Chapter XVII: My Brother Leaves Me

HOW long I remained unconscious I know not. When I awoke, the grey light of early morning was about me, and I was lying on a rude couch beneath the low rafters of one of the châlets which surrounded the hotel. Bending over me was a lady whose appearance puzzled me. It was familiar, but I could not at once identify it, Presently I recognised her as the wife of the English clergyman who was staying in the pension. With that recognition the terrible event of the night flashed upon my mind.

"Where am I?" I cried, striving to rise, only to find that my exhausted frame refused to respond to my will. "Oh, tell me about the fire and Edmund—where is Edmund?"

"Your brother is safe, and close at hand. You must not trouble about him. He is uninjured and only suffering from the effects of the shock, and the sudden exposure to the night air."

Only suffering from these! Alas, I knew well that their consequences to my poor brother could not be slight. But what a relief it was that my worst dread was not realised.

"Thank God, he is saved," I murmured.

"Ah, indeed! We have all great cause to thank God. It was an awful fire. Those wooden houses burn so rapidly that the fire had taken complete hold of some of the lower rooms and the staircase ere it was discovered. And now the place is an utter wreck."

"Was everyone saved?" I asked.

"Yes, everyone, and, with the exception of one or two, they have escaped unhurt. It was a most merciful deliverance."

"It is all a confusion to me." I said. "I remember nothing save that I made my way to my brother's room and could not find him. How was I saved?"

"By Mr. Dugdale. He found you insensible by the bedside. He struggled through fearful smoke and flames to reach you. It was feared that you both would perish. Oh, do not cry. We had better not speak of the fire. You cannot bear it now."

"It does me good to cry." I sobbed, "only tell me one thing. Did Mr. Dugdale escape unhurt?"

"Not unhurt. His hands and arms are badly burnt, and he sprained his wrist in swinging himself down from a balcony. But, oh! He showed himself such a brave, heroic man. You would have thought he was a fireman to see how he ventured amidst the flames."

I asked no more questions, but lay still for some time, quietly weeping. It was no surprise to me to learn that I owed my life to Ralph Dugdale. I had felt sure, before I heard it, that he and no other had rescued me and Edmund.

Some time later, I learned how our escape had been effected. I had observed, without reflecting on the reason, that all the bedrooms in the pension had, in addition to the doors opening on to the corridor, doors communicating with each other. By this means, had the doors been open, one could have passed through the rooms from one end of the long, narrow house to the other. My room, as has been said, adjoined Edmund's on one side, and Ralph's room was on the other side of my brother's, but separated by two apartments from that of his friend.

As soon as he was roused by the alarm of fire, Ralph forced his way through these rooms, intent on saving me and Edmund. He found Edmund in his weakness already overpowered by the suffocating fumes, for the fire had broken out immediately below our rooms, and was there raging its fiercest. He said that he thumped vigorously on the partition dividing my room from Edmund's and believed that he heard me respond, ere he seized Edmund, and half-carrying, half-dragging him, bore him through the rooms to a little balcony at the end of the corridor, beneath which, and only a few feet lower, lay a sloping grassy bank, so that it was easy to clamber down. Leaving Edmund, who was roused by the rush of cold air, to the care of the persons who were gathered about the balcony helping women and children to escape by means of it from the burning house, Ralph hurried back in search of me.

By the time he had reached my room and had forced open the door, it was full of smoke, and flames were rising from the floor. It was hardly safe to enter; but screening his face and chest as best he could, he did venture in, only, however, to search for me in vain.

The people outside, who had seen me enter my brother's room, shouted to him to seek me there, but amidst the confused din of human voices and the crackling and roaring of the fire, he could not distinguish their words. As he staggered back aghast, the thought struck him that I might have tried to get to my brother. He groped his way through the smoke to my brother's bedside, and there came upon me lying insensible. To bear me, unconscious as I was, through that choking atmosphere to the freer air beyond, was no slight undertaking, but the strong, undaunted will accomplished it. Certain it was that no one else could have done for me what he did. Had he not found me, there would have been no awaking for me in this world.

With a rush of gratitude that was full of pain, I realised that I owed my life to Ralph Dugdale's heroism. Sweet, sweet did life seem to me as lying with my face towards the low windows of the châlet, I watched the sun rise above the mountains and gild their stainless summits with his golden rays. I was experiencing the feeling my brother had expressed only on the previous day. Never does life look so fair to us as when we emerge from some dark valley of the shadow of death to enter upon a fresh, sunlit space of time.

I felt very weak and shaken from the effects of my adventure, and it was long ere I lost the breathless, choking sensation caused by the fumes I had inhaled. But a German doctor, who had been staying in the pension, came and prescribed for me, and, ere evening fell, I was well enough to rise and go to my brother, who was in the inner room of the châlet.

With the thought of getting up, I found myself confronted with a serious though somewhat absurd difficulty. I had absolutely nothing to put on save my dressing-gown and slippers. All my clothing, and, indeed, everything that Edmund and I had with us, had perished in the flames, for as the hotel could boast no hose nor any apparatus for extinguishing a fire, it had been found impossible to check the flames, and they had simply raged till they could no longer find fuel.

A grand and memorable sight was that fire for those whose circumstances permitted them to enjoy its wild magnificence. Such have since described to me the wonderful effect of its savage lurid glow, seen against a background of snow mountains.

Happily, many persons whose rooms were remote from the spot where the fire broke out had been able to rescue their luggage, and several ladies came to my aid when they heard of my destitute condition, and out of their abundance provided for my needs, so that I was soon able to appear decorously clothed, though in a somewhat odd assortment of garments.

I could make light of my misfortunes; our losses were trifles, indeed, when compared with our great deliverance; but far more deplorable was Edmund's condition. I found him suffering from utter prostration of strength; his voice sunk to a whisper, his appearance ghastly in its pallor. Yet he could smile on me and whisper how very, very thankful he was; he did not mind his own sufferings since I appeared so little the worse for my alarm and danger.

"And Ralph, too, dear, old fellow," he whispered; "they tell me he showed himself a true hero, and I can well believe it."

"Why, yes, he saved my life—but for him—" A shudder ended my broken words.

"He saved both our lives," said my brother. "Ah, Dottie, what a debt is that! But yours is the greater gain, and you only can repay him. My chance of doing anything for him is past."

A thrill of fear passed through me as I perceived my brother's meaning.

"Do not say so," I pleaded; "you will rally again. This is only the effect of the shock."

But he shook his head.

Not till the next day did I see Ralph Dugdale. In truth, I shrank from seeing him. How could I express my gratitude to the man who had saved my life? The weight of that gratitude oppressed me.

Perhaps it was well that I came upon him suddenly. I had gone forth to take a look at the ruins of the hotel, when, as wandering round the blackened heap, I turned to the side where hung a remnant of the balcony by which our escape had been made, I saw before me Ralph Dugdale. He was very pale, his hands and arms were bandaged, his right hand rested in a sling, he wore a loose coat which had certainly not been made for him. All this I noted at a glance; the next moment he saw me, and a glad smile lit up his face. Very bright was his look, yet there was something unusually tender and emotional in his glance as our eyes met.

"You are better? You begin to feel yourself again?" he questioned me eagerly, ere I could say a word.

"I am all right, thank you," I answered quickly; "but oh, Mr. Dugdale, I am so sorry to see how you have suffered! I—I—Oh, I do not know how to say what I ought—what, indeed, I truly feel."

"Pray do not try to say it. Surely we can understand each other without words."

"But I must tell you that I can never forget how you risked your life for my sake."

"Nonsense, don't exaggerate the risk! For whatever I did, have I not more than my reward in seeing you safe and sound? Do you think I would not gladly lay down my life to save yours?"

How could I reply to this vehement speech, coming warm from the heart in one of those rare moments when emotion will utter itself, in spite of every consideration that might enforce silence?

Happily Ralph did not leave me much time to feel embarrassment. With a change of manner, he asked me quietly what I thought of Edmund. There could be but a sad answer to this question. Ralph's face grew grave and sad as we paced to and fro, talking of my brother. He tried to comfort me; but he could hold out but faint hope.

One thing we decided. It was impossible that Edmund should remain in his present rough and comfortless quarters. Even at the risk of further exhausting him, we must remove him to some more habitable region, where he could have the comforts his condition rendered indispensable. Ralph advised our proceeding, as we had intended, to Grindelwald, and I felt that the advice was good. Already a general exodus from the vicinity had begun. Most of those who had escaped unscathed from the fire had departed on the previous day; others were now preparing to start down the mountain.

Ralph proposed to get one of these travellers to engage us a carriage at Lauterbrunnen for the next day. He had already written to his sister, informing her of what had happened, and that we might arrive at Grindelwald at any hour. He felt sure that she would make the best arrangements she could for our reception; and I, knowing Grace as I did, could have no doubt of that.

What a comfort it was to me to have Ralph Dugdale to help me in the management of Edmund's removal! Though his hands were useless, his thoughtfulness, kindness, tact, and the ease with which he made people do exactly what he wished them to do, rendered him an invaluable ally.

We went down the mountain on the following day, treading the same path that we had ascended with glad zest at the beginning of the season. It was a bright day, and the scenery was no less lovely than it had been then; but now it wore the beauty of autumn, and in my heart it was autumn too, not an autumn of ripe fruitage, but an autumn of falling leaves, fading flowers, dead hopes.

Edmund's bearers carried him very carefully and steadily, yet he was sorely exhausted when we reached Lauterbrunnen. We were fain to stay the night there, and did not start to drive up the valley to Grindelwald till about noon the next day. Weary though he was, Edmund enjoyed that drive. Every turn of the road which ascends by the side of the impetuous, foaming torrent revealed new beauties. The foliage clothing the mountain slopes was gay with the most brilliant hues of autumn, cascades of no mean force came dashing down beside the road, fairy rills crossed it on their way to the river.

We passed over quaint, covered wooden bridges, the river now on this side of the carriage and now on that. Presently snow-crested summits rose before our view; the Wetterhorn stood forth in grand magnificence, then its companion Peaks were discerned, till, as we made the last gradual ascent, the whole of the lovely vale of Grindelwald lay before us.

We drove at once to the hotel at which the Dugdales were staying. Grace had been watching for us, and was at the door to receive us. Very loving was her greeting to me, almost too tenderly sympathetic I felt that it was, for it showed me too plainly what she sorrowfully believed.

A large and very comfortable room had been secured for Edmund. He was pleased to see that his window looked up the vale and commanded a fine view of the Wetterhorn and the higher glacier.

"I am glad the beauty is so near," he said, "for I cannot go in search of it."

So, with gentle satisfaction, he took possession of his room, never to leave it in life.

Yet I was not without visitings of hope. There was a return of strength, but the Swiss doctor whom we had called in did not encourage him to make any exertion, and Edmund himself evinced no desire to go beyond his room, but was content to rest on his couch by the window, and gaze on the beautiful world outside.

I could not help remarking that he never now spoke of his recovery. The hopefulness which he had manifested in the earlier stages of his illness was gone. But whatever were his anticipations, they were met with serene, calm resignation.

"Dorothy," he said to me one day, "do you think Mabel would come if we asked her?"

"Come!—Come here do you mean?" I faltered. "Oh, Edmund, dear, why do you ask? Do you wish her to come?"

"I think you must know, Dottie, why I ask," he said, giving me a tender, pitiful glance, as though he would fain have spared me the pain he knew his words must give. "Yes, I should be very glad to see Mabel again if she would come; but not—not if it would cause her much trouble."

I wrote to Mabel at once. I had written to her every day since we came to Grindelwald. Her letters had expressed much concern at what I had told her about Edmund; but she did not suggest coming to him. Would she come now, I wondered, as I sent off the letter.

She did not come. Little Percy appeared to be sickening with some childish ailment, and she could not leave him. A mother's first duty was to her child, she wrote. It grieved her to refuse to come to dear Edmund, but she could not believe that he was so ill as I imagined. She knew that my affection was apt to make me over-anxious. She still hoped to see him again in England, and she thought we should do well to start on our homeward journey as soon as possible. Had I thought of Torquay as a desirable place to winter in?

The letter angered me. I was indignant with Mabel for attaching so little importance to my words. I would not believe that there was much the matter with her little boy. To myself I accused her of heartless indifference to Edmund. My feelings towards her did not soften as I saw the shadow fall on Edmund's face when I told him that she could not come.

"Then I shall not see her," he said.

"She hopes to see you again in England," I replied.

"That will not be, I think," he replied, quite calmly.

And I was silent, for my heart told me that he spoke truly.

"How could Mabel?" I was saying to myself.

Edmund must have divined my thoughts, for, after a moment, he said to me, very earnestly, "Do not blame her, Dorothy; she does not know. And, Dorothy, do not, I pray you, let this make any further breach between you. Remember that, when I am gone, you and Mabel will be the only ones remaining of the home-circle at Burford in the dear old days—the dear, happy, old days."

I was silent, for I could not speak. Of late Edmund had often spoken of our old life at Burford. He loved to recall our childish days with their quaint incidents and the various scrapes into which he had led me.

"You and she have memories in common which no other can share," he went on to say. "I can remember how proud and fond you were of 'my sister Mabel,' when you were a little thing."

"I am proud and fond of her still," I said, half crying; "I should love her as much as ever if—But she has changed; she does not care for me as she did."

"Don't say you should love her," Edmund reproved me gently; "true love does not change with the changes of others. Do you remember Mrs. Browning's poem on the words, 'Loved Once'?

"'Love strikes one hour—Love! Those
"never" loved
Who dream that they loved "once."'"

"I am afraid mine is not the best sort of love," I sighed; "anyhow, love and sorrow seem to be intertwined for me. Those whom I love most are taken from me."

"I suppose love and sorrow must always in a measure combine," said Edmund, musingly. "The King of Love was crowned with a crown of thorns. But, Dottie, you must not speak as if my going would leave you desolate. You have Ralph, you know."

A hot flush mounted to my forehead. Edmund waited for me to speak, watching me keenly.

Why did I not tell him the truth? Surely when the last parting was so near, I might have broken through womanly reserve and confided to him my heart's secret. It seemed to me afterwards that it would have been easy to tell him then, yet something withheld me. Edmund was far from guessing the truth. Men do not learn such things by intuition as women do. He had not the least glimmer of a notion that I could care for anyone save Ralph Dugdale.

"You will not tell me," he said, presently, and his tone had a plaintive sound that went to my heart, "though it would be such a comfort to me to know that it would be as I hope."

Then words rushed to my lips—rash, impulsive words, as mine too often were. What did it matter what my future was, I thought.

"Dear Edmund," I said, tremulously, "I will try, I will try to do as you wish."

And even then he did not understand. Such a glad smile welcomed my words, and he clasped my hand as if in gratitude.

It was strange that just then there should come a tap at the door, followed by the appearance of Ralph Dugdale.

"Come, old friend," said Edmund, motioning Ralph to a seat on the other side of his couch.

Ralph sat down beside him, and Edmund took his hand also, and brought our hands together across the couch.

As he held them in his wasted ones, he said, "My two best friends," the glad light still shining in his eyes.

I doubt not that Ralph perceived the significance of Edmund's action, but if he looked for signs of such comprehension from me, he received none. As quickly as I could, I drew my hand away.

There came days of chill rain and storm. Edmund's strength declined rapidly. Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale started for a warmer latitude, but Grace and her brother remained with us. I knew that they would not leave me. I was thankful for Grace's presence, and glad, too, for Edmund's sake, that Ralph was there. The mean jealousy I had once experienced did not revive, I am thankful to say. It was plain that to Grace Edmund was a friend, but no more. And his manner to her never showed that she was better loved than I.

He liked to talk to her, for her Christian faith was bright and clear, and she helped him to look forward, without doubting, to the higher, fuller life that awaited him—the rest that he believed meant service, not inactivity, in which the powers, denied full development here, should be perfected, and the work for God, broken off below, find a grander completion. I do not think there could ever have been much hope in Edmund's love, and now, as the flame of the bodily life waxed dim, earthly desires had no power to ruffle the heavenly calm that fell upon his spirit.

The storms and rains subsided. There came a day of calm, autumnal beauty, of bright sunshine, though the air was crisp with the touch of frost. Few English visitors had dared to risk the chances of the late autumn, and we had the hotel almost to ourselves. I can never forget the deep quietude that seemed to reign all about us that day. Within the house and without there was hardly a sound to be heard. Nature seemed to be resting after her fierce conflicts.

Towards evening, we were all in Edmund's room. He seemed rather better that day, and once more was able to leave his bed and rest, supported by pillows, on the couch near the window. We sat so that all could see the beautiful scene from the window. The mountains on each side the vale had appeared that morning in a fresh covering of snow. Dazzlingly white shone the summit and higher slopes of the Wetterhorn; the glacier had lost its dingy hue; the russet and gold and sombre greens of the foliage at the foot of the mountain looked the richer in contrast to the snowy mass above.

We watched till slowly the colours faded, the shadows lengthened across the vale, and the hollows darkened beneath the overhanging rocks. As we gazed, almost imperceptibly the faintest tone of colour warmed the whiteness of the Wetterhorn. Presently a golden beam fell athwart the snowy slope. It broadened and deepened in its intensity till the whole vast snow-field shone as with golden fire.

"The afterglow," someone murmured, and then for a few moments none of us spoke as we watched the glowing vision fade as swiftly as it had come. It was not the first time I had seen the wonder of the afterglow, but this, I thought, was the finest manifestation of its loveliness that had been granted me. I rejoiced that Edmund saw it. And he rejoiced. His voice it was that broke the stillness.

"I am glad I have seen this before I go," he said. Then in low, fervent tones, he added, with a reverent upward glance, "I thank God for the beauty of His world."

"And it is but the shadow of the divine beauty," said Grace, in tones that vibrated with emotion; "you will pass out of the shadow into the perfect light. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty.'"

Edmund smiled, such a happy, radiant smile. "His people reflect that beauty here," he said, looking at her. "As we strive after goodness, He gives us of His beauty. May the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us."

"Amen," said Ralph Dugdale.

With that our little party broke up. I sat alone with my brother for some hours. He was inclined to talk, and he talked brightly, going back again to our childish days, and dwelling on them with pleasure.

About ten o'clock Ralph and Grace came in. It had been arranged that Ralph should watch beside him tonight, as I had sat up during the previous one.

But now I felt reluctant to leave my brother, and would fain have stayed had Edmund been willing, but he was not.

"No, you must go to bed, Dottie," he said; "you look worn out. What good could you do by staying? I shall sleep soundly, I know. Come, kiss me and say good-night."

As I bent over him, he drew me close and kissed me many times. Did he know that the parting was so near?

"Grace too," he said, his eyes raised pleadingly to hers.

And Grace also gave him a sister's kiss.

I did not go to bed, though Ralph soon brought me the news that Edmund was sleeping peacefully.

After a while I lay down, dressed as I was, on the outside of the bed, and I must have slept, for it seemed as if but a short time had passed when Ralph summoned me, but already the day was dawning.

"You had better come," was all he said.

And without a minute's delay, I followed him.

Edmund no longer slept. He was sitting up in bed, propped by pillows; his hands were moving restlessly over the coverlid, and he was speaking rapidly. His voice had an unusual sound, but his eyes were clear and bright.

"Why does not Dottie come?" I heard him say.

"I am here, Edmund, here," I said, laying my hand on his.

But he heeded neither touch nor word. I saw with pain that he was looking beyond me, unconscious of my presence.

"There is my father," he said, mere quietly, his gaze fixed apparently on the window; "he is coming from the tan-yard across the garden. And there is Dottie at last—Dottie and Grace, standing beneath the trees; the trees are all white with blossom. Yes, Salome, I hear you. Dottie!"

My old pet name came with a faltering sound. Did he know me at the last? I hoped so. His head sank a little on one side, his lips moved; I fancied I caught the words, "The King in His beauty."

A few moments of awful stillness, broken only by short, panting breaths, and then Ralph's hand gently trying to draw me away told me that I was brotherless.

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