There came a tap at the outer office. Some one wanted to speak to the chief. A great name was announced.
In a moment Mr. Paget, from being the limp, abject wretch whom Helps had daily to comfort and sustain, became erect and rigid. From head to foot he clothed himself as in a mask. Erect as in his younger days he walked into the outer room, and for two hours discussed a matter which involved the loss or gain of thousands.
When his visitor left him he did so with the inward remark:—
"Certainly Paget's intellect and nerve may be considered colossal."
Esther Helps still took charge of her father's house in Acacia Villas. She was still Esther Helps. Perhaps a more beautiful Esther than of old; a little steadier, too, a little graver—altogether a better girl.
For some unaccountable reason, after that night at the theatre when Wyndham had sat by her side and taken her back from destruction to her father's arms, she had almost ceased to flirt. She said nothing now about marrying a gentleman some day, and as the men who were not gentlemen found she would have nothing to do with them, it began to be an almost understood thing among her friends that Esther, lovely as she was, would not marry. This resolve on her part, for it amounted to an unspoken resolve, was followed by other changes. She turned her attention to her hitherto sadly neglected mind. She read poetry with Cherry, and history and literature generally by herself. Then she tried to improve her mode of speech, and studied works on etiquette, and for a short time became frightfully stilted and artificial. This phase, however, did hot last long. The girl had really a warm and affectionate heart, and that heart all of a sudden had been set on fire. The flame never went out. It was a holy flame, and it raised and purified her whole nature.
She loved Wyndham as she might have loved Christ had He been on earth. Wyndham seemed to her to be the embodiment of all nobility. He had saved her, none knew better than she did from how much. It was the least she could do to make her whole life worthy of her savior. She guessed by instinct that he liked refinement, and gentle speech, and womanly ways. So it became her aim in life to seek after those things, and as far as possible to acquire them.
Then the news of his death reached her. Only Cherry knew how night after night Esther cried herself to sleep. Only Cherry guessed why Esther's cheeks were sosunken and her eyes so heavy. Her violent grief, however, soon found consolation. Gerald had always been only a star to be gazed at from a distance; he was still that. When she thought of heaven she pictured seeing him there first of all. She thought that when the time came for her to go there he might stand somewhere near the gates and smile to see how she, too, had conquered, and was worthy.
Now she turned her attention to works of charity, to a life of religion. It was all done for the sake of an idol, but the result had turned this flippant, worldly, vain creature into a sweet woman, strong in the singleness of her aim.
Esther cared nothing at all about dress now. She would have joined a Deaconess' Institution but she did not care to leave her father. She did a great deal of work, however, amongst the poor, and at the beginning of this severe winter she joined a band of working sisters in East London as an associate. She usually went away to her work immediately after breakfast, returning often not until late at night, but as she wore the uniform of the association, beautiful as she was she could venture into the lowest quarters, and almost come home at any hour without rendering herself liable to insult.
One night as Cherry was preparing supper she was surprised to hear Esther's step in the passage two or three hours before her usual time of returning. Cherry was still the same strange mixture of poet and cook that she had ever been. With the "Lays of Ancient Rome" in one hand and her frying-pan held aloft in the other, she rushed out to know what was the matter.
"Why, Essie," she exclaimed, catching sight of her cousin's face. "You're ill, Essie; come in and sit down by the fire. I do hope to goodness you haven't gone and caught nothing."
"I have caught nothing," said Esther. "I am not ill."
She untied her bonnet strings and loosened her long straight cloak.
"Is father in, Cherry? I want to see him the minute he returns."
"You'll have to wait then," said Cherry, turning away in a half offended manner. If Esther did not choose to confide in her she was not going to force confidence.
She resumed her cooking with vigor, reading aloud portions from the volume on her knees as she did so.
"The Lady Jane was tall and slim;The Lady Jane was fair——"
"Essie, I wish you wouldn't fidget so. Whatever is the matter?"
"I want my father," repeated Esther.
"Well, he's not in. Uncle's never back till an hour after this. I tell him he's more and more of a nurse and less and less of a clerk every day of his life; he don't like it, but it's true. That old Mr. Paget is past bearing."
Esther rose with a sigh, folded her cloak, laid it on a chair, placed her bonnet on top of it, and going over to the fireplace gazed into the flames.
Cherry's cooking frizzled and bubbled in the pan, Cherry's own head was bent over her book.
"This is the rarest fun," she exclaimed suddenly. "Didn't Lady Jane pay Sir Thomas out? Lord, it were prime. You never will read the 'Ingoldsby Legends,' Esther. Now I call them about the best things going. How white you do look. Well, it's a good thing you are in time for a bit of supper. I have fried eggs and tomatoes to-night, browned up a new way. Why don't you take your cloak and bonnet upstairs, Essie, and sit down easy like? It fidgets one to see you shifting from one foot to another all the time."
"I'm going out again in a minute," said Esther. "I came in early because I wanted my father. Oh, there'shis latch-key in the door at last. Don't you come, Cherry. I want to speak to him by myself."
Cherry's hot face grew a little redder.
"I like that," she said to herself. "It's drudge, drudge with me—drudge, drudge from morning till night; and now she won't even tell me her secrets. I never has no livening up. I liked her better when she was flighty and flirty, that I did—a deal better. We'll, I'll see what comes of that poor Sir Thomas."
Meanwhile Esther, with one hand on her father's shoulder, was talking to him earnestly.
"I want you to come back with me, father—back this very minute."
"Where to, child?"
"To Commercial Road. There's to be a big meeting of the unemployed, and the Sisters and I, we was to give supper to some of the women and children. The meeting will be in the room below, and the supper above. I want you to come. Some gentlemen are going to speak to them; it won't be riotous."
Helps drew a deep sigh. It was a damp drizzling night, and he was tired.
"Can't you let me be this time, Essie?" he said.
"No, father, no, you must come to-night."
"But I can't do nothing for the poor fellows. I pity them, of course, but what can I do?"
"Nothing, only come to the meeting."
"But what for, Essie?"
"To please me, if for no other reason."
"Oh, if you put it in that way."
"Yes, I put it that way. You needn't take off your great coat. I'll have my cloak and bonnet on again in a jiffy."
"What, child, am I to have no supper?"
Poor Helps found the smell from the kitchen very appetising.
"Afterwards, when you come back. Everything good when you come back. Now, do come. It is so important."
She almost dragged him away. Cherry heard the house door bang after the two.
"Well, I'm done," she exclaimed! "See if I'll cook for nobody another time."
Esther and her father found an omnibus at the corner of their street. In a little over half-an-hour they were in Commercial Road; a few minutes later they found themselves in the large barn-like building which was devoted to this particular mission.
The ground floor consisted of one huge room, which was already packed with hungry-looking men and half-grown boys.
"Stand near the door," said Esther, giving her father explicit directions. "Don't stay where the light will fall on your face. Stand where you can look but can't be seen."
"You don't want me to be a spy, child. What is the meaning of all this?"
"You can put any meaning you like on it. Only do what I tell you. I want you to watch the men as they come in and out of the room. Watch them all; don't let one escape you. Stay until the meeting is over. Then tell me afterwards if there is any one here whom you know."
"What is the girl up to?" muttered Helps.
But Esther had already slipped upstairs. He heard sounds overhead, and women and children going up the stairs in groups; he saw more than one bright-looking Sister rushing about, busy, eager, and hopeful. Then the sounds within the large lower room showed him that the meeting had begun, and he turned his attention to the task set him by his daughter.
Certainly Esther was a queer girl, a dear, beautifulgirl, but queer all the same. In what a ridiculous position she had placed him in; a tired elderly clerk. He was hungry, and he wanted his supper; he was weary, and he sighed for his pipe and his easy-chair. What had he in common with the men who filled this room. Some of them, undoubtedly, were greatly to be pitied, but many of them only came for the sake of making a fuss and getting noticed. Anyhow,hecould not help them, and what did Esther mean by getting him to stand in this draughty doorway on the chance of seeing an old acquaintance; he was not so much interested in old acquaintances as she imagined.
The room was now packed, and the gentleman who occupied the platform, a very earnest, energetic, thoughtful speaker, had evidently gained full attention. Helps almost forgot Esther in the interest with which he listened. One or two men offered to make way for him to go further into the room; but this he declined. He did not suppose any friend of Esther's would appear; still he must be true to the girl, and keep the draughty post she had assigned him.
At the close of the first address, just when a vociferous clapping was at its height, Helps observed a tall very thin man elbowing his way through the crowd. This crowd of working men and boys would not as a rule be prepared to show either forbearance or politeness. But the stranger with a word whispered here, or a nod directed there, seemed to find "open sesame" wherever he turned. Soon he had piloted his way through this great crowd of human beings almost to the platform. Finally he arrested his progress near a pillar against which he leaned with his arms folded. He was more poorly dressed than most of the men present, but he had one peculiarity which rendered him distinguishable; he persistently kept his soft felt hat on, and well pushed forward over his eyes.
Helps noticed him, he could scarcely himself tell why. The man was poor, thin. Helps could not get a glimpseof his face, but there was something in his bearing which was at once familiar and bespoke the gentleman.
"Poor chap, he has seen better days," muttered Helps. "Somehow, he don't seem altogether strange, either."
Then he turned his attention once more to watch for the acquaintance whom Esther did not want him to miss.
The meeting came to an end and the men began to stream out. Helps kept his post. Suddenly he felt a light hand touch his arm; he turned; his daughter, her eyes gleaming with the wildest excitement, was standing by his side.
"Have you seen him, father?"
"Who, child—who? I'm precious hungry, and that's the truth, Esther."
"Never mind your hunger now—you have not let him escape—oh, don't tell me that."
"Essie, I think you have taken leave of your senses to-night. Who is it that I have not let escape?"
"A tall man in a frock coat, different from the others; he has a beard, and he wears his hat well pushed forward; his hands are white. You must have noticed him; he is certain to be here. You did not let him go?"
"I know now whom you mean," said Helps. "I saw the fellow. Yes, he is still in the room."
"You did not recognize him, father?"
"No, child. That is, I seem to know something about him. Whatever are you driving at, Esther?"
"Nothing—nothing—nothing. Go, follow the man with the frock coat. Don't let him see you. Find out where he lives, then bring me word. Go. Go. You'll miss him if you don't."
She disappeared, flying upstairs again, light as a feather.
Helps found himself impelled against his will to obey her.
"Here's a pretty state of things," he muttered. "Here am I, faint for want of food, set to follow a chap nobody knows nothing about through the slums."
It never occurred to Helps, however, not to obey the earnest dictates of his daughter.
He was to give chase. Accordingly he did so. He did so warily. Dodging sometimes into the road, sometimes behind a lamp post in case the tall man should see him. Soon he became interested in the work. The figure on in the front, which never by any chance looked back, but pursued its course undeviatingly, struck Helps once more with that strange sense of familiarity.
Where had he seen a back like that? Those steps, too, the very way the man walked gave him a queer sensation. He was as poor looking a chap as Helps had ever glanced at, and yet the steps were not unknown—the figure must have haunted the little clerk in some of his dreams.
The pursuer and pursued soon found themselves in quarters altogether new to Helps. More and more squalid grew the streets, more and more ruffianly grew the people. There never was a little man less likely to attract attention than this clerk with his humble unpretentious dress and mien. But in these streets he felt himself remarkable. A whole coat, unpatched trousers, were things to wonder at here. The men and the women, too, took to jostling him as he passed. One bold-faced girl tilted his hat well forward over his eyes, and ran away with a loud laugh.
Helps felt that even for Esther's sake he could not proceed any further. He was about to turn back when another glance at the figure before him brought such a rush of dazed wonderment, of uncanny familiarity, that all thought of his own possible danger deserted him, and he walked on, eager as Esther herself now in pursuit.
All this time they had been going in the direction of the docks. Suddenly they turned down a very badly lighted side street. There was a great brewery here, and the wall of the brewery formed for a long way one side of the street. It was so narrow as to be little better than a lane, and instead of being a crowded thoroughfare was now almost deserted. Here and there in the brewery wall were niches. Not one of these niches was empty. Each held its human being—man, woman, or child. It seemed to be with a purpose that the tall stranger came here. He slackened his pace, pushed his hat a little back, and began to perform certain small ministrations for the poor creatures who were to pass the night on the cold damp pavement.
A little girl was asleep in one of the niches; he wrapped her shawl more closely round her, tucking it in so as to protect her feet. Her hair hung in a tangled mass over her forehead. He pushed it back with a tender hand. Finally he pressed into the little thin palm two lollypops; they would give comfort to the child when she awoke.
Helps kept behind, well in the shadow; he was absolutely trembling now with suppressed excitement. He had seen by the glitter of the flaring gas the white hand of the man as he pushed back the child's elf-locks. The two went on again a few steps. The man in front stopped suddenly—they were passing another niche. It had its occupant. A girl was stretched prone on the ground—a girl whose only covering was rags. As they approached, she groaned. In an instant the stranger was bending over her.
"You are very ill, I fear. Can I help you?"
"Eh? What's that?" exclaimed the girl.
She raised her head, stretching out something which was more like a claw than a hand.
"What's that noise?" she repeated.
The noise had been made by Helps. It was an amazed terrified outcry when he heard the voice of the man who was bending over the girl. The man himself had observed nothing.
"You are very ill," he repeated. "You ought to be in a hospital."
"No, no, none of that," she said, clutching hold of his hand. "I ha' lain down to die. Let me die. I wor starving—the pain wor awful. Now I'm easy. Don't touch me—don't lift me; I'm easy—I'm a-goin' to die."
The stranger knelt a little lower.
"I won't hurt you," he said. "I will sit here by your side. Don't be frightened. I am going to raise your head—a little—a very little. Now it rests on my knee. That is better."
"Eh, you're a good man; yes, that's nice."
Her breath came in great pants. Presently she began to wander.
"Is that you, mother? Mother, I've been such a bad gel—bad every way. The Almighty's punishing me. I'm dying, and He's a sending me to hell."
"No," said the quiet voice of the man. "No;youare the one He wants. He is seekingyou."
"Eh?" she said. Once more her clouded brain cleared. "Eh, how my breath does go. I'm a-going to hell!"
"No. He has sent me to find you; you are not going there."
"How do you know?"
She turned herself an inch or two in her astonishment and stared up at him.
Something in his face seemed to fill her with astonishment.
"Take off your hat," she said. "Are you Jesus Christ?"
It was at this juncture that Helps turned and fled.
He ran as he never ran before in the whole course of his life. Nobody saw him go, and nobody obstructed him in his headlong flight. Presently he got back to the Mission Hall. The place was closed and dark. He was turning away when a woman came out of the deep shelter of the doorway and touched his arm.
"Essie, is that you? My God, Essie, I've seen a ghost!"
"No, father, no—a living man."
"This is awful, child. I'm shaking all over. I'd sooner be in my grave than go through such a thing again."
"Lean on me, father. We'll walk a bit, and soon find a cab-stand. We'll have a cab home. It's about time you had your supper. Don't talk a bit. Get back your poor breath."
As they were driving home a few minutes later, in a hansom, she turned suddenly.
"And you've got Mr. Wyndham's address?"
"Good heavens, Essie, don't say his name like that! I suppose it's a sign of the end that I should have seen a spirit."
"Nonsense, father, you saw no spirit. That's Mr. Gerald Wyndham in the flesh, as much as you and I are in the flesh. You saw no spirit, but a living man. I recognized him this morning, but I wasn't going to take my own word for it, so I got you to look him up. They call him Brother Jerome down here. Nobody knows anything at all about him, how he lives, nor nothing; only that he goes in and out amongst the people, and is always comforting this one or cheering that, and quieting down rows, and soothing people, and—and—doing more in a day than the Sisters or I could do in a week. I've heard of him for a month past, but I only saw him to-day. He's a mystery, and people wonder about him, and no one can tell how he lives, nor where he sleeps.Iknow, though. He sleeps out of doors, and he starves. He shan't starve any longer."
"Esther," said Helps, late that night, after Cherry, in a very sulky humor, had gone to bed, "Esther, this is a very terrible, a very awful thing for me!"
"How so, father!"
She was kneeling by his side. Now she put her arm round his neck, and looked into his face. Her beating, throbbing, exulting heart told her that her discovery of that day was new life to her.
"I am glad," she continued, after a solemn pause; "yes. I don't mind owning I am very glad that a good man like Mr. Wyndham still lives."
"Child, you don't know what you are talking about. It is awful—awful—his coming back. Even if he is alive he ought to have stayed away. His coming back like this is terrible. It means, it means——"
"What, father?"
"Child, it must never be known: he must be warned; he must go away at once. Suppose anybody else saw him?"
"Father," said Esther.
She rose and stood over the shrinking old man.
"You have got to tell me the meaning of those queer words of yours. I guessed there was a mystery about Mr. Wyndham; now I am certain. If I don't know it before I leave the room to-night, I'll make mischief. There!"
"Essie—Essie—I thought you had turned into a good girl."
"I'll turn bad again. Listen. I love that man. Not as a girl loves her lover—not as a wife cares for her husband. He is married, and I should not be ashamed to tell his wife how I love him. I glory in my love; he saved me. Father, I wasn't coming home at all that night. He saved me; you can understand how I feel for him. My life wouldn't be a great deal to give up for him. There has been mischief done to him, that I am sure. Now tell me the truth; then I'll know how to act. Oh, father, you'rethe dearest and the kindest. Tell me the truth and you won't repent it."
"No, Essie, child, I don't suppose I shall repent. Sit there. You know too much, you may as well know all. Mr. Wyndham's life was insured."
"Yes?"
"Heavily, mark you, heavily."
"Yes." She covered her face with her hands. "Let me think. Say, father"—she flung her hands into her lap—"was this done on purpose?"
"Ay, child, ay; and a better man never lived. Ay, it was done on purpose."
"He was meant not to come back?"
"That's it, Essie, my dear. That's it."
"I see; yes, I see. Was the insurance money paid?"
"Every farthing of it, child. A large sum paid in full."
"If he appeared again it would have to be refunded?"
"If it could be, child."
"If it couldn't?"
"Then the story, the black story of why it was wanted, would have to come out; and—and—Esther, is the door locked? Come close, Essie. Your old father and my master would end our days in penal servitude."
"Now I see," said Esther.
She did not scream nor utter any loud exclamation, but began to pace softly up and down the room. Mentally she was a strong girl; her calm in this emergency proved her mettle.
After a few moments Helps began to speak; his words were wild and broken.
"Over and over I thought I'd rather," he said. "Over, and over, and over—when I saw what it meant for him, poor younggentleman. But I can't, Essie, I can't. When it comes to the pinch I can't do it. We thought he was dead, my master and I, and my master he went off his head. And over he said, yes, over and over—'Helps, a clean cell and a clean heart would be heaven to this.' But, bless you, Essie, he couldn't stand it either at the pinch. We thought Mr. Wyndham lying under the sea. Oh, poor young gentleman, he had no right to come back."
"No right? He has a wife and a child."
"A widow and orphan, you mean. No, Esther, he should have stayed away. He made a vow, and he should have stuck to it."
"He has not broken his vow, father. Oh, father, what a wicked thing you have done; you and that master to whom you have given your life. Now let me think."
"You won't send me to prison, Esther?"
"No, no. Sit down. I must think things out. Even now I don't know clearly about Mr. Wyndham; you have only treated me to half-confidences. Stay, though, I don't wish to hear more. You mustn't go to prison. Mr. Wyndham mustn't starve. I have it. Mr. Wyndham shall come here."
"Esther!"
Poor old Helps uttered a shriek, which caused Cherry to turn uneasily on her pillow.
"Keep yourself quiet, father. I'm a determined woman, and this thing shall be. Mr. Wyndham shall eat of our bread, and we will shelter him; and I—I, Esther Helps—will undertake to guard his secret and yours. No one living shall guess who he is."
"You forget—oh, this is an awful thing to do. You forget—there's Cherry."
"I'll blind Cherry. If I can't, she must go. I shall bring Mr. Wyndham home to-morrow night!"
"Esther, this will kill me."
"No, it won't. On the contrary, you'll be a better and a happier man. You wouldn't have him starve, when through him you have your liberty? I'm ashamed of you."
She lit her candle and walked away.
Old Helps never went to bed that night.
Esther did not go out next morning. Cherry was surprised at this. Helps went off at his usual hour. Cherry noticed that he ate little or no breakfast; but Esther did not stir. She sat quietly by the breakfast table. She ate well and deliberately. Her eyes were bright, her whole face was full of light and expression.
"Ain't you going down as usual to these dirty slums?" quoth Cherry. "I'm sick of them. You and your clothes both coming in so draggled like at night. I'm sick of the slums. But perhaps you mean to give them up."
"Oh, no," said Esther, waking from a reverie into which she had fallen, "but I'm not going this morning. I've something else to attend to."
"Then perhaps, Esther," said Cherry, with her round eyes sparkling, "you'd maybe think to remember your promise of getting that pink gauze dress out of your trunk; you know you promised it to me, and I've a mind to make it up with yellow bows. I'm sure to want it for something about Christmas."
"You shall have it," said Esther, in a sharp, short voice.
The abstracted look returned to her face. She gazed out of the window.
"Law, Essie, ain't you changed, and for the worse, I take it!" remarked Cherry. "I liked you a sight better when you were flighty and frivolous. Do you remember the night you went to the theatre with that Captain something or other? My word, wasn't uncle in a taking. 'Twas I found your tickets, and put uncle up to getting a seat near you. Weren't you struck all of a heap when you found him there? I never heard how you took it."
"Hush," said Esther, rising to her feet, her face growing very white. "I was mad, then, but I was saved. That's enough about it. Cherry, you know the box-room?"
"Yes," said Cherry. "It's stuffed pretty well, too. Mostly with your trunks, what you say belonged to your mother."
"So they did. Well, they must go downstairs."
"Wherever to? There isn't a corner for them in this scrap of a house."
"Corners must be found. Some of the trunks can go in our bedroom—some into father's; some into the passage, some into the drawing-room if necessary. You needn't stare, it has got to be done."
Esther stamped her foot and looked so imperious that Cherry shrank away.
"I suppose you're a bit mad again," she muttered, and she began to collect the breakfast things on a tray.
"Stop, Cherry, we may as well talk this out. I'll go upstairs now and help you with the boxes. Then we'll clean out the attic; if I had time I'd paper it, but there ain't. Then I'm going out to buy a bedstead and bedding, and a table and washhand stand. The attic is to be made into a bedroom for——"
Here she paused.
"Well," said Cherry, "for whom, in the name of goodness?"
Esther gulped something down in her throat.
"There's a good man in the East of London, a very good man; he has no money, and he's starving, and he has to sleep out of doors; and—and—I can't stand it, Cherry—and I spoke to father, and we have agreed that he shall have the attic and his food. That's it, his name is Brother Jerome; he's a sort of an angel for goodness."
"Slums again," said Cherry; "I'll have nothing to do with it."
She took up her tray and marched into the kitchen. Esther waited a minute or two, then she went to her room, put on a coarse check apron, and mounted the narrow attic stairs. She commenced pulling the trunks about; she could not lift them alone, but she intended to push them to the head of the stairs and then shove them down.
Presently a thumping step was heard, and Cherry's round face appeared.
"Disgusting job, I call it," she said; "but if I must help you, I suppose I must. I was going to learn 'Lord Tom Noddy' this morning. I thought I might wear the pink gauze with yellow bows, and recite it at Uncle Dan's Christmas party. Cousin Tom says I'm real dramatic when I'm excited, and that's a beautiful piece, so rhythmic and flowing. But then we all have to bend to you, Esther, and if I must help you I suppose I must."
"I think you had better, dear, and some day perhaps you won't be sorry. He's a good man, Brother Jerome is, he won't be no trouble. I'll clean his room for him myself once it's put in order, and he's sure to go out early in the morning. He'll breakfast upstairs, and I'll take him his breakfast, and his supper shall be ready for him here at night. We must see if that chimney will draw, Cherry, for of course he'll want his bit of fire."
After this the two girls worked with a will; they cleaned and polished the tiny window, they scrubbed the floor and brushed down the walls, and polished the little grate. Then Esther went out and made her purchases. The greater part of a five pound note was expended, and by the afternoon Gerald Wyndham's room was ready for him.
"Brother Jerome will come home with me to-night. Cherry," said Esther. "I may be late—I'm sure to be late—you needn't sit up."
"But I'd like to see him. Slums or no slums, he has given me a pair of stiff arms, and I want to find out if he's worth them."
"Oh, he's nothing to look at. Just a tall, thin, starved-looking man. He'll be shy, maybe, of coming, and you'd much better go to bed. You'll leave some supper ready in his room."
"What shall I leave?"
"Oh, a jug of beer and some cheese, and the cold meat and some bread and butter. That's all, he's accustomed to roughing it."
"My word, you call that roughing. Then the slums can't be so bad. I always thought there was an uncommon fuss made about them. Now I'll get to 'Lord Tom Noddy,' and learn off a good bit before tea time; you might hear me recite if you had a mind, Essie."
"Oh, yes, she's the sweetest missus in the world!"
That was the universal opinion of the servants who worked for Valentine Wyndham. They never wanted to leave her, they never grumbled about her, nor thought her gentle orders hard. The nurse, the cook, the housemaid, stayed on, the idea of change did not occur to them.
Valentine and her little son came back to the house in town at the end of October. Lilias came with them, and Adrian Carr often ran up to town and paid a visit to the two.
One day he came with a piece of news. He had got the offer of an incumbency not very far from Park-Lane. A fashionable church wanted a good preacher. Carr had long ago developed unusual powers as a pulpit orator, and the post, with a good emolument, was offered to him. He came to consult Lilias and Valentine in the matter.
"Of course you must go," said Lilias. "My father will miss you—we shall all—but that isn't the point. This is a good thing for you—a great thing—you must certainly go."
"And I can often see you," responded Carr, eagerly. "Mrs. Wyndham will let me come here, I hope, and you will often be here."
"I wish you would spend the winter with me, Lilias," said Valentine. She had interpreted aright the expression in Carr's eyes, and soon afterwards she left the room.
She went up to her own room, shut and locked the door, and then stood gazing into the fire with her hands tightly locked together. She inherited one gift from her father. She, too, could wear a mask. Now it dropped from her, and her young face looked lined and old.
"It isn't the grief of losing him," she murmured under her breath. "It's the pain—the haunting fear—that things are wrong. Have I known my father all these years not to note the change in him? He shrinks from me—hedreads me. Why? His conscience is guilty. Oh, Gerald, if I had only let you look into my heart, perhaps you would not have gone away. Oh, if only I had been in time to go on board theEsperanceyou would have been living now. Yes, Gerald, the terror never leaves me day and night; you are dead, but God did not mean you to die. My own Gerald—my heart would have been broken, or I should have lost my reason, if I had not confided my fears to Mr. Carr. Some people perhaps think I have forgotten—some again that I have ceased to love my husband. How little they know! Of course I am bright outwardly. But my heart is old and broken. I have had a very sad life—I am a very unhappy woman. Only for little Gerry I couldn't live. He is sweet, but I wish he were more like his father. Ah, there is nurse's knock at the door. Coming, nurse. Is baby with you?"
Mrs. Wyndham unlocked her door, and a little round, dimpled, brown-tinted child scampered in. He was followed by his nurse, a grave, nice-looking woman of about thirty. She was a widow, and had a son of her own.
"Has baby come to say good-night, Annette? Come here, sweet. Come into mother's arms."
She sat down on a low chair by the fire, and the little man climbed on her knee.
"I don't'ikeoo. I'oveoo," he said.
"He's always saying that, ma'am," remarked the nurse. "He likes his toys—he loves his mother."
"Course I 'ove my mother."
He laid his brown curly head on her breast.
"Nurse, is anything the matter? You don't look well."
"That's it, madam. I'm not ill in body, but I'm sore fretted in mind. Now, baby, darling, don't you pull your dear ma to bits! The fact is, ma'am, and sore I am to say it, I'm afraid I must leave this precious child."
"Nurse!"
Valentine's arms dropped away from baby; baby raised his own curly head, and fixed his brown eyes on the woman, his rosy lips pouted.
"Sore I am to say it, ma'am," repeated Annette, "but there's no help. I've put off the evil day all I could, ma'am; but my mother's old, and my own boy has been ill, and she says I must go home and see after them both. Of course, madam, I'll suit your convenience as to the time of my going, and I hope you'll get some one else as will love the dear child. Come to bed, master baby, dear; your mother wants to go down to dinner."
A few days after this, as Helps was taking his comfortable breakfast, cooked to perfection by Cherry's willing hands, he raised his eyes suddenly, looked across at his daughter Esther, and made a remark.
"I'm told poor young madam is in no end of a taking."
"What young madam, father?"
"Mrs. Wyndham. The nurse is going and the child has got whooping cough. He's bad, too, poor little 'un, and frets about the nurse like anything. My master's in a way, too; he's wrapped up in that little lad. It was he told me; he said perhaps you'd know of a nurse as would suit. Esther."
"Don't stare so, Cherry," said Esther. "Anybody would think father was talking of ghosts, to see the bigness of your eyes. Well, father, yes, I'll think about a nurse. I'm sorry the child is ill."
"Don't you go and get a nurse from the slums," retorted Cherry. "You're all slums, you are. My word, I am having a time since that new lodger took possession."
Here Cherry paused to pour fresh water into the tea-pot. Esther and her father exchanged frightened glances.
"Brother Jerome, indeed!" proceeded this energetic young person. "He's a mighty uneasy sort of Brother Jerome. His good deeds don't seem to quieten him, anyway. And why does he always keep a hat stuck on his head, and never raise it when he passes me on the stairs. I know I'm broad and I'm stout, and I've no looks to boast of, but it's meant for men to raise their hats to women, and I don't see why he shouldn't. Then at night he walks the boards overhead fit to work on anybody's nerves. I don't recite half so dramatic as I did, because I can't get my sleep unbroken."
"Your tongue ain't stopped, anyway," said her uncle, almost crossly. "Esther, you'll think about the nurse for young madam."
He rose and left the room.
Esther sat still a little longer. She heard Cherry rattling the plates in the kitchen. Presently, she got up, put on her bonnet and cloak, called good-bye to her cousin, and went out. There could scarcely be a better Sister of the Poor than Esther Helps. She was near enough to them socially to understand their sorrows. She had never known starvation, but she could take in what tiny means meant—their mode of speech was comprehensible to her, she was sufficiently unfastidious to go into their dirty rooms, to witness their uncouth, semi-savage ways without repulsion. She liked the life, it suited her, and her it. She was the kind of woman to be popular as a district visitor. She had abundance of both sympathy and tact. When her sympathies were aroused, her manners could be affectionate. In addition, she had a very lovely face. The poor of East London adore beauty; it comes so rarely near them in any case that they look upon it as an inestimable treasure. The women and children liked to watch Esther when she talked and when she smiled. The men treated her with the respect due to a regal presence.
Esther went down as usual to her mission work to-day.Sister Josephine, the head of this branch of work, greeted the handsome girl with a smile when she came in, drew her aside, and spoke to her about a particularly difficult undertaking which was soon to be commenced. This undertaking would require the utmost tact and talent; the sister asked Esther if she would be willing to become the head of the movement.
"I don't know anyone more suitable," she said in conclusion. "Only if you come, you must consent to sleep away from home. Some of our work—our principal work—will take place at night."
Esther's clear ivory-tinted skin became a shade paler. She looked full at the sister with troubled but unshrinking eyes.
"You do me a great honor," she said. "But I am afraid I must decline it. At present I cannot sleep away from home. It is also possible—yes, it is quite possible—that I may have to give up the work altogether for a time."
"Esther, are you putting your hand to the plough and looking back?"
"I don't know, Sister Josephine. Perhaps I am."
The sister laid her hand solemnly on the girl's arm.
"Esther, if you love anyone better than God, you have no right to come here," she said.
Then she turned away and walked sorrowfully down the long mission room. She was disappointed in Esther Helps, and though Esther's own heart never faltered, she felt a sharp pang pierce it.
That night she came home late.
"Has Brother Jerome come in?" she asked Cherry.
"No. How you do fash about that man! His supper's waiting for him, and I saw to his fire. Now I'm going to bed. I'm dead tired."
"Do, Cherry. I'll sit up for Brother Jerome."
"Ask him, for goodness sake, not to march the boards so frequent. He'll have my grey hairs to account for. He's picked up a cough, too, and between the creaking of the boards, and the coughing, I have nice nights lately."
"You study too much, Cherry, or you wouldn't mind such little noises. Now go to bed, dear. I'll give Brother Jerome a hint."
"Good-night, Esther. Uncle's been in bed an hour or more. I hope that brother of the slums won't keep you long."
Cherry ran upstairs, and Esther went into the bright warm little kitchen. She left the door wide open, and then she sat and waited.
The substance of Sister Josephine's words rang in her ears.
"If you love another better than God, you have no right to come here."
Did she love another better than God? No, no, impossible. A man had influenced her life, and because of his influence she had given herself up, soul and body, to God's service. How could she love the man best? He had only pointed to the higher way.
Then she heard his step outside; his latch-key in the door, and she felt herself tremble. He went straight upstairs, never glancing in the direction of the kitchen; as he went he coughed, and his cough sounded hollow. His figure, never remarkably upright, was much bent.
Esther waited a few minutes; then, her heart going pit-a-pat, she crept very softly upstairs, passed her own room and Cherry's, and knocked at Wyndham's door.
He came and opened it.
"Can I speak with you, brother?"
"Certainly. Come in, Esther?"
The attic had been converted into a wonderfully snug apartment. The bed and washing apparatus were curtained off, and the part of the room which surrounded the hearth revealed a bright fire, a little table on which a tempting cold supper was spread, and a deep easy chair.
"Sit down, brother," said Esther, "and eat. Let me help you. I can talk while you eat your supper. Are you very tired to-night? Yes, I am afraid you are dreadfully tired."
"I am always tired, Esther. That is in the condition of things."
He sank back into his chair as if he were too weary to keep out of it. Then, with a flash of the old Gerald Wyndham in his eyes and manner, he sprang up.
"I was forgetting myself. Will you sit here!"
"What do you take me for, Mr.—Brother Jerome, I mean. I have come up here to see you eat, to see you rest, and to—to—talk to you."
"Esther, I have no words to thank you. You are, yes, you are the noblest woman I know."
She flushed all over; her eyes shone.
"And isn't that thanks for ever and ever?" she said in a voice in which passion trembled.
Wyndham did not notice. He had taken off his hat, and Cherry's good supper stood by his side. He ate a little, then put down his knife and fork.
"Ain't you hungry, sir?"
"No. At first, when I came here, I was so starved that I never could eat enough. Now I am the other way, not hungry at all."
"And, sir, you have got a cough."
"Yes, I had a very bad wetting last week, and a cough is the result. Strange. I had no cough when I slept out of doors."
"Mr. Wynd—Brother Jerome, I mean, you wouldn't go back to that old life? Say you wouldn't go back."
The almost anguish in her voice penetrated for the first time to Wyndham's ear. He gave her a startled glance, then said with warmth:—
"Esther, you and your father have been good Samaritans to me; as long as it is safe I will stay with you."
"It shall and must be safe. Who would look for you here, of all places, when they think you are buried under the waves of the sea?"
"That is true. I expect it is perfectly safe for me to stay."
He lay back in his chair, and gazed into the fire; he had almost forgotten Esther's presence.
"And you like it—you feel happier since you came?" she asked, presently, in a timid voice.
"What did you say?"
"Mr. Wyndham," the forbidden name came out with a burst, "do tell poor Esther Helps that you are happier since she found you."
She had fallen on her knees, the tears were streaming from her eyes; she held out her hands to him.
"Oh," she said, "I would give my life for yours."
In a moment Wyndham's dreamy attitude left him; he sprang to his feet, all alive and keen and watchful. He was the old Wyndham; his eyes were full of pity, which made his whole face radiant.
"Hush," he said. "Get up. Don't say any more. Not another word—not a syllable. You forget yourself. Esther. I saved you once—I must save you again. Sit there, yes, there; I am quite strong. I must tell you the truth. Esther, I said just now that you were the noblest woman I know. You must go on being noble. I will stay here on that condition."
"Oh, sir, will you?" Poor Esther would have liked to shrink through the very boards. "Will you forgive me, sir?"
"Hush; don't talk about forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive. Esther, I will show you how much I trust you. I will talk to you about my wife. I will tell you a little of my story; I mean the part I can tell without implicating others."
Esther was now seated in the easy-chair; Wyndham stood by the mantel-piece. He had got a shock, and that shock had given him strength, and a good deal of his old manner.
"Esther," he said, "I cannot tell you all the story, but some of it I should like you to hear. You are a friend to me, Esther, and the part that relates to myself I will confide to you."
"Sir, I know the other part; you have been the victim of a wicked man."
"Hush; I don't wish to speak about anyone but myself. I don't blame anyone but myself. I loved a woman, Esther Helps, so much better than myself that for her sake I resolved to die to the world. I need not give you the reason of this. It seemed to me necessary for her happiness that I should do this; and I did not think it too much to do. I married my wife knowing that the great love I had for her was not returned. This seemed all for the best, as when I died, as die to all appearance I should, her heart would not be broken. She could continue to live happy and honored. Do you follow me?"
"Yes, sir, yes. Are you tired? Will you sit, Mr. Wyndham?"
"I was never less tired. When I speak of my wife I feel as if a fresh vigor were coming into me. We were married, and I soon found that I had overtaxed my own resolve. In one particular I could not complete the sacrifice I had undertaken. I tried to make her love me, and for a time—a short time—I thought I had succeeded."
The speaker paused, and the eagerness of his tone changed.
"I failed. The heart that I most craved for was not to be mine. I tested it, but it did not respond. This was best, no doubt, but the fact preyed on me dreadfully. I went on board theEsperance, and, then, God forgive me, the thought took possession of me, the idea overmastered me, that I would make my fictitious death real. Everything had been carefully arranged with regard to my apparent death. That part implicates others, so I will not touch upon it. I resolved to make certainty doubly certain by dying in earnest. Thus my wife's future would be assured. My death would be real, the thing that might come upon her would be averted for ever. I was in a condition when I could not balance right and wrong; but my intellect was sufficiently keen and sensible to make me prepare for the deed I contemplated. I took steps which would prevent anyone on board thinking that I had fallen overboard by design. My death would be attributed to the merest accident. Thus all was made absolutely safe. What is the matter, Esther?"
"Oh, Mr. Wyndham! Oh; you frighten me. Did you—did you think of your soul, sir?"
"I did, Esther. But I loved my wife better than my hope of heaven. I resolved to risk even that for her. As I tell you, I had no sense of personal right or wrong at that time. You see that I am a very wicked man, Esther—no hero—a man who yielded to a dire temptation. I won't talk about this. The night came, and I dropped into the water. There was a storm that night. It was dark, but now and then the stars could be seen through the rifts of the clouds. As I leapt overboard I looked up, and saw the brightness of the Southern Cross. Then I went under. The great waves closed over my head. The next instant I came to the surface only possessed with one fierce frantic desire, to save the life I meant to throw away. Better be a living dog than a dead lion, I said to myself. Yes, I would live—if only like the miserable dogs of Eastern towns, w ould live as the outcast, as the scum of the earth—I would live. I had done a horrible thing in seeking to throw away my life. I cried aloud in an anguish of terror:—'God spare me! God leave my breath in my body! Don't take my spirit before the judgment seat!' Through the rifts in the clouds I saw a boat at a little distance manned by some of the sailors who were looking forme. I shouted, but no living voice could be heard in the gale. Then I resolved to husband my strength. I was an excellent swimmer, and I could always float like a cork. I could not swim in that sea, but I could lie quite passive on the waves. I turned on my back, and waited for the issue of events. I closed my eyes and felt myself being moved up and down. The motion in itself was not unpleasant. The waves were wonderfully buoyant. Instead of losing my strength I was rested. My heart beat steadily. I knew that my chance of life depended on my keeping very cool. Presently something struck me. I put out my hand and grasped a floating oar. By means of the oar I knew that unless I froze with the cold I could keep above the water for hours. I placed it under my arms and kept above the water with very little effort.
"The cold, however, was intense, and I doubt that I could have lived till morning had not another chance of deliverance just then appeared. The clouds had almost cleared from the sky, and by the brightness of the southern constellations I saw something gleaming white a little further off. It was not the ship, which must have been a league or two away by now, but something I could see in my present horizontal position. I ventured to raise my head a very little, and saw a boat—a boat painted white—which, strange to say, had not been overturned by the roughness of the waves. It was gently floating onwards in my direction. The nameEsperancewas painted in gold letters on the outside of the boat, near the bow. I guessed at once what had happened. One of the ships' boats had got loose from its moorings in the gale, and was now sent to me as an ark of deliverance. It was evidently on one of the ship's oars, too, that I was supporting my head.
"Then I saw that God did not mean me to die, and a great glow of gratitude and even happiness ran throughme. You will wonder at this, but you don't know how horrible death looked in the jaws of that angry sea.
"The boat came nearer, and nearer and my happiness and sense of relief grew to almost rapture. I cried aloud:—'God. I thank Thee! Take the life you have thought worth preserving almost through a miracle, as your own absolutely. Take my body, take my spirit, to spend, to worship, to lose myself in Thee!' Then the boat came up, and I had to duck under to avoid being stunned by her.
"It is no easy matter to get into an empty boat in a rough sea. My hands were almost numb, too, for I had been a couple of hours in the water. I felt, however, quite cool, self-possessed and quiet. I could think clearly, and bring my little knowledge of boats to my aid. I knew my only chance of not upsetting the boat was to climb over by the stern. This, after tremendous difficulties, I accomplished. I lay in the bottom of the boat for some time quite unconscious. When at last I was able to rouse myself, daylight had come and the storm had gone down. My clothes were drenched through with salt water. I could not keep from shivering, and every bone ached. I was not the least hungry, but I was consumed with thirst. There were two or three oars lashed to the side of the boat. I could row, therefore, and the exercise warmed me. Presently the sun came up in the heavens. I was glad of this, but its rays beating on my uncovered head soon produced headache, which in its turn brought on a queer giddiness and a feeling of sickness. I saw now that I was going to be very ill, and I wondered how long I should retain my senses. I knew that it behoved me to be very careful. I was alive, but for my wife's sake I must appear to be dead. I saw that I had taken the very best possible step to insure this end, and if I could only carry on my purpose to its conclusion I should have adopted a far better plan for securing the establishment of my own apparent death than the one originally devised for me.
"Aching as I did from head to foot I found it difficult to keep my thoughts collected. I managed, however, to do so, and also to scratch out the name of theEsperancefrom the bows of the boat. This I accomplished with my pocket knife. I also cut away my own name from my linen, and from two handkerchiefs which I found in my pockets. These handkerchiefs had been marked by my wife. After this I knew there was no more I could do. I must drift along and take my chance of being picked up. I cannot recall how I passed the day. I believe I rowed a little when I felt cold; but the greater part of the time I simply allowed the boat to drift.
"That evening I was picked up by a trading vessel bound for the Cape. Its crew were mostly Dutch, and several of the sailors were black. I faintly remember going on board the vessel. Then all memory leaves me. I had a long illness—a fever which changed me, turning my hair very grey. I grew a beard in my illness, and would not allow it to be removed when I got better, as I knew that in the future I must live under the shadow of death, I must completely sink the identity which made life of value.
"I was put into hospital when we arrived at Cape Town, and when I got better was given a small purse of money, which had been collected by some people who professed to take an interest in me. On the day I left the hospital I really commenced my new life.
"It is unnecessary to tell you all that followed. I had not forgotten my vow—the vow I made to God verily out of the deeps. I determined, as far as it was in me, absolutely to renounce myself and to live for God as He reveals himself in suffering man. I did not resolve to do this with any ulterior motive of saving my own soul, and atoning for the sin of the past. I felt that God deserved all that I could possibly give Him, and to give it absolutely and without reservation kept me, I believe, from losing mysenses. For a time all went well. Then the hunger which had been my curse came back. You will ask what that was. It was a sense of utter starvation which no physical food could satisfy, which no mental food could appease. Imustget near my wife. I had sinned for her, and now I could not keep away from her. I must at least live in the same country. I prayed against this hunger; I fought with it. I struggled with it, but I could not beat it down. A year ago I came back to England. I came to London, to the safest place for a man who must hide. Willing hands are always needed to help to lighten some of the load of misery in this great city. I called myself Brother Jerome, and presently I found my niche. I worked, and I could have been happy. Yes, starving in body, with nowhere to lay my head, I could have been happy followingTheBlessed example, but for the hunger which always drove me mad, which was gnawing at my heart, which gnaws there still—which—Esther—Esther Helps—is—killing me!"
Wyndham dropped his head on his hands. He uttered one groan. When he raised his head again his eyes were wet.
"I am close to my wife," he said; "but I have never heard of her once—not once since I returned."
Then he sat down in the chair which Esther rose from. He began to cough again, and Esther saw the drops of sweat standing large on his forehead.
It was now her turn to speak. She stood upright—a tall, slim woman—a woman who had gone through a change so great as almost to amount to a new birth—while Wyndham had been telling his story.
"Now," she said, "I am happy. I praise God for His mercies, for it is given to me to comfort you."
Wyndham raised his head; he was too exhausted to askher what she meant, except with his eyes.
"Your wife is well, and from this day forth you shall hear news of her, fresh news, once a week. Every Sunday you shall hear."
"Esther, don't torture me. Are you telling me truth?"
"I am telling you the solemn truth. Would I lie to a man like you? Mr. Wyndham, do you know, has anyone ever told you that you have a child?"
"Nobody. Is this the case? My God, a child!"
"Yes, sir, a little boy; he is called after you. He is three years old. You'd like to see him, maybe?"
"Good heavens, Esther, this is like new wine to me. I have a son of my own—Valentine's son!"
He began to pace the floor.
"And you would like to see him, wouldn't you, sir?"
"Yes—no—the joy might kill me. People have died of joy."
"You wouldn't die of joy, sir. It has always been the other way with you. Joy would make you live, would cure that cough, and that sinking feeling you have told me of."
"And the hunger, Esther—the hunger which gnaws and gnaws. Esther, you are a wonderful woman."
"Sit down, Mr. Wyndham. Keep quiet. Don't get excited. I'll do this for you. I made up the plan this morning. It was about that I came to speak to you. The baby wants a new nurse. To-morrow I am going to offer for the place. I shall get it, too, no fear of that. I shall live in the same house as your wife, every night your son will sleep in my arms. Each Sunday I come here with my news—my weekful of news. Some day I bring your son. What more natural than that I should come to my father once a week. Who will suspect? Mr. Wyndham, that hunger of yours shall have one weekly meal. No fear, no fear. And now, sir, go to bed, and may God Almighty bless you!"