"You remind me of one of the little sisters I have lost," he said hurriedly. "Thank you, Cecily, thank you. Be a good child, always. I would say 'God bless you' if I dared."
"Why don't you dare? You are a good man, a very good man, the best I know."
"Hush, Cecily, you don't know what you are talking about. Give me another kiss. Thank you sweet little girl."
He went back again to his own cabin. The longing for compassion at this crucial moment had made him run a risk in talking so to Cecily. He blamed himself, but scarcely regretted the act.
It was certainly going to be a dirty night, and already the sailors were busy overhead. The good ship creaked and strained as she to fought her way through the waters. The ladies loudly expressed their uneasiness, and the gentleman-passengers fought down some qualms which they considered unmanly.
Wyndham rose from his seat in the dark, pressed his lips to the letter he had written to his wife, suddenly he started, reeled a step and fell back.
There is no accounting for what happened—but happen it did.
Valentine herself stood beside him, stretched out her arms to him, uttered a brief cry, and then vanished.
He felt like a madman; he pressed his hands to his head and rushed on deck.
"Stand there, Mr. Wyndham, there," said the sailor Loggan. "You'll be safe enough. Oh, yes, more than one wave will wash us. Shall I lash you to the wheel, sir? Maybe it would be safer."
"No, no, thank you."
The voice was quite quiet and calm again.
Certainly the night was a rough one, but between and under the loud voice of the storm, Loggan and his companion exchanged some cheerful phrases.
"No, sir, I ain't never afeared."
"What if you were to go to the bottom?"
"The will of the good God be done, sir. I'd go a-doing of my duty."
"You're an honest fellow, Loggan; shake hands with me."
"That I will, Mr. Wyndham. What are you doing with that rope, sir? It's cold, it's slippery—oh, the knot has got loose, I'll call a man to tighten it, sir; let me—let me. You'll be over, sir, if you don't look out; we're going to lunge this way. Take care, sir—take care—for God's sake, take care!"
Wyndham took care.
The summer came early that year. The rectory was a charming place in the summer, and on this particular bright day in June one of the numerous school-feasts was in course of preparation, and all the young Wyndhams were working with a will and energy which could scarcely be surpassed. The feast was in full progress; the village children consumed tea and buns, as only village children can. Augusta was refusing to help the babies to any more; Joan and Betty were half-crying because she snatched the rich currant buns out of their hands; Marjory was leading the most obstreporous members of her flock away to the other end of the long meadow, where they could play orange and lemons, nuts in May, and other festive games; and Lilias, as she helped to pack away the remnants of the feast, was answering some questions of Carr's.
"We ought to have heard by now," she was saying. "My father is a little uneasy, but I am not—at least, of course, I am anxious for Valentine. The suspense must be very trying for her!"
"When did your brother's ship sail?"
"On the 25th of March."
"And this is the 15th of June. TheEsperancemust have been reported at Lloyd's long ago."
"How stupid of me never to think of that," said Lilias, her face brightening. "But would they not put the arrivals in the papers? I have certainly looked and never seen it."
"You have probably overlooked it. I will write and inquire for you. TheEsperance, even allowing for delays, has probably reached its destination some weeks ago. On the other hand it would be scarcely possible for you to have had a letter from your brother. Yes, you are right not to be anxious; I will go and have a chat with your father presently. Is Mrs. Wyndham well?"
"I think so—fairly well. She is coming to stay with us next week."
Carr strolled away.
"What a nice comfortable young man he is turning into," said Marjory, who came up at that moment. "Ah, yes, your face is brighter already for having had an interview with him. Whisper no secrets to me. I know—I know."
Lilias' clear brown skin was transfused with color.
"Don't be silly, Marjory," she said. "I don't mind owning that Mr. Carrisa comfortable person to talk to. He has just been removing my fears about Gerald."
"Oh, I thought you had no fears."
"Well, father's fears, then. He has been saying things to me which will remove my father's fears completely."
"That is right—Heaven be praised. You and the rector are nothing but a pair of old croaks lately. Hey-ho! I am perfectly weary of your long faces and your apprehensions. Thank goodness. Val is coming; she'll wake us up a little."
Lilias opened her dark eyes.
"I did not know you cared so much for Valentine," she said.
"I admired her very much the last time I saw her. That was a month ago—she seemed so spirited and courageous. I used to think her something of a doll, but she's a woman now, and a fine one. Perhaps it's the thought of the baby coming."
"Or perhaps," said Lilias, "she has found out at last what our Gerald is."
"Both, most likely," said Marjory. "Anyhow, she's changed; and the funniest part is that that old man——"
"What old man, Marjory?"
"Don't interrupt me—her father. I always call him that old man—well, I think he's afraid of her. She doesn't pet him the way she used, but she's very gentle with him. Oh, she's a good bit altered; there's something in her now."
"I suppose there was always something in her," said Lilias. "For Gerald"—her lips trembled—"gave up so much for her."
"No more than any man gives up for any woman," said Marjory. "A man shall leave his father and mother. Oh, yes, poor old Lil, I know how you felt it. You always made an idol of Gerald. I suppose you'll marry some day; you are so pretty—and h'm—h'm—there's somebody waiting for somebody—there, I don't want to tease, only when you do marry, my pretty sister, I wonder if he'll come inside Gerald in your heart."
"I won't marry until I love some one even better than my only brother," replied Lilias in a grave voice. "That time has not come yet," she added, and then she turned away.
The games went on as fast as ever; Marjory romped with the merriest. Lilias was graver than her sister, not so fond of pastimes, perhaps not quite so generally popular. She went into the house, sat down by the organ in the hall and began to play. She had almost as much talent as Gerald; her fingers wandered over the keys, she was in a dreamy mood, and her thoughts were carrying her back to a bygone scene—to Gerald's face on that Sunday night. She heard again the rich tones of his voice, and heard his words:—
"Till in the ocean of Thy loveWe loose ourselves in Heaven above."
"Oh, Gerald," she said with a kind of sob, "things have been hard for me since you went away. It was not your marriage alone, I had prepared myself for that; but it was more—it was more. The Church of God—you gave that up. Yes, yes. There has been a shut door between us. Gerald, since you and Valentine first met; and where are you now—where are you now?"
"Lilias," said little Joan running in breathlessly, "father wants you in his study, quickly. I don't think he's quite well. He has just had a letter, and he looks so queer."
"I'll go to him at once," said Lilias.
She could be apprehensive enough, but in real danger, in times of real anxiety, her head could be cool and her steps firm.
"Yes, father," she said, motioning the frightened little Joan away.
She shut the library door behind her.
"Yes, father. What is it? Jo says that you have got a letter, and that you want me."
"Oh, I don't suppose it's anything," said the rector. "That is, I don't mean to be uneasy. Here's the letter. Lilias. You ought to read it, perhaps. It's from Paget. He is evidently nervous himself, but I don't suppose there is any need. Read it, and tell me what you think."
The rector thrust a sheet of paper into his daughter's hand. Then went over to one of his book shelves and pretended to be busy rummaging up some folios. Lilias read as follows:—
My Dear Sir,—I write on a subject of some little anxiety. I did not wish to trouble you before it was necessary, but now I confess that we—I refer to my house of business—have cause to feel uneasiness with regard to the fate of theEsperance.She is quite a month overdue at Sydney; even allowing for all possible delays, she is at least that time overdue. The last tidings of her were from the Cape, and it is feared from their date that she must have encountered rough weather in the Southern Ocean. Nothing is known, however, and every hour we look for a cable announcing her arrival at Melbourne if not at Sydney. It is possible she may have been injured, which will account for the delay, but I scarcely apprehend anything worse. I ought scarcely to say that I am anxious; up to the present there is no real cause to apprehend anything worse than an accident to the vessel. Vessels are often a month behind their time, and all is satisfactorily explained at the end. I am now troubling you with regard to another matter. I do not want my daughter and your son's wife to be needlessly alarmed. It is most important that her mind should be kept free from apprehension until after the birth of their child. You kindly asked her to go to see you. Can you have her at the rectory at once? And will you send Lilias to fetch her? I know you and yours will keep all fears from her, and, poor child, she reads my face like a book.Yours faithfully,"Mortimer Paget."
My Dear Sir,—I write on a subject of some little anxiety. I did not wish to trouble you before it was necessary, but now I confess that we—I refer to my house of business—have cause to feel uneasiness with regard to the fate of theEsperance.She is quite a month overdue at Sydney; even allowing for all possible delays, she is at least that time overdue. The last tidings of her were from the Cape, and it is feared from their date that she must have encountered rough weather in the Southern Ocean. Nothing is known, however, and every hour we look for a cable announcing her arrival at Melbourne if not at Sydney. It is possible she may have been injured, which will account for the delay, but I scarcely apprehend anything worse. I ought scarcely to say that I am anxious; up to the present there is no real cause to apprehend anything worse than an accident to the vessel. Vessels are often a month behind their time, and all is satisfactorily explained at the end. I am now troubling you with regard to another matter. I do not want my daughter and your son's wife to be needlessly alarmed. It is most important that her mind should be kept free from apprehension until after the birth of their child. You kindly asked her to go to see you. Can you have her at the rectory at once? And will you send Lilias to fetch her? I know you and yours will keep all fears from her, and, poor child, she reads my face like a book.
Yours faithfully,"Mortimer Paget."
"Well, Lilias," said the rector. "Well? He's a little over nervous, isn't he, eh? Vessels are often a month overdue. Eh, Lilias? But of course they are. Somehow I'm not nervous since I got that letter. I was before, but not now."
He rubbed his hands together as he spoke.
"It's summer now, and we'll have Gerald back before the next snow comes. I told the boy so when he bid me good-bye; he was a bit upset that night after you girls went to bed. Poor fellow, I had quite to cheer him; he's a very affectionate lad. No, I'm not nervous, and I wonder at Paget. But what doyouthink, Lilias?"
Lilias folded up the letter, and put it back in her old father's hand. Then she stole her arm round his neck, and kissed him.
"We will be brave," she said. "If we have fears we won't speak of them; we have got to think of Valentine now, not of ourselves."
The rector almost shook Lilias' hand from his neck.
"Fears," he said, in a light and cheerful voice, a voice which was belied by his tremulous hands, and by his almost petulant movement. "Fears! my dear girl, they really don't exist. At this moment, were we clairvoyant, we should see Gerald either rising leisurely from a good night's rest, or sitting down to his breakfast in one of those luxurious houses one reads of in Froude's 'Oceana.' Vessels like theEsperancedon't go to the bottom. Now, Lil, at what hour will you go to fetch Valentine? You will goup to town to-morrow, of course."
"By the first train," replied Lilias. Her lips quivered. She turned away; there was nothing more to be said. Her father's manner did not in the least deceive her.
"Dear old man!" she said to herself. "If he can be brave, so will I. But oh, Gerald, does any heart ache more for you than the heart of your sister Lilias?"
Valentine had got a blow. The first real great blow which had ever been dealt to her. It had a most curious effect. Instead of stunning or rendering her weak and incapable, it suddenly changed her from a child into a practical and clever and wide-awake woman. The very quality of her voice changed. It became full, and inspired respect the moment she spoke. She was quite aware that her father had deceived her, that he did not mean her to accompany Gerald to Sydney.
She said nothing about this knowledge—not even that evening when she got home and found her father looking ten years older, but standing on the step of her own little home waiting for her.
"I was too late," she said, quietly. "TheEsperancesailed four hours before its time. I must do without Gerald for six months; in six months he will be home."
"In six months," echoed Mr. Paget, following her upstairs to the drawing-room. "Kiss me, my darling," he said. "Valentine, you will come back to your own home to-morrow."
Valentine raised her cheek to meet her father's lips.
"I think I would rather remain here," she said. "This, after all, is my only real home; you don't mind my keeping the house, do you, father?"
"No, my dear, if you wish it. Only I thought——" His last words came out almost tremulously.
"Sometimes we are mistaken in our thoughts," responded Valentine. "I should like best to stay on in my husband's house. Six months will not be long passing; and—father. I have some news for you. In July—if I live until July—God is going to give me a child—Gerald's child and mine. I should like it to be born here."
"Thank God," exclaimed Mr. Paget. "I am very glad of this, Valentine," he said. "This—this—is an inestimable mercy. I hope your child will be a son. My dear daughter, this news lifts a great weight off my mind."
He looked what he felt, delighted.
"Of course you must live wherever you like best," he said. "July—this is March—the child's father will be——" but he did not finish this sentence.
He went away soon afterwards. Ten years had been added to his life in that one single day.
He knew, one glance into Valentine's eyes told him, that she no longer believed in him. What was any success with the heart of his darling turned aside?
He walked home feeling tottering and feeble; he had had a blow, but also a strong consolation—his daughter's child—his grandson. Of course the child should be a boy. There was something to live for in such news as this. A boy to step into his shoes by-and-bye—to keep up the credit of the old house; a boy who should have no shame on him, and no dark history. Yes, yes, this was very good news, and unlooked for; he had much to live for yet.
After this Mr. Paget followed his daughter about like a shadow. Every day her mind and her powers were developing in fresh directions. She had certainly lost some of the charm of her childish ways, but her gain had been greater than her loss. Her face had always been spirituelle, the expression sprightly, the eyes under their arched brows full of light. People had spoken of the girlish face as beautiful, but now that it belonged to a grave and patient, in some respects a suffering woman, they found that it possessed more than ordinary loveliness. The soul had come back again into Valentine's eyes. She knew two things. She was loved—her husband told her that no woman had ever been loved so well before. She was also to become a mother. She considered herself, notwithstanding her crosses, blessed among women, and she resolved to live worthily.
Patience and faith both were hers, and whenever she felt inclined to rebel, to fret, to fume, she thought of the day when she should show her baby to her husband, and tell him face to face that all her heart, all her best affections were divided between him and their child.
She kept to her resolution of living on in the little house in Park-Lane. She led a busy life, interesting herself a good deal in the anxieties and cares of others. When a woman takes up thatrôleshe always finds abundance to do, for there are few pairs of shoulders that have not a burden to carry. She also wrote by every mail to her husband. She had already received one letter from him, posted at Teneriffe. This letter was affectionate—cheerful. Valentine read it over and over. It was a very nice letter, but its words did not reach down into her heart as that other letter of Gerald's, written before he sailed, had done. She was puzzled by it. Still she owned to herself that it was just the letter she ought to receive, just the pleasant happy words of a man who was leading a busy and useful life; who was going away for a definite object, and hoped soon to return to his wife and his home.
All went well with Valentine until a certain day. She rose as usual on the morning of that day, went down to breakfast, opened one or two letters, attended to a couple of domestic matters, and went slowly back to the drawing-room. She liked to dust and tidy her little drawing-room herself. She had put it in order this morning, had arranged fresh flowers in the vases, and was finally giving one or two fresh touches to Gerald's violin, which she always kept near her own piano, when she was startled by the consciousness that she was not alone.
She raised her head, turned quickly, a cold air seemed to blow on her face.
"Valentine!" said her husbands voice, in a tone of unspeakable agony.
She fancied she even saw his shadowy outline. She stretched out her arms to him—he faded away.
That afternoon Mrs. Wyndham paid her father a visit in the City. She was shown into his private room by Helps, who eyed her from head to foot with great anxiety.
Mr. Paget looked into her face and grew perceptibly paler. He was certainly nervous in these days—nervous, and very much aged in appearance.
"Is anything wrong, Valentine?" he could not help saying to his daughter. It was the last sentence he wished to pass his lips—he bit them with vexation after the words had escaped them.
"Sit down, my dear; have you come to take me for a drive, like—like—old times?"
"I have not, father. I have come to know when you expect to hear tidings of the arrival of theEsperanceat Sydney."
"Not yet, Valentine. Impossible so soon. In any case we shall have a cable from Melbourne first—the vessel will touch there."
"When are you likely to hear from Melbourne?"
"Not for some days yet."
"But you know the probable time. Can you not ascertain it? Will you hear in ten days? In a week? In three days?"
"You are persistent, Valentine."
Mr. Paget raised his eyes and looked at her from head to foot.
"I will ascertain," he said in an almost cold voice, as he sounded an electric bell by his side.
Helps answered the summons.
"Helps, when is theEsperancedue at Melbourne?"
Again Helps glanced quickly at Mrs. Wyndham; he was standing rather behind her, but could catch a glimpse of her face.
"By the end of May," he said, speaking slowly. His quick eyes sought his chief's; they took their cue. "Not sooner," he continued. "Possibly by the end of May."
"Thank you," said Valentine.
The man withdrew.
"I have nearly a month to wait," she said, rising and looking at her father. "I did not know that the voyage would be such a lengthy one. When you do hear the news will be bad, father; yes, the news will be bad. I have nothing to say about it, no explanation to offer, only I know."
Before Mr. Paget could make a single reply, Valentine had left him. He was decidedly alarmed about her.
"Can she be going out of her mind?" he soliloquized. "Women sometimes do before the birth of their children. What did she mean? It is impossible for her to know anything. Pshaw! What is there to know? I verily believe I am cultivating that abomination of the age—nerves!"
Whatever Valentine did mean, she met her father that evening as if nothing had happened. She was bright, even cheerful; she played and sang for him. He concluded that she was not out of her mind, that she had simply had a fit of the dismals, and dismissed the matter.
The month passed by, slowly for Valentine—very slowly, also, for her father. It passed into space, and there was no news of theEsperance. More days went by, no news, no tidings of any sort. Valentine thought the vessel was a fortnight overdue. Her father knew that it was at least a month behind its time. When he wrote his letter to the rector of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold he felt even more anxious than his words seemed to admit.
The day after the receipt of this letter Lilias came to town and took Valentine home with her. The next morning Mr. Paget went as usual to his office. His first inquiry was for news of theEsperance. The invariable answer awaited him.
"No tidings as yet."
He went into the snug inner room where he lunched, where Valentine's picture hung, and where he had made terms with Gerald Wyndham. He sank down into an easy-chair, and covered his face with his hands.
"Would to God this suspense were at an end," he said.
The words had scarcely passed his lips when Helps knocked for admission at the inner door, he opened it, caught a glimpse of his servant's face, and fell back.
"You heard," he said. "Come in and tell me quick. TheEsperanceis lost, and every soul on board——"
"Hush, sir," said Helps. "There's no news of theEsperance. Command yourself, sir. It isn't that—it's the other thing. The young gentleman from India, he's outside—he wants to see you."
"Good God, Helps. Positively I'm faint. Shut the door for a moment; he has come, then. You are sure?"
"This is his card, sir. Mr. George Carmichael."
"Give me a moment's time, Helps. So he has come. It would have been all right but for this confounded uncertainty with regard to theEsperance. But it is all right, of course. Plans such as mine don't fail, they are too carefully made. All the same, I am shaken, Helps. Helps, I am growing into an old man."
"You do look queer, Mr. Paget; have a little brandy, sir; you'd better."
"Thank you; a little, then. Open that cupboard, you will find the flask. Brandy steadies the nerves. Now I am better. Helps, it was in this room I made terms with young Wyndham."
"God forgive you, sir, it was."
"Why do you say that? You did not disapprove at the time."
"I didn't know Mr. Wyndham, sir; had I known, I wouldn't have allowed breathing man to harm a hair of his head."
"How would you have prevented it?"
"How?"
The old clerk's face took an ugly look.
"Split on you, and gone to prison, of course," he said. "Now, shall I send Mr. George Carmichael in? It was for his sake you did it. My God, what a sin you sinned! I see Mr. Wyndham's face every night of my life. Good God, why should men like him be hurled out of the world because of sinners like you and me?"
"He's not hurled out of the world," exclaimed Mr. Paget.
He rose and swore a great oath. Then he said in a quieter voice:—
"Ask Mr. Carmichael to step into my office."
"Into this room, sir?"
"Into this room. Go, fool."
Certainly Mr. Paget had some admirable qualities. By the time a pale-faced, slight, languid-looking man made his appearance, he was perfectly calm and self-possessed. He spoke in a courteous tone to his visitor, and bade him be seated.
They exchanged a few common-places. Then Mr. George Carmichael, who showed far more uneasiness than his host, explained the motive of his visit.
"You knew my father," he said. "Owing to a strange circumstance, which perhaps you are aware of, but which scarcely concerns the object of this call, certain papers of importance did not come into my hands until I was of age. These are the papers."
He placed two yellow documents on the table.
"I find by these that I am entitled to money which you hold in trust."
"You are," said Mr. Paget, with a kindly smile.
"I am puzzled to know why I was never made aware of the fact. I was brought up as a poor man. I had no expectations. I have not been educated to meet the position which in reality awaited me. Somebody has done me a wrong."
"I assure you not me, Mr. Carmichael. Perhaps, however, I can throw some light on the subject. If you will do me the favor of dining with me some evening we can talk the matter over at our leisure."
"Thank you, I have very little leisure."
The stranger was wonderfully restless.
"After a struggle I have succeeded in obtaining a good post in Calcutta. I hurried over to see you. I must hurry back to my work. Oh, yes, thanks, I like India. The main point is, when can you hand me over my money. With interest it amounts to——"
"Including interest it amounts to eighty thousand pounds, Mr. Carmichael. Allow me to congratulate you, sir, as a man of fortune. There is no need to hurry back to that beggarly clerkship."
"It's not a clerkship, Mr. Paget, nor beggarly. I'm a partner in a rising concern. The other man's name is Parr; he has a wife and children, and I wouldn't desert him for the world. Eighty thousand pounds! By Jove, won't Parr open his eyes."
Mr. George Carmichael was now so excited that his shyness vanished.
"When can I have my money, sir?"
"In a month's time."
"Not until then? I wanted to go back to India next week."
"It can be sent after you."
A slow suspicious smile crept round the young man's lips; he looked more well-bred than he was.
"None of that," he said. "I don't stir until I get the cheque. I say, can't you give it me at once? It's mine."
"Not a day sooner than a month. I must take that time to realize so large a sum. You shall have it this day month."
"Beastly inconvenient. Parr will be in no end of a taking. I suppose there's no help for it, however."
"None."
"This is the 17th of June. Now you're not playing me a trick, are you? You'll pay me over that money all square on the 17th of July."
Mr. Paget had an imposing presence. He rose now, slowly, stood on the hearthrug, under his daughter's picture, and looked down at his guest.
"I am sorry for you," he said. "Your education has certainly been imperfect. Your father was a gentleman, and my friend. You, I regret to say, are not a gentleman. I don't repeat my invitation to dine at my house. With regard to the money it shall be in your hands on the 17th July. I am rather pressed for time this morning, Mr. Carmichael, and must ask you to leave me. Stay, however, a moment. You are, of course, prepared to give me all proofs of identity?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"What I say. The certificate of the marriage of your parents and certificate of the proof that you are the person you represent yourself to be must be forthcoming. I must also have letters from your friends in India. No doubt, of course—no doubt who you are, but these things are necessary."
Notwithstanding that he was the owner of eighty thousand pounds, Mr. George Carmichael left the august presence of the head of Paget Brothers feeling somewhat crestfallen.
He had scarcely done so before Helps rushed in.
"A cable, sir! Praise the Lord, a cable at last!"
He thrust the sheet of paper into his employer's hands. It came fromMelbourne, and bore the date of the day before.
"Esperancearrived safely. Delay caused by broken machinery. Accident of a painful nature on board. Full particulars by mail."Jellyby."
"Esperancearrived safely. Delay caused by broken machinery. Accident of a painful nature on board. Full particulars by mail.
"Jellyby."
Mr. Paget was most careful that the full contents of the cable did not go to his daughter at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. He read it three or four times, then he took up a telegraph form and wired to her as follows:—
"Esperancearrived safely. Delay caused by injury to machinery."
This telegram caused intense rejoicing at the rectory, and Mr. Paget had his gloomy part to himself. He conned that part over and over.
A serious accident. To whom? About whom? What a fool that Jellyby was not to have given him more particulars. Why did that part of the cablegram fill him with consternation? Why should he feel so certain that the accident in question referred to his son-in-law? Well, he must wait over a month for news, and during that month he must collect together eighty thousand pounds. Surely he had enough to think of. Why should his thoughts revert to Wyndham with an ever-increasing dread?
"Wyndham is safe enough," he said. "Jolly enough, too, I make no doubt. His money waits for him at Ballarat. Of course bad news will come, butIshall see through it. Oh, yes,Ishall see through it fast enough."
Days of suspense are hard days—long and weary days. As these days crept one by one away Mr. Paget became by no means an easy person to live with. His temper grew morose, he was irritable, manifestly ill at ease, and he would often for hours scarcely utter a word.
The 17th of July passed. Mr. Carmichael again called for his money. A part was paid to him, the balance the head of the great shipping firm assured the young man could not possibly be forthcoming for another month or six weeks.
"I am sorry," Mr. Paget said, "extremely sorry not to be able to fulfil my word to the letter. But I must have time to realize such a large sum, and I greatly fear Imust claim it."
Mr. Carmichael had a cheque in his hand for ten thousand pounds. He could scarcely feel discontented at such a moment, and took his departure grumbling but elated.
"Helps," said Mr. Paget, "I have taken that ten thousand pounds out of the business, and it can ill afford to lose it. If news does not come soon we are undone, and all our plotting and planning won't save the old place nor the honor of the old house."
"No fear," muttered Helps. "The news will come. I have bad dreams at night. The house will be saved. Don't you fret, Mr. Paget."
He went out of the room looking as morose and ugly as possible, and Mortimer Paget hurled no blessings after him.
The next day was fraught with tidings. A thick packet lay on the chief's desk, bearing the imprint of theEsperanceon it. By the side of the packet was a telegram. He opened the telegram first:—
"Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, 10 a.m."Valentine had a son this morning. Both doing well."
"Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, 10 a.m."Valentine had a son this morning. Both doing well."
The tears absolutely sprang to Mr. Paget's eyes. His hands trembled; he looked round furtively; there was no one by. Then he raised the telegram to his lips and kissed it. Valentine had a son—he had a grandson. Another head of the old house had arisen on the horizon.
He rang his electric bell; he was so excited that he could not keep these tidings to himself.
"I have sent for you to receive your congratulations. Helps," he said; "and—and here's a cheque for ten pounds. You must go home early and have a good supper—champagne and all that sort of thing. Not a word, Helps, my good fellow, you deserve it. You quite deserve it!"
"May I ask what for, Mr. Paget? Forgive me, sir. I see that the packet from theEsperancehas come."
"So it has. It can wait. Take your money, Helps, and drink my grandson's health. He arrived this morning, bless him—my daughter had a son this morning."
"Indeed, sir. It's a pity the father isn't there. It would have been pretty to have seen Mr. Wyndham as a father. Yes, sir. I'm glad your young lady is doing well. Babes come with trouble, and it seems to me they mostly go with trouble. All the same, we make a fuss of them—and the world's too full as it is."
"This child supplies a long felt need," replied the baby's grandfather, frowning. "He is the future head of the house."
"Poor innocent. Yes, sir, I congratulate you as in duty bound. You'll soon read that packet, won't you, sir. It seems a sort of a coincidence like, getting news of the father and the babe in one breath."
"I'll read the packet presently," said Mr. Paget. "Go away now, Helps; don't disturb me."
Left alone, the pleased man spread out the pink sheet of paper in such a position that his eye could constantly rest on it. Then he broke the seal of Captain Jellyby's yarn, and began to read.
Esperance, April 10."My Dear Sir,—"I begin a letter to you under peculiarly afflicting circumstances. Your son-in-law, the favorite of every one on board, one of the nicest young gentlemen I have had the luck to meet, fell overboard last night, between nine and ten o'clock, when a very heavy sea was running. He was standing at the wheel, talking to a sailor of the name of Loggan. Loggan said he was very cheerful and keen to watch the storm. He was helping to tighten up a bit of rope when the boat gave a lurch. Loggan shouted to him to take care, but he was taken off his feet, and the next moment was in the water. We put out the boats and did all in our power, but in addition to the storm the night was very dark, and we never saw nor heard anything more of the unfortunate young gentleman. The night was so rough he must have gone to the bottom almost directly. I cannot express to you, sir, what a gloom this has cast upon all on board. As I said already, your son-in-law was beloved by passengers and sailors alike. His death was due to the most ordinary accident."Well, sir, regrets are useless, but if regrets would bring Mr. Wyndham back, he would be safe and well now; he was one of the most taking young men I ever came across, and also one of the best. Please give my respectful condolences to his poor young widow——"
Esperance, April 10.
"My Dear Sir,—
"I begin a letter to you under peculiarly afflicting circumstances. Your son-in-law, the favorite of every one on board, one of the nicest young gentlemen I have had the luck to meet, fell overboard last night, between nine and ten o'clock, when a very heavy sea was running. He was standing at the wheel, talking to a sailor of the name of Loggan. Loggan said he was very cheerful and keen to watch the storm. He was helping to tighten up a bit of rope when the boat gave a lurch. Loggan shouted to him to take care, but he was taken off his feet, and the next moment was in the water. We put out the boats and did all in our power, but in addition to the storm the night was very dark, and we never saw nor heard anything more of the unfortunate young gentleman. The night was so rough he must have gone to the bottom almost directly. I cannot express to you, sir, what a gloom this has cast upon all on board. As I said already, your son-in-law was beloved by passengers and sailors alike. His death was due to the most ordinary accident.
"Well, sir, regrets are useless, but if regrets would bring Mr. Wyndham back, he would be safe and well now; he was one of the most taking young men I ever came across, and also one of the best. Please give my respectful condolences to his poor young widow——"
Here there was a break in the narrative. It was taken up some days later.
"I had scarcely written the last when an awful thing happened. There was a fearful crash on board, and in short, sir, our funnel was blown down. I can scarcely go into particulars now, but for many days we lay at the mercy of the waves, and I never thought to see land any more. It speaks well for the worthiness of theEsperancethat she weathered such a gale. But for many days and nights the destruction to your property, for the water poured in in all parts, and the miserable state of the passengers, baffles description. The ship was in such a condition that we could not use steam, and when the storm abated had to drift as best we could. For our main masts were also broken, and we could put on scarcely any sail. Our provisions were also becoming short."A week ago, by the mercy of God, we came within hail of the steamerSalamanca, which towed us into port, and theEsperancehas been put into dock at Melbourne for repairs."Under these appalling circumstances, Mr. Wyndham's loss has not been forgotten, but to a certain extent cast on one side. Perhaps I ought to say here; sir, that when your son-in-law commenced his voyage to Sydney under my auspices, he appeared to be in such a state of agitation, and in such distress of mind, that I feared for his brain, and wondered if you had sent him on this voyage by a doctor's orders. He made also a request to me which seemed to confirm this view. He begged me not to let out to anyone on board the smallest particulars (I really did not know any) of his history. In especial he did not wish his wife spoken of. He looked strange when he made these requests, and even now I can see the despair in his eyes when I refused—you will remember, sir, by your express desire—to touch at Plymouth. I may as well say frankly, that had Mr. Wyndham continued as depressed as he was the first few days of the voyage, I should have scarcely considered his untimely end altogether due to accident. But I am happy to be able to reassure your mind on that point. That he felt the separation from his wife terribly at first there is no doubt, but there is also no doubt that he got over this feeling, that he was healthily happy, and altogether the brightest fellow on board. In short, sir, he was the life of the ship; even now we are never done lamenting him. Untimely as his fate was, no one could have been more ready to rush suddenly into the presence of his Maker. I enclose with this a formal certificate of Mr. Wyndham's death, with the latitude and longitude of the exact spot where he must have gone down accurately described. This certificate is duly attested by the Consul here, and I delayed one day in writing to you in order that it should go."I remain, sir."Yours respectfully,"Harry Jellyby.""P.S.—I forgot to mention that two of our boats have been absolutely lost; but I will send you a full list of casualties by next mail."
"I had scarcely written the last when an awful thing happened. There was a fearful crash on board, and in short, sir, our funnel was blown down. I can scarcely go into particulars now, but for many days we lay at the mercy of the waves, and I never thought to see land any more. It speaks well for the worthiness of theEsperancethat she weathered such a gale. But for many days and nights the destruction to your property, for the water poured in in all parts, and the miserable state of the passengers, baffles description. The ship was in such a condition that we could not use steam, and when the storm abated had to drift as best we could. For our main masts were also broken, and we could put on scarcely any sail. Our provisions were also becoming short.
"A week ago, by the mercy of God, we came within hail of the steamerSalamanca, which towed us into port, and theEsperancehas been put into dock at Melbourne for repairs.
"Under these appalling circumstances, Mr. Wyndham's loss has not been forgotten, but to a certain extent cast on one side. Perhaps I ought to say here; sir, that when your son-in-law commenced his voyage to Sydney under my auspices, he appeared to be in such a state of agitation, and in such distress of mind, that I feared for his brain, and wondered if you had sent him on this voyage by a doctor's orders. He made also a request to me which seemed to confirm this view. He begged me not to let out to anyone on board the smallest particulars (I really did not know any) of his history. In especial he did not wish his wife spoken of. He looked strange when he made these requests, and even now I can see the despair in his eyes when I refused—you will remember, sir, by your express desire—to touch at Plymouth. I may as well say frankly, that had Mr. Wyndham continued as depressed as he was the first few days of the voyage, I should have scarcely considered his untimely end altogether due to accident. But I am happy to be able to reassure your mind on that point. That he felt the separation from his wife terribly at first there is no doubt, but there is also no doubt that he got over this feeling, that he was healthily happy, and altogether the brightest fellow on board. In short, sir, he was the life of the ship; even now we are never done lamenting him. Untimely as his fate was, no one could have been more ready to rush suddenly into the presence of his Maker. I enclose with this a formal certificate of Mr. Wyndham's death, with the latitude and longitude of the exact spot where he must have gone down accurately described. This certificate is duly attested by the Consul here, and I delayed one day in writing to you in order that it should go.
"I remain, sir."Yours respectfully,"Harry Jellyby."
"P.S.—I forgot to mention that two of our boats have been absolutely lost; but I will send you a full list of casualties by next mail."
Helps had never felt more restless than he did that morning; he could not attend to his ordinary avocations. Truth to tell, Helps' position in the house of Paget Brothers had always been more or less a dubious one. It was patent to all that he was confided in to a remarkable degree by the head of the house. It was also observed that he had no special or defined post. In short that he did a little of everybody's work, and seemed to have nothing absolutely depending on himself.
All the same, when Helps was away the whole establishment felt a loss. If the old clerk was useful for no other purpose, he was at least valuable as a scape-goat. He could bear blame which belonged to others. It was convenient to make excuses, and to shift uncomfortable omissions of all sorts from one's own shoulders.
"Oh, I thought Helps would have seen to that."
Helps saw to a great deal, and was perfectly indifferent to these inuendoes. Of one thing he was certain, that they would never reach the chief's ears.
On this particular morning Helps would assist no one; he had ten pounds in his pocket, and he knew that the future owner of the great business lay in his cradle at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. Little cared he for that.
"What news of Mr. Wyndham?" This was his thought of thoughts. "What secret lies hidden within that sealed packet? What is my master doing now? When will he ring for me? How soon shall I know the best and the worst? Oh, God, why did I let that young man go? Why didn't I split? What's prison, after all? My God, whatisprison compared to a heart on fire!"
Helps pottered about. He was a very wizened grey little fellow. The clerks found him decidedly in the way. They muttered to one another about him, and Mr. Manners, one of the juniors, requested him in a very cutting voice to shut the door and go away.
Helps obeyed the command to the very letter. By this time his state of mind might have been described as on the rack. For two hours Mr. Paget had been reading that letter. Impossible; no letter would take that time to read. Why had he not rung? Surely he must know what Helps was enduring. Surely at this crisis of his fate—at this crisis of both their fates—he must want to see his faithful servant. Why then did he not ring?
At last in despair Helps knocked at the door of the outer office. There was no answer. He turned the handle, pushed the door ajar and went in. The room was empty. Mr. Paget's pile of ordinary business letters lay unopened on his desk. Helps went up to the door of the inner room, and pressed his ear against the keyhole. There was not a stir within. He knocked against a chair, and threw down a book on purpose. If anything living would bring Mr. Paget out it was the idea of anyone entering, or disarranging matters in his office. Helps disarranged matters wildly; he threw down several books, he upset more than one chair; still the master did not appear. At last he knocked at the door of the inner room. There was no response. Then he knocked again, louder. Then he hammered with his fists. Then he shook the door. No response. The inner room might as well have been a grave. He rushed away at last for tools to break open the door. He was terribly frightened, but even now he had sufficient presence of mind not to bring a third person to share his master's secret. He came back with a pick-lock, a hammer and one or two other implements. He locked the door of the outer office, and then he set boldly to work. He did not care what din he made; he was past all thought of that now. The clerks outside got into a frantic state of excitement; but that fact, had he known it, would have made no difference to Helps.
At last his efforts were crowned with success. The heavy door yielded, and flew open with a bang. Helps fell forward into the room himself. He jumped up hastily. A quiet, orderly, snug room! The picture of a fair and lovely girl looking down from the wall! a man with grey hair stretched on the hearthrug under the picture! a man with no life, nor motion, nor movement. Helps flew to his master. Was he dead? No, the eyes were wide open; they looked at Helps, and one of the hands was stretched out, and clutched at Helps' arm, and pulled it wildlyaside.
"What is it, my dear master?" said the man, for there was that in the face which would have melted any heart to pity.
"Don't! Stand out of my light," said Mr. Paget. "Hold me—steady me—let me get up. He's there—there by the window!"
"Who, my dear sir? Who?"
"The man I've murdered! He's there. Between me and the light. It's done. He's standing between me and the light. Tell him to move away. I have murdered him! I know that. Between me and the light—thelight! Tell him to move away—tell him—tell him!"
Mortimer Paget gave a great shriek, and covered his terrified eyes with his trembling hands!
"What is the matter, Lilias? I did not do anything wrong."
The speaker was Augusta Wyndham.
Three years have passed away since she last appeared in this story; she is grown up now, somewhat lanky still, with rather fierce dark eyes, and a somewhat thin pronounced face. She is the kind of girl who at eighteen is still all angles, but there are possibilities for her, and at five and twenty, if time deals kindly with her, and circumstances are not too disastrous, she might be rounded, softened, she might have developed into a handsome woman.
"What is it, Lilias?" she said now. "Why do you look at me like that?"
"It is the same old story, Gussie," replied Lilias, whose brown cheeks were paler, and her sweet eyes larger than of old; "you are always wanting in thought. It was thoughtless of you to make Valentine walk home, and with little Gerry, too. She will come in fagged and have a headache. I relied on your seeing to her, Gussie; when I asked you to take the pony chaise I thought of her more than you, and now you've come back in it all alone, without even fetching baby."
"Well, Lilias." Augusta paused, drew herself up, leant against the nearest paling, crossed her legs, and in a provokingly petulant voice began to speak.
"With how much more of all that is careless and all that is odious are you going to charge me?" she said. "Oh, of course, 'Gussie never can think.' Now I'll tell you what this objectionable young woman Augusta did, and then you can judge for yourself. I drove to Netley Farm, and got the butter and the eggs, and then I went on to see old James Holt, the gardener, for I thought he might have those bulbs we wanted ready. Then I drew up at the turnstile, and waited for that precious Mrs. Val of yours."
"Don't," said Lilias. "Remember whose——"
"As if I ever forget—but he—he had others beside her—he never had any Augusta except me," two great tears gathered in the great brown eyes; they were dashed hastily aside, and the speaker went on.
"There's twice too much made of her, and that's a fact. You live for her, you're her slave, Lilias. It's perfectly ridiculous—it's absurd. You have sunk your whole life into hers, and since Marjory's wedding things have been worse. You simply have no life but in her. He wouldn't wish it; he hated anyone to be unselfish except himself. Well, then—oh, then, I won't vex the dear old thing. Have you forgiven me, Lil? I know I'm such a chatter-pate. I hope you have forgiven me."
"Of course I have, Gussie. I'm not angry with you, there's nothing to be angry about. You are a faulty creature, I admit, but I also declare you to be one of the greatest comforts of my life."
"Well, that's all right—that's as it should be. Now for my narrative. I waited by the turnpike. Valentine and baby were to meet me there. No sign of them. I waited a long time. Then I tied Bob to the gate, and started on discovery bent. You know it is a pretty lane beyond the turnpike, the hedges hid me. I walked along, whistling and shaking my whip. Presently I was assailed by the tuneful duet of two voices. I climbed the hedge and peeped over. I looked into a field. What did I see? Now, Lilias the wise, guess what I saw?"
"Valentine and our little Gerald," responded Lilias. "She was talking to him; she has a sweet voice, and surely there never was a dearer little pipe than wee Gerry's. They must have looked pretty sitting on the grass."
"They looked very pretty—but your picture is not quite correct. For instance, baby was sound asleep."
"Oh, then, she had him in her arms, and was cooing tohim. A lovelier scene than ever, Augusta."
"A very lovely scene, Lilias; only, one woman's voice would not make a duet."
Something in Augusta's eyes caused Lilias to droop her own. She turned aside to pick a spray of briony.
"Tell me what you saw," she said abruptly.
"I saw Valentine and Adrian Carr. They were sitting close together, and baby was asleep onhisbreast, not on hers, and he was comforting her, for when I peeped over I saw him touch her hand, and then I saw her raise her handkerchief and wipe away some tears. Crocodile's tears, I call them. Now, Lilias, out of my way. I mean to vault over this gate."
"What for, dear?"
"To relieve my feelings. Now I'm better. Won't you have a try?"
"No, thank you, I don't vault gates."
"Aren't you going to show anything? Good gracious, I should simply explode if I had to keep in things the way you do. Now, what's the matter? You look white all the same; whiter than you did ten minutes ago. Oh, if it was me, I couldn't keep still. I should roar like a wounded lion."
"But I am not a wounded lion, Augusta, dear."
Lilias laid her hand on her sister's shoulder.
"I am older than you," she continued, "and perhaps quieter. Life has made me quieter. We won't say anything about what you saw, Augusta. Perhaps none of us have such a burden to bear as Valentine."
"Now, Lilias, what stuff you talk. Oh, she's a humbug, and I hate her. There, I will say it, just for once. She took Gerald away, and now she wants to take Adrian from you. Oh, I know you're an angel—you'd bear anything, but I'm not quite a fool."
"They are coming; youmusthush," said Lilias, putting her hand across her young sister's lips.
Augusta cast two wrathful eyes behind her, lightly vaulted back over the gate, and vanished from view round the first corner. Lilias opened the gate, and went slowly to meet the group who were coming down the dusty country road.
Valentine was in black, but not in widow's weeds. She had a shady hat over her clustering bright hair, and round this hat, the baby, little Gerry, had stuck quantities of leaves and grasses and what wild flowers his baby fingers could clutch. With one hand she was holding up her long dress; her other held a basket of primroses, and her face, bright now with color in the cheeks, laughter on the lips, and the fire of affection in the eyes, was raised to where her sturdy little son sat on Carr's broad shoulder.
The child was a handsome little fellow, cast in a far more masculine mould than his father, to whom he bore scarcely any resemblance.
As Lilias, in her dark grey dress, approached, she looked altogether a more sorrowful and grief-touched figure than the graceful, almost childish young widow who came to meet her.
So Carr thought, as with a softened light in his eyes he glanced at Lilias.
"A certain part of her heart was broken three years ago," he inwardly commented. "Can I—is it in my power—will it ever be in my power to comfort her?"
But Lilias, knowing nothing of these feelings, only noted the happy-looking picture.
"Here we are!" said Carr, catching the boy from his shoulder and letting him jump to the ground. "Run to your auntie now, little man."
Off waddled the small fat legs. Lilias stooped and received the somewhat dusty embrace of two rounded arms, while cherub lips were pressed on hers.
"You do comfort me, little Gerry," she gasped under her breath.
Then she rose, almost staggering under his weight.
"Let me carry him for you," said Carr, coming up to her.
"No, thank you, I like to have him," she said; and she turned and walked by Valentine's side.
"Are you tired, Val? I did not mean you to walk home. I sent Augusta with Bob and the basket chaise. I thought you knew they were to meet you at the turnpike."
"I'm afraid I forgot," answered Valentine. "I met Mr. Carr, and we came to a delicious field, full of primroses, and baby wanted to pick lots, didn't you, treasure? We sat and had a rest; I am not very tired, and Mr. Carr carried this big boy all the way home. Hey-ho," she continued, throwing off her hat, and showing a head as full of clustering richly-colored hair as of old, "what a lovely day it is, it makes me feel young. Come along, baby, we'll race together to the house. It's time for you to go to sleep, little master. Now, then—baby first, mother after—one, two, three and away!"
The child shouted with glee, the mother raced after him, they disappeared through the rose-covered porch of the old rectory. Lilias raised two eyes full of pain to Carr's.
"Is she beginning to forget?" she asked.
"No; why should you say so? She will never forget."
"She looked so young just now—so like a child. Poor Val! She was only twenty-two her last birthday. Mr. Carr. I don't want her to forget."
"In one sense rest assured she never will—in another—would you wish her to endure a life-long pain?"
"I would—I would. It was done for her—she must never forget."
"You always allow me to say plain words, don't you?" said Carr. "May I say some now?"
"Say anything you please, only don't teach her to forget."
"What do you mean?"
The man's eyes blazed. Lilias colored all over her face.
"I mean nothing," she said hurriedly. "Come into the flower-garden. We shall have a great show of roses this year. Come and look at the buds. You were going to say something to me," she added presently.
"Yes. I was going to prepare you for what may come by-and-bye. It is possible that in the future—remember. I don't know anything—but it is possible that in the future your young sister-in-law may once more be happy. I don't know how—I am not going to prognosticate anything, but I think as a rule one may safely infer that the very bitterest grief, the most poignant sorrows which come before twenty are not abiding. Mrs. Wyndham has her child. It would not do for the child to associate only sorrow with the mother's face. Some time in the future she will be happy again. It is my opinion that your brother would be glad of this."
"Hush; you don't know. My brother—my only brother! I at least can never be the Lilias of old."
"I believe you," said Carr much moved by her tone. "You, too, are very young; but in your heart, Miss Wyndham, in your heart, you were an older woman, a woman more acquainted with the grave side of life, than that poor young thing was when the blow fell."
Lilias did not answer for a moment or two.
"I am glad Marjory is out of it all," she said then. "You know what a long nervous illness she had at the time. Dear old Marjory, she was such a tempestuous darling."
"But she is happy now."
"Oh, yes, she has her husband. Philip is very good, he suits Marjory. Yes, she is quite happy now, and I am not miserable—you mustn't think it. I know in whom I have believed."
Her eyes were raised tothe sky overhead.
"I know He won't fail me. Some day Gerald and I shall meet."
"Some day, assuredly," answered Carr.
"And in the meantime, I am not unhappy, only I don't intend ever to forget. Nor shall she."
"One question," said Carr. "Have you heard news lately of Mrs. Wyndham's father?"
"I believe he has recovered. He never comes here. I must own I have a great antipathy to Valentine's father. I don't want to hear of him nor to think of him."
"I can understand that. Still, if it will not trouble you greatly I should like to ask you a question or two with regard to him. He was very ill, at the—at the time, wasn't he?"
"He was very ill, mentally, he was quite off his head for several months."
"Don't you think that was rather strange?"
"I never thought much about it, as far as he was concerned. Of course he must have had a dreadful shock."
"But not such a shock as you had. Not a shock to be named with what that poor girl, his daughter, went through. Your brother was not his own son, and—and——"
"I never thought about it, Mr. Carr. I heard that he was ill, and that the illness was mental. He has been quite well again for some time."
"I assure you you're mistaken. I met him a fortnight ago in town. I never saw a man so completely altered in the whole course of my life."
"Please don't tell me about him. It never was, nor could be, an interesting subject. Ah, there is my dear father calling me. I must run to him."
The rector was seen approaching. His figure was slightly more bent, and his hair whiter than of old. Lilias linked her hand within his arm, and Carr turned away.
"I can never have it out with her," he said to himself. "I never seem to have the courage whenI'm with her. And besides, I don't believe she'd leave her father. But if she did—if I ever could hope to win her for my wife, then I might venture to whisper to her some of my suspicions. How little she guesses what my thoughts are. Can I act in any way without consulting her? I have a good mind to try."
The house of Paget Brothers was never more flourishing than during the spring and summer of 18—. It was three years since the death of its junior partner, Gerald Wyndham, and three years since Mortimer Paget had paid away in full the trust money of eighty thousand pounds which he owed to George Carmichael, of the firm of Carmichael. Parr and Co., Calcutta. Although none of the parties concerned quite intended it, certain portions of the story of this trust got abroad, and became the subject of a nine days' gossip in the City and elsewhere. It had never even been whispered that Paget Brothers were in difficulties. Still such a sum would not be easy to find even in the wealthiest concern. Then the fact also trickled out that Wyndham's life had been insured, heavily insured, in three or four different offices. His death must have come in handily, people said, and they said no more—just then.
The fact was, that had one been even inclined to suspect foul play, Mr. Paget's dangerous illness at the time would have prevented their doing so. Surely no man ever before grieved so bitterly for a dead son-in-law as did this man. The blow had felled him with a stroke. For many months his mind gave way utterly. The words spoken in delirium are seldom considered valuable. What Mr. Paget did or said during the dark summer which followed Wyndham's death never got known. In the autumn he was better; that winter he went abroad, and the following spring he once more was seen in the City.
He looked very old, people said, but he was as shrewd and careful a business man as ever.
"I have to put things in order for my grandson," he would say.
Nobody ever saw him smile just then, but a light used to come into his sunken dark eyes when the child's name was mentioned.
Valentine and the boy spent most of their time in the old house in Park-Lane. She was very gentle with her father, but the relations they had once borne to each other were completely altered. He now rather shrank from her society. She had to seek him, not he her. He was manifestly ill at ease when in her presence. It was almost impossible to get him to come to see her in her own house. When he did so he was attacked by a curious nervousness. He could seldom sit still; he often started and looked behind him. Once or twice he perceptibly changed color, and on all occasions he gave a sigh of relief when he said good-bye.
The child visited his grandfather oftener than the mother did. With the child Mortimer Paget was absolutely at home and happy.
The third summer after Wyndham's death passed away. Valentine spent most of the time at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. Mr. Paget went abroad, as he always did, during August and September. In October he was once more in town. Valentine came back to London, and their small world settled down for its usual winter routine.
On all sides there were talks of this special winter proving a hard one, the cold commenced early and lasted long. In all the poorer quarters of the great city there were signs of distress. Want is a haggard dame. Once known her face is dreaded. As the days grew short, the darkness deepened, and the fogs became frequent, she was often seen stalking about the streets. Poorly clad children, shivering women, despairing defiant-looking men all trembled and fled before her. The cold was intense, work became slack, and then, to increase all other evils, the great cruel monster, Strike, put down his iron heel. Want is his invariable handmaid. Between them they did much havoc.
It was on a certain short November day of this special winter that Mortimer Paget arrived early at hisoffice. He drove there in his comfortable brougham, and stepped out into the winter cold and fog, wrapped up in his rich furs. As he did so a woman with two small children came hastily up, cast a furtive glance to right and left, saw no policeman near, and begged in a high piteous whining voice for alms.
Mr. Paget had never been known to give alms indiscriminately. He was not an uncharitable man, but he hated beggars. He took not the least notice of the woman, although she pushed one of the hungry children forward who raised two piteous blue eyes to the hard man's face.
"Even a couple of pence!" she implored. "The father's on strike, and they've had nothing to eat since yesterday morning."
"I don't give indiscriminate charity," said Mr. Paget. "If your case is genuine, you had better apply at the nearest office of the Charity Organization."
He was pushing open the outer office door when something arrested his attention.
A man came hurriedly up from a side street, touched the woman on the shoulder, lifted one of the hungry children into his arms, and the whole party hurried away. The man was painfully thin, very shabbily dressed, in a long frock coat, which was buttoned tight. He had a beard and moustache, and a soft slouch hat was pushed well forward over his eyes.
The woman's face lit up when she saw him. Both the children smiled, and the whole group moved rapidly away.
The effect of this shabby man's presence on those three helpless and starving creatures was as if the sun had come out. Mr. Paget staggered to his office, walked through the outer rooms as if he were dazed, sought his sanctum, and sat down shaking in every limb.
Since his strange illness of three years ago, Helps had been more like a servant and nurse to him than an ordinary clerk. It was his custom to attend his master on hisfirst arrival, to see to his creature comforts, to watch his moods.
Helps came in as usual this morning. Mr. Paget had removed his hat, and was gazing in a dull vacant way straight before him.
"You are not yourself this morning, sir," said the clerk.
He pushed a footstool under the old man's feet, removed the fur-lined overcoat and took it away. Then standing in front of him he again said:—
"Sir, you are not yourself to-day."
"The old thing, Helps," said Mr. Paget. He shook himself free of some kind of trance with an effort. "The doctors said I should be quite well again, as well as ever. They are mistaken, I shall never be quite well. I saw him in the street just now, Helps."
"Indeed, sir?"
It was Helps'rôleas much as possible to humor his patient.
"Yes, I saw him just now—he takes many guises; he was in a new one to-day—a starved clerk out of employment. That was his guise to-day. I should not have recognized him but for his hand. Perhaps you remember Wyndham's hand, Helps? Very slender, long and tapered—the hand of a musician. He took a ragged child in his arms, and his hand—there was nothing weak about it—clasped another child who was also starved and hungry. Undoubtedly it was Wyndham—Wyndham in a new guise—he will never leave me alone."
"If I were you, Mr. Paget," said Helps after a pause. "I'd open the letters that are waiting for replies. You know what the doctor said, that when the fancy came you mustn't dwell on it. You must be sure and certain not to let it take a hold on you, sir. Now you know, just as well as I do, that you didn't see poor Mr. Wyndham—may Heaven preserve his soul! Is it likely now, sir, that a spirit like Mr. Wyndham's, happy above the sky with the angels, would come down on earth to trouble and haunt you? Isit likely now, sir? If I were you I'd cast the fancy from me!"
Mr. Paget raised his hand to sweep back the white hair from his hollow, lined face.
"You believe in heaven then, Helps?"
"I do for some folks, sir. I believe in it for Mr. Gerald Wyndham."
"Fudge; you thought too well of the fellow. Do you believe in heaven for suicides?"
"Sir—no, sir—his death came by accident."
"It did not; he couldn't go through with the sacrifice, so he ended his life, and he haunts me, curse him!"
"Mr. Paget, I hope God will forgive you."
"He won't, so you needn't waste your hopes. A man has cast his blood upon my soul. Nothing can wash the blood away. Helps, I'm the most miserable being on earth. I walk through hell fire every day."
"Have your quieting mixture, sir; you know the doctor said you must not excite yourself. There, now you are better. Shall I help you to open your letters, sir?"
"Yes, Helps, do; you're a good soul, Helps. Don't leave me this morning; he'll come in at the door if you do."