A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

of a Hercules, by George. In the ordinary course of things this poor

fellow would have lived to be ninety.”

“Can he be moved?” Hubert Boville asked, in a stifled voice.

“Oh, yes! he must, I suppose. It may hasten the end, but won’t alter it.

Where are you going to take him?”

“To the Hotel du Louvre. His friends are there.”

“Poor lad! By Jupiter, what a bust!” the doctor cried, lost in

professional admiration.

At this moment the prince and the captain of Zouaves sauntered up.

“See if he’s dead, De Concressault,” they heard Di Venturini say

nonchalantly; “my right hand must be losing its cunning if he is not. I

certainly meant to kill him.”

“Oh! il est mort,” De Concressault responded, with equal carelessness;

“he’s shot through the heart, and the sooner you are over the frontier

the better, M. le Prince. Messieurs, bonjour!” He lifted his hat,

bowed profoundly, and without another look at their victim, both hastily

quitted the ground.

*

Seven! by the great booming bell of Notre Dame. Seven, by all the

steeples of Paris. Seven, by the little Swiss clock in the chamber where

Crystal lay, feverishly asleep, and Lady Dynely, senior, sat pale and

worn, watching. In the adjoining dressing-room, on the broad, soft sofa,

Eric lay still, in deepest, dreamless sleep. Safe! and the fatal hour

past.

Where was Terry? What was he doing? In what way had he stopped the duel?

Lady Dynely’s heart was beating anxiously and fast—some dim, prophetic

prescience of the truth was trying to force its way upon her, but she

would not listen. No, no! Terry would never be so insane as that. He was

not reckless and foolish like Eric—he would never think of keeping his

word in that way. Only—as she had never longed for anyone’s coming in

her life, she longed for Terry’s now.

Half-past seven. She arose from her place by Crystal’s bed and went into

Eric’s room. Still asleep—soundly, sweetly—like a little child, his

blonde, handsome head still pillowed on his arm, a placid expression of

profound rest on his face. She stooped low and kissed him—a prayer for

him in her heart. He was the idol of her life—he always had been. And

but for Terry he might be lying dead out there in the rain somewhere,

even now—yes, even now. How good he was, how generous, poor Terry!—few

would have resigned life’s best gifts as he had to his younger brother,

for her sake. She would show him in the future how grateful she was, how

noble she thought him.

Eric stirred in his sleep—he murmured a word. She bent low to catch

it—was it hers, was it his wife’s name? He turned and spoke again, more

loudly.

“Felicia,” he said, “Felicia, ma belle, I will meet you to-morrow.”

She recoiled with a sudden revulsion of feeling. Even in his sleep it

was of that wicked sorceress his thoughts were—that fatal woman, who

had so nearly compassed his death. She turned without another look, and

hurried from the room.

Eight o’clock. Still Terry did not come. Oh, what detained him? Surely

he must know how anxious she was.

A quarter past. She arose impatiently to quit the room, and on the

landing, ascending the stairs, she came face to face with Hubert

Boville.

At the first glance, before he opened his lips, before a word had

passed, she knew something had happened. His clothes were wet with rain,

his high boots splashed with mud, his face pale, his eyes excited. He

took off his hat as he saw her, and she instinctively recoiled.

“Mr. Boville!” she gasped. “Oh, what is it?”

“I was coming in search of you, Lady Dynely,” he said. There was an

instinctive coldness in his courteous tone—had not she in some way

sent Dennison to his doom? “I am the bearer of very sad and shocking

news. Poor Terry Dennison—”

He stopped. With a cry he never forgot—a cry whose exceeding bitterness

made him pity her even in that hour—she staggered back against the

wall, and put out her hand to ward off the blow that must come.

“I see you suspect the truth,” he said, more gently. “I am very

sorry—sorrier than I can ever say—that I, in any way, have had a hand

in this. But the duel has been fought; he met him in Lord Dynely’s

place; and—we have brought him here. He is below in the cab. Will you

have a room prepared at once, Lady Dynely—there is no time to lose.”

She stood literally gasping for breath. Her hand over her heart. Oh!

what was this?—what was this?

“There is no time to lose,” Boville repeated again. He had little

sympathy for the hysterics of the woman who, to shield her own son,

had, he knew, urged Dennison to save him at any cost. “I must beg of

you, Lady Dynely—”

She came a step forward, and grasped his arm.

“Is he dead?” she asked, in a voice no one would have recognized as her

own.

“No, my lady; not yet.”

The answer seemed to inspire her with galvanic life. “While there is

life there is hope.” He was not dead. Oh! Heaven be praised!—he might

not die after all.

“Bring him up,” she cried, starting forward, “at once—at once, to this

room.”

She pointed to it, and hastened forward to prepare it with her own

hands. Boville departed. She summoned her maid, and together, with

feverish haste, they made ready the bed.

They carried him up between them—a stark, rigid form—and laid him on

the bed.

As she looked upon the bloodless, awfully corpse-like face, the closed

eyes, the blue rigid lips, a sudden stillness came over her. Was that

Terry—Terry Dennison?—whom only eight hours ago she had seen in all

the strength and vigor of youth and powerful manhood? That

Terry?—Terry, who never, in all the twenty years she had known him, had

had one sick day? That Terry, lying there cold and motionless—so

awfully white, so awfully still?

“My dear Lady Dynely,” said Boville, with real compassion, touched by

the ghastly horror of her face, “come away.”

She turned to him.

“You told me,” she whispered. “You told me he was not dead.”

“Neither he is—only insensible. Come with me—you must come for the

present. The doctor is going to try to find the ball. The moment the

operation is over you shall return.”

He led her from the room, her face still fixed in that look of white

horror.

“Where is Lord Dynely?” he asked.

“Asleep,” she whispered; “he told me, and I—for my son’s sake, I

made Terry do this—for my son’s sake I sent him to his death. It is

I—I—who have killed him. Oh, Heaven! this is how he meant to keep his

word.”

She fell down upon a fauteuil, her face hidden in her hands. He could

say nothing—do nothing—she only spoke the truth. He had a man’s

natural dislike to scenes, and so left her.

He returned to the chamber he had quitted. The surgeon rose at his

entrance from his work.

“Well?” Boville asked.

“I cannot extract the bullet, and he is dying. You may as well tell them

so. He will be a dead man in an hour.”

“Poor fellow!” Hubert Boville stood with folded arms, an expression of

bitter regret on his face, looking down upon his friend and comrade.

“Yes, death is imprinted here. And when the last great muster roll is

called,” he said, with unconscious pathos, “no truer friend, no braver

soldier, will ever answer than Terry Dennison.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

“WHILE IT WAS YET DAY.”

Half an hour had passed. Lady Dynely knew that Terry Dennison was about

to die.

The truth was broken to her by France Forrester. Miss Forrester, coming

early and hastily to relieve her ladyship’s watch by the sick bed of

Eric’s wife, had heard the first version of the truth from the

whispering servants of the hotel. Pale with wonder and terror she had

asked for Mr. Boville, and Mr. Boville had come forward and told the

whole truth. So! he had crowned all the sacrifices of the past for Lady

Dynely and her son by yielding up his life. Surely he had paid his debt.

“Is he conscious?” she asked, with strange, mournful calm. Her own great

sorrow had left its traces on her worn, pale face, but still more in the

unnatural quiet and gravity of her manner.

“Yes, he has been conscious for the last five minutes.”

“May I go in?” she pleaded. “I will not disturb him. I will be very

quiet.”

“Certainly,” Boville said, “and Lady Dynely must be told, too. I—I wish

you would tell her, Miss Forrester. I hate breaking things to people.”

“I will tell her. How long will he live?”

“Half an hour perhaps. Certainly not more.”

“Have you sent for a clergyman? No. Then do so at once.”

She passed into the room. The blinds were up, the full light of the

gray, rainy morning streamed in. She bent over the bed. The face was

still and colorless as marble, the eyes closed. Her own filled.

“Does he suffer?” she whispered to the doctor across the bed.

“Very little, if any. The hemorrhage is internal. There is faintness,

but no pain.”

The low whisper reached him. He opened his eyes, and a smile of

recognition came over his face.

“France!” he said, faintly.

“Yes, Terry.” Then all at once a great choking seized her and she could

say no more.

“Don’t cry,” he said, still faintly, smiling, “it will—be—all right.”

“Yes, dear old fellow, I think it will.” She stooped down with infinite

pity and tenderness and kissed him. “You—you are going, Terry—do you

know it?”

“Yes. It’s all right, France. Don’t cry so. It’s awfully good of you to

come.”

His strength seemed to rally for a moment. He looked anxiously around.

“Where am I? This isn’t my room.”

“Don’t make him talk too much,” the doctor said. “Here, sir, drink

this.”

He swallowed the spoonful of liquid and still watched France with

anxious eyes.

“You are in one of Eric’s rooms.”

“Eric,” his eyes lighted, “where is Eric?”

“Asleep. Would you like to see him?”

The light faded from his face. All at once he recalled the livid bruise

between his eyes, and averted it even in that hour.

“He—might not—care to come,” he said with difficulty. “How

is—Crystal?”

“Crystal is recovering. Oh! don’t think of her, of him, of anyone, dear

old Terry, but yourself. We have sent for a clergyman. He will be here

in a moment. You will see him?”

He nodded assent.

“Where is the madre?” he asked.

“In the next room—broken-hearted. Shall I go for her?”

“Poor mother! Yes.”

She turned at once to go. As she did so the door opened and the

clergyman came hastily in.

“I will leave you with him for ten minutes,” France whispered, “then we

will all return.”

She hurried from the room and into the presence of Lady Dynely. As she

had fallen down half an hour ago, Lady Dynely still lay in a sort of

stupor of dull, infinite misery. France lifted her head.

“Rouse yourself, Lady Dynely,” she said: “he has asked for you, poor

boy. You