cup of black coffee, which revived him; but he was unable to eat a mouthful. The intelligence he had brought so occupied his companions that the young man's very noticeable agitation67 and constraint68 escaped them. In a few minutes Mr. Denham rose from his seat and begged the two gentlemen to finish their breakfast at leisure, while he went to consult the time-table at the bureau of the hotel.
"The doctor can give you a genuine Havana," he remarked to Lynde. "I will join you shortly in the smoking-room."
While Dr. Pendegrast silently drank his coffee, Lynde pieced his scattered69 thoughts together. What course should he pursue? Should he take the doctor into his confidence, or should he let himself drift? How could the doctor help him in the circumstances? Ruth had been insane. What could do away with that dreadful fact, the revelation of which now appalled70 him as if he had never suspected it. Ruth, Ruth--the very name was significant of calamity71! Flemming's words rang in his ears: "You would not marry her!" He had not replied to Flemming that night when the case was merely supposititious. But now--it seemed to Lynde that he had never loved Ruth until this moment. The knowledge of her misfortune had added to his love that great pity of which he had spoken to his friend. But could he marry her? He did not dare put the question squarely, for he dared not confess to himself that he could not give her up. This, then, was the key to Mrs. Denham's cold rejection72 of his suit; it explained, also, Ruth's unwillingness73 to have him speak to her of his love. How poignant74 must have been her anguish75 that day on Montanvert if she cared for him! She loved him--how could he doubt it?--but she had accepted the hopelessness of the position. In his own mind he had accused her of coquetry in their walk at the cascade76 of Nant d'Arpenaz. He saw through it all now; the scales had fallen from his eyes. She was hiding her misery77 under a smooth face, as women will. A sudden reflection sent a chill over Lynde; what if she had recognized him that first day at dinner in Geneva and had been playing a part all the while! Then she was the most subtile actress that ever lived, and the leading lady of the Theatre Francais might indeed go and take lessons of her, as Flemming had said. The thought gave Lynde a shock. He would not like to have the woman he loved such an actress as that. Had Ruth revealed everything to the aunt, and was she too playing a part? In her several allusions78 to Dr. Pendegrast Mrs. Denham had called him "the doctor" simply, or "an old friend of our family," and never once pronounced his name. "Was that accidental or intentional79?" Lynde wondered. "It was inevitable80 that he and I should meet sooner or later. Was she endeavoring to keep the knowledge of Dr. Pendegrast from me as long as possible? The exigency81 has unmasked her!"
"Now, Mr. Lynde, I am at your service."
Lynde gave a start, as if the doctor had suddenly dropped down at his side from out of the sky.
Dr. Pendegrast pushed back his chair and led the way across the quadrangle, in which a number of persons were taking coffee at small tables set here and there under oleander-trees in green-painted tubs. The smoking-room was unoccupied. Lynde stood a moment undetermined in the centre of the apartment, and then he laid his hand on the doctor's shoulder.
"You don't remember me?"
"Ah, then I HAVE seen you before!" exclaimed Dr. Pendegrast, transfixed in the act of drawing a cigar from his case. "Your name and your face puzzled me, but I could not place you, so I didn't mention it. You must pardon an old man's bad memory. I am confused. When and where have I had the pleasure of seeing you?"
"It was scarcely a pleasure," said Lynde, with bitterness.
"Indeed! I cannot imagine that; it is a pleasure now," returned the doctor courteously83. "It was three years ago, at your asylum. As you will recollect84, I was brought there by mistake the day the patients"--
"Bless me!" exclaimed the doctor, dropping the ignited match. "How could I forget you! I took such a great liking to you, too. I have thought of that awkward affair a thousand times. But, really, coming across you in this unexpected manner"--
"I suppose I have changed somewhat," Lynde broke in. "Dr. Pendegrast, I am in a very strange position here. It is imperative85 you should be perfectly86 frank with me. You will have to overlook my abruptness87. Mr. Denham may return any instant, and what I have to say cannot be said in his presence. I know that Miss Denham has been under your charge as a patient. I want to know more than that bare circumstance."
The doctor recoiled88 a step. "Of course," he said, recovering himself, "you must have recognized her."
"I met your friends six or seven weeks ago at Geneva," continued Lynde. "I recognized Miss Denham at once; but later I came to doubt and finally to disbelieve that I had ever seen her elsewhere. I refused to accept the testimony89 of my eyes and ears because--because so much of my happiness depended on my rejecting it."
"Does Mrs. Denham know that you are in possession of the fact you mention? Denham of course doesn't."
"No; it is my meeting with you that he turned my discarded doubt into a certainty."
"Then, I beg of you," said Dr. Pendegrast throwing a glance across the quadrangle, "not to breathe a syllable90 of this; do not even think of it. It has been kept from every one--from even the most intimate friends of the family; Ruth herself is not aware of her temporary derangement91."
"Miss Denham does not know it?"
"She has not the remotest suspicion of the misfortune which befell her three years ago."
"Miss Denham does not know it?" repeated Lynde in a dazed way. "That-- that seems impossible! Pardon me. How did it happen, Dr. Pendegrast?"
"I assume that you are not asking me through idle curiosity," said the doctor, looking at him attentively92.
"I have vital reasons for my question, Doctor."
"I do not see why I should not tell you, since you know so much. The family were in Florida that spring. Ruth had not been well for several months; they had gone South on her account. It was partly a pulmonary difficulty. On their return North, Ruth was prostrated93 by a typhoid fever. She recovered from that but with her mind strangely disordered. The mental malady94 increased with her convalescence95. Denham and I were old friends; he had faith in my skill, and she was placed in my care. She was brought to the asylum because I could not attend to her anywhere else. I considered her case serious at first, even hopeless. The human body is still a mystery, after science has said its last word. The human mind is a deeper mystery. While I doubted of her recovery, she recovered. At the first intimation of returning health, she was taken home; when her wandering thought came back to her she was in her own room. She remembered that she had been very ill, a long time ill; she had a faint impression that I had attended her meanwhile; but she remembered nothing more. The knowledge of her affliction was kept a secret from her--unwisely, I think. They put it off and put it off, until it became very awkward to tell her."
Lynde started as he recalled his conversation with Miss Denham on the rocks overhanging the Mer de Glace. With unwitting cruelty he had told Ruth her own pathetic story, and she had unconsciously pitied herself! A lump came into his throat as he remembered it.
"That was a mistake," said Lynde, with an effort, "not to tell her."
"An absurd mistake. It has given my friends no end of trouble and embarrassment96."
"Something less than two months." "It was the result of the fever?"
"That chiefly."
"It was not--hereditary?" Lynde lingered on the word.
"No."
"Then it is not likely to occur again?"
"I cannot think of anything more unlikely," returned the doctor, "unless the same conditions conspire98, which is scarcely supposable, as I could easily prove to you. You can understand, Mr. Lynde, that this has been a sore trial to Denham and his wife; they have had no children, and their hearts are bound up in Ruth. The dread20 of a recurrence99 of the trouble has haunted them night and day in spite of all the arguments I could advance to reassure100 them. They have got what our French friends call a fixed82 idea, which is generally an idea that requires a great deal of fixing. The girl ought to marry--every woman ought to marry, it is her one mission; but between their affections and their apprehensions101, my friends have allowed Ruth no opportunity to form attachments102."
"I'm glad of that," said Lynde quietly.
"Are you!" snapped the doctor. "I am not. I would like to see her married some day. Meanwhile I would like to see a dozen lovers about her. It is as natural for a young girl to coquet as it is for a canary to peck at its seed or trim its bill on a bit of fishbone. It is had for the girl and the canary when they are prevented."
"There is something human in this crisp old doctor," said Lynde to himself, and then aloud: "So Mr. Denham has no matrimonial plans for her?"
"None whatever. Since Ruth's recovery the family have been constantly on the wing, either at home or abroad. Most of Ruth's life has been passed over here. I trust to your discretion103. You will perceive the necessity of keeping all this to yourself."
"I do, and I now see that your travelling with the Denhams is a circumstance in no way connected with the state of Miss Denham's health."
"Not in the most distant manner, Mr. Lynde. I am with them because they are my old friends. I was worn out with professional work, and I ran across the sea to recuperate104. It is fortunate I did, since Ruth chances to need me."
Lynde pondered a moment, and then asked abruptly105: "Does Mrs. Denham know of my former meeting with her niece?"
"I never breathed a word to Mrs. Denham on the subject of Ruth's escapade," replied the doctor. "It would have pained her without mending matters. Besides, I was not proud of that transaction."
Mrs. Denham's suppression of the doctor's name, then, in speaking of him to Lynde, had been purely106 accidental.
"Miss Ruth's strange hallucination, in her illness, as to personality, her fancy about the Queen of Sheba--what was that traceable to?" asked Lynde, after a pause.
"Heaven only knows. She was reading the Old Testament107 very much in those days. I have sometimes accepted that as an explanation. It often happens that a delusion108 takes its cue from something read, or thought, or experienced in a rational state. In the case of the man Blaisdell, for example--you remember him, with his marble ship? He was formerly109 an enterprising ship-builder; during the Southern war he filled a contract with government for a couple of ironclads, and made his fortune. The depression in shipping110 afterwards ruined him--and he fell to constructing marble vessels111! He is dead, by the way. I wonder if his reason has been given back to him--in that other world."
Lynde did not speak immediately, and the doctor relighted his cigar, which had gone out.
"Dr. Pendegrast, you have lifted a crushing weight from me. I cannot explain it to you now and here; but you shall know some day."
Dr. Pendegrast smiled. "I didn't recollect you at first, Mr. Lynde; my memory for names and faces is shockingly derelict, but I have retained most of my other faculties112 in tolerably good order. I have been unreserved with you because I more than suspect"--
The doctor's sentence was cut short by Mr. Denham, who entered at the instant. He had learned that there was no train for Geneva before the night-express. Lynde lighted the cigar which he had been unconsciously holding between his fingers all this while, and on the plea of cashing a draft at a banker's left the two gentlemen together. He wandered absently into the Place de la Concorde, crossed the crowded bridge there, and plunged113 into the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter. Finding his way back after an hour or so to the other bank of the Seine, he seated himself on one of those little black iron chairs which seem to have let themselves down like spiders from the lime-trees in the Champs Elysees, and remained for a long time in a deep study.
The meeting with Dr. Pendegrast had been so severe a shock to Lynde that he could not straightway recover his mental balance. The appalling114 shadow which the doctor's presence had for the moment thrown across him had left Lynde benumbed and chilled despite the reassuring115 sunshine of the doctor's words. By degrees, however, Lynde warmed to life again; his gloom slipped off and was lost in the restless tides of life which surged about him. It was the hour when Paris sits at small green tables in front of the cafes and sips116 its absinthe or cassis; when the boulevards are thronged117, and the rich equipages come and go. There was not a cloud in the tender blue sky against which the reddish obelisk118 of Luxor looked like a column of jet; the fountains were playing in the Place de la Concorde, and in the Tuileries gardens beyond the breeze dreamily stirred the foliage which hid from Lynde's view the gray facade119 of the gutted120 palace, still standing there, calcined and cracked by the fires of the Commune. Presently all this began to distract him, and when he returned to the hotel he was in a humor that would have been comparatively tranquil121 if so many tedious miles had not stretched between Paris and Chamouni.
He found Mr. Denham and Dr. Pendegrast delaying dinner for him. After dinner, seeing no prospect122 of renewing conversation in private with the doctor, Lynde killed the time by writing a voluminous letter to Flemming, whose name he had stumbled on in the passenger-list of a steamer advertised to sail two days later from Liverpool.
As Lynde took his seat in the railroad carriage that night he had a feeling that several centuries had elapsed since daybreak. Every moment was a month to him until he could get back to Chamouni. The thought that Ruth might be dangerously ill scarcely presented itself among his reflections. She was free, he loved her, and there was no reason why he should not try to win her, however strongly the Denhams might be opposed to him. His mind was perfectly easy on that score; they had no right to wreck123 the girl's future in their shallow fear. His two travelling companions shortly dropped asleep, but Lynde did not close his eyes during those ten weary hours to Macon. Thence to Geneva was five hours more of impatience124. At Geneva the party halted no longer than was necessary to refresh themselves at a buffet125 near the station and hire a conveyance126 to Chamouni, which they reached two or three hours after sunset. The town still lay, as Lynde had left it, in the portentous127 shadow of the mountain, with the sullen128 rain dropping from the black sky.
Lynde drew an alarming augury129 from the circumstance that Mrs. Denham did not come down to greet them. It dawned upon him then for the first time with any distinctness that Ruth might be fatally ill. Mr. Denham, accompanied by Dr. Pendegrast, hastened to his wife's apartments, and Lynde stationed himself at the head of a staircase in the hall, where he waited nearly an hour in intolerable suspense130 before the doctor reappeared.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"Pneumonia. No," he added, divining Lynde's unspoken thought even before it had fairly shaped itself in his brain, "it is not the other business."
"No, but she is very low. The disease is approaching a crisis; a change must take place by to-morrow. Frankly132, I dread that change. I am hiding nothing from you."
"Is there no hope? You do not mean that!"
"I am afraid I do. Perhaps it is because she is so dear to me that I always anticipate the worst when she is concerned. The other physician is more sanguine133; but then he does not love Ruth as I do."
"You might have saved her!"
"Everything has been done that could be done. He is a person of remarkable134 skill, this Paris physician. I could have advised no change in his treatment of the case if I had been on the spot at first. That is a great deal for one physician to say of another. You had better go and get some rest," added Dr. Pendegrast in a changed voice, struck by the young man's ghastly look. "Your two night-journeys have used you up."
Lynde went mechanically to his room and threw himself upon the bed without undressing. He had no inclination135 to sleep, but his fatigue136, bodily and mental, overcame him unawares as he lay listening to the wind which swept through the mountain-gorges, and rose and fell monotonously137 with a sound like the rote138 of the sea. It was a vision of the sea that filled his unrestful slumber139: Ruth was dead, she had died in his arms, and he was standing woe-begone, like a ghost, on the deck of a homeward bound ship, with the gray, illimitable waste of waters stretching around him.
It appeared to Lynde to be in the middle of the night, though it was in fact on the edge of daybreak, that he was awakened140 by some one knocking softly at his door. He lighted a match, and by its momentary141 flicker142 saw Mr. Denham standing on the threshold.
"Ruth wishes to see you," he said indistinctly and with an indecisive air. "As nearly as we can gather, that is what she wants. Come quickly!"
Without waiting for a reply Mr. Denham turned and passed through the hall. Lynde followed in silence. He was less surprised than agitated143 by the summons; it was of a piece with the dream from which he had been roused.
There were candles burning on the mantel-piece of the chamber, and the dawn was whitening the window-panes. In that weird144, blended light the face of the sick girl shone like a fading star. Lynde was conscious of no other presence, though Mrs. Denham and Dr. Pendegrast with a third person were standing near the chimney-place. Ruth raised her eyes and smiled upon Lynde as he came in; then her lids closed and did not open again, but the smile stayed in a dim way on her features, and a flush almost too faint to be perceived crept into her cheeks. Lynde stooped by the bed and took one of Ruth's hands. She turned her head slightly on the pillow, and after a moment her lips moved as if she were making an effort to speak. Lynde remained immobile, fearing to draw breath lest a word should escape his ear. But she did not speak. As he stood there listening in the breathless stillness, the flame of the candles burned fainter and fainter in the increasing daylight; a bird twittered somewhere aloft; then the sunshine streamed through the windows, and outside all the heights were touched with sudden gold.
[Illustration: But she did not speak]
Dr. Pendegrast approached Lynde and rested one finger on his arm. "You had better go now," the doctor whispered hastily. "I will come to you by and by."
Lynde was sitting on the side of the bed in his own room in the broad daylight. He had been sitting motionless in one posture145 for an hour-- perhaps two hours, he could not tell how long--when Dr. Pendegrast opened the door without pausing to knock. Lynde felt the cold creeping about his heart.
"Doctor," he said desperately146, "don't tell me!"
"Mr. Lynde," said Dr. Pendegrast, walking up to the bedside and speaking very slowly, as if he were doubtful of his own words and found it difficult to articulate them, "a change has taken place, but it is a change for the better. I believe that Ruth will live."
"She will live!"
"We thought she was sinking; she thought so herself, the poor child. You were worth a thousand doctors to her, that's my belief. Mrs. Denham was afraid to tell her you had gone to Paris to fetch us, thinking it would excite her. Ruth imagined that her aunt had offended you, and thought you had gone not to return."
"Ah!"
"That troubled her, in the state she was in--troubled her mightily147. She has been able to take a few spoonfuls of nourishment," the doctor went on irrelevantly148; "her pulse is improved; if she has no drawback she will get well."
Lynde looked around him bewilderedly for a moment; then he covered his face with his hands. "I thought she was dying!" he said under his breath.
That day and the next the girl's life hung by a thread; then the peril149 passed, and her recovery became merely a question of careful nursing. The days which immediately followed this certainty were the happiest Lynde had ever experienced. Perhaps it was because his chamber was directly over Ruth's that he sat there in the window-seat, reading from morning until night. It was as near to her as he was permitted to approach. He saw little of Mr. Denham and still less of Mrs. Denham during that week; but the doctor spent an hour or two every evening with Lynde, and did not find it tiresome150 to talk of nothing but his patient. The details of her convalescence were listened to with an interest that would have won Dr. Pendegrast if he had not already been very well disposed towards the young fellow, several of whose New York friends, as it transpired151, were old acquaintances of the doctor's--Dr. Dillon and his family, and the Delaneys. The conversation between Lynde and Dr. Pendegrast at the Hotel Meurice had been hurried and disjointed, and in that respect unsatisfactory; but the minute history of Ruth's previous case, which the doctor related to Lynde in the course of those long summer nights, set his mind completely at rest.
"I could never have given her up, anyway," said Lynde to himself. "I have loved her for three years, though I didn't know it. That was my wife's slipper152 after all," he added, thinking of the time when it used to seem to be sitting up for him at night, on his writing-table at Rivermouth, and how often it threw a gloom over him with its tragic153 suggestion. "My wife's slipper!" He repeated the phrase softly to himself. There was nothing tragic in it now.
By and by the hours began to drag with him. The invalid154 could not get well fast enough to keep pace with his impatience. The day she was able for the first time to sit up a while, in an armchair wheeled by the bedside, was a fete day to the four Americans in the Couronne hotel. If Lynde did not exhaust his entire inheritance in cut flowers on this occasion, it was because Dr. Pendegrast objected to them in any profusion155 in a sick-chamber.
"When am I to see her?" asked Lynde that evening, as the doctor dropped into the room to make his usual report.
"Let me think. To-day is Tuesday--perhaps we shall let you see her by Friday or Saturday."
"Good heavens! why don't you put it off thirty or forty years?"
"I haven't the time," returned Dr. Pendegrast, laughing. "Seriously, she will not be strong enough until then to bear the least excitement. I am not going to run any risks with Ruth, I can tell you. You are very impatient, of course. I will give you a soothing156 draught157."
"What is it?"
"A piece of information."
"I'll take it!"
"And a piece of advice."
"I'll take that, too; you can't frighten me."
"It is a betrayal of confidence on my part," said the doctor slowly, and with an air of reconsidering his offer.
"No matter."
"Well, then, Ruth's asking for you, the other night, rather amazed Denham when he came to think it over quietly, and Mrs. Denham judged it best to inform him of the conversation which took place between you and her the morning you set out for Paris. Denham was still more amazed. She had attempted to cure him of one astonishment158 by giving him another. Similia similibus curantur did not work that time. Then the two came to me for consultation159, and I told them I thought Ruth's case required a doctor of divinity rather than a doctor of medicine."
"Did you say that!"
"Certainly I did. I strongly advised an operation, and designated the English church here as a proper place in which to have it performed. Moreover, as a change of air would be beneficial as soon as might be afterwards, I suggested for the invalid a short trip to Geneva--with not too much company. My dear fellow, you need not thank me; I am looking exclusively to Ruth's happiness--yours can come in incidentally, if it wants to. Mrs. Denham is YOUR ally."
"Is she, indeed? I thought differently. And Ruth"--
"Ruth," interposed the doctor, with a twinkle in his eyes, "Ruth is the good little girl in the primer who doesn't speak until she's spoken to."
"By Jove, she doesn't speak even then! I have tried her twice: once she evaded160 me, and once she refused to listen."
"The results of her false education," said the doctor sententiously.
Lynde laughed.
"To what view of the question does Mr. Denham incline?" he asked.
"Denham is not as unreasonable161 as he used to be; but he is somewhat stunned162 by the unexpectedness of the thing."
"That's the information; and now for the advice, Doctor."
"I advise you to speak with Denham the first chance you get. You will have an opportunity this evening. I took the liberty of asking him to come up here and smoke a cigar with us as soon as he finishes his coffee."
Lynde nodded his head approvingly, and the doctor went on--
"I shall leave you together after a while, and then you must manage it. At present he is in no state to deny Ruth anything; he would give her a lover just as he would buy her a pair of ear-rings. His joy over her escape from death--it was a fearfully narrow escape, let me tell you-- has left him powerless. Moreover, her illness, in which there has not been a symptom of the old trouble, has reassured163 him on a most painful point. In short, everything is remarkably164 smooth for you. I think that's Denham's step now in the hall," added Dr. Pendegrast hurriedly." You can say what you please to him of Ruth; but mind you, my dear boy, not a word at this juncture165 about the Queen of Sheba--she's dethroned, you know!"
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1
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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2
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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6
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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8
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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9
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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10
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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11
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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12
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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13
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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14
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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15
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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16
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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17
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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18
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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19
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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20
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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21
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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22
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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23
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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24
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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25
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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26
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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27
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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28
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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29
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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30
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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32
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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33
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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34
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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35
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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36
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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37
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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38
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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39
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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40
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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41
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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42
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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43
sickles
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| n.镰刀( sickle的名词复数 ) | |
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44
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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45
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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47
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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48
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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49
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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50
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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52
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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53
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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54
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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55
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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56
jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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57
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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58
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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59
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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60
ravaging
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| 毁坏( ravage的现在分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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61
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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62
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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65
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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66
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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67
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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68
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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69
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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70
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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71
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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72
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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73
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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74
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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75
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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76
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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77
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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78
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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79
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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80
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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81
exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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82
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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83
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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84
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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85
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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86
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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87
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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88
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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89
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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90
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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91
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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92
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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93
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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94
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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95
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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96
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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99
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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100
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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101
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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102
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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103
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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104
recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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105
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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106
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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108
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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111
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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112
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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113
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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115
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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116
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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gutted
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| adj.容易消化的v.毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的过去式和过去分词 )；取出…的内脏 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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143
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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152
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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153
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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154
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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155
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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156
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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157
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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158
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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159
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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160
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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161
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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163
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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164
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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165
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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