At the sound of his voice the footman fell back as white as a sheet. Mr. Paget rose, walked over to him, took him by the shoulders, and pushed him out of the room. He locked the door behind him. Then he turned, and backing step by step almost as far as the window, raised his hands, and looked at his forbidden visitor with a frozen expression of horror.
Wyndham took his hat off and laid it on the table. Mr. Paget raised his hands, covered his face with them, and groaned.
"Spirit!" he said. "Spirit, why have you come to torment me before the time?"
"I am no spirit," replied Wyndham, "I am a living man—a defrauded and injured man—but as much alive as you are."
"It is false—don't touch me—don't come a step nearer—you are dead—you have been dead for the last three years. On the 25th April, 18—, you committed suicide by jumping into the sea; you did it on purpose to revenge yourself, and since then you have haunted me, and made my life as hell. I always said, Wyndham, you would make an awful ghost—you do, you do."
"I am not a ghost," said Wyndham. "Touch me, and you will see. This wrist and hand are thin enough, but they are alive. I fell into the sea, but I was rescued. I came to you to-night—I troubled you to-night because you have broken our contract, because——What is the matter? Touch me, you will see I am no ghost."
Wyndham came nearer; Mr. Paget uttered a piercing shriek.
"Don't—don't!" he implored. "You are a lying spirit; you have often lied—often—to me. You want to take me with you; you know if you touch me I shall have to go. Don't—oh, I beseech of you, leave me the little time longer that I've got to live. Don't torment me before the time."
He dropped on his knees; his streaming white hair fell behind him, his hands were raised in supplication.
"Don't," said Wyndham, terribly distressed. "You have wronged me bitterly, but I, too, am a sinner; I would not willingly hurt mortal on this earth. Get up, don't degrade yourself. I am a living man like yourself. I have come to speak to you of my wife—of Valentine."
"Don't breathe her name. I lost her through you. No, you are dead—I have murdered you—your blood is on my soul—but I won't go with you yet, not yet. Ha! ha! I'll outwit you. Don't touch me!"
He gave another scream, an awful scream, half of triumph, half of despair, sprang to the door, unlocked it and vanished.
Wyndham took up his violin and left the house.
"Mad, poor fellow!" he muttered to himself. "Who'd have thought it? Even from a worldly point of view what fools people are to sin! What luck does it ever bring them? He made me his accomplice, his victim, in order to keep his daughter's love, in order to escape dishonor and penal servitude. He told me the whole story of that trust money—to be his if there was no child—to be kept for a child if there was. He was a good fellow before he got the trust money I have no doubt. The friend died, and soon afterwards Paget learned that he had left a son behind him. Mr. Paget told me—how well I remember his face when he told me how he felt about the son, who was then only an infant, but to whom he must deliver the trust money when he came of age. 'I wanted that money badly,' he said, 'and I resolved to suppress the trust papers and use the money. I thought the chances were that the child would never know.'"
The chances, however, were against Mr. Paget. The friend who had left him the money in trust had not so absolutely believed in him as he supposed. He had left duplicate papers, and these papers were in the boy's possession. One day Mr. Paget learned this fact. When he knew this he knew also that when his friend's son came of age he should have to repay the trust with interest; in short, he would have to give the young man the enormous sum of eighty thousand pounds or be branded as a thief and a criminal.
"I remember the night he told me this story," concluded Wyndham with a sigh.
He was walking slowly now in the direction of the Embankment.
"So the plot was made up," he continued. "The insurance on my life was to pay back the trust. Valentine would never know her father's dishonor. She would continue to love him best of all men, and he would escape shame, ruin—penal servitude. How have matters turned out? For the love of a woman I performed my part: for the love of a woman and self combined, he performed his. How has he fared? The woman ceases to love him, and he is mad. I—how have matters fared with me? How? The wages of sin are hard. I saw a sight to-night which might well turn a stronger brain than mine. I saw my wife, and the man who may soon be her husband. I must not dwell on that, I dare not."
Wyndham walked on, a burning fever gave him false strength. He reached the Embankment and presently sat down near a girl who looked even poorer and more miserable than himself. There were several men and girls occupying the same bench. It was a bitter cold, frosty night; all the seats along the Embankment were full, some poor creatures even lay about on the pavement. Wyndham turned to look at the slight young creature by his side. She was very young, rather fair in appearance, and very poorly clad.
"You are shivering," said Wyndham, in the voice which still could be one of the kindest in the world.
The poor worn young face turned to look at him in surprise and even confidence.
"Yes," said the girl. "I'm bitter cold, and numb, and starved. It's a cruel world, and I hate God Almighty for having made me."
"Hush, don't say that. It does no good to speak against the one who loves you. Lean against me. Let me put my arm round you. Think of me as a brother for the next hour or two. I would not harm a hair of your head."
"I believe you," said the girl, beginning to sob.
With a touching movement of absolute confidence she laid her faded face against his shoulder.
"That is better, is it not?" said Wyndham.
"Yes, thank you, sir. I'm desperate sleepy, and I shan't slip off the bench now. I was afraid to go to sleep before, for if I slipped off somebody else would get my seat, and I know I'd be dead if I lay on the pavement till morning."
"Well, go to sleep, now. I shan't let you slip off."
"Sir, how badly you are coughing."
"I am sorry if my cough disturbs you. I cannot help giving way to it now and then."
"Oh, sir, it is not that; you seem like a good angel to me. I even love the sound of your cough, for it is kind. But have you not a home, sir?"
"I certainly have a shelter for the night. Not a home in the true sense of the word."
"Ought you not to go to your shelter, sir?"
"No, I shall stay here with you until you have had a good sleep. Now shut your eyes."
The girl tried to obey. For about ten minutes she sat quiet, and Wyndham held her close, trying to impart some of the warmth from his own body to her frozen frame. Suddenly the girl raised her eyes, looked him in the face, and smiled.
"Sir, you are an angel."
"You make a great mistake. On the contrary I have sinned more deeply than most."
"Sir?"
"It is true."
"I don't want you to preach to me, sir; but I know from your face however you have sinned you have been forgiven."
"You make another mistake; my sin is unabsolved."
"Sir?"
The girl's astonishment showed itself in her tone.
"Don't talk about me," continued Wyndham. "It is a curious fact that I love God, although it is impossible for Him to forgive me until I do something which I find impossible to do. I go unforgiven through life, still I love God. I delight in His justice, I glory in the love He has even for me, and still more for those who like you can repent and come to Him, and be really forgiven."
He paused, he saw that he was talking over the girl's head. Presently he resumed in a very gentle pleading voice:—
"I don't want to hear your story, but——"
The girl interrupted him with a sort of cry.
"It is the usual story, sir. There is nothing to conceal. Once I was innocent, now I am what men and women calllost. Lost and fallen. That's what they say of girls like me."
"God can say something quite different to you. He can say found and restored. Listen. No one loves you like God. Loving He forgives. All things are possible to love."
"Yes, sir; when you speak like that you make me weep."
"Crying will do you good. Poor little girl, we are never likely to meet again in this world. I want you to promise me that you won't turn against God Almighty. He is your best friend."
"Sir! And He leaves me to starve. To starve, and sin."
"He wants you not to sin. The starving, even if it must come, is only a small matter, for there is the whole of eternity to make up for it. Now I won't say another word, except to assure you from the lips of a dying man, for I know I am dying, that God is your best friend, and that He loves you. Go to sleep."
The girl smiled again, and presently dropped off into an uneasy slumber with her head on Wyndham's shoulder.
By-and-bye a stout woman, with a basket on her arm, came up. She looked curiously at Wyndham. He saw at a glance that she must have walked from a long distance, and would like his seat. He beckoned her over.
"You are tired. Shall I give you my seat?"
"Eh, sir, you are kind. I have come a long way and am fair spent."
"You shall sit here, if you will let this tired girl lay her head on your breast."
"Eh, but she don't look as good as she might be!"
"Never mind. Jesus Christ would have let her put her head on His breast. Thank you, I knew you were a kind hearted woman. She will be much better near you than near me. Here is a shilling. Give it her when she wakes. Good-night."
Esther longed to go to Acacia Villas during the week. She often felt on the point of asking Mrs. Wyndham to give her leave, but then again she felt afraid to raise suspicions; and besides her mistress was ill, and clung to her. Although Esther listened with a kind of terror on the following evening, the sound of the violin was not again heard.
Sunday came at last, and she could claim her privilege of going home. She arrived at Acacia Villas with her heart in a tumult. How much she would have to tell Wyndham! It was in her power to make him happy, to relieve his heart of its worst load.
Cherry alone was in the kitchen when she arrived, and Cherry was in a very snappish humor.
"No, Esther, I don't know where uncle is. He's not often at home now. I hear say that Mr. Paget is very bad—gone in the head you know. They'll have to put him into an asylum, and that'll be a good thing for poor uncle. Take off your bonnet and cloak, Esther, and have a cup of tea cosy-like. I'm learning one of Macaulay's Lays now for a recitation. Maybe you'd hear me a few of the stanzas when you're drinking your tea."
"Yes, Cherry, dear, but I want to go up to Brother Jerome first. I can see him while you're getting the kettle to boil. I've a little parcel here which I want him to take down to Sister Josephine to the Mission House to-morrow."
Cherry laughed in a half-startled way.
"Don't you know?" she said.
"Don't I know what?"
"Why Brother Jerome ain't here; he went out on Tuesday evening and never came home. I thought, for sure, uncle would have gone and told you."
"Never came home since Tuesday? No, I didn't hear."
Esther sat down and put her hand to her heart. Her face was ghastly.
"I knew it," murmured Cherry under her breath. "She have gone and fallen in love with a chap from one of them slums."
Aloud she said in a brisk tone:—
"Yes, he's gone. I don't suppose there's much in it. He were tired of the attic, that's all. I sleep easy of nights now. No more pacing the boards overhead, nor hack, hack, hack coughing fit to wake the seven sleepers. What's the matter, Esther?"
"You are the most heartless girl I ever met," said Esther. "No, I don't want your tea."
She tied her bonnet strings and left the house without glancing at her crestfallen cousin.
That very same afternoon, as Mrs. Wyndham was sitting in her bedroom, trying to amuse baby, who was in a slightly refractory humor, there came a sudden message for her. One of the maids came into the room with the information that Helps was downstairs and wanted to speak to her directly.
Mrs. Wyndham had not left her room since Tuesday evening. There was nothing apparently the matter with her, and yet all through the week her pulse had beat too quickly, and a hectic color came and went on her cheeks. She ate very little, she slept badly, and the watchful expression in her eyes took from their beauty and gave them a strained appearance. She did not know herself why she was watchful, or what she was waiting for, but she was consciously nervous and ill at ease.
When the maid brought the information that Helps was downstairs, her mistress instantly started to her feet, almost pushing the astonished and indignant baby aside.
"Take care of Master Gerry," she said to the girl. "I will go and speak to Mr. Helps; where ishe?"
"I showed him into the study, ma'am."
Valentine ran downstairs; her eagerness and impatience and growing presentiment that something was at hand increased with each step she took. She entered the study, and said in a brusque voice, and with a bright color in her cheeks:—
"Well?"
"Mr. Paget has sent me to you, Mrs. Wyndham," said Helps, in his uniformly weak tones. "Mr. Paget is ill, and he wants to see you at once."
Valentine stepped back a pace.
"My father!" she said. "But he knows I do not care to go to the house."
"He knows that fact very well, Mrs. Wyndham."
"Still he sent for me?"
"He did, madam."
"Is my father worse than usual?"
"In some ways he is worse—in some better," replied Helps in a dubious sort of voice. "If I were you I'd come. Miss Valentine—Mrs. Wyndham, I mean."
"Yes, Helps, I'll come; I'll come instantly. Will you fetch a cab for me?"
"There's one waiting at the door, ma'am."
"Very well. I won't even go upstairs. Fetch me my cloak from the stand in the hall, will you? Now I am ready."
The two got into the cab and drove away. No one in the house even knew that they had gone.
When they arrived at Queen's Gate, Helps still took the lead.
"Is my father in the library?" asked the daughter.
"No, Mrs. Wyndham. Mr. Paget has been in his room for the last day or two. I'll take you to him, if you please, at once."
"Thank you, Helps."
Valentine left her cloak in the hall, and followed the old servant upstairs.
"Here's Mrs. Wyndham," said Helps, opening the door of the sick man's room, and then shutting it and going away himself.
"Here's Valentine," said Mrs. Wyndham, coming forward. "I did not know you were so ill, father."
He was dressed, and sitting in a chair. She went up to him and laid her hand gravely on his arm.
"You have come, Valentine, you have come. Kneel down by me. Let me look at you. Valentine, you have come."
"I have come."
Never did hungrier eyes look into hers.
"Kiss me."
She bent forward at once, and pressed a light kiss on his cheek.
"Don't do it again," he said.
He put up his hand and rubbed the place that her lips had touched.
"There's no love in a kiss like that. Don't give me such another."
"You are ill, father; I did not know you were so very ill," replied his daughter in the quiet voice in which she would soothe a little child.
"I am ill in mind, Valentine, and sometimes my mind affects my body. It did for the last few days. This afternoon I'm better—I mean I am better in mind, and I sent for you that I might get the thing over."
"What thing, father?"
"Never mind for a moment or two. You used to be so fond of me, little Val."
"I used—truly I used!"
The tears filled hereyes.
"I thought you'd give me one of the old kisses."
"I can't. Don't ask it."
"Is your love dead, child, quite dead?"
"Don't ask."
"My God," said the sick man; "her love is dead before she knows—even before she knows. What a punishment is here?"
A queer light filled his eyes; Valentine remembered that whispers had reached her with regard to her father's sanity. She tried again to soothe him.
"Let us talk common-places; it does not do every moment to gauge one's feelings. Shall I tell you about baby?"
"No, no; don't drag the child's name into the conversation of this hour. Valentine, one of two things is about to happen to me. I am either going to die or to become quite hopelessly mad. Before either thing happens I have a confession to make."
"Confession? Father!"
Her face grew very white.
"Yes. I want to confess to you. It won't pain me so much as it would have done had any of your love for me survived. It is right you should know. I have not the least doubt when you do know you will see justice done. Of late you have not troubled yourself much about my affairs. Perhaps you do not know that I have practically retired from my business, and that I have taken steps to vest the whole concern absolutely in your hands. When you know all you will probably sell it; but that is your affair. I shall either be in my grave or a madhouse, so it won't concern me. If any fragment of money survives afterwards—I mean after you have done what you absolutely consider just—you must hold it in trust for your son. Now I am ready to begin. What is the matter, Valentine?"
"Only that you frighten me very much. I have not been quite—quite well lately. Do you mind my fetching a chair?"
"I did not know you were ill, child. Yes, take that chair. Oh, Valentine, for you my love was true."
"Father, don't let us go back to that subject. Now I am ready. I will listen. What have you got to say?"
"In the first place, I am perfectly sane at this moment."
"I am sure of that."
"Now listen. Look away from me, Valentine, while I speak. That is all I ask."
Valentine slightly turned her chair; her trembling and excitement had grown and grown.
"I am ready. Don't make the story longer than you can help," she said in a choked voice.
"Years and years ago, child, before you were born, I was a happy man. I was honorable then and good; I was the sort of man I pretended to be afterwards. I married your mother, who died at your birth. I had loved your mother very dearly. After her death you filled her place. Soon you did more than fill it; you were everything to me; you gave early promise of being a more spirited and brilliant woman than your mother. I lived for you; you were my whole and entire world.
"Before your birth, Valentine, a friend, a great friend of mine, left me a large sum of money. He was dying at the time he made his will; his wife was in New Zealand; he thought it possible that she might soon give birth to a child. If the child lived, the money was to be kept in trust for it until its majority. If it died it was to be mine absolutely. I may as well tell you that my friend's wife was a very worthless woman, and he was determined she should have nothing to say to the money. He died—I took possession—a son was born. I knew this fact, but I was hard pressed at the time, and I stole the money.
"My belief was that neither the child nor the mother could ever trace the money. Soon I was disappointed. I received a letter from the boy's mother which showed me that she knew all, and although not a farthing could be claimed until the lad came of age, then I must deliver to him the entire sum with interest.
"From that moment my punishment began. The trust fund, with interest, would amount to eighty thousand pounds. Even if I made myself a beggar I could not restore the whole of this great sum. If I did not restore it at the coming of age of this young man, I should be doomed to a felon's cell, and penal servitude. I looked into your face; you loved me then; you worshipped me. I idolized you. I resolved that disgrace and ruin should not touch you.
"Helps and I between us concocted a diabolical plot. Helps was like wax in my hands; he had helped me to appropriate the money; he knew my secrets right through. We made the plot, and waited for results. I took you into society, I wanted you to marry. My object was that you should marry a man whom you did not love. Wyndham came on the scene; he seemed a weak sort of fellow—weak, pliable—passionately in love with you—cursedly poor. Did you speak, Valentine?"
"No; you must make this story brief, if you please."
"It can be told in a few more words. I thought I could make Wyndham my tool. I saw that his passion for you blinded him to almost everything. Otherwise, he was the most selfless person I ever met. I saw that his unselfishness would make him strong to endure. His overpowering love for you would induce him to sacrifice everything for present bliss. Such a combination of strength and weakness was what I had been looking for. I told Helps that I had found my man. Helps did not like it; he had taken an insane fancy for the fellow. What is the matter, Valentine? How you fidget."
"You had better be brief. My patience is nearly exhausted."
"I am very brief. I spoke to Wyndham. I made my bargain; he was to marry you. Before marriage, with the plausible excuse that the insurance was to be effected by way of settlement, I paid premiums for insurances on the young man's life for eighty thousand pounds. I insured his life in four offices. You were married. He knew what he had undertaken, and everything went well, except for one cursed fact—you learned to love the fellow. I nearly went mad when I saw the love for him growing into your eyes. He was to sail on board theEsperance. He knew, and I knew that he was never coming back. He was to feign death. Our plans were made carefully. I was to receive a proper certificate, and with that in my hand I could claim the insurance money. Thus he was to save you and me from dishonor, which is worse than death.
"All our plans were laid. I waited for news. Valentine, you make me strangely nervous. What is the matter with you, child? Are you going to faint?"
"No—no—no! Go on—go on! Don't speak to me—don't address me again by my name. Just go on, or I——Oh. God, I am a desperate woman! Go on, I must hear the end."
As Valentine grew excited her father became cool and quiet: he waited until she had done speaking, then dropping his head he continued his narrative in a dreary monotone.
"I waited for news—it was long in coming. At last it arrived on the day my grandson was born. Wyndham had outwitted me. He could not bear the load of a living death. Shame on him. He could take his bliss, but not his punishment. He leaped overboard theEsperance—he committed suicide."
"What? No, never. Don't dare to say such words."
"I must say them, although they are cruel. He committedsuicide, and then he came to haunt me; he knew that his blood would rest on my soul; he knew how best to torture me for what I had done to him."
"One question. Was the insurance money paid?"
"Was it? Yes. I believe so. That part seemed all of minor importance afterwards. But I believe it was paid. I think Helps saw to it."
"You believe that my husband committed suicide, and yet you allowed the insurance offices to pay."
"What of that? No one else knew my thoughts."
"As you say, what of that? Is your story finished?"
"Nearly. I lost your love, and for the last three years I have been haunted by Wyndham. I see his shadow everywhere. Once I met him in the street. A few nights ago he came into the library and confronted me; he spoke to me and tried to touch me; he pretended he was not dead."
"What night was that?"
Valentine's voice had changed; there was a new ring in it. Her father roused himself from his lethargic attitude to look into her face. "What night did my husband come to you?"
"I forget—no, I remember. It was Tuesday night."
"Did he carry a violin? Speak—did he?"
"He carried something. It may have been a violin. Do they use such instruments in the other world? He was a spirit, you know, child. How queer, how very queer you look!"
"I feel queer."
"He wanted me to touch him, child, but I wouldn't. I was too knowing for that. If you touch a spirit you must go with him. No, no, I knew a thing worth two of that. He went on telling me he was alive. But I knew better, he couldn't take me in. Valentine, everything seems so far away. Valentine, I am faint, faint. Ah, there he is again by the door. Look! No, he must not touch me—he must not!"
Valentine glanced round. There was no one present. Then she rang the bell. It was answered by the old housekeeper.
"Mrs. Marsh, my father is ill. Will you give him some restorative at once? And send for the doctor, if necessary. I must go, but I'll come back if possible to-night."
She left the room without glancing at the sick man, who followed her to the door with his dim eyes. She went downstairs, put on her cloak and left the house.
She had to walk a little distance before she met a hansom, and one or two people stared at the tall, slim figure, which was still young and girlish, but which bore on its proud face such a hard expression, such a burning defiant light in the eyes. Valentine soon reached home. Everything was in a whirl in her brain. Esther Helps was standing on the steps. She flew to Esther, clasped her hands in a grasp of iron, and said in a husky choked voice:—
"Esther, my husband is alive!"
"He is, dear madam, he is, and I have come to take you to him!"
"Oh, Esther, thank God!"
"Come indoors, madam, you have not a moment to lose. We will keep that cab, if you please. I have only just come back. I was going to seek you. Stay one moment. Mrs. Wyndham. You are in black; will you put on your white dress—the one you wore on Tuesday night."
"Oh, what does it matter? Let me go to him."
"Little things sometimes matter a great deal; he saw you last in your white dress."
"He was really there on Tuesday night?"
"He was there. Come, I will fly for the dress and put it on you."
She did so. Valentine put hercloak over it, and the two drove away in the hansom. Valentine had no ears for the direction given to the cabman.
"I am in heaven," she said once, under her breath. "He lives. Now I can forgive my father!"
"Madam, your husband is very ill."
Valentine turned her great shining eyes towards Esther.
"All the better. I can nurse him," she said, with a smile, and then she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and did not speak another word.
The cab drew up at one of the entrances to St. Thomas' Hospital.
"What place is this?" asked the wife.
She was unacquainted with hospitals and sickness.
"This is a place where they cure the sick, and succour the dying, dear Mrs. Wyndham," gently remarked Esther Helps.
"They cure the sick here, do they? But I will cure my husband myself. I know the way." She smiled. "Take me to him, Esther. How slow you are. Beloved Esther—I don't thank you—I have no words to say thank you—but my heart is so happy I think it will burst."
The porter came forward, then a nurse. Several ceremonies had to be gone through, several remarks made, several questions asked. Valentine heard and saw nothing. Esther helped Valentine to take off her cloak; and she stood in her simple long plain white dress, with her bright hair like a glory round her happy face.
The nurse who finally conducted them to the ward where Wyndham lay looked at her in a sort of bewilderment. Esther and the nurse went first, and Valentine slowly followed between the long rows of beds; some of the men said afterwards that an angel had gone through the ward on the night that the strolling minstrel, poor fellow, died. The sister who had charge of the ward turned and whispered a word to Esther, then she pushed aside a screen which surrounded one of the beds.
"Your husband is very ill," she said, looking with a world of pity into Valentine's bright eyes. "You ought to be prepared; he isveryill."
"Thank you, I am quite prepared. I have come to cure him."
Then she went inside the screen, and Esther and the nurse remained without.
Wyndham was lying with his eyes closed; his sunken cheeks, his deathly pallor, his quick and hurried breath mighthave prepared the young wife for the worst. They did not. She stood for a moment at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped in ecstasy, her eyes shining, a wonderful smile bringing back the beauty to her lips. Then she came forward and lay gently down by the side of the dying man. She slipped her hand under his head and laid her cheek to his.
"At last, Gerald," she said, "at last you have come back! You didn't die. You are changed, greatly changed; but you didn't die, Gerald."
He opened his eyes and looked her full in the face.
"Valentine!"
"Hush, you are too weak to talk. Stay quiet, I am with you. I will nurse you back to strength. Oh, my darling, you didn't die."
"Your darling, Valentine? Did you call me your darling?"
"I said it. I say it. You are all the world to me; without you the world is empty. Oh, how I love you—how I have loved you for years."
"Then it was good I didn't die," said Wyndham, he raised his eyes, looked up and smiled. His smile was one of ecstasy.
"Of course it was good that you didn't die, and now you are going to get well. Lie still. Do you like my hand under your head?"
"Like it?"
"Yes; you need not tell me. Let me talk to you; don't answer me. Gerald, my father told me. He told me what he had done; he told me what you had done. He wants me to forgive him, but I'm not going to forgive him. I'll never forgive him, Gerald. I have ceased to love him, and I'll never forgive him; all my love is for you."
"Not all, wife—not quite all. Give him back a little, and—forgive."
"How weak you are, Gerald, and your voice sounds miles away."
"Forgive him, Valentine."
"Yes, if you wish it. Lie still, darling."
"Valentine—that money."
"I know about it—that blood-money. The price of your precious life. It shall be paid back at once."
"Then God will forgive me. I thank Him, unspeakably."
"Gerald, you are very weak. I can scarcely hear your words. Does it tire you dreadfully to talk? See, I will hold your hand; when you are too tired to speak your fingers can press mine. Gerald, you were outside our house on Tuesday night. Yes, I feel the pressure of your hand; you were there. Gerald, you were very unhappy that night."
"But not now, darling," replied Wyndham. He had found his voice; his words came out with sudden strength and joy. "I made a mistake that night, wife. I won't tell it to you. I made a mistake."
"And you are really quite, quite happy now."
"Happy! Sorrow is put behind me—the former things are done away."
"You will be happier still when you come home to baby and me."
"You'll come to me, Val; you and the boy."
"What do you say? I can't hear you."
"You'll come to me."
"I am with you."
"You'll come—up—to me."
Then she began to understand.
Half-an-hour later the nurse and Esther drew the screen aside and came in. Valentine's face was nearly as white as Wyndham's. She did not see the two as they came in. Her eyes were fixed on her husband's, her hand still held his.
"He wants a stimulant," said the nurse.
She poured something out of a bottle and put it between the dying man's lips. He opened his eyes when she did this, and looked at Valentine.
"Are you still there? Hold my hand."
"Do you think I would let it go? I have been wanting this hand to clasp mine forsolong, oh, forsolong."
The nurse again put some stimulant between Gerald's lips.
"You must not tire his strength, madam," she said. "Even emotion, even joyful emotion is more than he can bear just now."
"Is it, nurse? Then I will sit quiet, and not speak. I don't mind how long I stay, nor how quiet I keep, if only I can save him. Nurse, I know he is very ill, but, but——"
Her lips quivered, and her eyes, dry and bright and hungry, were fixed on the nurse. Wyndham, too, was looking at the nurse with a question written on his face. She bent down low, and caught his faint whisper.
"Your husband bids you hope," she said then, turning to Valentine. "He bids you take courage; he bids you to have the best hope of all—the hope eternal. Madam, when you clasp hands up there you need not part."
"Did you tell her to say that to me, Gerald?" asked the wife. "Oh, no, you couldn't have told her to say those words. Oh, no, you love me too well to go away."
"God loves you, Valentine," suddenly said Gerald. "God lovesyou, and He loves me, and His eternal love will surround us. I up there, you here. In that love we shall be one."
Only the nurse knew with what difficulty Wyndham uttered these words, but Valentine saw the light in his eyes. She bowed her head on his thin hand, her lips kissed it—she did not speak.
To the surprise of the sister who had charge of the ward. Wyndham lingered on for hours—during the greater part of the night. Valentine and Esther never left him. Esther sat a little in the shadow where her pale face could scarcely be seen. If she felt personal grief she kept it under. The chief actors in the tragedy, the cruelly-wronged husband and wife, absorbed all her thoughts. No, she had no time, no room, to think of herself.
Wyndham was going—Brother Jerome would no longer be known in the streets of East London; the poor, the sorrowful, would grieve at not seeing his face again. The touch of his hand could no longer comfort—the light in his eyes could no longer bless. The Mission would have to do without Brother Jerome—this missioner was about to render up his account to the Judge of all.
The little attic in Acacia Villas would also be empty; the tired man would not need the few comforts that Esther had collected round him—the tiresome cough, the weary restless step would cease to disturb Cherry's rest, and Esther's chief object in life would be withdrawn.
He who for so long was supposed to be dead would be dead in earnest. Valentine would be a real widow, little Gerald truly an orphan.
All these thoughts thronged through Esther's mind as she sat in the shadow behind the screen and listened to the chimes outside as they proclaimed the passing time, and the passing away also of a life.
Every moment lives of men go away—souls enter the unknown country. Some go with regret, some with rejoicing. In some cases there are many left behind to sorrow—in other cases no one mourns.
Wyndham had sinned, he had yielded to temptation; he had been weak—a victim it is true—still a victim who with his eyes open had done a great wrong. Yet Esther felt that for some at least it was a good thing that Wyndham was born.
"I, for one, thank God that I knew him," she murmured. "He has caused me suffering, but he has raised me. I thank God that I was permitted to know such a man. The world would, I suppose, speak of him as a sinner, but to my way of thinking, if ever there was a saint he is one."
So the night passed on, and Valentine remained motionless by the dying man's bed. What her thoughts were, none might read.
At last, towards the break of day, the time when so many souls go away, Wyndham stirred faintly and opened his eyes. Valentine moved forward with an eager gesture. He looked at her, but there was no comprehension in his glance.
"What is the matter?" said Valentine to the nurse. "I scarcely know him—his face has altered."
"It looks young, madam. Dying faces often do so. Hark, he is saying something."
"Lilias," said Wyndham. "Lilly—mother calls us—we are to sing our evening hymn.
'Bright in the happy land!'
Lilias, do youhearmother; she is calling? Kneel down—our evening prayers—by mother—we always say our prayers by mother's knee. Kneel, Lilias, see, my hands are folded—'Our Father'——"
There was a long pause after the last words, a pause followed by one more breath of infinite content, and then the nurse closed the dead man's eyes.
Augusta Wyndham was pacing up and down the broad gravel walk which ran down the centre of the rectory garden in a state of great excitement. She was walking quickly, her hands clasped loosely before her, her tall and rather angular figure drawn up to its full height, her bright black eyes alert and watchful in their expression.
"Now, if only they are not interrupted," she said, "if only I can keep people from going near the rose-walk, he'll do it—I know he'll do it—I saw it in his eyes when he came up and asked me where Lilias was. He hasn't been here for six months, and I had given up all hope; but hope has revived to-day—hope springs eternal in the human breast. Tra la, la—la, la. Now, Gerry, boy, what do you want?"
A sturdy little fellow in a sailor suit stood for a moment in the porch of the old rectory, then ran with a gleeful shout down the gravel walk towards Augusta. She held out her arms to detain him.
"Well caught, Gerry," she said.
"It isn't well caught," he replied with an angry flush. "I don't want to stay with you, Auntie Gussie; I want to go to my—my own auntie. Let me pass, please."
"You saucy boy, auntie's busy; you shall stay with me."
"I won't. I'll beat you—I won't stay."
"If I whisper something to you, Gerry—something about Auntie Lil. Now be quiet, mannikin, and let me say my say. You love Auntie Lil, don't you?"
"You know that; you do talk nonsense sometimes. I love father in heaven, and mother, and Auntie Lil."
"And me, you little wretch."
"Sometimes. Let me go to Auntie Lil now."
"I want to whisper something to you, Gerry. Auntie Lil is talking to someone she loves much better than you or me or anyone else in the world, and it would be very unkind to interrupt her."
Gerry was sitting on Augusta's shoulder. From this elevated position he could catch a glimpse of a certain grey dress, and a quick flash of chestnut hair, as the sun shone on it—that dress and that hair belonged to Auntie Lil. It was no matter at all to Gerry that someone else walked by her side, that someone was bending his dark head somewhat close to hers, and that as she listened her steps faltered and grew slow.
Gerry's whole soul was wounded by Augusta's words. His Aunt Lilias did not love anyone better than him. It was his bounden duty, his first duty in life, to have such an erroneous statement put right at once.
He put forth all his strength, struggled down from Augusta's shoulders, and before she was aware of it was speeding like an arrow from a bow to his target, Lilias.
"There, now, I give it up," said Augusta. "Awful child, what mischief may he not make? Don't I hear his shrill voice even here! Oh, I give it up now; I shall go into the house. The full heat of the sun in July does not suit me, and if in addition to all other troubles Lilias is to have a broken heart, I may as well keep in sufficient health to nurse her."
Meanwhile Gerry was having a very comfortable time on Carr's shoulder; his dark eyes were looking at his Aunt Lilias, and his little fat, hot hand was clasped in hers.
"Well," he said suddenly, "which is it?"
"Which is what, Gerry? I don't understand."
"I think you are stoopid, Auntie Lil. Is it him or me?"
Then he laid his other fat hand on Carr's forehead.
"Is it him or me?" said Gerry, "that you love the most of all the peoples in the world?"
"It's me, Gerry, it's me," suddenly said Adrian Carr; "but you come next, dear little man. Kiss him, Lilias, and tell him that he comes next."
"Gerald's dear little boy," said Lilias. She took him in her arms and pressed her head against his chubby neck.
"Dear, dear little boy," she said. "I think you'll always come second."
She looked so solemn when she spoke, and so beautiful was the light in her eyes when she raised her face to look at Gerry, that even he, most despotic of little mortals, could not but feel satisfied.
He ran away presently to announce to all and everyone within reach that Mr. Carr had kissed Auntie Lil like anything, and the newly-betrothed pair were left alone.
"At last, Lilias," said Carr.
She looked shyly into his face.
"I thought I should never win you," he continued. "I have loved you for years, and I never had courage to tell you so until to-day."
"And I have loved you for years," replied Lilias Wyndham.
"But not best, Lilly. Oh, I have read you like a book. I never came before Gerald in your heart."
"No," she said letting go his hand, and moving a step or two away, so that she should face him. "I love you well, beyond all living men, but Gerald stands alone. His place can never be filled."
The tears sprang into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
"And I love you better for loving him so, my darling," answered her lover. He put his arms round her, and she laid her head on his breast.
For a long time they paced up and down the Rose-walk. They had much to say, much to feel, much to be silent over. The air was balmy overhead, and the rose-leaves were tossed by the light summer breeze against Lilias'grey dress.
Presently she began to talk of the past. Carr asked tenderly for Valentine.
"Valentine is so noble," replied her sister-in-law. "You don't know what she has been to me since that day when she and I looked together at Gerald's dead face. Oh, that day, that dreadful day!"
"It is past, Lilias. Think of the future, the bright future, and he is in that brightness now."
"I know."
She wiped the tears again from her eyes. Then she continued in a changed voice:—
"I will try and forget that day, which, as you say, is behind Gerald and me. At the time I could scarcely think of myself. I was so overcome with the wonderful brave way in which Valentine acted. You know her father died a month afterwards, and she was so sweet to him. She nursed him day and night, and did all that woman could do to comfort and forgive him. His brain was dreadfully clouded, however, and he died at last in a state of unconsciousness. Then Valentine came out in a new light. She went to the insurance offices and told the whole story of the fraud that had been practised on them, and of her husband's part in it. She told the story in such a way that hard business men, as most of these men were, wept. Then she sold her father's great shipping business, which had all been left absolutely to her, and paid back every penny of the money.
"Since then, as you know, she and Gerry live here. She is really the idol of my old father's life; he and she are scarcely ever parted. Yes, she is a noble woman. When I look at her I say to myself, Gerald, at least, did not love unworthily."
"Then she is poor now?"
"As the world speaks of poverty she is poor. Do youthink Valentine minds that? Oh, how little her father understood her when he thought that riches were essential to her happiness. No one has simpler tastes than Valentine. Do you know that she housekeeps now at the rectory, and we are really much better off than we used to be. Alack and alas! Adrian, you ought to know in time, I am such a bad housekeeper."
Lilias laughed quite merrily as she spoke, and Carr's dark face glowed.
"It is a bargain," he said, "that I take you with your faults and don't reproach you with them. And what has become of that fine creature, Esther Helps?" he asked presently.
"She works in East London, and comes here for her holidays. Sometimes I think Valentine loves Esther Helps better than anyone in the world after Gerry."
"That is scarcely to be wondered at, is it?"
Just then their conversation was interrupted by some gleeful shouts, and the four little girls, no longer so very small, came flying round the corner in hot pursuit of Gerry.
"Here they is!" exclaimed the small tyrant, gazing round at his devoted subjects, and pointing with a lofty and condescending air to Adrian and Lilias. "Here they is!" he said, "and I 'spose they'll do it again if we ask them."
"Do what again?" asked Lilias innocently.
"Why, kiss one another," replied Gerry. "I saw you do it, so don't tell stories. Joan and Betty they wouldn't believe me. Please do it again, please do. Mr. Carr, please kiss Auntie Lil again."
"Oh, fie, Gerry," replied Lilias. She tried to turn away, but Carr went up to her gravely, and he kissed her brow.
"There's nothing in it," he continued, looking round at the astonished little girls. "We are going to be husband and wife in a week or two, andhusbands and wives always kiss one another."
"Then I was right," said Betty. "Joan and Rosie wouldn't believe me, but I was right after all. I am glad of that."
"I believed you, Betty. I always believed you," said Violet.
"Well, perhaps you did. The others didn't. I'm glad I was right."
"How were you right, Betty?" asked Carr.
"Oh, don't ask her, Adrian. Let us come into the house," interrupted Lilias.
"Yes, we'll come into the house, of course. But I should like to know how Betty was right."
"Why you wanted to kiss her years ago. I knew it, and I said it. Didn't you, now?"
"Speak the trufe," suddenly commanded Gerry.
"Yes, I did," replied Carr.
When Adrian Carr left the rectory that evening he had to walk down the dusty road which led straight past the church and the little village school-house to the railway station. This road was full of associations to him, and he walked slowly, thinking of past scenes, thanking God for his present blessings.
"It was here, by the turnstile, I first saw Lilias," he said to himself. "She and Marjory were standing together, and she came forward and looked at me, and asked me in that sweet voice of hers if I were not Mr. Carr. She reminded me of her brother, whom I just barely knew. It was a fleeting likeness, seen more at first than afterwards.
"Here, by this little old school-house the villagers stood and rejoiced the last day Gerald came home. Poor Wyndham—most blessed and most miserable of men. Well, he is at rest now, and even here I see the cross which throws a shadow over his grave!"
Carr looked at his watch. There was time. He entered the little church-yard. A green mound, a white cross, several wreaths of flowers, marked the spot where one who had been much loved in life lay until the resurrection. The cross was so placed as to bend slightly over the grave as though to protect it. It bore a very brief inscription:—
In Peace.GERALD WYNDHAM.Aged 27.
THE END.