A Strange Story — Volume 01Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
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A Strange Story — Volume 01
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century
With what increased benignity I listened to the patients who visited me
the next morning! The whole human race seemed to be worthier of love, and
I longed to diffuse amongst all some rays of the glorious hope that had
dawned upon my heart. My first call, when I went forth, was on the poor
young woman from whom I had been returning the day before, when an
impulse, which seemed like a fate, had lured me into the grounds where I
had first seen Lilian. I felt grateful to this poor patient; without her
Lilian herself might be yet unknown to rue.
The girl's brother, a young man employed in the police, and whose pay
supported a widowed mother and the suffering sister, received me at the
threshold of the cottage.
"Oh, sir, she is so much better to-day; almost free from pain. Will
she live now; can she live?"
"If my treatment has really done the good you say; if she be really
better under it, I think her recovery may be pronounced. But I must first
see her."
The girl was indeed wonderfully better. I felt that my skill was
achieving a signal triumph; but that day even my intellectual pride was
forgotten in the luxurious unfolding of that sense of heart which had so
newly waked into blossom.
As I recrossed the threshold, I smiled on the brother, who was still
lingering there,--
"Your sister is saved, Wady. She needs now chiefly wine, and good
though light nourishment; these you will find at my house; call there for
them every day."
"God bless you, sir! If ever I can serve you--" His tongue faltered,
he could say no more.
Serve me, Allen Fenwick--that poor policeman! Me, whom a king could not
serve! What did I ask from earth but Fame and Lilian's heart? Thrones
and bread man wins from the aid of others; fame and woman's heart he can
only gain through himself.
So I strode gayly up the hill, through the iron gates, into the fairy
ground, and stood before Lilian's home.
The man-servant, on opening the door, seemed somewhat confused, and
said hastily before I spoke,--
"Not at home, sir; a note for you."
I turned the note mechanically in my hand; I felt stunned.
"Not at home! Miss Ashleigh cannot be out. How is she?"
"Better, sir, thank you."
I still could not open the note; my eyes turned wistfully towards the
windows of the house, and there--at the drawing-room window--I encountered
the scowl of Mr. Vigors. I coloured with resentment, divined that I was
dismissed, and walked away with a proud crest and a firm step.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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