Jeanie was lying propped up on pillows, struggling for breath. Her face, which had always been like that of an angel, was more visionary, more celestial than ever; the golden hair, which had always been so carefully braided, hung about her head like a halo. It was hair which fell in soft, even tresses, not standing on end or struggling into rebellious curls: everything about her was soft, harmonious, submissive. Her eyes were full of light, enlarged, with that fatal breadth and fulness which generally has but one meaning. A little flush of fever on her cheeks kept up the appearance of health. Her pretty lips were parted with the panting, struggling breath. Dr. Somers stood at her bedside, looking very grave. Sally Timms sat crying in a corner. Mrs. Hesketh came to the door to meet the poor grandmother, with her apron at her eyes. “She was took bad half-an-hour after you went—just about when you’d have got to the Hall; and called and called till it made you sick to hear—‘Granny! granny! granny!’—never another word. Oh, I’m thankful, Missis, as you’ve come in time.”

“Half-an-hour after I left!” said Mrs. Murray; “when I was denying the truth. Oh, me that thought to hide it from the Lord!—me that thought she was better, and He couldna go back! And the angel cried upon me, Granny! granny! Lad, do you hear that!—I have lost my Jeanie for you!”

She put her hand upon Edgar’s shoulder as she spoke. Her face was white and ghastly with her despair. She thrust him from her, almost with violence. “Oh, let me never see you more! Oh, let me never see you more! I have lost my Jeanie for you!”

“Is there no hope?” said Edgar, clutching Dr. Somers by the arm. He had given way to the mother, to let her approach the bed, and now stood behind with a face so grave and grieved that any answer seemed unnecessary. He shook his head; and then, after a little interval, spoke.

“I know no reason why this should have come on. Some agitation which I cannot explain. There is no hope, unless it can be calmed somehow. The grandmother may do it, or perhaps——”

Dr. Somers turned round and looked the newcomers in the face. Was it possible that the innocent creature dying before his eyes could have loved either of these men? Arthur Arden was the kind of man to pursue an intrigue anywhere, and he had singled out Jeanie. And Edgar was young and well-looking, and the chief object of interest to the village. Could her eye or her heart have been caught by one of them. Why were they both here? The Doctor’s mind was full of the one remaining chance. He looked at Edgar again, whose face was full of emotion; he had his heart in his eyes; he was always sympathetic, always ready to feel for any sufferer. The Doctor mused over it a little, watching keenly the approach of the grandmother to the bedside. Mrs. Murray went to her child as calmly as if she had never known a disturbing feeling in her life. She bent over her like a dove over her nest. “My bairn! my bonnie woman! my Jeanie!” she murmured; but the patient was not stilled. The Doctor looked anxiously on, and then he yielded to an impulse, which he could not have explained. He took Edgar by the shoulder and drew him forward. “Go and speak to her,” he said. “I!” whispered Edgar, astonished. “Go and speak to her,” cried the Doctor, in tones scarcely audible, yet violently imperative, and not to be disobeyed. The young man, deeply moved as he was, went forward doubtfully, longing and yet afraid. What could he say? What could he do? He did not understand the yearning that was in his heart towards this little suffering girl. He had no sense of guilt towards her, had never harmed her, one way or another. He longed to go and take her in his arms, and carry her away to some halcyon place where there would be rest. Dying was not in his thoughts; but Edgar, too, was weary of agitation, and suffering, and distress. He had suffered, and he had not come to the end of his sufferings. Oh, to be able to escape somewhere, to carry away poor Jeanie, to lay her down in some cool valley, in some heavenly silence! Tears were in his eyes. He thought of her, and of Clare, and Gussy, all mingled together—all whom he loved best. He went up to the bedside, behind the old woman who had thrust him away so passionately, yet who somehow belonged to him too. “Jeanie,” he said, in a low tremulous voice, “Jeanie, little Jeanie!” The other spectators instinctively fell back, perceiving, they could not tell how, that this was an experiment which was being tried. Jeanie’s panting breath was hushed for a moment; she made a distinct effort, half raising herself. “Who was that; who was that?” she cried. (“Speak again,” said Dr. Somers, once more, in that imperative, violent whisper behind.) “Jeanie,” said Edgar, advancing another step, “Do you know me? Speak to me, Jeanie!”

She gave a great cry. She threw herself forward, opening her arms; her face blazed as with a sudden light of joy. “Willie! Willie! Willie!” she cried, as on the first night when she had seen Edgar from her window, and, leaning half out of her bed, threw herself into his arms.

An awful pause ensued. Mrs. Murray kneeled down by the bedside, and with her face raised, and two big tears flowing slowly down her cheeks, lifted up her clasped hands and prayed. Her eyes were fixed upon Jeanie, but she did nothing to detach her from the arms in which, as the spectators thought, she would certainly die. Dr. Somers held them all back. He held up his hand so that no one moved. He stood watching the pair thus strangely clasping each other, standing close behind Edgar, to give aid if necessary, with one finger laid softly on Jeanie’s wrist. Was it for life, was it for death? Even the women, who had been looking on, stole softly forward, with all the interest which attends the crisis of a tragedy, staying the tears which had flowed in a kind of mechanical sympathy at the apparent approach of death. They comprehended that death had been stayed at least for the moment, and they did not know how. As for Edgar, he stood in this unexpected and innocent embrace, feeling the soft weight upon his breast, the soft, feeble arm round him, the velvet-soft lips on his cheek, with an indescribable emotion. “If she lives, I will be her brother. I am her brother from this hour,” he said to himself. He held her fast, supporting her, with thoughts in which not a single shade of evil mingled. Jeanie was sacred to him. He did not understand what had moved her. He had, indeed, forgotten, in this sudden change of all his thoughts, the suspicions he had of her mother. He thought only that she had cast herself upon his support and protection, and that henceforward she was to him as the sister he had lost.

“Lay her back gently. Stand by her—her strength is failing,” said the Doctor’s quick voice in his ear. “Softly, softly! Stand by her. Now the wine—she will take it from you. Edgar, life and death are on your steadiness. Support her—give her the wine—now—now—”

She took it from him, as Dr. Somers said. She smiled on him, and drew his hand feebly with both hers till she had placed it under her cheek. Then she said “Willie!” again in a faint whisper like a sigh, and fell asleep sweetly and suddenly, while they all watched her—fell asleep, not in death but in life, with Edgar’s hand supporting her child-like, angel-like face.

Then Mrs. Murray rose from her knees. “I must speak,” she said, with a gasp; “if I did not speak now, I would repent and tempt the Lord again. Him that’s standing there is Jeanie’s near kin—no her brother, as my bonnie lamb thinks he is—but near, near of kin, and like, like to him that’s gane. And I am his mother’s mother, a guilty woman, no worthy of God’s grace. I have made my confession, and now I can tempt the Lord no more.”

This strange speech fell upon, it seemed, unheeding ears. The indifferent spectators stared, not knowing what it meant. The Doctor was absorbed in watching his patient; and Edgar, in the new and strange position which he was obliged to keep, did not realise what was said. He heard the words, and was conscious of a vague wonder in respect to them, but was too fully occupied, body and mind, to be able to make out what they meant. Only Arthur Arden took them fully into his mind. He could scarcely restrain an exclamation, scarcely keep himself still, when this confirmation of every hope, and explanation of every difficulty, came to his ears. He went out immediately, in the stupor of his delight, and stood at the cottage door, under the twinkling stars, repeating it over to himself. “Near of kin to Jeanie—near, near of kin.” No Arden at all—an alien, of different name and inferior race. And it was he, Arthur, who was Arden of Arden. Could it be true? was it true? The night was dark, relieved only by the stars which throbbed and trembled in the sky. One of them shone over the dark trees of Arden in the distance, as if it were a giant fairy blossom springing out of the foliage. Was the star his, too, as well as the tree? Was all his, really his—the dewy land under his feet, the wide line of the horizon where it extended over the park and the woods—the very sky, with its “lot of stars.” His head swam and grew dizzy as the thought grew—all his—house and lands, name and honour. A wild elation took possession of him. All that had happened had been well for him; and there passed across his mind vaguely an echo of that wonderful sentiment with which those who are at ease pretend to console those who suffer. All for the best—had not all been for the best? The accident which almost killed Jeanie—the sudden crisis of illness which had made the watchers send to Arden for her grandmother—all for the best. God had taken the trouble to disturb the order of nature—to wear out the young life to such a thread as might snap at any moment—to wring the old heart with bitterest pangs of anxiety—all for good to him. Thus the egotist mused; and though he was irreligious, said, with a horrible gratitude, and something like an assumption of piety in his heart, “Thank God!”—Thank God! for all but killing Jeanie—for working havoc in her mother’s breast. It had been all for the best.

Strangely enough, Mrs. Murray, after an interval, followed him out to the door. She grasped him by the arm in her excitement. “I thought once I was indebted to you,” she said. “I thought I should be thankful that you brought my bairn in, carrying her in your arms; but I know now whose blame it was she got her accident. I know now what you would have put into her head if it had not been for her innocence. And it is for you I must ruin my bonnie lad, and cover my name with shame. Oh, the Lord sees if it’s hard or no! But mind you this, man, you will never be his equal if you were to labour night and day—never his equal—nor nigh him. And never think that those that have loved him will stoop down to the like of you.”

She thrust him away, as she spoke, with a scorn that made Arthur wild. What! he the true proprietor of Arden to be dismissed so? He turned to gaze at her as she disappeared, shutting the door upon him. An impulse seized him to throw a stone at the window—to do something which should show his contempt and rage; but he did not do it. He thought better of it. He could afford to be magnanimous. He left the place where Jeanie’s young life had been put in such jeopardy by his fault, and where he had just concluded that it had been for the best, without seeking for any further news of Jeanie. She might die or live for anything he cared. Her brother was with her, or her cousin, or whatever he was—the fellow who had kept him so long out of Arden. Thus he turned away through the dark village, up the dark avenue, and went home to Arden, where the lights were still burning in all the windows, and the master expected home. It was on his lips to say—“I am master now; when that fellow comes, do not let him in;” but in that point too he restrained himself. Fazakerly was in the house, and Clare was in the house. He did not wish to come into collision with either of them. For Edgar, he did not care.

Meantime Edgar stood, fatigued and weakened by the excitement of the day, by Jeanie’s bedside, with her cheek resting on his hand. It required all his muscular energy to support him in that strange task. He scarcely ventured to breathe for fear of disturbing her. When he made a little movement, her hands tightened upon his arm as she slept. The Doctor held wine to his lips, and encouraged him. “You are saving her life,” he said; and Edgar smiled and stood fast. He was saving her life—at this moment when his own strength was weakest, his own courage lowest; but it was not he who had endangered her life. The man who was to blame was entering Arden, full of elation and selfish joy, while Edgar stood by the humble bedside saving the life of the almost victim. What a strange contrast it was! But there are some men in the world whose lot it always is to be the ones who suffer and save—and their lot is not the worst in this life. The hours were long as they crept and crept onward to the morning. The Doctor dozed in his chair. Even the old mother slept by snatches in the midst of her watch—but Edgar, elevated by weariness, and weakness, and spent excitement, out of the ordinary regions of fleshly sensation, stood by Jeanie’s bedside, and did not sleep. He went over it all in his heart—he felt it was now finally settled somehow—everything confirmed and made certain, though he did not quite know how. He thought of all that had to be given up, with a faint, wan smile upon his lips. This time it was not an opiate, it was a numbness that hung over him, partly physical because of his attitude, but still more spiritual because of the exhaustion of his heart. All was over—he was a new being, coming painfully into a changed life through bitter pangs, of which he was but half-conscious. And Jeanie slept with her cheek on his hand, and the other living creatures in the cottage watched and slept, and breathed around him. And life and the great universe moved and swam about him, like scenes in a phantasmagoria—one scene dissolving into another, nothing steady or definite in earth or heaven. Sometimes, as if a stray light had caught it, one scene out of the past would suddenly shine out before him, generally something quite unconnected with his present position; and then a strange gleam would fall over the future, over that unknown waste which lay before. Thus the night stole on, till every minute seemed an hour, and every hour a day.