"I"m not ungrateful----"
"There"s nothing to be grateful for. I couldn"t help it."
"I would have loved you more, Kathy, if it hadn"t been for Audrey."
He spoke without emotion, in the tone of a man stating a simple matter of fact. Then he remarked in the same matter-of-fact voice that, as it happened, he was dying, so it made no difference. Perhaps he wanted her to know that a grave was ready for the secret she had just told him.
There was no need to remind her of that,--she was sure of it before she spoke.
Her kneeling att.i.tude, and hands outstretched on the counterpane, suggested an order of ideas that had never been very far from him during his illness. For Vincent had been wide awake and thinking difficult thoughts many a time when he lay with his eyes closed, and Katherine had thought he was asleep.
"I want you to read to me," he said at last.
"What would you like?"
"Well--the New Testament, I think, if it"s all the same to you."
She rose from her knees and looked helplessly round the room. There was a Bible somewhere upstairs, but--
"You"ll find one in the drawer there, where my handkerchiefs are."
She looked, rummaging gently among his poor things. She came on a small muslin pocket-handkerchief, stained with blood, also a loop of black ribbon of the kind that little girls tie their hair with. Some fine reddish hairs were still tangled in the knot. At last she found a small pocket Testament mixed up with some of his neckties. It was old and worn. Katherine wondered at that, though she could hardly have said why.
Then she saw written on the fly-leaf, in a sprawling girl"s hand, "Vincent, with Audrey"s best love," and a date that went back to their childhood. It was the only present that Audrey had ever made him, and one that had cost her nothing.
"What part shall I read?"
She was afraid that Vincent would lay the burden of choice on her.
But he did not--he had very decided ideas of his own.
"The eighth of Romans, if you don"t mind."
An eagle"s feather floated out from between the pages at the eighth of Romans. It had been picked up on the snows of the Rocky Mountains. If she had wondered at first, she soon saw why Vincent had chosen that chapter of all others.
"Therefore, brethren, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live after the flesh.
"For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live." Vincent was dying.
She read on, and as she read she saw behind the edges of the veil that divides the seen from the unseen.
"For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope;
"Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of G.o.d."
Her heart beat faster and her breast heaved, but the words lifted her above pathos and tears, and prepared her for the consolation of the close.
"Do you believe all that?" he asked suddenly, when she had finished. She had not expected that.
"I didn"t, but I do now."
"Why?" His eyes were fixed on hers, scrutinising, pathetic.
"Because I _must_."
That reason seemed to be hardly enough for Vincent. He was still hesitating and uncertain, as if he were looking for something that she could not give him. Then he lay back again with his eyes closed.
It was Katherine"s turn to think. But Vincent"s peace of mind was of more importance to her than the truth or falsehood of a creed. She had realised that there were things that even her love could not do for him.
With a sudden flash of recollection she thought of the young priest she had once met at Audrey"s house. If any one could help Vincent now, it might be Mr. Flaxman Reed. She was probably mistaken (n.o.body is very wise between twelve and one in the morning), but at least she could try.
"Vincent," she whispered, "would you like to see a clergyman?"
She smiled, for after all it might be the very last thing that he wanted. He smiled too, a little consciously. His mood had changed for the time being--he had come back again to earth.
"No; thank you, Sis. But I should like----"
"What? Tell me."
"To see--Audrey."
The three words gave her a shock, but they told her nothing new.
"You shall. I"ll send for her first thing in the morning."
He turned round with his face away from her, and settled himself again to sleep. And Katherine watched. He would be Audrey"s to-morrow. He was hers at least for that one night.
No--never, never again. To-morrow had come, and the image of Audrey was between them. It always had been there.
Was it better so?
The next day Audrey had to be found. Ted went to Chelsea Gardens early in the morning, supposing her to be there. The house was shut up, and the caretaker had mislaid her address. He went back to Devon Street.
Katherine and Ted were in despair; Vincent alone was equal to the emergency. His mind was on the alert--it had grasped all the necessary details. He gave them Dean Craven"s address, and told Ted to wire to Oxford for Audrey"s. That was how Audrey never got the telegram till one o"clock.
That morning the doctor p.r.o.nounced Vincent decidedly better. The change, he said, was something miraculous. He took Katherine out of the room to tell her so.
"Keep him quiet, and he _may_ pull through yet. I don"t say he will, but he may. Only--he mustn"t have any excitement."
"He"s had a great deal this morning. If it lasts all day, and if--he has any more of it to-night, will it hurt him? It"s pleasant excitement, you know."
The doctor looked keenly at her. To judge by her white face she was not sharing in the pleasant excitement.
"Well, I can"t say. Pleasure does less harm than pain, sometimes. Don"t let him have any suspense, though. Suspense will kill him."
But suspense was what he had to bear.
Katherine knew that he was living on in the hope of Audrey"s coming.
Well, she would be with him by nine at the latest, as she had said.
At half-past eight Vincent began to listen for every bell. At nine he asked to have the door set ajar, that he might hear the wheels of her cab in the street. But though many cabs went by, none stopped.