‘Pray do not propose Leonard’s coming for her! He must come to this feverish place in spring. And if he came, and I were not here, and Henry not wanting him! Oh no, no; do not let me think of his coming!’
‘Averil,’ he said, kneeling on one knee so as to be nearer, and to be able to speak lower, ‘you are so unearthly in your unselfishness, that I dare the less to put before you the one way in which I could take Ella home to him. It is if you would overlook the past, and give me a brother’s right in them both.’
She turned in amazement to see if she had heard aright. He had removed his glasses, and the deep blue expressive eyes so seldom plainly visible were wistfully, pleadingly, fixed on her, brimming over with the dew of earnestness. Her face of inquiry gave him courage to go on, ‘If you would only let me, I think I could bring you home to see him; and if you would believe it and try, I believe I could make you happier,’ and with an uncontrollable shake in his voice he ceased—and only looked.
She sat upright, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes shut, trying to collect her thoughts; and the silence lasted for several seconds. At last she said, opening her eyes, but gazing straight before her, not at him, ‘I do not think I ought. Do you really know what you are saying? You know I cannot get well.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘All I ask is, to tend and watch over you while I may, to bring you home to Leonard, and to be Ella’s brother.’
His voice was still and low, and he laid his hand on her folded ones with reverent solemnity; but though it did not tremble, its touch was cold as marble, and conveyed to Averil an instant sense of the force of his repressed emotion. She started under it, and exclaimed with the first agitation she had shown, ‘No, no; it would cost you too much. You, young, beginning life—you must not take a sorrow upon you.’
‘Is it not there already?’ he said, almost inaudibly. ‘Would it lessen it to be kept away from you?’
‘Oh, do not go on, do not tempt me,’ she cried. ‘Think of your father.’
‘Nay, think what he is yourself. Or rather look here,’ and he took out a part of a letter from Ethel, and laid it before her.
‘As to papa not guessing your object,’ she said, ‘that was a vain delusion if you ever entertained it, so you must not mind my having explained. He said if he had been you, it was just what he should have done himself, and he is quite ready to throw his heart into it if you will only trust to his kindness. I do so want you really to try what that is.’
‘And you came for this,’ faltered Averil, leaning back, almost overcome.
‘I did not come meaning to hurry the subject on you. I hoped to have induced Henry to have brought you all home, and then, when I had done my best to efface the recollection of that unpardonable behaviour, to have tried whether you could look on me differently.’
‘I don’t like you to say that,’ said Averil, simply but earnestly; ‘I have felt over and over again how wrong I was—how ungrateful—to have utterly missed all the nobleness and generosity of your behaviour, and answered in that unjust, ill-tempered way.’
‘Nothing was ever more deserved,’ he answered; ‘I have hated myself ever since, and I hope I am not as obnoxious now.’
‘It was I!’ she said; ‘I have lived every bit of the winter over again, and seen that I was always ready to be offended, and somehow I could not help caring so much for what you said, that lesser things from you hurt and cut as other people’s did not.’
‘Do you know what that proves?’ said Tom, with an arch subsmile lighting on his eyes and mouth; and as a glow awoke on her pale cheek, he added, ‘and won’t you believe, too, that my propensity to “contemptuous irony” was all from my instinctive fear of what you could do to me!’
‘Oh, don’t repeat that! I have been so bitterly ashamed of it!’
‘I am sure I have.’
‘And I have longed so to ask your pardon. I thought I would leave a letter or message with Ella that you would understand.’
‘You can do better than that now. You can forgive me.’
‘Oh!’ said Averil, her hands suddenly joined over her face, ‘this is one joy more! I cannot think why it is all growing so bright just at last—at last. It is all come now! How good it is!’
He saw that she could bear no more. He pressed no more for a decisive answer; he did not return to the subject; but from that time he treated her as what belonged to him, as if it was his business to think, act, and judge for her, and to watch over her; and her acquiescence was absolute.
There was not much speaking between them; there were chiefly skirmishes between him and Cora, to which she listened in smiling passive amusement; and even when alone together they said little—actually nothing at all about the future. He had written to Ethel on his first arrival, and on the reply, as well as on Averil’s state, all must depend. Meanwhile such a look of satisfied repose and peace shone upon Averil’s face as was most sweet to look upon; and though extremely feeble, and not essentially better, she was less suffering, and could in great languor, but in calm enjoyment, pass through day by day of the precious present that had come to crown her long trial.
CHAPTER XXX
Oh, when its flower seems fain to die, The full heart grudges smile or sigh To aught beside, though fair and dear; Like a bruised leaf, at touch of fear, Its hidden fragrance love gives out.—Lyra Innocentum
‘The letters at last! One to Ethel, and three to Leonard! Now for it, Ethel!’
Ethel opened—read—ran out of the room without a word, and sought her father in his study, where she laid before him Tom’s letter, written from Massissauga the day after his arrival.
‘Dear Ethel,
‘I have found my darling, but too late to arrest the disease—the work of her brother’s perverseness and wrongheadedness. I have no hope of saving her; though it will probably be a matter of several months—that is, with care, and removal from this vile spot.
‘I am writing to Henry, but I imagine that he is too much charmed with his present prospects to give them up; and in her angelic self-sacrifice she insists on Leonard’s not coming out. Indeed, there would be no use in his doing so unless she leaves this place; but should no unforeseen complication supervene, it is my full persuasion that she could be removed, safely make the voyage, and even be spared for this summer among us. Surely my father will not object! It will be but a short time; and she has suffered so much, so piteously needs love and cherishing, that it is not in him to refuse. He, who consented to Margaret’s engagement, cannot but feel for us. I would work for him all my life! I would never cast a thought beyond home, if only once hallowed by this dear presence for ever so short a time. Only let the answers be so cordial as to remove all doubts or scruples; and when they are sent prepare for her. I would bring her as quickly as her health permits. No time must be lost in taking her from hence; and I wait only for the letters to obtain her consent to an immediate marriage. Furnish the house at once; I will repay you on my return. There is L200 for the first floor, sitting, and bedrooms; for the rest the old will do. Only regard the making these perfect; colouring pink—all as cheerful and pleasant as money can accomplish. If Flora will bear with me, get her to help you; or else Mary, if Cheviot forgives me. Only don’t spare cost. I will make it up some way, if you find more wanted. I saw an invalid sofa, an improvement on Margaret’s, which I will write to Gaspard to send from Paris. If you could only see the desolateness of the house where she has wasted away these three years, you would long to make a bower of bliss for her. I trust to you. I find I must trust everything to you. I cannot write to my father; I have made nine beginnings, and must leave it to you. He has comforted her, he knows her sorrows; he could not see her and bid me leave her. Only there must be no hesitation. That, or even remonstrance, would prevent her from consenting; and as to the objections, I cannot know them better than I do. Indeed, all this may be in vain; she is so near Heaven, that I dare not talk to her of this; but I have written to Leonard, dwelling chiefly on the chance of bringing her to him. Her desire to keep him from attempting to come out will I trust be an inducement; but if you could only see her, you would know how irreverent it seems to persecute one so nearly an angel with such matters. If I may only tend her to the last! I trust to you. This is for my father.