"It is best to be cautious and avoid extremes."—Plutarch.
Greta Williams's pathetic little speech, "Come soon, very soon, please," rather haunted Olivia, and she very speedily found an excuse for repeating her visit. This time she was welcomed so warmly, and Miss Williams seemed so unfeignedly pleased to see her, that she felt she had done the right thing, and after that she went frequently to Brunswick Place.
Circumstances certainly favoured the rapid growth of their intimacy. Greta, who had caught a severe cold, was obliged to remain closely confined to the house, and Dr. Luttrell, who was sincerely sorry for the lonely girl, encouraged his wife to go as often as possible.
"She has not a soul belonging to her, at least in England," he said once, "though she has relations in New Zealand, uncles and aunts and cousins. There is a colony of Williamses in Christ-church. The worst of it is people seemed to have left off calling, her father made himself so disagreeable; it is hard lines for her, poor girl. I believe Mrs. Tolman looks her up occasionally." Then Olivia, at the mention of the vicar's wife, made a naughty little face.
"Miss Williams rather dreads her visits," she replied. "She calls her an east-windy sort of person, and I know what she means. Mrs. Tolman is an excellent woman, but she rubs one up the wrong way. I always feel bristly all over after one of her parochial visits, and I know Aunt Madge feels the same. When the vicar is with her he seems to tone her down somehow, but the very swing of her gown as she enters the room, and the way she sits down, as though she were taking possession of one's chair, irritates my nerves," but though Marcus laughed he did not contradict this.
The new friendship gave Olivia a great deal of pleasure. Since her school-days she had never enjoyed the society of anyone of her own age. The hard-working young governess had had scant leisure for cementing intimacies.
It had always been a wonder to her how Marcus had managed his courting, and she often told him so. She had met him at the house of one of her pupils, and, it being a wet day, he had offered his umbrella, and walked back with her to her lodgings.
She had a vague idea that he had detained her for such a long time talking on the doorstep that her mother had come down and invited him to wait until the rain was over, but Marcus always repudiated this, and declared that she had talked so fast that he found it impossible to get away; but after this he and her mother had seemed to play into each other's hands.
Perhaps under other circumstances Olivia would hardly have found Miss Williams so attractive and interesting, for, though amiable and affectionate, she was by no means clever. Her accomplishments consisted in a tolerable knowledge of French and Italian picked up abroad, but she had no decided tastes. She read little, knew nothing of music, and her chief pleasure seemed the care of her flowers and her beautiful needlework, for some French nuns had taught her embroidery and lace-making. Olivia, who was intellectual and well read, and who thought deeply on most subjects, had soon reached the limits of Greta's knowledge, but happily there is culture of the heart as well as of the head.
Greta had plenty of sweet, womanly virtues. She was patient by nature and capable of much long-suffering and endurance. Her affections were warm and deep, but she had hitherto found no fitting scope for them. The sad grey eyes told their own story: her youthful bloom had been wasted amid sterile surroundings. Greta Williams had one of those strong womanly characters that are meant to be the prop of weaker natures, that are veritable towers of strength in hours of adversity. It was for this that Olivia grew to love her when she knew her better.
"She is so patient," she said once when she was discussing her with Mrs. Broderick. "She has so much staying power, and then she never quite loses her faith in anyone, however hopeless they seem. Even Marcus has said more than once that her pluck is wonderful, but of course it wears her out."
"You must bring her to see me, Livy," returned Aunt Madge. "We will have a little tea party, and Deb shall distinguish herself," but Greta only smiled faintly when Olivia repeated this.
"Some day, perhaps," she said, quietly, and then her eyes had suddenly filled with tears. "Oh, Mrs. Luttrell, we have had such a dreadful time. Nurse only left him a minute, and he managed to get to the brandy. It must have been Roberts's fault that the cellarette was unlocked, but ever since he has seemed quite mad; we were obliged to send for Dr. Luttrell." And then at the thought of the grim shadows brooding over that unhappy home, Olivia's little plans seemed out of place.
Mr. Gaythorne kept his promise, and before Robert Barton left them, the picture was sent to the corner house.
Mr. Barton, who had just finished his sketch of Dot and the kitten, had that moment invited Olivia to look at it.
"I may touch it up a bit more, but I suppose it will do now," he said, in a tone of complacency.
"Do! it is beautiful—it is perfectly charming. Oh, if we were only rich enough to buy it for ourselves, but," looking at him severely, "you know what my husband said this morning, Mr. Barton, that he would not allow me to accept it as a gift. You are to take it round to that picture dealer's in Harbut Street, and see if they will not give you a fair price for it, and then you must set about something bigger for the Royal Academy." And though Robert Barton shook his head in a melancholy dissenting fashion, he knew that Dr. Luttrell had been right.
"It is beautiful--it is perfectly charming.""It is beautiful—it is perfectly charming."
"It is beautiful--it is perfectly charming.""It is beautiful—it is perfectly charming."
"I should have liked you to have it," he said, with a sigh, "but I suppose beggars ought not to be generous. If I only get on, I will paint Dot again;" and then Martha had come in with the picture.
"There is no light now. I shall have to wait till to-morrow, but of course your old gentleman knows that."
Robert Barton always spoke of him as the old gentleman, but when Olivia had first mentioned his name, he had seemed a little startled, and had questioned her about him.
"He lives alone," he said presently; "it is rather an uncommon name. There were some Gaythornes in London—a firm of solicitors—perhaps it is one of those. They make plenty of money sometimes." And then the subject had dropped.
Olivia, who had promised to spend an hour or two with Mr. Gaythorne that evening, looked at the clock, and then folded up her work; but as she put it away, a sudden quick exclamation from Robert Barton made her look at him.
He was staring at the picture. "Why, it is my own work," he said, with a flush of pleasure. "The picture I painted at Beyrout, and that I sold for a mere song. Of course the fellow cheated me, he was a mean sort of chap; but it is not so bad after all. And what's this?—'Goddard.' Well, of all the cads! He has put his own name to it, but I swear I painted it. Abdul and his son Hassan were my models. Oh, I see by your face that you like it, Mrs. Luttrell. I don't think myself that I ever did anything better. Isn't it Carlyle that says 'Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.' Well, I took lots of pains with that picture. I meant to get it into the Royal Academy, but ill-luck obliged me to sell it."
"You painted that picture of the Prodigal Son!" exclaimed Olivia, excitedly.
"Oh, yes, I painted it all right. It was a nasty trick of Goddard's putting his name to it. Look, that was Abdul's wife, the one with the distaff; the other two were two women I saw sitting under a palm-tree one evening. Well, your old gentleman has sent it to the right person to touch it up. It shall be done to-morrow before I go."
Olivia was so full of this wonderful piece of intelligence that she could hardly wait until Phoebe had closed the library door. "Oh, Mr. Gaythorne," she exclaimed, "what do you think! Your beautiful picture of the Prodigal Son is Mr. Barton's work. Goddard is only the name of the man who bought it. Yes," as Mr. Gaythorne looked very much astonished at this. "You will not call him the gentlemanly tramp any longer, now that he is a real artist."
"Look here, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, abruptly, "I don't believe all this. You are being gulled. Goddard painted that picture, not Barton; I hate imposition. I daresay the fellow can paint in a pretty amateurish sort of way, and he will be able to do my job, but I am not going to swallow this without proof. Tell him to bring the picture back himself, and you can come too if you like. If he has been imposing on your credulity I shall very soon detect him." But Olivia was indignant at this.
"Of course he shall bring back the picture if you wish it," she said, a little stiffly. "And I shall ask him to bring the sketch of Dot, too, and then you will see for yourself how well he paints, but he is no impostor, I am certain of that;" but as usual Mr. Gaythorne only held obstinately to his opinion.
"My dear young lady," he said, irritably, "you have hardly enough experience to judge in a case like this. If Mr. Barton really painted that picture, which I deny, for Goddard painted it, he is a worse scamp than I thought him. What business had he to be starving on a doorstep or supping off dry bread and thin cocoa in a casual ward? My dear, we old fellows know the world better than that. Robert Barton is a black sheep, and not all your charity can wash him white."
Mr. Gaythorne was evidently in one of his obstinate moods, and Olivia thought it prudent to say no more on this subject. Robert Barton would be able to vindicate himself without difficulty. When Mr. Gaythorne saw the sketch of Dot and the kitten he would be more lenient in his judgment of the young artist.
During the remainder of her visit she chatted to him cheerfully about a book he had lent her; but just before she took her leave she unfortunately broached the subject of her new friend. At the mention of her name Mr. Gaythorne started and changed color.
"Greta Williams," he observed, with a sharp, almost displeased intonation in his voice. "That is not a common name. And she lives in Brunswick Place?"
"Yes; they have been living there for some years, but before that they were in the country." But to her surprise Mr. Gaythorne interrupted her impatiently.
"Yes, yes, you said that before; go on with what you were telling me about her father. He is a dipsomaniac, you say." And then Olivia proceeded with her story.
"Is it not sad for the poor girl?" she observed when she had finished, but Mr. Gaythorne made no reply. He was sitting in a stooping attitude over the fire and seemed lost in thought.
His first remark took Olivia by surprise. "Have you ever mentioned my name to Miss Williams?" he asked, with one of his keen searching looks. "You are very frank, Mrs. Luttrell. I daresay you have dropped a word or two about me."
But Olivia shook her head.
"I am quite sure that I have not done so. I have only seen Miss Williams four or five times, and we have only talked about her own troubles and—oh yes, a little about Mr. Barton. No, I am certain that your name has never been mentioned."
"That is well," he returned, slowly. "Perhaps you will be good enough for the future to leave me out of your conversations when you go to Brunswick Place.
"The fact is, Mrs. Luttrell," he went on, slowly, "the Williamses were old neighbours of ours. And Greta and my Olive were dear friends, but they left the neighbourhood long before we did. I never liked Mr. Williams; he had a knack of quarrelling with all his friends, and we soon came to loggerheads. He made himself obnoxious in many ways, and I declared I would never enter his house again. I am sorry to hear we are such close neighbours."
"What a pity!" observed Olivia, regretfully. "And poor Miss Williams is so nice."
"Oh, I have no fault to find with her," he returned, in a softer voice. "She was a good creature, and my Olive was very fond of her. At one time she was always in our house, and she and Alwyn—let me see, what was I saying?" interrupting himself with a frown of vexation. "No, there is no harm in the girl, and I shall always wish her well, for my little Olive's sake. But it would be painful for us both to meet." He stopped, sighed heavily, and then, shading his eyes, sat for some minutes without speaking.
Olivia rose at last. Her visit had not been a pleasant one; the subjects of conversation had been unlucky. She was vexed with herself, and yet it was no fault of hers. For once Mr. Gaythorne did not try to detain her, but there was no want of cordiality in his manner as he bid her good-bye.
"I shall see you to-morrow," he said; "you had better come early, as the afternoons are so short," but before she had closed the door he seemed again lost in thought.
That evening Robert Barton was in high spirits, and talked in a most sanguine manner of his future. He would set about a picture for the Royal Academy at once. He had his subject ready. A group in the casual ward that had greatly impressed him. He had sketched it roughly with an old, battered lead-pencil he had picked up. He discussed it with animation all tea-time.
"It is just the sort of thing to take the fancy of the public," he said. "I shall take pains with it and work it up, patches and all. It will be sure to sell." And Marcus applauded this resolution.
During the rest of the evening Robert Barton was excellent company. He told stories—pathetic stories and comical ones, until Olivia put down her work to listen. And Marcus's laugh had more than once brought Martha out of the kitchen.
But towards the end of the evening, when Olivia brought him a cup of hot cocoa, his gaiety suddenly vanished, and he looked at her a little sadly.
"To-morrow evening I shall be missing my kind nurse and hostess," he said, gently, "and shall be wishing myself back in this cosy parlour," and then he added, abruptly, "Look here, Mrs. Luttrell, I am not much of a hand at making pretty speeches, but if ever I can do a good turn for you and the doctor I shall be proud and happy to do it."
"He is very grateful, Marcus," observed Olivia, as she lingered a moment by her husband's side. "There were tears in his eyes as he said that. Poor fellow, I cannot help liking him. There is somethingdébonnaireand boyish about him, in spite of all he has been through, and certainly he has been very amusing this evening, but," with a little caressing touch, "how nice it will be when we are alone again!" And Marcus smiled assent.
"Forget not thy sins that thou mayest sorrow and repent."—Petrarch.
When Olivia woke the next morning she was conscious of a curious feeling; an indefinable presentiment that she could not put into words. "How I wish the day were over," she said to herself; and the thought of her visit to Galvaston House, and Mr. Gaythorne's sharp, cynical speeches, quite oppressed her.
"I hope he will be civil to Mr. Barton," she observed later on to her husband. "Mr. Barton is very proud and touchy, and he will not submit to a course of cross-examination from a stranger. I am quite dreading the afternoon." But Marcus only laughed at her fears.
"Barton can hold his own," was his reply. "He is a bit peppery, but he is not such a fool as to quarrel with his bread and butter. He knows Mr. Gaythorne is a connoisseur, and he will put up with a few sarcastic speeches in the hope of future profits. Mr. Gaythorne could make him extremely useful; he hinted as much to me this morning. There are some pictures he wants rehung, and one or two that need cleaning and varnishing. Barton has only got to prove without doubt that he and not Goddard painted that picture, and then they will get on all right. You must just hold your tongue, Livy, and leave them to fight it out." And Olivia resolved to abide by this prudent advice.
Robert Barton worked hard most of the morning, and then, as the sun shone brightly, he went out for a stroll before the early dinner.
He came back looking so pale and tired that Olivia scolded him for taking too long a walk.
"I have not been far," he returned, sitting down in rather a weary manner, "and it was so warm and pleasant in the sunshine that I thought it would do me good." Then he gave a short laugh, and said, abruptly, "The fact is, something has bowled me over—I have seen a ghost." Then Olivia, who was clearing the table for the early dinner, stared at him.
"Oh, of course, I am only speaking figuratively," he went on. "I suppose it was really flesh and blood that I saw; but no ghost could have been more startling. I wonder"—speaking as though to himself—"if my sight deceived me; but it was certainly a singular likeness. If I had only had the courage to stop and speak; but when I recollected myself the opportunity had gone—a passing omnibus hindered me—and then I was too late."
"Did you think it was someone you knew?"
"Yes," very curtly—"a friend of my happier days." But he seemed disinclined to say more. He was so silent and moody all dinner-time that Dr. Luttrell looked at him in surprise more than once.
"I suppose you will go straight to your lodgings from Galvaston House," he said, presently; "it will never do for you to be out late, Barton." And Robert Barton assented to this.
"I shall just fetch my bag and one or two things; I do not suppose we shall be long." And then he rose from the table and began putting up his brushes, and then took up a book, which he read upside down, until Olivia was ready to accompany him.
As they crossed the road she said to him, gently:
"I am sorry to see that you are a little out of spirits, and I am afraid this visit may be rather trying—an elderly invalid has all sorts of fads and cranks—but I hope you will be patient." Then Robert Barton smiled pleasantly.
"Oh, yes, I am quite prepared to be regarded as a fraud; but I shall soon prove that Goddard is the cheat in this case." And then they rang the bell, and Phoebe, telling them that her master was still in the dining-room, ushered them into the library.
"Please tell Mr. Gaythorne we are in no hurry," observed Olivia, vexed that they had come so early; but Robert Barton, with one quick glance round the beautiful room, busied himself with placing the pictures in the best possible light.
"There," he said, stepping back with a complacent smile, "I think your old gentleman will own that the same artist painted those two pictures, when he sees them side by side."
But as he spoke the sound of footsteps made him look towards the open door. As he did so, Olivia saw him suddenly recoil and turn deadly white at the sight of Mr. Gaythorne standing rigid and motionless on the threshold.
A stifled voice cried, "Alwyn! Good Heavens! it is Alwyn!"—and the next moment the heavy crutch-handled stick fell from the old man's trembling hand with a sudden crash.
At the sound, Robert Barton shivered and shrank back against the easel.
Olivia picked it up, and tried to place it in Mr. Gaythorne's hand again, but he never noticed her. His eyes were fixed with a look of agonised intensity on the white face of the young artist.
"It is Alwyn," he said again, in the same suppressed voice, "and yet he does not speak or look at me!" And at the anguish in his tone the young man raised his head.
"Father, I was not prepared for this," he stammered; "what am I to say to you?" And then, without advancing a step, he looked round him wildly. "Father, what does this mean—am I dreaming—where are my mother and Olive?" Then a low moan of intense pain broke from Mr. Gaythorne's lips.
"He does not know. Oh, this is too dreadful, Mrs. Luttrell!" He looked at her almost appealingly, as though his strength were gone, and then she put her arm round him and guided him gently to a chair.
"Sit quiet for a moment," she whispered; "you are not fit for this." And as she wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, his ashen look terrified her. "Dear Mr. Gaythorne, try to compose yourself. Shall I ring for Mrs. Crampton?—perhaps she would know what to do." But he shook his head vehemently.
"No, no—only give me time. Ah, look there!"—for the blind hound that had just come into the room was now whining and fawning upon Robert Barton in the most excited way.
"Eros knows him. Alwyn,"—trying to raise his voice, but it was strangely feeble—"come nearer to me. When I told you you were never to see my face again, that you were no son of mine, I was labouring under a grievous mistake. I know now who forged that cheque—I have known it for years. No, with all your faults you never did that." And as he said this Mr. Gaythorne put out a shaking hand to his son, but the young man did not take it. There was a fierce, angry light in his blue eyes and a contemptuous smile on his lips.
"I am glad you have done me this tardy justice, sir," he said, in a firmer tone, "and that I have heard from your own lips that I am no criminal. When we parted, I remember you threatened me with penal servitude. No, I have not disgraced your name to that extent. I have starved, and nearly died of cold on a doorstep, but I have kept my hands clean."
"Alwyn," exclaimed Mr. Gaythorne, piteously, "I was too hard, I will confess that. All these years I have been longing to atone, and the sorrow and remorse have made me an old man before my time. There was much to forgive—much that you made me bear. Surely you cannot deny that."
"No, sir, I will not deny that I was a sad scapegrace, but you never took the right way to keep me straight. But for my mother and Olive, I should have run away long before. Father"—and here there was a frightened look in his eyes—"where are they? Why are you alone?" Then, as Mr. Gaythorne raised his hand with a solemn gesture, the young man laid his head down on the mantelpiece and his whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.
"Dead! Oh, no—impossible! My own mother, who always believed in me, and my little Olive!" he gasped out more than once.
"Mr. Alwyn," observed Olivia, putting her hand on his shoulder, but the tears were running down her face as she spoke, "your father cannot bear much more. I am afraid he is ill." But even as she spoke, Mr. Gaythorne, who had risen from his chair rather stiffly, suddenly fell on the rug at his son's feet.
The next moment the pealing of the bell brought Mrs. Crampton and the frightened servants to the room. They found Mrs. Luttrell and the stranger kneeling by the side of the prostrate form; but as the housekeeper caught sight of the young artist's face, she uttered a sudden cry. "It is Mr. Alwyn," she said, "and the joy of seeing him has killed my master." But Olivia hushed her.
"Send for Dr. Luttrell," she said; "we must do nothing till he comes. Mr. Alwyn,"—for the unfortunate young man seemed on the verge of fainting,—"I do not think he is dead; it is some sort of attack. We must do the best we can for him, without moving him, until my husband comes." But to her intense relief Marcus entered a moment afterwards.
One quick glance at the young artist's agitated face gave Dr. Luttrell a vague clue to the mystery, but he was soon too deeply engrossed with his patient to think of anything else. Under his directions, a temporary bed was made in the library, and the invalid was undressed and laid on it. Mrs. Crampton, who was a capable nurse, carried out the doctor's instructions, and Olivia made herself useful.
After the first few minutes Alwyn had left the room, unable to endure the sight any longer. An hour or two passed, then Dr. Luttrell rose from his seat beside his patient, and beckoned his wife from the room.
"Livy," he said, as they stood together by the hall fire, "I feel a little more sanguine now there is partial consciousness, but everything depends on keeping him quiet. I shall remain with him tonight and Mrs. Crampton will be with me. I want you to tell me what brought on this attack. From all your faces I can see something has happened. Barton looked as if he would have a stroke, too?"
"Oh, where is he, Marcus? I have not seen him for more than an hour. Ah, you may well think that something has happened. I never was present at such a scene. Mr. Barton is his son Alwyn. They recognised each other in a moment. Poor Mr. Gaythorne accused himself of harshness and made a sort of apology, but Mr. Alwyn looked so angry and contemptuous, and would not shake hands. And then he asked after his mother and sister—they are dead, you know. And then, oh, he broke down and sobbed so dreadfully that it quite upset me.
"I am sure the poor old man was trying to get to him when he suddenly fell down at his feet, and Mr. Alwyn screamed out, thinking he was dead."
"Yes, I see, poor little Livy. What a sad scene; but you behaved very well. Now, as there is nothing more you can do, suppose you take Barton—I mean Gaythorne—back with you. We can't let him go to the Models now, and it would not be safe to have him here. Give him some food and talk to him. Mrs. Crampton will look after my comforts. I will run across later on and tell you how he is." And then Olivia reluctantly obeyed him. Marcus was right, and she would not venture to contradict his orders, but how she longed to stay and share his watch.
"Good child," he said, kissing her. "You are a splendid doctor's wife! No fuss and no arguing." And this little bit of praise went far to console her.
"Promise me that you will take care of yourself and I will do my best for Mr. Alwyn," she said, nestling up to him for a moment. And then the door-bell rang, and Phoebe, with rather a scared face, went to the door.
"Is Dr. Luttrell here?" asked a clear voice that they both recognised as Greta Williams's, and then she caught sight of them and stepped into the hall.
"They told me you were here, so I ventured to come across," she said, in a low tone, as Marcus looked at her anxiously. "Oh, there is nothing wrong, only nurse forgot to ask you something, and as it was a fine evening I said I would call."
"I am coming round later on. I am sorry you have had your walk for nothing," returned Marcus. And then they went apart and talked together for a few minutes. Then Marcus went back to his patient and Greta joined Olivia, who was sitting on the oaken settee by the blazing fire. She was tired out with the strain of the last two hours, and felt in need of a little rest before she went in search of Alwyn.
"Sit down, Greta,", she whispered. "How strange you should have come to this house! But then everything is strange to-day——" But here she stopped confusedly, as she remembered Mr. Gaythorne's injunction.
"Why is it strange?" asked Greta, innocently. "There is someone seriously ill here, is there not? But your servant did not tell me the name. How pale and tired you look, Mrs. Luttrell! I suppose it is some friend of yours who is ill?" She glanced at Olivia questioningly, but she only nodded in answer.
"Yes; it was a sudden attack—I think it must have been a stroke. Oh, Greta, what is it?"—for Miss Williams had suddenly risen from her seat with a startled exclamation and was gazing with wide, frightened eyes and parted lips into the shadowy corner behind her.
The next moment Robert Barton came forward into the firelight, with his pale face and fair, dishevelled hair. He looked almost like a ghost of himself, but Greta, with a little cry, held out her hand to him.
"Alwyn, it is you; but how you startled me! Why did you stand there in that silent, ghostly fashion?" But as he only looked at her in a dazed way, and made no answer, she turned to Olivia.
"Mrs. Luttrell," she said, piteously, "what does it all mean? Why does he not speak to me, and we are such old friends? Is he ill? He looks dreadful. I should hardly have known him—and yet—and yet—it must be Alwyn."
"Yes, I am Alwyn," returned the young man, in a hollow voice. "But you must not touch me, Greta. I am not worthy to take your hand. I have killed my father!"
"It befits a son to be dutiful to his father."—Plautus.
As Alwyn uttered these despairing words Greta shrank back in alarm, but Olivia, with a reassuring smile, put her hand gently on his arm.
"Do not talk so wildly, Mr. Alwyn," she said, soothingly; "you are frightening poor Miss Williams. How can you have killed your father when he is not dead? My husband has only just left me. He seems hopeful about him; he thinks consciousness is returning; but he must have perfect quiet. Even our voices may disturb him—that is why I must beg you to come back with me at once."
"You are not deceiving me, Mrs. Luttrell?" returned Alwyn, suspiciously. "You are sure that he is not dead?"
"Quite sure," she returned, quietly; and then again Greta put out her hand.
"You will come with us, will you not, Alwyn?" she said, with sisterly tenderness; "there is so much that I have to hear and that you must tell me, and we must not talk here. To think that we should have met like this, by accident—if there be such a thing as accident in this life of ours. But no; it was Providence that brought me to this house." And as Olivia followed them down the dark shrubbery she could hear her quiet tones still talking, as though to a younger brother.
Olivia was too tired to do more than wonder vaguely as she listened; the sight of her own little parlour and Martha's sturdy figure arranging the tea-table gave her a pleasant revulsion of feeling. When Martha whispered confidentially, as she brought in the lamp, "The seed-cake is nicely baked; hadn't I better bring it in, ma'am?" Olivia gave a little hysterical laugh. After all that tragedy it was so odd to think of freshly baked cakes.
"Yes, yes, and make the tea quickly," she said, waving off the little handmaiden impatiently; and Martha, somewhat affronted and vaguely alarmed, retreated to the kitchen.
"What's come over the mistress?" she said to herself. "I have never known her so huffy." But Olivia, with difficulty recovering her calmness, busied herself in ministering to her guests.
"Mr. Alwyn," she said, gently, "you must rest on that couch—you are just worn out; but a cup of tea will do you good. Greta, you must stop and have some too. Do you know this is the first time you have entered this house? Dot is asleep. I am going up to see her now. Would you like to come too?"—for she guessed intuitively that the girl was longing to question her—and Greta, with a grateful look, followed her at once.
Olivia kissed the sleeping child with her usual tenderness. How she longed to lie down beside Dot and sleep off her overpowering weariness; but the day's work was not over.
Greta, who had only just glanced at the little one, put her arms suddenly round Olivia and drew her down beside her.
"Mrs. Luttrell," she said, breathlessly, "tell me what it all means. What has happened to Alwyn, and what makes him talk so strangely? Do you know, for one moment, I believed him! In the old time they often quarrelled—but of course it is paralysis." And then Olivia told her all that had occurred that afternoon.
Greta listened with painful attention; then her eyes filled with tears.
"And he never knew that his mother and Olive were dead," she observed. "Oh, Mrs. Luttrell, how sad—how terribly sad it all is! No wonder he looked bewildered, poor fellow; it must have been such an awful shock to hear that, and then to see his poor father fall at his feet."
"Yes, and he had been ill too; think of all the hardships he has been through." And Greta shivered as Olivia said this.
"How little I thought," she said, "that when you were telling me about the poor young artist that Dr. Luttrell had found on the doorstep on Christmas night, that it was Alwyn Gaythorne, my old playmate and friend!" Then she added, with a sigh, "What would his poor mother have said? She and Olive almost worshipped that boy."
"We ought not to leave him too long alone," observed Olivia, wearily. "I promised my husband that I would look after him. We must coax him to take some food, and then he must go to bed; he is very weak still, and all this has exhausted him." And as Greta evidently shared her anxiety, they went back to the parlour.
They found Alwyn pacing the room restlessly. He stopped and looked relieved as Greta entered.
"I was afraid you had gone," he said, abruptly. "Do you know you passed me in the street this morning? You had that thing on"—touching her sealskin mantle—"but you were not looking at me. I thought it was a ghost, and then I tried to follow you, but some vehicles got in my way, and then you disappeared."
"I wish I had seen you," she said, softly. And then Alwyn resumed his restless walk.
It was with difficulty that Olivia could induce him to come to the table, and then he could not eat; his eyes looked feverishly bright, and his cough made Greta glance at him anxiously.
When tea was over Olivia left the room for a little. Alwyn had utterly refused to go to bed until he had seen Dr. Luttrell; he was evidently tormented by remorse for his hardness to his father, and Olivia thought that he might unburden himself more freely to his old friend; and she was right. On her return she found them talking together, and the strained, hunted look had left Alwyn's eyes.
Greta's were swollen with weeping, but there was a smile on her lips.
"Alwyn has been telling me his troubles," she said, simply, "and I could not help crying over them, he has suffered so, and I felt so sorry for him. If only we had not gone abroad! But when we came back the Grange was empty, and no one knew what had become of Alwyn. He had quarrelled with his father, and it was supposed he had enlisted and gone to India; and he had talked so often of doing this that I thought it was probably the truth. Now I must go, but I shall come again to-morrow." And then she smiled at him and rose from her seat.
"He has talked it all out and it has done him good," she observed, as she and Olivia lingered a moment in the passage; "but if his father dies, Alwyn will never get over it.
"Oh, he is much to blame," she went on; "he has been very wild, very imprudent, utterly mad and reckless; but his poor father was to blame, too. A high-spirited lad like Alwyn would not be kept in leading-strings. Mr. Gaythorne was far too strict with him—his own mother said so—and yet in his way he loved him. How often poor Olive would cry about it to me.
"Dear, dear Olive, how I loved her! And I was very fond of Mrs. Gaythorne, too, she was so sweet and motherly; she always called us her big and her little daughter. I was so much taller than Olive; but there"—interrupting herself—"if I begin talking about the old days at the Grange I shall never finish."
"But you will come to-morrow?"
"Yes; indeed, how could I keep away? Do you know that for years Alwyn and I were just like brother and sister—I don't believe he cared much more for Olive than he did for me. I think I understood him better than she did—his mother always said so. Well, good-night, dear Mrs. Luttrell; I shall come to-morrow as early as I can."
When Olivia went back to the parlour she found Alwyn lying back in his chair looking utterly spent and exhausted.
"I believe I shall have to take your advice and go to bed," he said. "All this has taken the starch out of me, and I feel dead beat"—and he looked so ill that Olivia half thought of sending for her husband. Fortunately he came in half an hour later, and went up at once to Alwyn's room.
He was some time with him, and then he came down and told Olivia that she had better fill a hot-water bottle and heat some flannel.
"It is a sort of nervous attack," he explained, "and his teeth are chattering with cold, and he is shaking as though he were in an ague fit; but I am going to mix him a composing draught, and he will soon quiet down. I have brought him a favourable report of Mr. Gaythorne, but he is too weak to be cheered by it. This will have done him no end of harm. We shall have him in bed for the next day or two."
Olivia gave a tired sigh, but she would not add to Marcus's burdens by selfish complaints of her own fatigue. She would have taken the eider-down off her own bed, but Marcus preferred borrowing a couple of blankets from Mrs. Crampton. In a few minutes he returned again laden with warm things that the housekeeper had sent for her young master's use, and, soothed by the unaccustomed comfort and the powerful narcotic, Alwyn sank into an exhausted sleep.
It was eleven o'clock before Olivia could lay her own head on her pillow. As Dot nestled to her with a sleepy cry, the young mother breathed her nightly thanksgiving for her two blessings, and then knew no more until Martha came to pull up her blinds in the morning.
When Marcus came across for his breakfast he seemed in excellent spirits. He had had three or four hours' rest, and, in his opinion, the stroke was a slight one. Mr. Gaythorne had regained consciousness, and, though the right arm and his speech were certainly affected, he believed that it was only temporary mischief.
"Of course one knows at his age that it is the danger signal," he went on, "but I hope with care that his life may be prolonged for years. I shall get Dr. Bevan to look at him, as I do not care for such undivided responsibility. And perhaps it will be well to have a nurse for a week or two. Mrs. Crampton is not as young as she was, and it is a pity to knock her up."
As the day wore on there were still more cheering reports. Mr. Gaythorne had said a few words almost distinctly—at least, Dr. Luttrell had understood him.
"Where is Alwyn?" He was quite sure those were his words; but he had seemed quite satisfied when Marcus told him he was with his wife, and had not spoken again.
Olivia had hoped for a talk with Aunt Madge, for it was quite three days since she had been round to Mayfield Villas; but she found it impossible to leave the house. Alwyn needed a great deal of attention; he was very low and depressed.
Marcus had given orders that he was to have frequent nourishment, and as Mrs. Crampton had sent Phoebe across with a store of good things—soup and jelly and grapes—there were no demands on Olivia's simple larder. A ready-cooked pheasant would be sent for his dinner, and anything else that he could fancy.
"Mrs. Crampton says that she knows her master would approve, so I suppose we need not be too scrupulous," observed Marcus; but at that moment the surgery bell rang.
Dr. Luttrell's services were required at number seventeen, and with an expressive look at his wife Marcus took up his hat and hastened out.
Olivia had expected Greta quite early, but she did not make her appearance until late in the afternoon. She had been detained, she said—nurse had asked her to take her place for a couple of hours. And then she looked anxiously at Olivia.
"I am afraid Alwyn is ill," she observed; but Olivia assured her that it was only a temporary break-down. "We have such good news of Mr. Gaythorne that he cannot fail to be cheered, but of course he is fretting about the loss of his mother and sister. It was such a shock, you see, and, as my husband says, we must give him time to pull himself together. But you do not look very well yourself, Greta; you are terribly pale."
"Oh, that is nothing," she returned. "I suppose I was too much excited, for I could not sleep for hours. I seemed to be living through my old life again. They were such happy days, Mrs. Luttrell; one's existence was not meagre and colourless then."
"I wish you would tell me a little about it all," observed Olivia as she ensconced Greta in the most comfortable chair. "You cannot imagine how it interests me." And then Miss Williams smiled.
"Oh, you are so sympathetic—that is your great charm; but indeed I love to dwell on that part of my life. You know the Gaythornes lived at Medlicott Grange. It was a quaint, picturesque, old house, covered with ivy, and with a lovely garden. There was a lime-walk that was delicious on hot summer afternoons; I can smell the limes now.
"Mr. Gaythorne, who had been abroad a great many years, had taken a fancy to the place and half thought of buying it, but he changed his mind later.
"We lived at the Lodge, a much smaller house, looking over the village green; it was rather an inconvenient house, full of small rooms all opening out of each other, and long, rambling passages; but dear mother and I were very fond of it. We liked the three-cornered little drawing-room with its bay-window, where we could sit and work and watch the old men in their grey smocks having a palaver under the big elm in the centre of the green.
"Mrs. Luttrell"—interrupting herself—"do you know Ivy Dene Lodge is to let now? I saw the advertisement in theStandard. Now, I should love to live there again. If anything happened to poor father I know I should go back there; it is the only place I ever called home. Don't you love a village green, with geese waddling over it and a big pond where little bare-legged urchins are always sailing their boats, and then the church and the lich-gate and the vicarage smothered in creepers?"
"Why, Greta, what a charming description! You quite make me long to see it."
"But it is not as charming as it really is; even strangers allow that Medlicott is a pretty village. It is true that Ivy Dene has not much of a garden—just a little patch of lawn and a mulberry tree and a flower-bed or two; but as I spent most of my time in the Grange garden that did not matter.
"Dear mother was always so unselfish. She would never let me stay at home with her. She thought it good for me to be with young people of my own age, and so Olive and Alwyn and I were always together. Olive was my friend, but I always looked upon Alwyn as a dear younger brother. He is not really much younger—only a few months—but I was always a little older than my age."
"He must have been very handsome," observed Olivia, and Greta coloured slightly.
"Yes; all the Gaythornes were handsome. Mr. Gaythorne himself was a fine, stately-looking man, only a little foreign and unusual in his dress. I was always a little afraid of him, and I never approved of the way he treated Alwyn. He had been over-indulged and petted in his boyhood, but later on his father thwarted him unnecessarily. He was always calling him to account for some foolish imprudence. And though his mother and Olive shielded him as much as possible, there were often sad scenes at the Grange. Mr. Gaythorne had set his heart on Alwyn's reading for the Bar. He thought he had sufficient money and influence to warrant the hope that his only son might eventually enter Parliament, but Alwyn had already secretly determined to be an artist. He detested his law studies and could not be induced to work, and spoilt all his father's plans.
"As I told you last night," finished Greta, "they were both to blame. But at the time I could not help taking Alwyn's part. He was not good to his father, and often lost his temper and said disrespectful things. But Mr. Gaythorne had no right to be so tyrannical.
"When my mother died father would not hear of our living at Ivy Dene. He said he hated the place, and we went to America for a year or two, and there I heard of Olive's death. Olive had told me in her letters of Alwyn's disappearance.
"'There has been an awful scene,' she wrote, 'poor dear mother has been so ill. Father thinks that Alwyn has done something very wrong, but of course neither mother nor I believe it for a moment, though it cannot be denied that appearances are terribly against him. Forgive me, dearest Greta, if I do not enlarge on this painful subject. We do not know what has become of Alwyn; but we think he has enlisted.'
"This was the last letter I received from Olive. Before many months had passed she died at Rome, and her mother did not long survive her."