Valentine Wyndham had often said that no greater treasure of a nurse could be found than the one who came to her when little Gerald was a month old. When she saw Esther, however, she changed her mind. Esther was superior to Annette in personal appearance, in intellect, and in a curious unspoken intangible sympathy which brought a strange sense of comfort to Valentine's strained and worn heart. Esther was full of tact. She was not demonstrative, but her every look and word expressed loving interest. Baby very soon ceased to fret for Annette. With a child's fickleness he boldly declared that he liked "noo nurse better than old nurse." His most loving word for Esther was "noo nurse," and he was always contented and happy when he lay in noo nurse's arms and listened to her stories. She had wonderful stories for him, stories which she never dreamt of telling in his mother's presence, stories which always led to one termination—a termination which had a wonderful fascination for baby. They were about little fatherless boys, who in the most unlooked for ways found their fathers. Baby revelled in these tales.
"I'se not got a farwer, noo nursie," he would generally end sorrowfully.
Then Esther would kiss him, and tell him to wait, and to watch for the good fairies who were so kind to little boys.
His whooping cough soon got better, and he was able to go out. One day Esther took him early into the Park. He was dressed all in white fur. Esther told him he looked like Baby Bunting.
"But I haven't got a farwer to buy me a wabbit-skin,"quoth baby.
That day, however, the father he did not know pressed two or three burning kisses on his round cheek. Esther sat down on a chair near a very worn and shabby-looking man. His back was partly to her. She said a word and he turned round. He looked at the child. Suddenly a light filled his sunken eyes—a beautiful light. He stretched out his arms, and straight as an arrow from a bow, Baby Bunting found a shelter in their close embrace.
"Kiss me," said the man.
The little lips pressed his cheek.
"I 'ove oo," said baby, in his contented voice. "Has 'oo little boys of 'oo own?"
"One little boy."
"Oo 'ove him, I pose?"
"Ay."
Three kisses were pressed on baby's face and he was returned to Esther.
"Nice man," he said patronizingly, by-and-bye. "But he gived raver hard kisses when he crunched me up."
That evening baby told his mother that a man met him in the Park, who kissed him and looked sad, and said he had a little boy of his own.
"And he crunched me up with kisses, mover," concluded baby.
"Was this man a friend of yours, Esther?" queried Mrs. Wyndham.
"Yes, madam, a friend of mine, and of my father's. A gentleman with a very sorrowful story. I think it comforted him to kiss master baby."
Esther was a woman of acute observation. It seemed to her that if there was an individual on earth to be envied it was Valentine Wyndham. What matter though she thought herself a widow? Still she had won a love of a quality and depth which surely must satisfy the most exacting heart. Esther often said to herself that if she were Valentine she must surely rest content. As to her forgetting Wyndham that could surely, surely never be.
These were Esther's thoughts, always supposing the case to be her own; but she had not been many weeks in thehouse in Park-Lane before she began to open her eyes and to suspect that matters were otherwise with her young mistress. Valentine, although still a wife, supposed herself a widow. All the world thought her such. What more natural than that she should turn her thoughts once more to love. At the time of her supposed widowhood she was under twenty years of age. Why should she mourn for her young husband all her days? Surely there was somebody who considered that she ought not to mourn—somebody who came almost daily to the house, whom Mrs. Wyndham liked to talk to. For Esther noticed that her eyes were bright after Adrian Carr went away. She did not guess that their brightness was generally caused by the shedding of tears.
Esther began to feel very uncomfortable. Should she or should she not tell Wyndham of the danger which was threatening Valentine?
There came a Sunday when Mrs. Wyndham entered her nursery with a request.
"Nurse, my head aches dreadfully. I know you stipulated to have every Sunday afternoon to yourself, but if you could stay at home to-day I should be grateful."
No one could make requests more sweetly than Valentine, and Esther felt herself coloring up with the pain of refusing.
"I am very sorry, madam," she said in a low constrained voice; "but—but—my father will expect me. You know it was an understood thing, madam, that I was to see him once a week. You remember my telling you I am his only child."
"Yes, yes," said Valentine, "and I have thought of that. If you will take care of Gerry this one afternoon I will send the page in a cab to your home to fetch your father here." Esther changed color, from red to white.
"I am more sorry than I can express, my dear madam, but it would make all the difference to my father seeing me in my own little home and here. My father is very humble in his ways, dear madam. I think, perhaps, if you have a headache, Jane, the under housemaid, might be trusted for once with master baby."
"Jane has already gone out," replied Valentine coldly. Then with an effort she swallowed down her resentment. "I will be frank with you, Esther," she said. "If it was simply a headache I could certainly take care of my little boy, even at some inconvenience. But there is more behind. I promised Miss Wyndham, who is now in town, to meet her this afternoon at Mr. Carr's new church. She is most anxious to hear him preach, and I should be sorry to disappoint her."
"You meanyouare anxious to hear him preach," quoth Esther, under her breath. "And is it on that account I will leave a hungry heart to starve?" Aloud she said: "Do you object to my taking master baby with me, madam?"
"I do object. The child must not be out so late. Then you distinctly refuse to accommodate me, Esther?"
"I am obliged to adhere to our arrangement, Mrs. Wyndham. I am truly sorry."
Valentine held out her hand to her little boy.
"Come, then, Baby Bunting," she said. "Mother will play with her boy; and poor Aunt Lilias must go to church alone."
She did not look at Esther, but went quietly away, holding the child's hand.
"What a brute I am," soliloquized the nurse. "And yet, she, poor young lady, how can she—how can she forget?"
Esther's home was in all its Sunday quiet when she reached it. Helps was having his afternoon siesta in the kitchen. Cherry was spending the day with the cousins who admired her recitations. Helps started out of his slumbers when his daughter came in.
"Essie," he said, "I'm glad you've come. That young man upstairs is very ill."
Esther felt her heart sinking down. She pressed her hand to her side.
"Is he worse, father?" she gasped.
"Oh, I don't know that he's worse; he's bad enough as it is, without going in for being worse. He coughs constant, and Cherry says he don't eat enough to keep a robin going. Esther, I wish to goodness we could get him out of this."
"Why so, father? He doesn't hurt you. Even Cherry can't name any fault in him."
"No, but suppose he was to die here. There'd be an inquest, maybe, and all kinds of questions. Well, I'm not hard-hearted, but I do wish he'd go."
Esther sank down into the nearest chair.
"You speak cruel words now and then, father," she said. "Who talks of dying?Hewon't die. If it comes to that, or any chance of it, I'll come back and nurse him to life again."
"Essie, you think a sight of that young man."
"Well, I do. I'm not going to deny it. I'm going upstairs to see him now."
She left the room, tripping lightly upstairs in her neat nurse's dress. When she got to Wyndham's door and knocked gently for admission her heart, however, was beating so wildly that she feared he might notice it.
"Come in," said his voice; she entered.
He was lying back in his easy-chair. When he saw Esther he took off the soft hat which he always wore in Cherry's presence, and greeted her with that brightness in his eyes which was the greatest reward he could possibly offer her.
"You are a little late," he said; "but I thought you would not fail me."
"I won't ever fail you, Mr. Wyndham; you know that."
"Esther, it is safer to call me Brother Jerome."
"Not at the present moment. The house is empty but for my father. Still, if you wish it, sir."
"I think I do wish it. A habit is a habit. The name may slip out at a wrong moment, and then—my God, think what would happen then!"
"Don't excite yourself, sir. Esther Helps is never likely to forget herself. Still I see the sense of your wishes. You are Brother Jerome to me always from this out. And now, before I go any further, I want to state a fact. Brother Jerome, you are ill."
"I am ill, Esther. Ill, nigh unto death."
"My God, you shan't die!"
"Hush; the question of dying does not rest with you or me. I want to die, so probably I shall live."
"You look like dying. Does Cherry feed you well?"
"Better than well. I want for nothing."
"Is your fire kept up all night?"
"Esther, I have not come to requiring a night nurse yet. My fire goes out in the early hours before the dawn."
"The coldest part of the twenty-four hours. Brother Jerome, you must give up visiting in East London at present."
"No, not while I can crawl. You forget that on a certain night I surrendered my body as well as my spirit to the service of comfort. While I can comfort others I will. There is nothing else left to me."
"Then, sir, you will die—you will deliberately kill yourself."
"No, I tried that once. I won't again. Esther, what is the matter? You are a good girl. It is a mistake for you to waste your pity on me."
"You must forgive me, sir. Pity comes to one unbidden. Pity—and—and sympathy. If you get worse, I shall leave my situation and come home and nurse you."
"Then you will indeed kill me. You will take away my last hope. My one goblet of new wine will be denied me. Then I shall truly die. Esther, what is your budget of news? How is my wife? Begin—go on—tell me everything."
"Mrs. Wyndham is well, sir."
"Well? Do you mean by that that she is happy? Does she laugh much? Does she sing?"
"Sometimes she laughs. Once I heard her sing."
"Only once, Esther? She had a very sweet voice. I used sometimes to tell her that it was never silent."
"Once, sir, I heard her sing."
"Oh, once? Was it a cheerful song?"
"It was on a Sunday evening. She was singing to your little boy. I think she sang the 'Happy Land.' I don't quite remember. I came to fetch the boy to bed, and she was singing to him. She took her hands off the piano suddenly when I came in, and there were tears in her eyes."
"Tears? She was always sensitive to music. And yet you say she does not look sad."
"I should not call her sad, Brother Jerome. Her faceis calm and quiet. I think she is a very good young lady."
"You need not tell me that, Esther; you managed very well about the boy."
"Thank you, sir. I think I did. What did you feel when you saw him, sir?"
"Rapture. All my blood flowed swiftly. I lived and breathed. I had an exquisite five minutes."
"The boy is not like his mother, sir."
"No, nor like me. He resembles my sister Lilias. Esther, I must see him again."
"You shall, by-and-bye, but not too soon. We must not run any risks."
"Certainly not. I will have much patience. Hold out the hope only, and I will cling to it indefinitely."
"You shall see the child again, Brother Jerome."
"God abundantly bless you. Now go on. Tell me more. How does my wife spend her time? Has she many visitors?"
"Sometimes her father."
"Only sometimes? They used to be inseparable."
"Not now, sir. There is something wrong between them. When they meet they are constrained with one another, and they don't meet very often. I have orders, though, to take the child every morning to see Mr. Paget."
"Have you? I am sorry for that. He kisses my son, does he?"
"Yes, sir. He seems wrapped up in him; he——"
"Don't talk of him. That subject turns my blood into vinegar. Go on. Tell me more. What other visitor has my wife?"
"Sometimes your sister, Miss Lilias Wyndham."
"My sister? Esther, you don't know what that name recalls. All the old innocent days; the little hymns before we went to bed, and the little prayers at our mother's knee. I don'tthink I can bear to hear much about Lilias; but I am glad she loves my wife."
"She does, sir. She is devoted to Mrs. Wyndham. I don't think any other visitors come except Mr. Carr."
"Adrian Carr, a clergyman?"
Wyndham's tone had suddenly become alert and wakeful.
"I believe the gentleman's name is the Rev. Adrian Carr. Brother Jerome."
"Why do you speak in that guarded voice, Esther? Have you anything to conceal?"
"No, sir, no. Don't excite yourself. I conceal nothing; he comes, that is all."
"But surely, not often? He is my father's curate; he cannot often come to London."
"He is not Mr. Wyndham's curate now, sir; he has a church of his own, St. Jude's they call it, at the corner of Butler-street."
"And he comes constantly to my house? To—to see my wife?"
"Your—your widow, sir."
"God help me, Esther! God help me! How am I to endure this! My poor—my beloved—my sweet—and are you exposed to this? Esther, Esther, this care turns me into a madman."
"You must stay quiet, Brother Jerome. Mr. Carr comes, and your—your widow sees him."
"Do you think she likes him?"
"Oh, sir, I would rather die than have to tell it to you."
"I cannot listen to your sentimentalisms. Does my wife seem happy when Adrian Carr calls upon her?"
"I think she is interested in him, Brother Jerome."
"Does she see him alone?"
"Often alone."
"And you say she seems pleased?"
"I think so. It is incomprehensible to me."
"Never mind whether you understand it or not. Do you know that by this news you are turning me into a devil? I'll risk everything—everything. I'll expose the whole vile conspiracy if my wife is entrapped into engaging herself to Adrian Carr."
Brother Jerome was no longer a weak-looking invalid; he began to pace his attic floor; a fire burnt in his sunken eyes, and he clenched his thin hands. For the time he was strong.
"Listen to me, Esther Helps. My wife shall run no risk of that kind. It was in the contract thatthatshould be prevented. I sinned for her—yes, I willingly sinned for her—but she shall never sin for me. Rather than that we'll all go to penal servitude. I, and your father, and her father."
"Do quiet yourself, Mr. Wyndham. There may be nothing in what I told you."
Esther felt really frightened.
"Perhaps the gentleman comes to see your sister, Miss Wyndham. He certainly comes, but—but——"
"Esther, the whole thing must be put a stop to—the faintest shadow of risk must not be run. My wife thinks herself a widow, but she must retain the feelings of a wife. It must be impossible for her, while I live, to think of another man."
"Can you not bring yourself back to her memory, sir? Is there no way?"
"That is a good thought. Don't speak for a little. Let me think."
Wyndham continued to pace the floor. Esther softly built up the fire with trembling fingers. In this mood she was afraid of Wyndham. That fire in his eyes was new to her. She was cowed—she shivered. With her mental vision she already saw her grey-headed father in the prisoner's dock.
"Esther," said Wyndham, coming up to her suddenly. "I have thought of a plan. It won't implicate anyone,and if a chord in Valentine's heart still beats true to me this must touch it. At what hour does Carr generally call to see my wife?"
"He is a busy man; he comes mostly at night, about nine o'clock. He has a cup of tea, and goes away at ten. When Miss Wyndham is there he sometimes stays on till nearly eleven."
"He comes every night?"
"Almost every night."
"And he leaves at ten?"
"A few minutes after ten. When the clock strikes ten it seems to be a sort of a signal to him, and he gets up and goes away."
"Thank you. Ten, then, will be the hour. Esther, something else may happen at ten of the clock. You need not look so white. I said no risk would be run. It is possible, however, that my wife may be agitated. No, you don't suppose I am going to reveal myself to her—nothing of the sort. Still, something will happen which may break down her nerve and her calm. In that case she may even appeal to you, Esther, you will be very guarded. You must remember that on the success of this scheme of mine depends your father's safety, for if she engages herself to Carr I swear by the God above me that we three, Paget, your father, and I, go to prison."
"Sir, I must own that I feel dreadfully frightened."
"Poor Esther! And you don't deserve it, for you are the best of girls and quite innocent. But that is ever the way. The innocent bear the sins of the guilty. In this matter, however, Esther, you must trust me, and keep your own counsel. Now, I want to know if you have any money you can lend me?"
"I have two sovereigns in my purse, sir. Will that do?"
"Plentifully. I will tell you what I want the money for. I want to hire a violin—a good one. Once, Esther. I used to express my feelings through the violin. It talked for me. It revealed some of the tortures of my soul. The violin shall speak again and to my wife. Now you are prepared at all points. Good-bye. Be as brave as you are good, and the worst may be averted."
On the following night, as Esther was preparing to go to bed, the nursery door was suddenly opened and Mrs. Wyndham entered.
"Esther," she said, "I want baby."
"He is sound asleep, madam. You would not wake him?"
"He can be moved without disturbing him. I want him to sleep in my bed. I want his company. My little child?"
She was trembling. She caught hold of the rails of the baby's cot.
"Little children are sacred innocent things, aren't they, nurse? I want my little child to-night."
"Strange," thought Esther. "I listened with all my might, and I could not hear anything except the usual barrel organs and German bands in the street. But she has heard something, there isn't a doubt. How queer and shaken she looks. Poor young thing, I do pity her; she can't help thinking she is a widow when she is a wife."
Aloud Esther complied with Mrs. Wyndham's request cheerfully.
"Certainly, madam. The child will never know that we are moving him. If you will go on to your room, ma'am, I'll follow with master baby."
Mrs. Wyndham turned away at once.
When the nurse entered her mistress' room with the child, there was a soft nest made in the big bed to receive him, and the fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow over everything.
"Let me kiss him," said the mother. "My darling, my beloved. I'll take him into my arms presently, nurse, and then all fears will fly away."
"Fears, Mrs. Wyndham? No one ought to fear in this cheerful room."
"Perhaps not, nurse; but sometimes I am superstitious—painfully so. Yes, put baby there. Is he not a handsome boy? Although I could wish he were more like his father."
"He seems to feature your sister-in-law, Miss Lilias Wyndham, madam."
"How queer that you should find that out! He is not like what Lilias is now, but they all say she was just such another little child. Nurse, I hate high winds—there is going to be a storm to-night."
"Would you like me to sleep on the sofa in your room, madam?"
"Yes, no—yes, oh, yes."
"I will bring a shawl, and wrap it round me and lie down."
"No, don't, nurse, don't. I must not yield to this nameless thing. I must—I will be brave. And the child, my own little child, will comfort me."
"What is the nameless thing, dear madam?"
"I cannot—I won't speak of it. Esther, are you—are yougoing?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Wyndham. I mean, not yet."
"That is right. Take this chair; warm yourself. Esther. I don't look on you as an ordinary nurse. Long ago I used to be so much interested in you."
"It was very kind of you, madam; young ladies, as a rule, have no time to interest themselves in poor girls."
"But I had plenty of time, and did interest myself. My father was always so much attached to yours. I was an only child and you were an only child. I used to wonder if you and your father cared for each other as passionately, as loyally, as I and my father cared."
"I don't know that, madam; we did love each other. Our love remains unchanged. True love ought never to change, ought it?"
"It ought never to change," repeated Mrs. Wyndham. Her face grew white, her lips trembled. "Sometimes true love is killed by a blow," she said suddenly. Then her expression changed again, she tried to look cheerful. "I won't talk any more. I am sleepy, and that nest near baby looks inviting. Good-night, dear nurse."
"Let me undress you, ma'am. Let me see you in your nest beside the child."
"No. Go now. Or rather—rather—stay a moment or two longer. Esther, had you ever the heartache?"
"There are a few women, madam, who don't know what the heartache means."
"I suppose that is true. Once I knew nothing about it. Esther, you are lucky never to have married."
Esther Helps made no response.
"To marry—to love—and then to lose," dreamily murmured Mrs. Wyndham. "To love, and then to lose. Esther, it is a dreadful thing to be a widow, when you are young."
"But the widow can become a wife again," suddenly replied Esther.
The words seemed forced from her lips; she was sorry the moment she had uttered them.
Mrs. Wyndham opened her big eyes wide.
"I suppose the widows who can become wives again have not lost much," she responded in a cold voice.
Then she moved over to the bedside and began to undress.
A few moments later Esther left her. She felt puzzled, perplexed, unhappy. She had no key to the thoughts which were passing in her mistress' mind. Her impression was that Valentine loved Carr, but felt a certain shame at the fact.
The next evening the vicar of St. Jude's called again. He came hurriedly to the door, ran up the stairs without being shown the way, and entered Valentine's presencewith a brisk step. Esther leant over the banisters to watch him as he entered the drawing-room. It was half-past nine when he arrived; he had been conducting a prayer meeting and was later than usual.
The drawing-room door was shut on the two, and Esther, who had been sitting with the child, now crept softly downstairs and entered a small bedroom at the back of the drawing-room. This bedroom also looked on the street. It was the room occupied by Lilias when she visited her sister-in-law. Esther closed the door softly behind her. The room was dark. She went up to the window and looked eagerly up and down the gaily-lighted street.
She could distinguish no words, but the soft murmur of voices came to her through the drawing-room wall.
"You are better to-night?" said Carr, in a cheery, confident tone; "although you took it upon yourself to disobey me."
"I could not go to the prayer-meeting. I could not."
"Well, well, you must act as you think best; only I don't think staying at home is the best thing for you."
"Oh, I shan't get over-nervous; and Lilias is coming to me next week."
Carr's eyes brightened.
"That is good," he said. "Well, I must not stay. I just looked in for a moment. I knew you would not let these superstitious fears get the better of you. Good-night."
He held out his hand. Valentine put hers behind her.
"No," she said; "you always stay until past ten. It was at ten o'clock last night——" She trembled—more words would not come.
"And I will stay until past ten to-night," responded Carr resuming his seat. "Now, don't look at the clock. Turn your thoughts to me and my affairs. So Miss Wyndham comes here next week?"
"She does."
"Shall I put everything to the test, then?"
Valentine's face grew bright.
"Oh how earnestly I wish you would," she cried, clasping her hands.
"Do you, indeed? Then you must think there is some chance for me. The fact is, Mrs. Wyndham, I am the veriest coward that ever breathed. If I win, I win for ever. I mean that I am made, body, soul, and spirit. If I lose, I think morally I shall go under. A main spring will be broken which has kept me right, kept my eyes looking upwards ever since I knew your sister Lilias."
"But even if she refuses you, you will live on," said Valentine, in a dreamy voice. "We often have to live on when the main spring is broken. We creep instead of running, that is all."
"Now you are getting gloomy again. As your spiritual adviser I cannot permit it. You have put a daring thought into my head, and you are bound to think of me, not yourself, at present. Will you sing something to me before I go? You know Lilias' song of triumph; you taught it to her. Sing it to me to-night, it will be a good omen."
Valentine hesitated for a moment. Then she went over to the piano and opened it. Her fingers touched one or two chords tremblingly. Suddenly she stopped, her face worked. She looked at Carr with a piteous expression.
"I cannot sing the triumph song," she said, "it is not in me. I should do it no justice. This must take its place. But it is not for you, remember. Oh, no, I pray God never for you. Listen, don't scold me afterwards. Listen."
Her fingers ran over the keys, her voice swelled and filled the room:—
"The murmur of the mourning ghostThat keeps the shadowy kine.Oh, Keith of Ravelston.The sorrows of thy line!Ravelston, Ravelston.The merry path that leadsDown the golden morning hill.And through the silver meads.Ravelston, Ravelston.The stile beneath the tree.The maid that kept her mother's kine.The song that sang she.She sang her song, she kept her kine.She sat beneath the thorn.When Andrew Keith of RavelstonRode through the Monday morn.His henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring.His belted jewels shine—O, Keith of Ravelston.The sorrows of thy line!"
"The murmur of the mourning ghostThat keeps the shadowy kine.Oh, Keith of Ravelston.The sorrows of thy line!
Ravelston, Ravelston.The merry path that leadsDown the golden morning hill.And through the silver meads.
Ravelston, Ravelston.The stile beneath the tree.The maid that kept her mother's kine.The song that sang she.
She sang her song, she kept her kine.She sat beneath the thorn.When Andrew Keith of RavelstonRode through the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring.His belted jewels shine—O, Keith of Ravelston.The sorrows of thy line!"
"Now, good-night," said Valentine, springing to her feet. "Don't question me about the song. I sang it, but I cannot speak of it. The clock is about to strike. It is your hour for farewell. Oh, yes, I wish you all luck—all luck. The clock is striking——! Oh, what a noise there is in the street!"
"What a silence you mean," said Carr, as he took her hand.
It was true. The thunderous rattle of a heavy waggon, the discordant notes of a brass band, the din of a hurdy-gurdy frightfully out of tune, suddenly stopped. It was as if a wave of sound had been arrested, and in the quiet floated up the passionate wail of a soul. There are no other words to describe what the sound meant. It had a voice and an interpretation. It was beautiful, but its beauty was torture. Trembling in every limb, Valentine sprang away from Carr, flew to one of the French windows, wrested it open, and stepped on to the balcony. She was in white, and the people in the street could see her.She pressed to the front of the balcony and looked eagerly up and down.
The wailing of the lost soul grew more feeble—more faint. It stopped. There was a pause of half a minute, and then the waggon lumbered on, and the hurdy-gurdy crashed out its discordant notes.
"I saw nothing," said Carr, who had followed Mrs. Wyndham on to the balcony and now led her back to the drawing-room. "I saw nothing," he repeated. "I mean. I did not see the man who played."
"But you heard?"
"Oh, yes, I heard."
"You could not see. That was spirit music. My husband played. Don't speak to me; don't touch me; you tried to argue me out of my belief last night, but evenyouheard to-night. My husband has come back in the spirit, and he has played for me. Onlyheknows that air—only he in all the world. That was 'Waves.' Once I told you the story of 'Music waves.'"
She did not faint, she crouched down by the fire; but no face to be alive could be whiter than hers.
"What is the matter, Mr. Carr?" she said suddenly. "Why cannot my husband's spirit rest? They say that those spirits that are hurried out of life before their time cannot rest. O, tell me what you think. O, tell me what it means. You heard the music yourself to-night."
"I did. I certainly heard it."
"And at the same hour. When the clock struck."
"That is a mere coincidence, not worth considering."
"I don't believe in its being a coincidence."
She beat her hands passionately together.
"The thing was planned—he planned it. He will come again to-morrow night when the clock strikes ten."
Again she beat her hands together; then she covered her face with them.
Carr looked at her anxiously. The weird soft wailing music had affected even his nerves. Of course he did not believe in the supernatural element, but he was touched by the distress of the woman who was crouching at his feet. This mental unrest, this superstitious terror, might have a disastrous effect. He must do his utmost to check it. If necessary he must even be cruel to be kind.
"Mrs. Wyndham," he said, "you must go away to-morrow; you must go into the country for a few days."
"I will not. I won't stir a step."
"You ought, your nerves are shaken. There is nothing for shaken nerves like change of air. Go to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and talk to Lilias. She, too, loved your husband; she will sympathize, but she will not lose sight of common-sense."
"I will not stir from here."
"I think for your child's sake you ought. The child belongs to your husband as well as you, to your dead husband. The child is fatherless as far as this world is concerned. You have no right—it is very, very wicked of you to do anything to make him motherless."
"What do you mean? Why do you speak to me in that tone? I don't deserve it."
"You do."
"I think you are cruel."
Valentine's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"What do you mean by saying that I will leave baby motherless?"
"I mean that if you encourage the fancy which has now taken possession of you you are extremely likely to lose your senses—to become, in short, insane. How can you train your child if you are insane?"
Valentine shuddered.
"But I did hear the music," she said. "The old story music that he only played. How can I doubt the evidence of my senses? Last night at ten o'clock I heard 'Waves' played on the violin, my husband's favorite instrument—the melody which he made, the harmony and melody with all the passion and its story, which he made about himself and me. No one else could produce those sounds. I heard them last night at ten o'clock, you were here, but you heard nothing. To-night there was silence in the street, and we both heard—we both heard."
"I certainly heard some very melancholy music."
"Played on the violin?"
"Yes, played on the violin."
"In short, you heard 'Waves.'"
"I heard something which I never heard before. I cannot tell the name."
"No. What you heard was 'Waves,' in other words the cry of a soul."
"Mrs. Wyndham, get up. Give me your hand. Look me in the face. Now, that is better. I am going to talk common-sense to you. You have been from the first impressed with the idea that foul play was done to your husband. For a time I own I shared your apprehension. I discovered one or two things in connection with his death which far more than your words inclined me to this belief. Since I came to London I have thought a great deal over the matter. Last week a lucky chance brought me in communication with Captain Jellyby of theEsperance. Ah, you start. I saw him. I think you would like me to bring him here some night. He entered into minute particulars of Wyndham's last days. He would like to tell you the story himself. I can only say that a fairer story could not be recorded of any man. He was beloved by every one on board the ship. 'We all loved him,' said Captain Jellyby. 'Emigrants, passengers, sailors, all alike. Sir,' he said, 'when Mr. Wyndham was washed over, there wasn't a dry eye on board. But ifever a man humbly and cheerfully went forth to meet his Creator, he was the man, sir. He met his death trying to help the man at the wheel. Bless his heart, he spent all his life trying to help other people.'"
Valentine was silently crying.
"You comfort me," she said; "you comfort me much. Go on."
"That is all, my dear friend, that is all. It set my mind at rest with regard to your husband. It ought to set yours at rest also. He is a glorious, and happy spirit in heaven now. Is it likely that he would come back from there to frighten you for no object or purpose? No, you must dismiss the idea from your mind."
"But the music—the unearthly music."
"Played by a strolling musician with a talent for the thing. That was all."
"His air and mine—'Waves.' The air that no one else knew, that was never written down."
"You imagined the likeness to the air you mention. Our imaginations play strange tricks with us. The air played to-night was of a very minor character, and had notes in common with the one your husband composed. Hence a fleeting resemblance. It is more natural and in accordance with sense to believe this than to suppose that your husband came back from heaven to torture you. Now, good-night. You are good. You will try and be brave. I ask you to be brave for the sake of your noble husband's child."
As Carr was leaving the house he came across Esther, who, very white, but with a resolute look on her face, met him on the stairs.
"How is my mistress, sir?"
Carr felt nettled at her tone.
"Why do you ask?" he said shortly; "when last you saw her I presume she was well."
"No, sir."
"No?"
Carr paused. He gave Esther a quick piercing look, and his manner changed. Her face was strong, it could be relied on.
"You are the little boy's nurse, are you not?"
"I am, Mr. Carr."
"And you are attached to your mistress?"
Esther hesitated.
"I—I am," she said, but her voice trembled.
"Mrs. Wyndham wants some one who can be kind and sympathetic near her. Some one who can be tactful, and full of common-sense. Her nerves are greatly shaken. For instance she was much agitated at some music she heard in the street to-night."
"I heard it, sir. I was surprised. It wasn't like ordinary music."
"Oh, you thought so, did you? For heaven's sake don't repeat your thoughts to Mrs. Wyndham. You look a sensible young woman."
Esther dropped a curtsey.
"I hope I am," she said in a demure voice.
"Has your mistress a maid—a maid she likes?"
"No. I render her what little services are necessary."
"Can you stay in her room to-night? She ought not to be alone."
"I will sleep on the sofa in my mistress' room."
"That is right. Don't allude to the music in the street if you can help it."
Carr ran downstairs and went away, and Esther, slowly and hesitatingly, entered the drawing-room.
Mrs. Wyndham was standing with her two arms clasped round her husband's violin. The tears were raining from her eyes. Before she could disengage herself Esther saw the action, and a queer pang, half of pleasure, half of pain, shot through her. She saw at a glance that Gerald Wyndham's wife cared for no one but her husband. She stepped across the room quickly, and without any thought of the familiarity of the action put her hand through her mistress' arm, and led her towards the door.
"Come," she said, "you are tired and weak. Master baby is in his nest, and he wants you. Come, I am going to put you to bed."
Valentine raised no objection. She was trembling and cold. The tears were undried on her cheeks; the look of infinite pathetic patience in her eyes almost crushed Esther Helps.
"What a fool I was to suppose she didn't love her husband," she murmured. "As if any woman could be much with him and not love him. Ah, lucky Mrs. Wyndham—notwithstanding all your sorrow you are the woman I envy most on earth."
Valentine did not object to her maid's attentions. She felt shaken and worn out, and was glad passively to submit. When she was in bed she spoke for the first time.
"Esther, get a shawl, and lie here, outside the clothes. It comforts me to have you near."
Esther obeyed without any comment. She wrapped a thick shawl around her, and lay down near the edge of the big bed. Valentine took her little rosy boy into her arms.
"Now you must go to sleep, Mrs. Wyndham," said the maid, and she resolutely shut herown dark eyes.
For an hour she lay motionless, every nerve keenly awake, and on tension. For an hour she never lifted her eyelids. At the end of that time she opened them, and glanced at her mistress. Valentine was lying as still as if she were carved in marble. Her eyes were wide open. They were looking straight before her out into the big room. She scarcely seemed to breathe, and never saw Esther when she glanced at her.
"This won't do," thought the maid. "Poor little soul, she has got an awful shock. She will be very ill if I don't do something to rouse and interest her. I know she loves her husband—I will speak of him."
Esther moved on purpose somewhat aggressively. Valentine's wide-open eyes never flinched or changed their expression. The maid touched her mistress on the shoulder.
"This isn't good of you," she said; "you ought to be asleep."
Valentine started and shivered violently.
"I thought I was asleep," she said. "At any rate I was far away."
"When people sleep they shut their eyes," quoth Esther.
"Were mine open? I did not know it. I was looking at a picture—a picture in real life. It was lovely."
"I like beautiful pictures," said Esther. "Tell me what you saw."
By this time these two women had forgotten the relative positions they bore to each other. Valentine observed no familiarity in Esther's tone. Esther spoke and thought as though she were Valentine's social equal. She knew she was above her mentally just then; it was necessary for her to take the lead.
"Tell me what you saw, madam," she said. "Describe your beautiful picture."
Valentine obeyed with the docility of a child.
"It was a seaside picture," she began. "The sun was setting, and there was a path of light across the waters. The path seemed to go right up into the sky, and melt, and end there. And I—I thought of Jacob's ladder, from earth to heaven, and the angels walking up and down. On the shore a man and a girl sat. He had his arm round her waist; and she was filling her hands with the warm soft sand and letting it dribble away through her fingers. She was happy. She felt warm and contented, and protected against the whole world. Although she did not know that she loved it so much, it was the arm that encircled her that gave her that feeling."
Valentine stopped suddenly.
"That was a pretty picture, madam," said Esther. "A pretty picture, and you described it well. I suppose the gentleman was the girl's lover or husband."
"Her lover and husband in one. They were married. They sat like that once during their honeymoon. Presently he, the husband, took up his violin, which he had beside him, and began to play."
"Don't go into the music part, please, Mrs. Wyndham. I want just to keep to the picture alone. I want to guess something. I am good at guessing. You were the happy young girl."
"I was; oh, I was."
"And the gentleman was your husband; yes, your husband, whom you dearly loved."
"Don't talk of him, he is lost, gone. Esther, I'm a miserable, miserable woman."
Her icy quiet was broken up. Long-drawn sobs escaped her; she shivered as she wept.
"It is an awful thing to love too late—to love loo late," she moaned.
"Madam, I'm going to give you some sal-volatile and water: when you have taken it you shall tell me the whole story from first to last. Yes, you had better; you have said too much or too little. I may be able to comfort you if I know all."
Esther administered the restorative. When the distressful sobs were quieted, and Mrs. Wyndham lay back exhausted on her pillow, she took her hand, and said with infinite tact and tenderness:—
"You love him you have lost very deeply. Is that not so?"
"Beyond words to describe."
"You were young when you were married, Mrs. Wyndham; you are a very young woman still. Perhaps, as a young girl, as almost a child-girl, you did not know what great love meant."
"I always knew what great love meant. As a little girl I used to idolize my father. I remember when I was very young, not much older than baby here, lying down on the floor and kissing the carpet over which his steps had walked. I used to steal into his study and sit like a mouse; perfectly happy while I was watching him. When I saw his face that was bliss; when he took me in his arms I thought Heaven could give me no more. You are an only child. Esther Helps. Did you feel like that for your father?"
"No, madam, I always loved my father after a quiet fashion; I love him after a quiet fashion still. That kind of intense love I did not know. And you feel it still for Mr. Paget? I suppose it is natural. He is a handsome gentleman; he has a way about him that attracts people. For instance, my father would do anything for him. It is still bliss to you, Mrs. Wyndham, to watch your father's face."
"Come near to me, Esther; let me whisper to you. That love which I thought unquenchable is—dead!"
"Madam, you astonish me! Dead?"
"It died, Esther Helps, on the morning my husband sailed away."
"Then you only love your husband now?"
"I love many people. For instance, this little child; for instance, my sister Lilias. What I feel for my husband is high above all these things. I cannot describe it. It lies here—in my heart—and my heart aches, and aches."
"It would make Mr. Wyndham very happy to hear you," said Esther.
Her words were unguarded. Valentine began to sob feebly.
"He can never hear me," she said. "That is the dreadful part. I loved him when we were married, but I did not know it. Then the knowledge came to me, and I was so happy. One evening I told him so. I said, 'I love you!' I shall never forget his face. Often he was sad, but his face seemed to shine when I said those words, and he took me in his arms, and I saw a little way into the depth of his great heart. Soon after that something happened—I am not going to tell it, it doesn't matter—please don't hold my hand, Esther. It is very queer thatyoushould be with me to-night."
"Why, dear madam? Don't you like to have me with you?"
"I think I do. I really quite think I do. Still it is strange that you should be here."
"Your story interests me wonderfully, Mrs. Wyndham. Will you tell me more?"
"There is not a great deal to tell. For a time I misunderstood my husband, and the love which really filled my heart seemed to go back and back and back like the waves when the tide is going out. Then the time came for him to go to Sydney. He could not say good-bye; he wrote good-bye. He said a strange thing in the middle of the letter; he asked me if I really loved him to join him the next morning on board theEsperance. Loved him! Of course I loved him! I was so relieved. Everything was made clear to me. He was first—all others everywhere were second. My father came in, and I told him what I meant to do. He was angry, and tried to dissuade me. When he saw that I would not yield he appeared to consent, and promised to go with me the next morning to Southampton. TheEsperancewas not to sail until noon. There seemed lots of time. Still, for the first time, I began to doubt my father. I determined not to wait for the train he had arranged to travel by with me, but to go down by a much earlier one. I went to Southampton with a German maid I had at the time. We arrived there at eight in the morning, we reached the docks soon after nine, theEsperancewas away—she had sailed at eight. Don't question me about that day, Esther Helps. It was on that day my love for my father died."
It was nearly morning before Mrs. Wyndham fell asleep. Before then, Esther had said a good deal.
"I am not surprised at your loving your husband," she began. "Men like your husband are worth loving. They are loyal, true, and noble. They make the world a better place. Once your husband helped me. I am going to tell you the story.
"Three years ago, Mrs. Wyndham, I was a very different girl from the one who now is by your side. I was handsome, and vain, and empty-headed. I thought most of dress and of flirting. I had the silliest form of ambition. I wanted to be a gentleman's wife. My mother had been a lady by birth, and I thought it was only due to me to be the same. My only chance of becoming a lady was by marrying a gentleman, and I thought surely someone would be found who would make me his wife for the sake of my handsome face. I had nothing else to recommend me. Mrs. Wyndham, for I was empty-headed and untrained, and I had a shallow, vulgar soul.
"One day I was skating in Regent's Park with some friends. I fell on the ice and hurt my foot. A gentleman picked me up. I looked into his face in the bold way I had, and then all of a sudden I felt ashamed of myself, and I looked down, and a modest, humble womanly feeling crept over me. The gentleman was your husband, Mr. Wyndham; the expression on his face impressed me, and I could not forget it. He came to our house that evening and brought a book to my father, and a present of flowers from you to me. I felt quite silent and queer when he was in the room; I did not talk, but I listened to every word he said. He was so uncommon. I thought what a clergyman he'd make, and how, if he were as eloquent in his words as in his looks, he might make us all good in spite of ourselves. He made a great impression on me, and I did not like to think my low silly thoughts after he had gone.
"Soon afterwards I made the acquaintance of a Captain Herriot, in the —th Hussars; he was a very fine gentleman, and had very fine words, and although I did not love him a bit nor a scrap, he turned my head with his flattery. He did go on about my face—I don't know how I ever was goose enough to believe him. He managed to get my secrets out of me though, and when I told him that I meant to be a gentleman's wife some day, he said that he was the gentleman, and that I should marry him, and him alone. I thought that would be fine, and I believed him. He made all arrangements—oh, how I hate to think of what I afterwards saw was his real meaning.
"I was not to let out a thing to my father, and on a certain night we were to go together to the Gaiety, and he was to take me home afterwards, and the next morning we were to go to church and be married. He showed me the license and the ring, and I believed everything, and thought it would be fine to be the wife of Captain Herriot.
"I kept my secret from my father, but Cherry, a cousin who lives with us, got some of it out of me, for I was mad with vain triumph, and it was indirectly through her that I came to be delivered. The night arrived, and I went away from my home thinking how proudly I'd come back to show myself in a day or two; and how Cherry would open her eyes when I told her I was the wife of Captain Herriot, of the—th Hussars. I reached the theatre, and Captain Herriot gave me his arm, and led me into the house, and we took our places in the stalls. People turned and looked at me, and Captain Herriot said it was no wonder, for I was the most beautiful woman in the Gaiety that night.
"Then the curtain rose, the house was darkened, and some one took the empty stall at my other side. I turned my head, Mr. Wyndham was sitting near me. He said a courteous word or two. I bowed my head; I could notspeak. Madam, I did not see that play; I was there, looking on, but I saw nothing. Captain Herriot whispered in my ear; I pushed away from him. Suddenly he was horrible to me. I felt like a girl who was placed between an angel and a devil. Instantly the mask fell from my eyes. Captain Herriot meant to ruin me, never to marry me. Mr. Wyndham scarcely said a word to me till the play was over, then he spoke.
"'Your father wants you,' he said. 'Here is a cab, get into it. I will take you to your father.'
"He spoke out, quite loud and clear. I thought Captain Herriot would have fought him. Not a bit of it. His face turned an ugly color. He took off his hat to me, and slunk away through the crowd. That was the last straw. He had not even spirit to fight for the girl who thought she was about to become his wife.
"Mr. Wyndham got on the box of the cab, and took me to Mr. Paget's offices. My old father came out, and helped me out of the cab, and put his arms round me. He wrung Mr. Wyndham's hand, and said 'God bless you, sir;' and then he led me inside, and told me how Cherry had betrayed me, and how he (my father) had taken that stall ticket intending to sit beside me that night, and give Captain Herriot a blow in his face afterwards, as he was known to be one of the greatest scoundrels going. Pressing business kept my father at the office that night, and Mr. Wyndham promised to go in his place.
"'There isn't another young gentleman who would do it,' said my father. 'No not another.'
"After that, madam, I was changed; yes, a good bit. I thought I'd live more worthy. Mr. Wyndham's face used to come between me and frivolous ways and vain sins. It seemed as if his were the hand to lead me up. You don't mind, do you, madam, that he should have rescued one poor girl from the pit ofdestruction, and that she should love him—yes, love him for what he has done?"
"Oh, Esther, do I mind? Come here, Esther, come here. Let me put my arms round you. Kiss me. You have lifted something from my heart—how much you can never know. Esther,Iwas at the Gaiety that night, and I saw my husband with you, and I—I doubted him."
"Madam—you?" Esther sprang away—her whole face became crimson.
"I did, Esther; and that was when my love went away like the tide going out; but now—now——Esther, lie down. Let me hold your hand. I am sleepy. I can sleep sweetly now."
When the wandering minstrel, with his violin under his arm, left the neighborhood of Park-lane, he walked with a somewhat feeble and faltering step through Grosvenor-square and into Bond-street. A few people looked at him as he passed, and a hungry-looking girl who was leaning against a wall suddenly asked him to play for her. He stopped at the sound of her voice and said a word or two.
"I am sorry my violin only knows one air, and I have played it."
"Can you not play it again?"
"It is not meant for you, poor girl. Good-night."
"Good-night, kind sir. I'll say a prayer for you if you like; you look miserable enough."
The minstrel removed his soft hat, made a gesture of thanks, and hurried on. He was going to Queen's Gate. The walk was long, and he was very feeble. He had a few coins in his pocket from the change of Esther's sovereigns; he determined to ride, and mounted on the roof of a Hammersmith omnibus in Piccadilly.
By-and-bye he reached his destination, and found himself in familiar ground. He walked slowly now, hesitating—sometimes inclined to turn back. Presently he reached a house; he went up the steps, and took shelter for a moment from the biting east winds under the portico. It was late, but the lights were still shining in the great mansion.
He was glad of this; he could not have done what he meant to do except under strong excitement, and sheltered by the friendly gas light. He turned and gave the visitor's bell a full peal. The door was opened almost instantly by a liveried footman.
"Is Mr. Paget within?"
The man stared. The voice was not only refined, but to a certain extent familiar. The voice, oh, yes; but thenthe figure, the thin, long reed-like figure, slouching forward with weakness, buttoned up tight in the seedy frock coat whose better days must have been a matter of the very distant past.
"Is Mr. Paget within?"
The tone was so assured and even peremptory that the servant, in spite of himself, was overawed.
"I believe so, sir," he said.
"Ask if I can see him."
"Mr. Paget is not very well, sir, and it is late."
"Ask if I can see him."
The footman turned a little surly.
"I'll inquire," he said; "he's sure to say no, but I'll inquire. Your name, if you please. My master will require to know your name."
"I am known as Brother Jerome. Tell your master that my business is urgent. Go; I am in a hurry."
"Rum party, that," murmured the servant. "Don't understand him; don't like him. All the same, I can't shut the door in his face. He's the sort of party as has seen better days; 'ope as the umbrellas is safe."
Then he walked across the hall and entered his master's study.
The room, with its old oak and painted glass, and electric light, looked the perfection of comfort. The tall, white-headed man who sat crushed up in the big armchair was the envied of many.
"If you please, sir," said the servant.
"Yes; don't leave the door open. Who were you chatting to in the hall?"
"A man who has called, and wants to see you very particular, sir."
"I can't see him."
"He says his name is Brother Jerome."
"I can't see him. Go away, and shut the door."
"I knew it would be no use," muttered the footman. "Only he seems a sort of a gentleman, sir, and in trouble like."
"I can't see him. Shut the door and go away!"
"Yes, you can see me," said a voice.
The minstrel walked into the room.
"Good heavens!"