The Visionists/Chapter 4
IV
For three weeks Nomé was too ill to realize her position at the Felvex house; she saw no one but her physician and nurses. Intervals of fever prevented her from noticing the attentions by which she was favored, and in these times her mind reverted continually to the stress of thought which had immediately followed her adventure.
As soon as she began to recover her health and strength, however, she wondered at the consideration which she received. She was in a beautifully furnished room with alternate day and night nurses to wait upon her, often and most cordially visited by her doctor, the celebrated Sir Thomas Burroughs, who treated her with a cheerful and interested kindness that charmed her. The table by her bed was kept constantly supplied with fresh flowers. Everything that she could wish for, or that could be anticipated for her, was done, with the exception that she received no information as to what had happened during the interval of her illness. There was something significant in the deference with which she was treated, and she could not quite understand it. The first message she received was from Lady Felvex, inquiring as to her health, and expressing a wish to call upon her. Then, little by little, she learned from her nurse how matters stood.
She had become a popular heroine. She was shown papers with accounts of the episode at Westchester Square, extolling her courage in defending the minister. His social and official prominence had combined with her own beauty to make the affair notorious. The illustrated weeklies contained pictures of the incident, with photographs of Lord Felvex. Here she read his biography, and some of the events in his past explained the reason for his behavior when she had known him in New York.
There, having refused to make use of his courtesy title of "Honorable" during his visit to the United States, he had been known by his family name of Camish. He had been engaged to the present Lady Felvex for four years, not having married her until he had come into his uncle's title. She understood, now, why he had invented their one-sided quarrel, why he had left her, why he had never spoken to her as she had hoped to have him speak. She had loved him, and no doubt he had become more and more fond of her. When he saw how matters were tending he had taken the most considerate way of parting with her. She had no reproaches for him; it was his right, for they had never come to any definite understanding. She had loved him and had gone more than halfway in the affair. There had been a swift, keen friendship. That was all, so far as he was concerned, though she had taken it much more seriously. It was all simple enough, common enough; it was one of a thousand similar cases, yet her heart had broken.
No one, at first, knew who she was, for Lord Felvex had not had time to recognize her during the fracas that night, and she had few friends in London outside the Circle. This mystery had increased the picturesqueness of her situation and had stimulated the curiosity of the public. She began to receive hundreds of letters of congratulation. Flowers, fruits, delicacies and presents of all description were showered upon her by unknown admirers of her gallantry. It was apparent that she was no common woman of the streets, and it was surmised that she was an American, although the reason for her being in that vicinity, alone and armed, caused much inquisitive comment.
The iron entered Nomé's soul at the first realization of her anomalous situation. To have failed in her appointed purpose was agony enough for her proud spirit, but to receive this tribute of praise for an act which, to her, represented only her weakness, was an exquisite anguish.
With all the adulation which she had begun to receive, and which, as she became convalescent, she would receive in fuller measure, she must hold her tongue and play the hypocrite, humiliated by the cruel falsity and injustice of her part. She must bide her time; there were too many interests at stake for her to protest at her hostess's bounty. Not only the safety of her friends but the danger to the Cause itself kept her silent, and behind this was the chance for her own redemption—if she ever had the courage to redeem herself from this failure.
So she received the flattery and favors which were for her the bitterest mockery. She had been human enough to anticipate the notoriety that would become hers—the vilification, the persecution, the crown of thorns—but she would have had the glory, too, of having struck for Humanity, not this cheap romance of an accidental rescue. Harder to bear than this was the thought of how the Circle would regard her action. The better part, including Mangus, perhaps, might admit that she did rightly, for the sordid crime of the footpads, dignified by no noble motive, unauthorized by any revolutionary tribunal, could surely mean nothing to the propaganda of the Cause.
Yet she knew that one faction at least—that to which O'Brien, the Fenian, belonged—would never forgive her. They held a personal quarrel with the minister who had stood in their way, and had made many of the Circle suffer. O'Brien himself had been warmly fond of her, but she knew his hot Irish blood; he was capable of turning on her the instant their wills diverged.
She could never show herself in the Circle until she had reinstated herself, in her own opinion and theirs, as a heroine. She had gone to her errand of death with confidence and determination and had failed; the next time, with the knowledge of her weakness of will, with the knowledge, too, of what Lord Felvex was to her, it would be intolerably harder. In the drama, in all the stories she had ever read, love had always conquered. Must it always be so? Could she not prove that there was something higher than love, something above duty, even—the divine principle of sacrifice?
So she went over it again and again, torturing herself with misgivings. The tumult in her soul kept her weak, and its symptoms of distress for awhile baffled her physician. But she was young and hardy, and day by day her strength slowly returned. There came a time, at last, when she was informed that Lady Felvex was to be admitted.
Nomé's hostess was a quiet, modest woman of thirty, with a plumpness that was still more girlish than matronly and a calmness that instantly inspired confidence. Her hair was dark and straight, simply arranged, without pretense to style; her eyes were clear, deep blue and steady. Her level brows and wide, well-cut mouth betokened great magnanimity and a peace of mind that ill accorded with a certain awkwardness and carelessness in her carriage. She seemed serene in spirit and sure in thought, but self-conscious as to her physical appearance. The cordial friendliness of her manner seemed to be kept in check lest it should become too frank and candid.
She came directly to the girl, kissed her on the forehead, then sat down and took her hand.
"What can I say to you?" she said. "You who saved my husband's life! It was wonderful of you; you don't know how I admire you. It has been a long time to wait to see you, and there was so little I could do! If there is anything you will tell me, won't you?" She paused to run her fingers through Nomé's dark, rippling hair.
"You have been too kind—you have done too much already," the girl replied. "It is very strange to find myself here in your house. It was very good of you and Lord Felvex, but I am sure it was quite unnecessary. I hope I shall not trouble you long."
"You must not talk that way, Miss Destin," Lady Felvex implored. "Nothing we may do can begin to express the friendliness we feel. Besides, my husband has told me that you and he are old friends. It could not have turned out more fortunately for us, for I am so glad to see you, of whom I have heard so much. Let us forget what you have done, if you prefer it, and stay with us only as a most welcome visitor. We succeeded in finding your address, and I have already sent for your things. If there is anything else that you need I trust you will let me know. Aren't there any messages I can have sent for you—any friends that you would like to see?"
"Nothing, thank you," was the reply. "I know very few people in London, though if I think of anything I'll tell you; but I cannot accept your hospitality, Lady Felvex, any longer than is absolutely necessary. You have been exceedingly considerate of my feelings and I am not ungrateful, but it is very important for me to leave as soon as possible. I have a great deal to do and little time in which to do it."
"I don't intend to embarrass you in any way," said Lady Felvex, rising. "You must feel at perfect liberty to do whatever you choose; but be sure of your welcome in any event. And I don't intend to tire you any longer. There are many of my friends who are most anxious to see you. Miss Destin—really, you have become quite famous. As soon as you are feeling stronger perhaps they may amuse you. But remember that you are to feel perfectly free while you are in my house."
She had scarcely left before a box of flowers was brought to the door of the room. The package was opened by the nurse, who placed a sheaf of red roses in her patient's hands. Nomé had a child's fondness for flowers, and pressed the wet, odorous blossoms to her lips and face with pleasure. Separating the stems she noticed a small sealed envelope attached to the ribbon which bound them, and opened it, with a mild curiosity to know the name of the donor. There was a card inclosed, on which was written in Mangus's fine, precise hand the words:
Remain and await orders.
This message came like a sudden blow, making her realize afresh the critical position in which she was placed. She nerved herself again, to be ready when her next opportunity came; for Mangus evidently still trusted her. Blotting out her sense of the hypocrisy of her position as the guest of Lady Felvex, eclipsing even the rising excitement at the thought of again meeting her lover, the inspiring feeling that she was to be a heroine of the Cause bathed her in new resolve. She pledged herself again to the Movement and all the bitter martyrdom with which it must try her.