# Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 3/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
Snow is a rare event at Mentone; but the night following there was a fall, succeeded by a frost, which kept the red roofs white throughout the next day, and laid over the brown earth in the garden a thin white coverlid, from which the violets, anemones, and here and there a rose, looked up under the drawn sword of an aloe. The gold-red fruit shone yet more brilliantly among the dark orange trees powdered with snow beneath a clear blue sky. The sun shone hotly, but the snow only melted in places. In the shade it was still hard, for the frost showed no sign of giving way, and the wind was icy cold. Invalids coughed and shivered. They murmured that it was not worth while to leave the comforts of home to be frozen up on the Riviera.
But poor Hatty had not left "the comforts of home;" and Hatty never murmured. Only her cough was decidedly worse; the sharp wind pierced through the crevices of doors and windows. Finally she gave in, and returned to bed. Her brother and Elizabeth were a great deal in her room, but she spoke very little. Her thin cheeks were aflame, her dry, hard cough was distressing to listen to; she could not rest, for her mind was as little ​at ease as her body. Finally, towards evening, Elizabeth gave her, by the doctor's order, a composing draught, and she fell asleep. Then Elizabeth, whose room was next her friend's, left her, and went down to dinner. Alaric was not there, and she was almost glad of it. The doctor had told them both that day that they must be prepared for the end at any moment. The strong man had gone out to commune with his own heart in solitude. Elizabeth could better endure the amiable commonplaces of the clergyman and his spouse, the purring curiosity of the spinster with the knitting, the gloom of the inexplicable man, than she could have talked to Alaric jast then. Her heart was very heavy—heavy with sorrow so complicated that it was difficult to speak to him, of all people in the world, of her sense of personal loss in his impending grief
After dinner she went and stood outside the door, in the clear moonlight. It was bitter cold, but the wind had dropped, and, with a shawl over her head, it revived her to feel the sharp snow-laden air against her cheek, after the heated dining-room. The trees stood out as if carved in bronze against the snowy roofs below, and blue heavens, sown with stars, above. The moon was at its full; she could have read a letter by its Ught. The shadow of every leaf on the interlacing boughs lay black upon the snow, and on the gravel path, which had been swept in front of the door.
Presently she was conscious that, among the motionless shadows, one shadow in the distance moved—that it was drawing near. The figure casting this shadow was not distinctly visible at first, while upon her the moon shone full. But, when he came out from under the trees, she ​recognized the tall form of Baring in an Inverness cape. As he drew near he said in a low voice—
"Is she easier now?"
"She is asleep."
"Does the doctor return to-night?"
"Not unless he is sent for."
"There should be a nurse. I must send for one."
"It is not necessary; I am going to sit up with her."
"Again? I cannot allow it," he said, almost gruffly. "You will be falling ill next."
"Oh, I am very strong! I have not been up with her for some nights. Please don't send for a nurse. She would so much rather have me."
"Yes; she would rather have you, but———" He broke off; then, a moment later, "After to-night, there must be a trained nurse. I cannot have it said that I allowed you to sacrifice yourself to Hatty. God knows how long this may last!"
"Not very long," she whispered. Then, feeling the tears rising in her eyes, she turned from him, entered the house, and closed the door softly behind her.
When Elizabeth entered Hatty's room, she was still asleep, and remained so for some hours. Alaric came to the door, and a few whispered words passed between him and Elizabeth. He would not go to bed; he would lie down, dressed as he was, that he might be ready to fetch the doctor, in case he should be called in the night. Otherwise he would not return to his sister's room; it was better that she should be left undisturbed. Elizabeth put on her dressing-gown, drew an armchair close to Hatty's ​bedside, and, with the shaded lamp behind her, sat down to read—if it were possible. For some time, by a resolute effort, her eye travelled down the page; she turned it, and her eye travelled down another, but she knew not what she read, her thoughts were far away. Finally, she closed the book, and sat motionless, with folded hands, her eyes fixed on the wall opposite, where the circular shadow of the lamp fell, and where, in the corner near the window, a shaft of white moonlight streamed in through the shutters.
How long she had sat there she knew not, when she heard Hatty's voice, weak, but distinct, ask what o'clock it was. She stretched out a feverish hand from the bed at the same time, and laid it on Elizabeth's.
"It is nearly midnight," replied the other, looking at her watch. "You have slept for some hours, dear."
"And I feel—better able to talk—which I want to do, before—before I go, Lizzie. But—give me something to drink; I am so thirsty."
She gave her some lemonade, and propped up the pillow under her head. After a minute's pause, Hatty continued—
"My time now is very short—and I want to say something while I can—something which I have much at heart. You are the only woman Alaric has ever loved—the only woman he will ever marry: I have it from his own mouth."
Elizabeth's cheek flushed, and then grew pale. The eyelids quivered for an instant, but the dark light of the eyes themselves burned steadily on the face of the dying woman. She continued—
​"From a mistaken sense of honour and duty, he will not tell you so now. It may be years before he does."
"Why?"
"He knows you have some money, Lizzie—it may not be much, but you have something. He has nothing. The little we had was lost, you know———"
"Dear Hatty, what can I do?"
"Do? Ah! you have already done too much, dear! That is half the trouble. But—but—say that you care for him! Only tell me that, dear!—only say that you will wait till he can put by a little money—and then———"
She stopped short, panting. But her eyes watched the struggle that was shown in the dark tender face that bent over her, for full a minute, before the girl said, huskily—
"If he does not speak now, Hatty, he will not by-and-by."
"You doubt him? You think he will change?"
"No; but the pride that keeps him silent now, will keep him doubly silent then. He knows me as a girl, trying to become an artist, and with a little money. Therefore he will not ask me to marry him. Dear Hatty, if he knew the truth——— I will tell you the truth, and you shall judge. I am a rich woman. It could not be concealed from him much longer. My wealth has brought me nothing but misery—misery and shame. Therefore I fled from it. I wanted to live among people who didn't know I was rich, where I should not be surrounded by falsehood and deception. My reward has been to find you—and him. Yes, dear, I confess it!—in this solemn hour I may confess it to you, for I say it as I would on ​my knees before God. My pride through life, my comfort when I die, will be to think that I won the heart of so noble a man as your brother. And yet, unless he speaks now, I know that I shall never be his wife."
She flung herself down beside the bed, and buried her head in her hands. Her self-control, for once, had given way. Hatty, startled, with all her thonghts in confusion at what she had just heard, could only lie back on her pillow, panting for breath.
After a few minntes she gasped faintly, "You are right. Poor Ally! Unless he speaks now. I am going from him—going———"
Elizabeth started to her feet. Something in the voice struck her painfully. She brushed the hot tears away, and, looking into Hatty's face, saw that a grey colour had overspread it. The eyes alone retained any vitality. She poured down the dying woman's throat some drops which the doctor had said were to be given in emergency; then went swiftly out, and knocked at Alaric's door.
He sprang from the bed on which he had thrown himself dressed, and opened the door.
"She is worse! Will you come to her?"
"Have you sent for the doctor?" he asked quickly, as he shut the door behind him.
She shook her head. "It is past that—but I will send for him. The end is very near. Go in alone. She may like to see you alone. I will follow presently."
She ran down three flights of stairs, and woke the porter asleep on the bench. After she had sent off a messenger, she mounted the stairs again, slowly, and lingered in the passage, uncertain whether she ought to ​disturb them. At last, not without some misgiving, she opened the door gently, and hesitated in the doorway for a moment, before she entered.
He was standing erect beside her bed. Two wasted hands were in his strong hands, and the light of the lamp fell on them. The pale, sharp-outlined face, red beard, and close-cut hair were in shadow. He turned his head at the sound of the opening door.
"She wants you," he said, in a low voice.
Elizabeth came to him: they stood side by side. The dying woman dropped one of his hands, and took Elizabeth's. Her voice was very faint, but she spoke distinctly.
"Ally—you have told me—you will never love any other woman than this. Is it true?"
"It is. Let that satisfy you, my dear," he replied, in a low, choked voice.
"And you,—Lizzie—do you love my brother? If so, let me see you—clasp hands—before I go. Then—I shall die—happy."
Before she could answer, be broke in, with a voice that struggled to be calm—
"No—no!—It is not right, at such a moment as this, to extract a promise from Elizabeth. No! Hatty. Let it be enough for you, dear, to know that hereafter, whether she and I are parted or not———"
"If we are parted," interrupted Elizabeth, with a sudden audacity, born of excitement—"it shall not be my fault. I love him, and I ask him now to be my husband. I ask him to promise me this, by vows as binding as any man ever took. And I declare to you ​now, dearest Hatty, before God, that if he will not have me, no man ever shall."
Then the resolute man was shaken in his inmost sool, and with a great sob he opened his arms, and she fell into them. A glory, as of perfect peace, shone on the devoted sister's face. They both knelt down, and with her last breath she blessed them.