This made again a delay in Dr. Burnet’s plans. You cannot begin to make love to a girl when you have just told her of the serious illness, not likely to end in anything but death, which is hovering over her father. It is true that old Tredgold was not, could not, be the object of any passionate devotion on the part of his daughter. But even when the tie is so slight that, once broken, it has but a small effect on life, yet the prospect of that breaking is always appalling, more or less worse than the event itself. All that a man can say in such circumstances, Dr. Burnet said—that he would be at her service night or day, that everything he could do or think of he would do, and stand by her to the last. That was far more appropriate than professions of love, and it was a little trying to him to find that she had not even noticed how he looked at her, or that he said, “Dear Katherine!” which, to be sure, he had no right to say. She was not even aware of it! which is discouraging to a man.

Dr. Burnet was a good doctor, he knew what he was about; and it was not long before his prophecy came true. Mr. Tredgold was seized with an alarming attack in the spring, which brought him to the very verge of the grave, and from which at one time it was not expected he would ever rally. The old man was very ill, but very strong in spirit, and fought with his disease like a lion; one would have said a good old man to see him lying there with no apparent trouble on his mind, nothing to pre-occupy time or draw him away from the immediate necessity of battling for his life, which he did with a courage worthy of a better cause. His coolness, his self-possession, his readiness to second every remedy, and give himself every chance, was the admiration of the watchers, doctors, and nurses alike, who were all on the alert to help him, and conquer the enemy. Could there be a better cause than fighting for your life? Not one at least of more intimate interest for the combatant; though whether it is worth so much trouble when a man is over seventy, and can look forward to nothing better than the existence of an invalid, is a question which might well be debated. Mr. Tredgold, however, had no doubt on the subject. He knew that he possessed in this life a great many things he liked—what he would have in another he had very little idea. Probably, according to all that he had ever heard, there would be no money there, and if any difference between the beggar and the rich man, a difference in favour of the former. He did not at all desire to enter into that state of affairs. And the curious thing was that it could never be discovered that he had anything on his mind. He did not ask for Stella, as the large circle of watchers outside who read the bulletins at the lodge, and discussed the whole matter with the greatest interest, feeling it to be as good as a play, fondly hoped. He never said a word that could be construed into a wish for her, never, indeed, mentioned her name. He did not even desire to have Katherine by him, it was said; he preferred the nurses, saying in his characteristic way that they were paid for it, that it was their business, and that he never in anything cared for amateurs; he said amateurs, as was natural, and it was exactly the sentiment which everybody had expected from Mr. Tredgold. But never to ask for Stella, never to call upon her at his worst moment, never to be troubled by any thought of injustice done to her, that was the extraordinary thing which the community could not understand. Most people had expected a tragic scene of remorse, telegrams flying over land and sea, at the cost of a sovereign a word—but what was that to Mr. Tredgold?—calling Stella home. The good people were confounded to hear, day by day, that no telegram had been sent. It would have been a distinction for the little post-office in Sliplin to have a telegram of such a character to transmit to India. The postmistress awaited, feeling as if she were an inferior, but still very important, personage in the play, attending her call to go on. But the call never came. When the patient was at his worst various ladies in the place, and I need not say Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay, had many whispered conferences with the people at the post. “No telegram yet? Is it possible?”

“No, indeed, ma’am, not a word.”

“I wonder at you for expecting it now,” cried Miss Mildmay, angry at the failure of all those hopes which she had entertained as warmly as anyone. “What use would it be. She couldn’t come now; he’ll be gone, poor man, weeks and weeks before Stella could be here.”

But Mr. Tredgold did not go, and then it began to be understood that he never meant nor expected to go, and that this was the reason why he did not disturb himself about Stella. The spectators were half satisfied, yet half aggrieved, by this conclusion, and felt, as he got slowly better, that they had been cheated out of their play; however, he was an old man, and the doctor shook his head over all the triumphant accounts of his recovery which were made in the local papers; and there was yet hope of a tragedy preceded by a reconciliation, and the restoration of Stella to all her rights. Dr. Burnet was, throughout the whole illness, beyond praise. He was at the Cliff at every available moment, watching every symptom. Not a day elapsed that he did not see Katherine two or three times to console her about her father, or to explain anything new that had occurred. They were together so much that some people said they looked as if they had been not only lovers but married for years, so complete seemed their confidence in each other and the way they understood each other. A glance at Dr. Burnet’s face was enough for Katherine. She knew what it meant without another word; while he divined her anxiety, her apprehensions, her depression, as the long days went on without any need of explanation. “As soon as the old man is well enough there will, of course, be a marriage,” it was generally said. “And, of course, the doctor will go and live there,” said Mrs. Shanks, “such a comfort to have the doctor always on the spot—and what a happy thing for poor Mr. Tredgold that it should be his son-in-law—a member of his family.”

“Mr. Tredgold will never have a son-in-law in his house,” said Miss Mildmay, “if Katherine is expecting that she is reckoning without her father. I don’t believe that will ever be a marriage whatever you may say. What! send off Sir Charles Somers, a man with something at least to show for himself, and take in Dr. Burnet? I think, Jane Shanks, that you must be off your head!”

“Sir Charles Somers could never have been of any use to poor, dear Mr. Tredgold,” said Mrs. Shanks, a little abashed, “and Dr. Burnet is. What a difference that makes!”

“It may make a difference—but it will not make that difference; and I shouldn’t like myself to be attended by my son-in-law,” said the other lady. “He might give you a little pinch of something at a critical moment; or he might change your medicine; or he might take away a pillow—you can’t tell the things that a doctor might do—which could never be taken hold of, and yet——”

“Ruth Mildmay!” cried Mrs. Shanks, “for shame of yourself, do you think Dr. Burnet would murder the man?”

“No; I don’t think he would murder the man,” said Miss Mildmay decidedly, but there was an inscrutable look in her face, “there are many ways of doing a thing,” she said, nodding her head to herself.

It appeared, however, that this time at least Dr. Burnet was not going to have the chance, whether he would have availed himself of it or not. Mr. Tredgold got better. He came round gradually, to the surprise of everybody but himself. When he was first able to go out in his bath chair he explained the matter to the kind friends who hastened to congratulate him, in the most easy way. “You all thought I was going to give in this time,” he said, “but I never meant to give in. Nothing like making up your mind to it. Ask the doctor. I said from the beginning, ‘I ain’t going to die this bout, don’t you think it.’ He thought different; ignorant pack, doctors, not one of ’em knows a thing. Ask him. He’ll tell you it wasn’t him a bit, nor his drugs neither, but me as made up my mind.”

The doctor had met the little procession and was walking along by Mr. Tredgold’s chair. He laughed and nodded his head in reply, “Oh yes, he is quite right. Pluck and determination are more than half of the battle,” he said. He looked across the old man’s chair to Katherine on the other side, who said hastily: “I don’t know what we should have done without Dr. Burnet, papa.”

“Oh, that’s all very well,” said old Tredgold. “Pay each other compliments, that’s all right. He’ll say, perhaps, I’d have been dead without your nursing, Katie. Not a bit of it! Always prefer a woman that is paid for what she does and knows her duty. Yes, here I am, Rector, getting all right, in spite of physic and doctors—as I always meant to do.”

“By the blessing of God,” said the Rector, with great solemnity. He had met the group unawares round a corner, and to see Burnet and Katherine together, triumphant, in sight of all the world, was bitter to the injured man. That this common country doctor should be preferred to himself added an additional insult, and he would have gone a mile round rather than meet the procession. Being thus, however, unable to help himself, the Rector grew imposing beyond anything that had ever been seen of him. He looked a Bishop, at least, as he stood putting forth no benediction, but a severe assertion that belied the words. “By the blessing of God,” he said.

“Oh!” said old Mr. Tredgold, taken aback. “Oh yes, that’s what you say. I don’t mean to set myself against that. Never know, though, do you, how it’s coming—queer thing to reckon on. But anyhow, here I am, and ten pounds for the poor, Rector, if you like, to show as I don’t go against that view.”

“I hope the improvement will continue,” the Rector said, with his nose in the air. “Good morning, Miss Katherine, I congratulate you with all my heart.”

On what did he congratulate her? The doctor, though his complexion was not delicate, coloured high, and so did Katherine, without knowing exactly what was the reason; and Sliplin, drawing its own conclusions, looked on. The only indifferent person was Mr. Tredgold, always sure of his own intentions and little concerned by those of others, to whom blushes were of as little importance as any other insignificant trifles which did not affect himself.

It was perhaps this little incident which settled the question in the mind of the community. The Rector had congratulated the pair in open day; then, of course, the conclusion was clear that all the preliminaries were over—that they were engaged, and that Mr. Tredgold, who had rejected Sir Charles Somers, was really going to accept the doctor. The Rector, who, without meaning it, thus confirmed and established everything that had been mere imagination up to this time, believed it himself with all the virulence of an injured man. And Katherine, when Dr. Burnet had departed on his rounds and she was left to accompany her father home, almost believed herself that it must be true. He had said nothing to her which could be called a definite proposal, and she had certainly given no acceptance, no consent to anything of the kind, yet it was not impossible that without any intention, without any words, she had tacitly permitted that this should be. Looking back, it seemed to her, that indeed they had been always together during these recent days, and a great many things had passed between them in their meetings by her father’s bedside, outside his door, or in the hall, at all times of the night and day. And perhaps a significance might be given to words which she had not attached to them. She was a little alarmed—confused—not knowing what had happened. She had met his eyes full of an intelligence which she did not feel that she shared, and she had seen him redden and herself had felt a hot colour flushing to her face. She did not know why she blushed. It was not for Dr. Burnet; it was from the Rector’s look—angry, half malignant, full of scornful meaning. “I congratulate you!” Was that what it meant, and that this thing had really happened which had been floating in the air so long?

When she returned to the Cliff, Katherine did not go in, but went along the edge of the path, as she had done so often when she had anything in her mind. All her thinkings had taken place there in the days when she had often felt lonely and “out of it,” when Stella was in the ascendant and everything had rolled on in accordance with her lively views. She had gone there with so many people to show them “the view,” who cared nothing for the view, and had lingered afterwards while they returned to more noisy joys, to think with a little sigh that there was someone in the world, though she knew not where, who might have preferred to linger with her, but had been sent away from her, never to be seen more. And then there had been the night of Stella’s escapade in the little yacht, and then of Stella’s second flight with her husband, and of many a day beside when Katherine’s heart had been too full to remain quietly indoors, and when the space, the sky, the sea, had been her consolers. She went there now, and with a languor which was half of the mind and half of the body walked up and down the familiar way. The tamarisks were beginning to show a little pink flush against the sea. It was not warm enough yet to develop the blossom wholly, but yet it showed with a tinge of colour against the blue, and all the flowering shrubs were coming into blossom and flowers were in every crevice of the rocks. It was the very end of April when it is verging into May, and the air was soft and full of the sweetness of the spring.

But Katherine’s mind was occupied with other things. She thought of Dr. Burnet and whether it was true that she was betrothed to him and would marry him and have him for her companion always from this time forth. Was it true? She asked herself the question as if it had been someone else, some other girl of whom she had heard this, but almost with less interest than if it had been another girl. She would, indeed, scarcely have been moved had she heard that the doctor had been engaged to Charlotte Stanley or to anyone else in the neighbourhood. Was it true that it was she, Katherine Tredgold, who was engaged to him? The Rector’s fierce look had made her blush, but she did not blush now when she thought over this question alone. Was she going to marry Dr. Burnet? Katherine felt indifferent about it, as if she did not care. He would be useful to papa; he would be a friend to Stella—he would not oppose her in anything she might do for her sister. Why not he as well as another? It did not seem to matter so very much, though she had once thought, as girls do, that it mattered a great deal. There was Charlie Somers, for whom (though without intending it) Stella had sacrificed everything. Was he better worth than Dr. Burnet? Certainly, no. Why not, then, Dr. Burnet as well as another? Katherine said to herself. It was curious how little emotion she felt—her heart did not beat quicker, her breath came with a kind of languid calm. There were no particular objections that she knew of. He was a good man; there was nothing against him. Few country doctors were so well bred, and scarcely anyone so kind. His appearance was not against him either. These were all negatives, but they seemed to give her a certain satisfaction in the weariness of soul. Nothing against him, not even in her own mind. On the contrary, she approved of Dr. Burnet. He was kind, not only to her, but to all. He spared no trouble for his patients, and would face the storm, hurrying out in the middle of the night for any suffering person who sent for him without hesitation or delay. Who else could say the same thing? Perhaps the Rector would do it too if he were called upon. But Katherine was not disposed to discuss with herself the Rector’s excellencies, whereas it seemed necessary to put before herself, though languidly, all that she had heard to the advantage of the doctor. And how many good things she had heard! Everybody spoke well of him, from the poorest people up to Lady Jane, who had as good as pointed him out in so many words as the man whom Katherine should marry. Was she about to marry him? Had it somehow been all settled?—though she could not recollect how or when.

She was tired by the long strain of her father’s illness, not so much by absolute nursing, though she had taken her share of that (but Mr. Tredgold, as has been said, preferred a nurse who was paid for her work on the ordinary business principle), as by the lengthened tension of mind and body, the waiting and watching and suspense. This no doubt was one great reason for her languid, almost passive, condition. Had Dr. Burnet spoken then she would have acquiesced quite calmly, and indeed she was not at all sure whether it might not have so happened already.

So she pursued her musing with her face towards the lawn and the shrubberies. But when Katherine turned to go back along the edge of the cliff towards the house, her eyes, as she raised them, were suddenly struck almost as by a blow, by the great breadth of the sea and the sky, the moving line of the coast, the faint undulation of the waves, the clouds upon the horizon white in flakes of snowy vapour against the unruffled blue. It was almost as if someone had suddenly stretched a visionary hand out of the distance, and struck her lightly, quickly, to bring her back to herself. She stood still for a moment with a shiver, confused, astonished, awakened—and then shook herself as if to shake something, some band, some chain, some veil that had been wound round her, away.