The Jewel of Seven Stars - Bram Stoker (best 7 inch ereader .TXT) 📗

me into closer relationship more quickly than I

had to hope would be possible; but that first purpose has remained fresh

in my heart, and has grown in intensity, and multiplied itself with

every hour which has passed since then.” His face seemed to soften as

he looked at me; the memory of his own youth was coming back to him

instinctively. After a pause he said:

 

“I suppose I may take it, too, Malcolm Ross”—the return to the

familiarity of address swept through me with a glorious thrill—“that as

yet you have not made any protestation to my daughter?”

 

“Not in words, sir.” The arriere pensee of my phrase struck me, not by

its own humour, but through the grave, kindly smile on the father’s

face. There was a pleasant sarcasm in his comment:

 

“Not in words! That is dangerous! She might have doubted words, or

even disbelieved them.”

 

“I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair as I went on:

 

“The duty of delicacy in her defenceless position; my respect for her

father—I did not know you then, sir, as yourself, but only as her

father—restrained me. But even had not these barriers existed, I should

not have dared in the presence of such grief and anxiety to have

declared myself. Mr. Trelawny, I assure you on my word of honour that

your daughter and I are as yet, on her part, but friends and nothing

more!” Once again he held out his hands, and we clasped each other

warmly. Then he said heartily:

 

“I am satisfied, Malcolm Ross. Of course, I take it that until I have

seen her and have given you permission, you will not make any

declaration to my daughter—in words,” he added, with an indulgent smile.

But his face became stern again as he went on:

 

“Time presses; and I have to think of some matters so urgent and so

strange that I dare not lose an hour. Otherwise I should not have been

prepared to enter, at so short a notice and to so new a friend, on the

subject of my daughter’s settlement in life, and of her future

happiness.” There was a dignity and a certain proudness in his manner

which impressed me much.

 

“I shall respect your wishes, sir!” I said as I went back and opened the

door. I heard him lock it behind me.

 

When I told Mr. Corbeck that Mr. Trelawny had quite recovered, he began

to dance about like a wild man. But he suddenly stopped, and asked me

to be careful not to draw any inferences, at all events at first, when

in the future speaking of the finding of the lamps, or of the first

visits to the tomb. This was in case Mr. Trelawny should speak to me on

the subject; “as, of course, he will,” he added, with a sidelong look at

me which meant knowledge of the affairs of my heart. I agreed to this,

feeling that it was quite right. I did not quite understand why; but I

knew that Mr. Trelawny was a peculiar man. In no case could one make a

mistake by being reticent. Reticence is a quality which a strong man

always respects.

 

The manner in which the others of the house took the news of the

recovery varied much. Mrs. Grant wept with emotion; then she hurried

off to see if she could do anything personally, and to set the house in

order for “Master”, as she always called him. The Nurse’s face fell:

she was deprived of an interesting case. But the disappointment was

only momentary; and she rejoiced that the trouble was over. She was

ready to come to the patient the moment she should be wanted; but in the

meantime she occupied herself in packing her portmanteau.

 

I took Sergeant Daw into the study, so that we should be alone when I

told him the news. It surprised even his iron self-control when I told

him the method of the waking. I was myself surprised in turn by his

first words:

 

“And how did he explain the first attack? He was unconscious when the

second was made.”

 

Up to that moment the nature of the attack, which was the cause of my

coming to the house, had never even crossed my mind, except when I had

simply narrated the various occurrences in sequence to Mr. Trelawny.

The Detective did not seem to think much of my answer:

 

“Do you know, it never occurred to me to ask him!” The professional

instinct was strong in the man, and seemed to supersede everything else.

 

“That is why so few cases are ever followed out,” he said, “unless our

people are in them. Your amateur detective neer hunts down to the

death. As for ordinary people, the moment things begin to mend, and the

strain of suspense is off them, they drop the matter in hand. It is

like sea-sickness,” he added philosophically after a pause; “the moment

you touch the shore you never give it a thought, but run off to the

buffet to feed! Well, Mr. Ross, I’m glad the case is over; for over it

is, so far as I am concerned. I suppose that Mr. Trelawny knows his own

business; and that now he is well again, he will take it up himself.

Perhaps, however, he will not do anything. As he seemed to expect

something to happen, but did not ask for protection from the police in

any way, I take it that he don’t want them to interfere with an eye to

punishment. we’ll be told officially, I suppose, that it was an

accident, or sleep-walking, or something of the kind, to satisfy the

conscience of our Record Department; and that will be the end. As for

me, I tell you frankly, sir, that it will be the saving of me. I verily

believe I was beginning to get dotty over it all. There were too many

mysteries, that aren’t in my line, for me to be really satisfied as to

either facts or the causes of them. Now I’ll be able to wash my hands

of it, and get back to clean, wholesome, criminal work. Of course, sir,

I’ll be glad to know if you ever do light on a cause of any kind. And

I’ll be grateful if you can ever tell me how the man was dragged out of

bed when the cat bit him, and who used the knife the second time. For

master Silvio could never have done it by himself. But there! I keep

thinking of it still. I must look out and keep a check on myself, or I

shall think of it when I have to keep my mind on other things!”

 

When Margaret returned from her walk, I met her in the hall. She was

still pale and sad; somehow, I had expected to see her radiant after her

walk. The moment she saw me her eyes brightened, and she looked at me

keenly.

 

“You have some good news for me?” she said. “Is Father better?”

 

“He is! Why did you think so?”

 

“I saw it in your face. I must go to him at once.” She was hurrying

away when I stopped her.

 

“He said he would send for you the moment he was dressed.”

 

“He said he would send for me!” she repeated in amazement. “Then he is

awake again, and conscious? I had no idea he was so well as that! O

Malcolm!”

 

She sat down on the nearest chair and began to cry. I felt overcome

myself. The sight of her joy and emotion, the mention of my own name in

such a way and at such a time, the rush of glorious possibilities all

coming together, quite unmanned me. She saw my emotion, and seemed to

understand. She put out her hand. I held it hard, and kissed it. Such

moments as these, the opportunities of lovers, are gifts of the gods! Up

to this instant, though I knew I loved her, and though I believed she

returned my affection, I had had only hope. Now, however, the

self-surrender manifest in her willingness to let me squeeze her hand,

the ardour of her pressure in return, and the glorious flush of love in

her beautiful, deep, dark eyes as she lifted them to mine, were all the

eloquences which the most impatient or exacting lover could expect or

demand.

 

No word was spoken; none was needed. Even had I not been pledged to

verbal silence, words would have been poor and dull to express what we

felt. Hand in hand, like two little children, we went up the staircase

and waited on the landing, till the summons from Mr. Trelawny should

come.

 

I whispered in her ear—it was nicer than speaking aloud and at a greater

distance—how her father had awakened, and what he had said; and all

that had passed between us, except when she herself had been the subject

of conversation.

 

Presently a bell rang from the room. Margaret slipped from me, and

looked back with warning finger on lip. She went over to her father’s

door and knocked softly.

 

“Come in!” said the strong voice.

 

“It is I, Father!” The voice was tremulous with love and hope.

 

There was a quick step inside the room; the door was hurriedly thrown

open, and in an instant Margaret, who had sprung forward, was clasped in

her father’s arms. There was little speech; only a few broken phrases.

 

“Father! Dear, dear Father!”

 

“My child! Margaret! My dear, dear child!”

 

“O Father, Father! At last! At last!”

 

Here the father and daughter went into the room together, and the door

closed.