Geoffrey, lying before the fire, newly hatched from death, had caught some of the conversation between his wife and the assistant who had recovered him to life. So she was gone, that brave, beautiful atheist girl--gone to test the truth. And she had saved his life!
For some minutes the assistant did not enter. He was helping in another room. At last he came.
"What did you say to Lady Honoria?" Geoffrey asked feebly. "Did you say that Miss Granger had saved me?""Yes, Mr. Bingham; at least they tell me so. At any rate, when they pulled her out of the water they pulled you after her. She had hold of your hair.""Great heavens!" he groaned, "and my weight must have dragged her down. Is she dead, then?""We cannot quite say yet, not for certain. We think that she is.""Pray God she is not dead," he said more to himself than to the other.
Then aloud--"Leave me; I am all right. Go and help with her. But stop, come and tell me sometimes how it goes with her.""Very well. I will send a woman to watch you," and he went.
Meanwhile in the other room the treatment of the drowned went slowly on. Two hours had passed, and as yet Beatrice showed no signs of recovery. The heart did not beat, no pulse stirred; but, as the doctor knew, life might still linger in the tissues. Slowly, very slowly, the body was turned to and fro, the head swaying, and the long hair falling now this way and now that, but still no sign. Every resource known to medical skill, such as hot air, rubbing, artificial respiration, electricity, was applied and applied in vain, but still no sign!
Elizabeth, pale and pinched, stood by handing what might be required.
She did not greatly love her sister, they were antagonistic and their interests clashed, or she thought they did, but this sudden death was awful. In a corner, pitiful to see, offering groans and ejaculated prayers to heaven, sat the old clergymen, their father, his white hair about his eyes. He was a weak, coarse-grained man, but in his own way his clever and beautiful girl was dear to him, and this sight wrung his soul as it had not been wrung for years.
"She's gone," he said continually, "she's gone; the Lord's will be done. There must be another mistress at the school now. Seventy pounds a year she will cost--seventy pounds a year!""Do be quiet, father," said Elizabeth sharply.
"Ay, ay, it is very well for you to tell me to be quiet. You are quiet because you don't care. You never loved your sister. But I have loved her since she was a little fair-haired child, and so did your poor mother. 'Beatrice' was the last word she spoke.""Be quiet, father!" said Elizabeth, still more sharply. The old man, making no reply, sank back into a semi-torpor, rocking himself to and fro upon his chair.
Meanwhile without intermission the work went on.
"It is no use," said the assistant at last, as he straightened his weary frame and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "She must be dead; we have been at it nearly three hours now.""Patience," said the doctor. "If necessary I shall go on for four--or till I drop," he added.
Ten minutes more passed. Everybody knew that the task was hopeless, but still they hoped.
"Great Heavens!" said the assistant presently, starting back from the body and pointing at its face. "Did you see that?"Elizabeth and Mr. Granger sprang to their feet, crying, "What, what?""Sit still, sir," said the doctor, waving them back. Then addressing his helper, and speaking in a constrained voice: "I thought I saw the right eyelid quiver, Williams. Pass the battery.""So did I," answered Williams as he obeyed.
"Full power," said the doctor again. "It is kill or cure now."The shock was applied for some seconds without result. Then suddenly a long shudder ran up the limbs, and a hand stirred. Next moment the eyes were opened, and with pain and agony Beatrice drew a first breath of returning life. Ten minutes more and she had passed through the gates of Death back to this warm and living world.
"Let me die," she gasped faintly. "I cannot bear it. Oh, let me die!""Hush," said the doctor; "you will be better presently."Ten minutes more passed, when the doctor saw by her eyes that Beatrice wished to say something. He bent his head till it nearly touched her lips.
"Dr. Chambers," she whispered, "was he drowned?""No, he is safe; he has been brought round."
She sighed--a long-drawn sigh, half of pain, half of relief. Then she spoke again.
"Was he washed ashore?"
"No, no. You saved his life. You had hold of him when they pulled you out. Now drink this and go to sleep."Beatrice smiled sweetly, but said nothing. Then she drank as much of the draught as she could, and shortly afterwards obeyed the last injunction also, and went to sleep.
Meanwhile a rumour of this wonderful recovery had escaped to without the house--passing from one watcher to the other till at length it reached the ears of the solitary man crouched in the shadow of the pines. He heard, and starting as though he had been shot, strode to the door of the Vicarage. Here his courage seemed to desert him, for he hesitated.
"Knock, squire, knock, and ask if it is true," said a woman, the same who had declared that she would have hugged her husband back to life.
This remark seemed to encourage the man, at any rate he did knock.
Presently the door was opened by Elizabeth.
"Go away," she said in her sharp voice; "the house must be kept quiet.""I beg your pardon, Miss Granger," said the visitor, in a tone of deep humiliation. "I only wanted to know if it was true that Miss Beatrice lives.""Why," said Elizabeth with a start, "is it you, Mr. Davies? I am sure I had no idea. Step into the passage and I will shut the door. There!
How long have you been outside?"
"Oh, since they brought them up. But is it true?""Yes, yes, it is true. She will recover now. And you have stood all this time in the wet night. I am sure that Beatrice ought to be flattered.""Not at all. It seemed so awful, and--I--I take such an interest----"and he broke off.
