Rupert Godwin

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

The medical man felt rather inquisitive as to the name and position of his patient and her companion. The Duke was unattended; but from the appearance of the horse he rode, and from the careless manner in which he spoke of putting up at the Star and Garter, Mr. Granby, the surgeon, concluded that he was at least tolerably well off. But he had no idea of the rank of his patient’s companion until the carriage arrived at the Star and Garter, when a bevy of waiters crowded to obey the orders of the fair-haired, elegant-looking young man, whom they addressed as “your grace.”

The helpless girl was carried to a suite of spacious rooms on the first floor. She was laid on the sofa, and then the doctor turned round and addressed the Duke.

“I must beg you to leave us, sir,” he said. “I require the assistance of some middle-aged woman, who has been used to wait upon an invalid. I daresay there is such a person in the house.”

The waiter who had escorted them to the apartments replied that there was a person qualified to attend to the young lady, under Mr. Granby’s direction.

“Very good,” said the surgeon; “then you will be kind enough to send her to me immediately.—In the mean time, perhaps you will kindly assist me to wheel this sofa into the next room?” he added, to the Duke.

The adjoining apartment was a bedroom, large and airy, like the sitting-room, and overlooking the garden of the hotel. Beyond the garden stretched one of the fairest landscapes in England—the winding river, now crimsoned by the sinking sun; the distant hills and woodlands, purple with the cool shadows of evening.

Esther looked round the room with an expression of alarm.

“Why do you bring me here?” she exclaimed. “I shall not be obliged to sleep at Richmond, shall I? Surely I shall be well enough to go home?”

“Not to-night, my dear young lady; it is growing late, and you require rest,” said the doctor in a soothing tone.

The Jewess looked at him anxiously, but said no more.

The Duke was banished from the bedchamber. Pale, and restless with the slow torture of suspense, he paced up and down the sitting-room, while the doctor remained alone with his patient.

A respectable-looking woman appeared presently, escorted by the waiter. She was one of the head chambermaids, and she had lived in private families, where she had had considerable experience in nursing.

In cases of real need people seem, by general consent, to forget the very meaning of the word “trouble.” The woman came cheerfully to devote herself to the young lady who had fallen from her horse. She was a clean comfortable-looking woman, of about five-and-forty, called Martha Gibbs, the very beau idéal of a Martha.

The doctor opened the door, and Mrs. Gibbs went into the bedroom. Then the door was again closed, and the Duke of Harlingford resumed his weary pacing up and down the room.

How long the time seemed! And yet, during all that period of suspense, the young nobleman did not once look out upon the evening landscape, which spread itself like some glorious picture of earth’s rarest beauty before the open windows.

His eyes were never lifted from the carpet, as he paced up and down, up and down, straining his ear to catch some sound of voices from the chamber within—sometimes hoping, sometimes despairing, but never praying. Alas! it was so long since this young man had lifted his voice in supplication to his Creator, that now, when he had such need to pray, the words would not come. Prayer seemed a mockery upon his lips. His frivolous, dissipated life; his association with men who scoffed at the very name of religion; all his own faults and follies,—arose before him in this dread hour of anguish, and he felt himself unworthy to ask for Heaven’s compassion upon his sorrow. How doubly appalling is the face of death when it confronts the man who is without religion! Who does not remember that woful picture of the dying Dubois, fighting against death till the last, and then sending in hot haste for the Viaticum, with the special ceremonial for cardinals?

At length that period of agonizing suspense came to an end. The door of the bedroom was opened, and the medical man appeared.

One eager glance at his face told the Duke that the surgeon had melancholy tidings to impart. He rushed forward, and grasped Mr. Granby’s arm.

“The case is much worse than I thought,” he exclaimed; “I can see it in your face. Miss Vanberg’s injuries are serious?”

“They are very serious.”

“She will be a cripple for life?”

The surgeon shook his head sadly.

“O God!” cried the Duke, “then it is even worse than that! She will be paralyzed, perhaps helpless? No matter! She shall find what it is to be truly loved! O, doctor, for pity’s sake speak, and speak plainly—tell me the worst!”

The Duke raised his head, and looked earnestly at the surgeon’s face.

“I understand,” he said; “you can give me no hope. She is——”

He could not finish the sentence. He paused, struggled with the passionate sobs that rent his breast, and then gasped, in a hoarse whisper:

“I shall lose her?”

“On earth, your grace. Let us hope that you may meet her again in heaven.”

The Duke shuddered as he listened to those solemn words. Alas! he knew but too well that the life of the Jewess had not fitted her for a higher and purer sphere than this lower world. Proud and reckless, she had lived a pagan life, neither worshipping in the synagogues of her own people nor at any Christian shrine; and now that the shadow of death hovered near, Vincent, Duke of Harlingford, felt how utterly helpless were his rank and wealth to ward off one pang from the woman he loved.

“My God,” he murmured, “it is too bitter a stroke! And yet it is only a fitting retribution for my useless, frivolous life. But she seemed so little hurt!”

“Ah, my dear sir,” answered the doctor gravely, “those very symptoms which gave you hope filled me with alarm. The absence of pain, the numbness of the limbs—I knew too well what those portended. The spine is fractured.”

“And no science can save her?”

“No. It may give you some satisfaction to call in further aid. I will telegraph immediately, if you please, for the two best men in Saville-row.”

“For Heaven’s sake do so! But before you go give me one word of comfort. You have spoken her doom, but it will not be soon; she will live for some time, surely?”

Again the surgeon shook his head, with the same sad expression on his face.

“I wish to tell you the truth,” he said, “for I know that in these cases the truth is wisest and best. Miss Vanberg’s hours are numbered. If she has relatives whom she would wish to see, they had better be telegraphed for at once.”

“No,” answered the Duke mournfully; “my poor girl stands alone in the world. She has had many admirers, but not one friend, except myself,—a weak and dangerous one; for I yielded to all her caprices, against my own better judgment, and I allowed her to commit the imprudence that is to cost her her life. She has no friends, doctor; but there is one favour you can do me.”

“Your grace has only to command my services.”

“After you have telegraphed for the London surgeons, I shall be truly grateful if you will call upon some clergyman in this town, and request him to come at once to my poor girl. You reside in the neighbourhood, and are, no doubt, on intimate terms with some minister of the Church?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor, “I do know a clergyman in the immediate neighbourhood, one of the best men that ever breathed. I will call on him immediately after sending the telegram, and will bring him here with me.”

“I thank you very much. In the mean while I may see her, I suppose?” said the Duke, looking with mournful, yearning eyes to the door of the bedroom.

“Yes, you may see her. She is quite conscious, and very calm—though she knows the worst.”

The Duke bent his head. He could not speak, but he grasped the doctor’s hand with a grateful pressure, and then passed silently into the sick-room.

Esther Vanberg was lying quite motionless, her eyes fixed on the door as the Duke entered. Never before had Vincent seen so much tenderness in those eyes. The shadow of death, so near at hand, seemed to have a very softening influence upon the Jewess.

She pointed silently to an arm-chair by the side of the bed. The Duke seated himself, and took the feeble hand which stretched itself towards him.

The proud woman was quite subdued. She could read the signs of an unspeakable sorrow in the pale face of her lover, and she felt how unworthy she was of such unbounded devotion.

“Dear Vincent,” she murmured softly, “you must not grieve for me. You have all your life before you. It is better for your happiness, much better, that I should die. I have been a proud, capricious creature, and I never should have made a good wife. Believe me, dear, it is better as it is. I know that you will grieve just at first; but by-and-by the sorrow will all wear away, and you will only remember me as one of the pale shadows of the past. Then I hope you will marry a woman of your own station, a woman worthy of your love.”

“My darling! my own dear love! I would give my dukedom, and the last acre of the Harlingford lands—I would give my very soul—if I could save you!”

“I know your true heart, Vincent; and I can believe all you say, poor boy! But I know that my death will be ultimately for your happiness. And now, dear, I have done many wicked things in my life. I want to repent of them before I die—to atone for some, if I can. There was one cruel wrong I inflicted upon an innocent girl, prompted by an envious hatred of her good looks—and her success in the theatre. You’ll despise me when I tell you how mean and cruel I have been—but I must tell you, Vincent, however hard it is to do it.”

In as few words as could tell the story, Esther related the circumstances of the treacherous plot against Violet Westford. The Duke listened with a grave face. He was deeply grieved by the recital of Esther’s sin.

“I was very wicked, was I not, Vincent?” she asked, when she had finished her story; “and you will hate me for my wickedness.”

“No, Esther: but I hate the man who tempted you—that cold-blooded scoundrel, Rupert Godwin, who, for some wicked purpose of his own, played upon a woman’s foolish jealousy, in order to make her the instrument of his treachery.”

“Rupert Godwin!” cried the Jewess. “Is Mr. Godwin’s name Rupert?”

“It is.”

“Strange! strange!”

“Why so, darling?”

“I don’t know; but the name is an uncommon one, and it is connected with the history of my childhood. O, Vincent, I have not many hours to live; but before I die I should like to tell you the story of my youth. I think it would make you understand why I have been a proud and extravagant woman—reckless of the feelings of others, seeking only my own pleasure, heartless, ungrateful. If I live long enough, Vincent, I will tell you that story.”