I acknowledged it to be so, but at the same time wondered if the girl were not right in wishing for death as a relief from her troubles.
Early the next morning I inquired at her door again. Miss Oliver was better. Her fever had left her, and she wore a more natural look than at any time since I had seen her. But it was not an untroubled one, and it was with difficulty I met her eyes when she asked if they were coming for her that day, and if she could see Miss Althorpe before she left. As she was not yet able to leave her bed I could easily answer her first question, but I knew too little of Mr. Gryce’s intentions to be able to reply to the second. But I was easy with this suffering woman, very easy, more easy than I ever supposed I could be with anyone so intimately associated with crime.
She seemed to accept my explanations as readily as she already had my presence, and I was struck again with surprise as I considered that my name had never aroused in her the least emotion.
“Miss Althorpe has been so good to me I should like to thank her; from my despairing heart, I should like to thank her,” she said to me as I stood by her side before leaving. “Do you know”—she went on, catching me by the dress as I was turning away—“what kind of a man she is going to marry? She has such a loving heart, and marriage is such a fearful risk.”
“Fearful?” I repeated.
“Is it not fearful? To give one’s whole soul to a man and be met by—I must not talk of it; I must not think of it—But is he a good man? Does he love Miss Althorpe? Will she be happy? I have no right to ask, perhaps, but my gratitude towards her is such that I wish her every joy and pleasure.”
“Miss Althorpe has chosen well,” I rejoined. “Mr. Stone is a man in ten thousand.”
The sigh that answered me went to my heart.
“I will pray for her,” she murmured; “that will be something to live for.”
I did not know what reply to make to this. Everything which this girl said and did was so unexpected and so convincing in its sincerity, I felt moved by her even against my better judgment. I pitied her and yet I dared not urge her on to speak, lest I should fail in my task of making her well. I therefore confined myself to a few haphazard expressions of sympathy and encouragement, and left her in the hands of the nurse.
Next day Mr. Gryce called.
“Your patient is better,” said he.
“Much better,” was my cheerful reply. “This afternoon she will be able to leave the house.”
“Very good; have her down at half-past three and I will be in front with a carriage.”
“I dread it,” I cried; “but I will have her there.”
“You are beginning to like her, Miss Butterworth. Take care! You will lose your head if your sympathies become engaged.”
“It sits pretty firmly on my shoulders yet,” I retorted; “and as for sympathies, you are full of them yourself. I saw how you looked at her yesterday.”
“Bah, my looks!”
“You cannot deceive me, Mr. Gryce; you are as sorry for the girl as you can be; and so am I too. By the way, I do not think I should speak of her as a girl. From something she said yesterday I am convinced she is a married woman; and that her husband—”
“Well, madam?”
“I will not give him a name, at least not before your scheme has been carried out. Are you ready for the undertaking?”
“I will be this afternoon. At half-past three she is to leave the house. Not a minute before and not a minute later. Remember.”
XXXV
A Ruse
It was a new thing for me to enter into any scheme blindfold. But the past few weeks had taught me many lessons and among them to trust a little in the judgment of others.
Accordingly I was on hand with my patient at the hour designated, and, as I supported her trembling steps down the stairs, I endeavored not to betray the intense interest agitating me, or to awaken by my curiosity any further dread in her mind than that involved by her departure from this home of bounty and good feeling, and her entrance upon an unknown and possibly much to be apprehended future.
Mr. Gryce was awaiting us in the lower hall, and as he caught sight of her slender figure and anxious face his whole attitude became at once so protecting and so sympathetic, I did not wonder at her failure to associate him with the police.
As she stepped down to his side he gave her a genial nod.
“I am glad to see you so far on the road to recovery,” he remarked. “It shows me that my prophecy is correct and that in a few days you will be quite yourself again.”
She looked at him wistfully.
“You seem to know so much about me, doctor, perhaps you can tell me where they are going to take me.”
He lifted a tassel from a curtain near by, looked at it, shook his head at it, and inquired quite irrelevantly:
“Have you bidden goodbye to Miss Althorpe?”
Her eyes stole towards the parlors and she whispered as if half in awe of the splendor everywhere surrounding her:
“I have not had the opportunity. But I should be sorry to go without a word of thanks for her goodness. Is she at home?”
The tassel slipped from his hand.
“You will find her in a carriage at the door. She has an engagement out this afternoon, but wishes to say goodbye to you before leaving.”
“Oh, how kind she is!” burst from the girl’s white lips; and with a hurried gesture she was making for the door when Mr. Gryce stepped before her and opened it.
Two carriages
