University of Virginia Library

10. X.

Catherine had Olympe in to arrange her fallen
hair, and then followed Beaudesfords below. He
ran lightly down the stairs, like a boy, glancing
back and calling her to hasten; while she lingered,
leaning over the baluster, and looking, in
her ermined wrapper and with the set bloom
upon her face, as if she had just stepped forth
from one of the old carved frames that lined the
walls, — the last lady of Beaudesfords. Gaston
turned silently as she came in, and thrilled, perhaps,
to think that all that unwonted color and
fire had kindled in the long look they interchanged
a half-hour since.

Catherine surveyed the joyous faces that clustered
round the luncheon-tables, she listened to the
quips and cranks, and wondered what cross-purpose
of fate it was that had overtaken her, and
wrought her life, which should have been as
smooth as theirs, into such a tangled snarl. A kind

of fever burned within her, and gave her a parched,
dry, and dusty feeling: she was like one perishing
of thirst in the desert, with all manner of illusive
mirages of palm-plumed water-springs in sight, —
for her heart ached for love, and there was Beaudesfords',
and it was nothing to her. Who could
help her? Rose, to be sure, pretty, laughing
Rose. But she had never dreamed of her sister's
trouble: why darken her innocent sunshine with
such shadows? There was her mother. Unfortunately
Mrs. Stanhope was more foreign to
all the needs of Catherine's nature than if she
spoke another language; she would neither sympathize,
nor understand, nor overpower; she
would be but indignantly scandalized, — which
was only to her credit, she would have said,
had matters been explained to her. And as for
Caroline, that young woman in the whole course
of her life had never been of any more use to anybody
than a rag baby. And then, as her rapid
thoughts ran on, while she shrank more silently
within herself than ever, feeling like a guilty
wretch among all these sinless people, — if any
such there are, — her eye lighted on Dr.
Ruthven.

Who has not had a family physician whose

touch was healing; whose words were balm;
whose kind, keen eye searched many a disease to
its seat in the soul; whose smile was comfort;
whose knowledge, though it compassed the world
and filled you with awe, was yet lost in his gentleness;
to whom one turned as to the dispenser
of life and death; to whom one told those burdens
of sorrow no father-confessor ever heard;
who was a staff to strengthen, an arm to uphold,
a god to give health? Dr. Ruthven was not
different from his order, — a kind, brave, sagacious
gentleman. He had made his round of calls that
morning after the drags had broken out the roads,
and had been peremptorily brought back to Beaudesfords
by its master. Catherine looked at him,
and a course of action or of physic rose before
her mind. She never dreamed of the time when
another might go to him as she to-day intended.
A quick suggestion flashed upon her, — of how
many subtle, gentle, viewless poisons he must
know, that would so soon medicine her to that
sleep unvisited by dreams of sin and struggle.
She crossed to his side and sat down, meaning to
lead him to speak of such secrets of his art. But
then came the thought that this trial was a thing
of her destiny, after all: if she contrived to escape
it in this life, in the next it might be all to endure
over again; and since already she had suffered
the half of it here, why seek to renew the whole
there? And so — restrained by no other scruples,
for Catherine, it is unnecessary to say, was
not yet a religious woman, she had found no
rock to cling upon when washed by overwhelming
seas — she said nothing at all.

Perhaps the Doctor was pleased with the little
compliment of her singling him from among
all these gayer guests: he was playing with his
dry wine and biscuit, and put them away as she
sat down between him and the fire; for there was
nothing set about luncheon at Beaudesfords, —
except the viands, — and people did just as they
chose. He stretched out his artful hand and
took her wrist.

“Physician's privilege,” he said. “What is
the meaning of all the red roses?

A little fever?” continued the Doctor. “I have
noticed in the way of my practice that in summer
all diseases are inflammatory, as you may
say; in winter they all partake of a typhoid
character. My dear, there is nothing typhoid in
this pulse.”

“Why should there be, Doctor?”

“Your pulse is always a slow one, somewhat
heavy, different from that beating wire
which springs like a repeater in Gaston's wrist,
— ah! ah! ah!” cried the Doctor suddenly, but
half under his breath.

Catherine snatched her hand away, angry and
injured.

“Have I sprung a trap upon your confidence?”
said the unabashed old Doctor, looking over his
glasses. “My dear, we probe some things to
relieve them.”

It was just at that moment, as Gaston had
sauntered to the other side of the fender and
stood looking down at the two, with their drama
of one moment's span, that Beaudesfords — who
had taken up an open book of ballads which
some one had brought from the library, and
laid, face down, upon the table — strolled in between
them, and took up his position on the
rug, with his back to the fire, glancing through
the volume.

“The sweetest verse in the world,” he said.
“Catherine, it always puts me so in mind of

you,” turning toward her, for the four were
quite by themselves on that side of the room.
“Do you remember it?
only it was not you, but I!”

If Dr. Ruthven had held her pulse then, what
a leap he would have had to cry out at! The
picture of that star-lit night, with Gaston's face
bending toward her own beneath the swinging
tree-shadows, started so vividly before her
eyes that it seemed to dazzle her to tears: she
felt the tears springing up full and hot; and,
holding them back till they almost scalded her
brain, she bit her lip in a sudden desperation, and
then the blood gushed out in a spirt.

At the sight, Gaston sprung to seize her with
a single impulse. Beaudesfords dashed down his
book. But Dr. Ruthven had been before them
both, had caught her handkerchief and pressed
it to her mouth as if the danger were from something
more than a bitten lip, had pulled her to
her feet, and pushed and helped her through the
door, and had her in her own room, with Olympe

running this way, and Rose that, and Mrs. Stanhope
the other, ere either of the two had entirely
recovered his senses.

“Only a hemorrhage,” said the old deceiver,
reappearing after a few seconds for his prescription-book,
which had fallen from his pocket.
“Only a brief hemorrhage. This extreme cold
produces a slight congestion. Frequent occurrence.
No danger, — no danger with proper
care, that is. Must be kept perfectly still. No
company. Her own room. Beaudesfords, can
you send for this at once?” And he handed
him the cabalistic scrawl which means so much,
but which in this case meant but a mild concoction
of harmless trifles.

“Give it to me,” said Gaston, hoarse and
quick.

“No, indeed, Major Gaston,” replied the Doctor,
blandly. “We do not trouble our guests
with such errands.”

Gaston drew back at once, as the sky blenches
before a light: he saw in that sudden light the
nature of the attack as plainly as Dr. Ruthven
did. Alarm, as those lips reddened, had, for the
first moment, blotted ballad and Beaudesfords
and every thing else from mind.

Beaudesfords was throwing the saddle over his
swiftest horse himself, as Gaston sauntered back
again to the frightened groups that were gathered
in questioning and answering about the event, and
then, still as leisurely and unconcerned, sauntered
away to his quarters in the western wing.

“Hurry! Hurry!” cried Beaudesfords to his
apothecary, as he handed him the prescription, a
half-hour later.

“I should not suppose there was occasion for
any particular despatch,” said the compounder
of simples, measuring out his drops with precision.
“If any one lies at the point of death,
a little red lavender, ammonia, and camphor-water
will hardly bring him back.”

Beaudesfords took the vial, and, vaulting into
his saddle, was half-way home before the words
recurred to him. But they did recur, — idly and
passingly, — yet sufficiently to show that, though
he took no notice of them just now and they
had no peculiar significance for the moment, they
were pictured upon his memory for that future
period which should make them, and a hundred
other things of their kind, start out in a fiery
charactery.