Richard Vandermarck Part 20

There were men laboring, two or three fields off. I don't know how long it took them to get to him, nor how long to get a boat out on the water, nor what boat it was. I know they had ropes and poles, and that they were talking in eager, hurried voices, as they pa.s.sed me.

I sat on the steps that led down the bank, clinging to the low railing with my hands: I had sunk down because my strength had given way all at once, and I felt as if everything were rocking and surging under me.

Sometimes everything was black before me, and then again I could see plainly the wide expanse of the river, the wide expanse of the gray sky, and between them--the empty, motionless boat, and the floating oars beyond upon the tide.

The voices of the men, and the splas.h.i.+ng of the water, when at last they were launched and pulling away from sh.o.r.e, made a ringing, frightful noise in my head. I watched till I saw them reach the boat--till I saw one of them get over in it. Then while they groped about with ropes and poles, and lashed their boats together, and leaned over and gazed down into the water, I watched in a strange, benumbed state.

But, by-and-by, there were some exclamations--a stir, and effort of strength. I saw them pulling in the ropes with combined movement. I saw them leaning over the side of the boat, nearest the sh.o.r.e, and together trying to lift something heavy over into it. I saw the water dripping as they raised it--and then I think I must have swooned. For I knew nothing further till I heard Richard's voice, and, raising my head, saw him leaping from the boat upon the bank. The other boat was further out, and was approaching slowly. I stood up as he came to me, and held by the railing.

"I want you to go up to the house," he said, gently, "there can be no good in your staying here."

"I will stay," I cried, everything coming back to me. "I will--will see him."

"There is no hope, Pauline," he said, in a quick voice, for the boat was very near the bank, "or very little--and you must not stay. Everything shall be done that can be done. I will do all. But you must not stay."

"I will," I said, frantically, trying to burst past him. He caught my arms and turned me toward the boat-house, and led me through it, out into the path that went up to the grove.

"Go home," he said, in a voice I never shall forget. "You shall not make a spectacle for these men. I have promised you I will do all. Mind you obey me strictly, and go up to your room and wait there till I come."

I don't know how I got there. I believe Bettina found me at the entrance to the garden, and helped me to the house, and put me on my bed.

An hour pa.s.sed--perhaps more--and such an hour! (for I was not for a moment unconscious, after this, only deadly faint and weak), and then Richard came. The door was a little open, and he pushed it back and came in, and stood beside the bed.

I suppose the sight of me, so broken and spoiled by suffering, overcame him, for he stooped down suddenly, and kissed me, and then did not speak for a moment.

At last he said, in a voice not quite steady, "I didn't mean to be hard on you, Pauline. But you know I had to do it."

"And there isn't any--any--" I gasped for the words, and could hardly speak.

"No, none, Pauline," he said, keeping my hand in his. "The doctors have just gone away. It was all no use."

"Tell me about it," I whispered.

"About what?" he said, looking troubled.

"About how it happened."

"n.o.body can tell," he answered, averting his face. "We can only conjecture about some things. Don't try to think about it. Try to rest."

"How does he look?" I whispered, clinging to his hand.

"Just the same as ever; more quiet, perhaps," he answered, looking troubled.

I gave a sort of gasp, but did not cry. I think he was frightened, for he said, uneasily, "Let me call Bettina; she can give you something--she can sit beside you."

I shook my head, and said, faintly, "Don't let her come."

"I have sent for Sophie," he said, soothingly. "She will soon be here, and will know what to do for you."

"Keep her out of this room," I cried, half raising myself, and then falling back from sudden faintness. "Don't let her come _near_ me," I panted, after a moment, "nor any of them, but, most of all, Sophie; remember--don't let her even look at me;" and with moaning, I turned my face down on the pillow. I had taken in about a thousandth fraction of my great calamity by that time. Every moment was giving to me some additional possession of it.

Some one at that instant called Richard, in that subdued tone that people use about a house in which there is one dead.

"I have got to go," he said, uneasily. I still kept hold of his hand.

"But I will come back before very long; and I will tell Bettina to bring a chair and sit outside your door, and not let any one come in."

"That will do," I said, letting go his hand, "only I don't want my door shut tight."

I felt as if the separation were not so entire, so tremendous, while I could hear what was going on below, and know that no door was shut between us--no door! Bettina, in a moment more, had taken up her station in the pa.s.sage-way outside.

I heard people coming and going quietly through the hall below. I heard doors softly shut and opened.

I knew, by some intuition, that _he_ was lying in the library. They moved furniture with a smothered sound; and when I heard two or three men sent off on messages by Richard, even the horses' hoofs seemed to be m.u.f.fled as they struck the ground. This was the effect of the coming in of death into busy, household life. I had never been under the roof with it before.

About dusk a servant came to the door, with a tray of tea and something to eat, that Mr. Richard had sent her with.

"No," I said, "don't leave it here."

But, in a few moments, Richard himself brought it back. I can well imagine how anxious and unhappy he felt. He had, perhaps, never before had charge of any one ill or in trouble, and this was a strange experience.

"You must eat something, Pauline," he said. "I want you to. Sit up, and take this tea."

I was not inclined to dispute his will, but raised my head, and drank the tea, and ate a few mouthfuls of the biscuit. But that made me too ill, and I put the plate away from me.

"I am very sorry," I said, meekly, "but I can't eat it. I feel as if it choked me."

He seemed touched with my submissiveness, and, giving Bettina the tray, stood looking down at me as if he did not know how to say something that was in his mind. Suddenly my ear, always quick, now exaggeratedly so, caught sound of carriage-wheels. I started up and cried, "They are coming," and hid my face in my hands.

"Don't be troubled," he said, "you shall not be disturbed."

"Oh, Richard," I exclaimed, as he was going away, after another undecided movement as if to speak, "you know what I want."

"Yes, I know," he said, in a low voice.

"And now they're come, I cannot. They will see him, and I cannot."

"Be patient. I will arrange for you to go. Don't, don't, Pauline."

For I was in a sort of spasm, though no tears came, and my sobs were more like the gasps of a person being suffocated, than like one in grief.

"If you will only be quiet, I will take you down, after a few hours, when they are all gone to their rooms. Pauline, you'll kill me; don't do so--Pauline, they'll hear you. Try not to do so; that's right--lie down and try to quiet yourself, poor child. I can't bear to go away; but there is Sophie on the stairs."

He had scarcely time to reach the hall before Sophie burst upon him with almost a shriek.

"What is this horrible affair, Richard? What a terrible disgrace and scandal! we never shall get over it. Will it get in the papers, do you think? I am so ill--I have been in such a state since the news came.

Such a drive home as this has been! Oh, Richard, tell me all about it quickly. Where is Pauline? how does she bear it?" making for my door.

Richard put out his hand and stopped her. I had sprung up from the bed, and stood, trembling violently, at the further extremity of the room. I do not know what I meant to do if she came in, for I was almost beside myself at that moment.

She was persistent, angry, agitated. How well I knew the curiosity that made her so intent to gain admission to me. It was not so much that I dreaded being a spectacle, as the horror and hatred I felt at being approached by her coldness and hypocrisy, while I was so sore and wounded. I was hardly responsible; I don't think I could have borne the touch of her hand.