INconsequence of the family dinner at Mrs. Baxter’s, and the impression there made upon the master of the house by the discovery of Mrs. Baldwin’s antecedents, that young lade received the honour of morning calls from some half dozen, more or less distinguished, Millington matrons. For a short time indeed, Marion ran some chance of becoming the fashion, but as the prospect was not a tempting one and the horrors of being patronised did not diminish on nearer view, she managed, quietly, though without giving offence, to let her new acquaintances understand that she and her husband were of one mind as to the expediency of living in a perfectly retired manner.
“Quite out of the world,” Mrs. Baxter called it, and though Marion smiled inwardly at the Millington lady’s notion of society, she had the good sense to say nothing which could have uselessly irritated the wife of Geoffrey’s superior.
“Nor indeed would it be right not to seem to appreciate what they think so attractive,” said she to her husband, “for after all, though our ways of looking at things may be utterly different, they are in their own way worthy people, and I suppose they mean to be kind to us.”
“I suppose they do,” said Geoffrey, “but I couldn’t stand many of those dreadfully heavy dinners. Even if we could afford the cabs, which we can’t.”
“In the bottom of her heart I think Mrs. Baxter is by no means sorry that we have decided against ‘visiting,’ ” said Marion. “I can’t make her out. She has been so wonderfully civil to me since we dined there, notwithstanding the dreadful revelation of my teaching Mrs. Allen’s boys. But yet I am certain she is not sincere in so urging us to accept her friend’s invitations.”
“She is a nasty little cat,” said Geoffrey; “she’s ready to scratch your eyes out because old Baxter has gone about praising you. He’s an old goose, (not for admiring you, I don’t mean that) but he talks in such an absurd pompous way. All the same, he’s a long way better than his wife, for he’s honest and she’s not. What a nice girl that little niece was we met there! The tall thin girl I mean.”
“Very,” assented Marion, and then her thoughts recurred to what had been little absent from them for some days—the tidings which had so strangely reached her of gentle Sybil’s death. She had not told Geoffrey about it. He had never heard any particulars of her life at Altes, and had she told him any she must have told him all, which on the whole she felt convinced was better not.
There was nothing really to be concealed, nothing of which she was ashamed. Years hence, some day when they had left all the past further behind, she would perhaps tell him the whole story. But not just yet. She had wounded him once so deeply, that even now, there were times at which she doubted if all was thoroughly healed; though for the last six months each day had but served to draw them closer together, in a way that, but for their loss of wealth, it might have taken years to achieve.
They were very happy together. Still, Geoffrey was at times dull and depressed almost to morbidness, and though Marion, correctly enough, attributed these moody fits greatly to outside circumstances, she yet could not but fear that to some extent they arose from misgivings as toherhappiness, exaggerated self-reproach for what he had brought upon her.
At such times she found it best to ignore, in great measure, his depression. Protestations of affection did not come naturally to her, nor would they have convinced him of what, if hediddoubt it, time alone would prove genuine. Her devotion to him in practical matters at such times even seemed to deepen his gloom.
“You are too good to me, far too good,” he would say, but with a tone as of disclaiming hisrightto such goodness, inexpressibly painful to her.
At other times again he would brighten up wonderfully, and Marion’s anxiety about him, physically and mentally, would temporarily slumber.
So the days wore on, till it grew to be within about three weeks of Christmas. The engagement with Mrs. Allen, which had been punctually fulfilled, was drawing to a close, much to Marion’s regret; for the five guineas a month had proved a very acceptable addition to Geoffrey’s modest salary, and the task till latterly, had seemed a light and pleasant one. Mrs. Allen had shown herself most consistently kind and considerate; many a day she had suddenly discovered a pressing errand at the other side of Millington obliging her to drive in the direction of Brewer Street, where Mrs. Appleby’s mansion was situated, curiously enough at the very hour of Mrs. Baldwin’s return thither.
“So as it happens, my dear,” the worthy lad would say, “I can give you a lift home without taking me five yards about.”
The little boys were very nice children, gentle and teachable. The youngest one indeed rather unusually and precociously intelligent; but as is generally the case with such children, physically speaking, fragile to a degree. They were the youngest and only remaining of a large family, all of whom had dropped off, one by one, as the mother expressed it, like buds with no life in them.
“Though how it should be the young ones come to be so delicate considering how strong Papa and I are, I can’t understand,” said Mrs. Allen to Marion, as she wiped away a few tears one day when she had been relating the history of her successive bereavements.
As the weather grew colder Geoffrey seemed to feel stronger. The long walk to and from Mr. Baxter’s warehouse was not half so trying to him in winter as in the close oppressive days of their first coming to Millington. But it was not so with Marion. Day after day she felt her strength mysteriously diminishing, and as the last week of her daily lessons’ giving approached, she felt thankful that the engagement was so near its termination; for easy as the task had been, she felt that it was growing too much for her.
One morning the boys had been a little more troublesome than usual, and she herself by the close of the lesson felt utterly exhausted. The children had run out to their play, she was alone in the school-room putting on her bonnet and cloak preparatory to her long walk home to Brewer Street, when the door opened suddenly and Mrs. Allen appeared. She had come, good soul, with her usual transparent little fib about having to drive in Mrs. Baldwin’s direction; but before she had time to explain her errand, to her surprise and alarm, Marion burst into a violent fit of weeping.
“What is the matter, dear Mrs. Baldwin? tell me, I pray you,” said the kind-hearted woman. “Have the boys been teasing you, or are you not feeling well this morning?”
Marion tried to answer her enquiries, but for some minutes could not control her voice sufficiently to do so. Mrs. Allen fetched a glass of wine which she made her drink part of, and in a short time the poor girl was well enough to speak as quietly as usual, and smile at her own “silly fit of crying.”
“Truly,” she assured Mrs. Allen, “I had no reason for crying. Alfred was rather slower than usual at his sums, but he was perfectly good, poor little fellow. I may have been a little tired by that, however; it is the only thing I can think of. Only”—and she hesitated.
“Only what, my dear?” urged Mrs. Allen.
Marion looked up at the kind, motherly face. Its expression invited confidence.
“Don’t tell anyone what I am going to say, dear Mrs. Allen,” said she, laying her hand appealingly on her friend’s arm. I cannot help feeling it would be a relief to tell some-body. Do you know I am afraid I am getting ill. Sometimes I feel as if I must really be going to die. I am so dreadfully weak, and every day I feel more so. It is making the very miserable, for I don’t know how Geoffrey could live without me. And my falling ill would be such a fearful aggravation of all his troubles.”
She looked as if she were ready to burst out crying again. Mrs. Allen made her finish her wine, and then said very kindly,
“I don’t think you are going to die, dear Mrs. Baldwin, but I certainly think you must take more care of yourself, for I am sure you need it. You are very young and inexperienced, my dear. I should like you to see a doctor.”
“I don’t think it would be any use,” said Marion, sadly. “Besides,” she added, her face flushing, “doctors are so expensive, and my seeing one would alarm Geoffrey so. Of all things I wish to avoid doing so till I am obliged. Imayget round again gradually, when the weather is better.”
“No, my dear,” persisted Mrs. Allen. “It does not do to trust to ‘mayget wells.’ You must see a doctor. And if you don’t want to alarm your husband, I’ll tell you how we’ll manage it. If you will stay just now to early dinner with me and the boys, whenever it’s over I’ll take you to our own doctor. As nice a man as ever lived. You’ll go with me you know in an easy sort of way. Nothing to paythistime any way. I’ll tell him I brought you, a little against your will, feelin’ anxious about you. If he goes to see you at your own house again that’ll be another affair. To-day you’ll be like as might be my daughter.”
Marion gratefully agreed to the arrangement so thoughtfully proposed, which was accordingly carried out. Nothing could exceed Mrs. Allen’s motherly kindness, and Marion felt not a little thankful for her presence and sympathy, for wholly unexpected and somewhat overwhelming was Dr. Hamley’s solution of her mysterious loss of strength.
Was she sorry or glad? she asked herself, when, set down at her own door by her friend, she had an hour or two’s quiet to think over this little looked-for intelligence, before the usual time for Geoffrey’s return from business.
She could not tell. If they had still been rich, she thought to herself, this new prospect before her would have been one of unalloyed rejoicing. But now? They were so poor, and she feared much, the thought of another help-less being dependent on his unaided exertions would sadly deepen the lines already creeping round Geoffrey’s fair, boyish face, would quickly mingle grey hairs with the golden ones she had learnt to love so fondly. And then there came back to her recollection the words of Lady Anne, that day at Copley Wood when she had been so frightened about Geoffrey, and had yet been cruel enough to chill him by her affected indifference to his safe return.
“Geoffrey is so fond of children,” had said Lady Anne.
“Would he still feel so?” Marion asked herself. She could not make up her mind.
So she kept her news to herself for a while.
But when at last one day she confided it to her husband, she almost repented not having done so before. The relief to him was so immense of having a satisfactory explanation of Marion’s failing health and wearied looks, that all other considerations faded into insignificance. He had been watching her, though silently, with the most intense anxiety, and though fearful of distressing her by objecting to the fulfilment of her engagement with Mrs. Allen, had been counting the days till it should be at an end.
“Oh, my darling!” he said; “I am so thankful, so very thankful it is this and not worse. For the last week or two I have been in such misery about you. I saw how ill you were—saw you growing weaker and weaker before my eyes without knowing what to do. I seemed paralyzed when I first realized that it was not only my fancy, and yet I dreaded startling you by noticing it. Only to-day I had made up my mind to write to Veronica and ask her to arrange for your going to her for the rest of the winter. I thought this place was killing you, and yet I could not endure the thought of parting with you.”
“And do you think I would have left you, Geoffrey?” she whispered.
“I feared you would object to it, in your unselfishness, my darling—your generous pity for the man that has ruined your life.”
“Don’t, don’t,” she interrupted, laying her hand on his mouth. “It pains me so terribly when you speak so. It isn’t pity, Geoffrey. It is far, far more.”
He did not contradict her in her words; he looked at her fondly, with mingled reverence and tenderness. But she did not feel satisfied that he quite believed her.
“You are the whole world to me,” he murmured. “Surely I am not selfish in wishing to keep you all to myself for a time. It may not, will not, I think, be for very long. And then—heaven grant I may have strength to work for her while she has no one else to look to.”
He spoke too low, for Marion, who had moved across the room, to catch his words. When she had got her work she came back and sat down beside him.
“It is frightfully hard upon you,” he said anxiously. No comforts, no anything. If only we had a little house of our own, however small. But we must not think of that just yet. In a few months I hope we shall get the two thousand pounds, which is all we shall ever see of the old Bank. Then, perhaps, we might think of furnishing a little house here.”
“We should bedreadfullyrich then,” said Marion cheerfully. “Another hundred a year! Oh, yes, we might quite furnish a house then, and keep, perhaps, two servants.”
“But furnishing would make a hole in the capital, and then we shouldn’t have as much as a hundred additional,” said Geoffrey, dolefully.
“Not at all,” exclaimed his wife. “You are forgetting the three hundred pounds ready money we have already. It is with that, or part of it, I intend to furnish.”
“Well, we must see,” he said, unwilling to damp her pleasure in these plans, but mentally resolving that in the meantime at least the precious three hundred must not be trenched upon. “We must see,” he repeated. “One thing I am thankful for, and that is, there can be no more question ofyourdoing anything but take care of yourself. No more trampings to Mrs. Allen’s, or still more horrible omnibus drives.”
“It wasn’t horrible at all,” said Marion, brightly. “I am really very sorry it is over. They are dear little boys, and Mrs. Allen herself is the best and kindest creature possible. And as for sitting at home and taking care of myself, I can assure you I have no idea of doing anything of the sort. I have lots of things to do,” she went on, her face flushing a little. “Just think of all the sewing I must get through. I shall spend five pounds of the money I have earned in materials, and I shall make everything myself.”
Geoffrey smiled. A smile more piteous than tears.
“My poor darling,” he said, “to think that you should have to work your pretty fingers sore! I am afraid I don’t feel very amiably inclined to the little——”
“You are very wicked,” said Marion, laughing in spite of herself.
“I am not, indeed,” he pleaded. “How can I feel amiably disposed to anything that will cause you so much trouble. But I won’t say it if it vexes you. I dare say you think me horribly unnatural, but howcanI care for anything as I do for you?”
“Never mind,” she replied. “You’ll care quite enough when the time comes. And I never said I was going to work my fingers sore, you exaggerating creature.”
Then she brought out the five pound note she had that day received from Mrs. Allen, and set to work to calculate how far was the farthest to which the hundred shillings could be persuaded to extend themselves in her contemplated purchases.
Geoffrey’s Millington experience was applied to as a competent authority on the probable prices of various materials; but, to tell the truth, though he gave his most solemn attention to the subject under consideration, he failed to distinguish himself as might have been expected, and ended by getting himself called “a great stupid, who didn’t know the difference between linen and cotton, valenciennes and crochet.”
It was laughable enough in its way, this little domestic scene, I dare say. But pathetic too. Marion, through all her cheerfulness, was yet conscious of the peculiar loneliness of her position. Motherless, sisterless, her only confidante in these essentially womanly matters a man, whom, at first sight, one would hardly have selected as likely to excel in delicate adaptation of his strength to her weakness, his thorough manliness to her shrinking refinement. Yet, great rough ploughman as he called himself, few men were better fitted than Geoffrey Baldwin to be mother, sister, and friend, as well as husband, to the solitary girl who had no one but him to look to.
Christmas brought a letter from Harry, enclosing a cheque for ten pounds, “to buy Marion a winter bonnet,” he said. Since the news of their misfortune had reached him, Harry’s conduct had been beyond all praise. Not only had he at once cut down his already moderate personal expenses, but, by the strictest economy, he had succeeded in saving the little surplus he now sent to his sister as a Christmas-box. How welcome a one he little guessed! For it was, of course, at once appropriated to be spent in the same direction as the obstinate five pounds, which so resolutely-refused to behave themselves as ten.
“Don’t be unhappy about me,” wrote Marion’s brother. “I only wish I could see that you and Baldwin are as jolly as I. My pay is, as you see, more than enough for my expenses, and if all goes well, by the time we come home again, I have a very good chance of being made adjutant, which will enable me to manage without difficulty in England. By another Christmas I shall hope to be with you at home; Millington or anywhere, it doesn’t matter—wherever you two are is home to me.”
Some tears were shed over this letter. It was not in woman-nature—sister-nature—that it should be otherwise. Nevertheless, it added not a little to the cheerfulness of Mrs. Appleby’s two lodgers as they ate their modest Christmas dinner in the sitting-room looking into Brewer Street. A ponderous invitation to perform that same important ceremony in the presence and at the board of Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, had been received but civilly declined.
“Let us have a nice quiet Christmas-day together, in our own little room,” pleaded Marion; and Geoffrey was by no means loth to comply with the request.
Christmas past, the new year soon began. January, February, and March, three ugly, dirty, slushy months, in Millington at least, followed each other in gloomy succession. With April things began to mend a little. Fresh sprouts made their appearance, with infinite labour and patience, even on the few smoke-dried shrubs and trees in Brewer Street. And in-doors at No. 32, there was comfort and content; for Mrs. Baldwin had been far from idle these last few months, and surveyed with no small satisfaction the piles of neatly-fingered little garments which bore witness to her industry.
Then came May, sweet, fickle, provoking May! Mois de Marie, which still we dream of as loveliest of all the twelve; though seldom, if ever, are our fond visions realised. But this year May was, for once, true to her legendary character, and the end of the month was fresh and sweet and genial, as we all fancy May used to be, long ago, when we were children: in the times when Christmas wasalwaysclear and frosty, seen through a brilliant vista of holly and mistletoe, plum-pudding and mince-pie; and Midsummer’s-day a suitable fairy carnival of sunshine and flowers, dances on the green, or picnics in the wood.
What has come over the world in these later days? Why is Christmas, as often as not, muddy and foggy and raw, ending in uneatable plum-pudding or deplorably indigestible mince-pies? Is it in us, or in it, this extraordinary change? Where have they all gone to—the beautiful winters and summers of long ago? The lovely, hot, sunny days, when the nights seemed years apart, and the deep green woods the proper place to live in—when we made daisy-chains and cowslip-balls, and all manner of sweet, silly, summer things, whose very names now sound as the dreams of a former existence. The spring with its blossoms, the autumn with its fruit. The bright sparkling winter, with its snow-balls and skates, roast chestnuts and fire-side games, surely the most delightful of all! What has come over them all?
Now-a-days, all the year round, with few if any exceptions, the days have a uniform shade of grey. With the exception of certain physical sensations, certain practical and not unwelcome suggestions from the housemaid, to the effect that “it is getting time to begin fires again,” many a week would go by without my thinking of, or realising the change of the seasons. Then again some trifle will bring it all back to me—the first snow-drop head peeping through the soil, a cluster of red berries on the hedge some early autumn day, the children’s voices passing my door, intent on a summer day’s ramble, as beautiful to them, I suppose, as it once was to me; or, more tender still, the sweet, quaint words of the Christmas carols in the village street—with any of these, the old wonderful feeling surges over me to overwhelming; and I ask myself if indeed my youth is gone for ever, or but veiled for a time, to be found again with all the beauty and truth, the essentially everlasting, in the far-off land wemustall believe in, or cease to exist?
But I have wandered from Brewer Street, and what happened there one Sunday morning a bright, lovely May morning, the last day but one of the capricious month.
A daughter was born to the young couple, with whom fortune had played such malicious tricks. A sweet, tiny, soft, blue-eyed doll of a thing. Truly the very nicest of babies! Healthy as heart could wish, comfortable and content.
“A real Sunday child, is she not?” said Marion to Geoffrey, as with tremendous precaution and solemnity he bent down to kiss the funny pink nose emerging from the nest of flannel by her side. “A nice, good, happy Sunday child. I am very glad she is not a boy. A girl will be far more of a comfort to us, won’t she, Geoffrey? And may I call her ‘Mary?’ ”
“Of course you may, my darling,” he replied, “or any name you choose.”
He would not have objected to “Kerenhappuch,” or “Aurora Borealis,” as a small friend of mine once suggested at a family consultation of the kind. He was perfectly satisfied with the baby, whatever its sex or name, seeing that its mother, the light of his eyes, the being for whose happiness he was willing, nay, ready at any moment to die, was well and strong, and pronounced by the authorities to be in a fair way towards a speedy and prosperous recovery.
“Between the dawning and the day,The wind fell and the thunder ceased,The rod light came up from the east,As my dear love a-dying layBetween the dawning and the day.”
BALLAD.
THEnight after the baby’s birth Marion Baldwin had a somewhat remarkable dream. Remarkable in more ways than one. In the first place it was unusually coherent and clear; in the second, it was the first and only time in which Ralph Severn, the being who had exerted the greatest influence on herself and her life, ever appeared to her in “a vision of the night;” in the third place, after events satisfiedherat least that to some extent the dream was prophetic as well as retrospective.
She dreamt that she was again a little child. A girl with flying curls and nimble feet, playing with her brother Harry in the garden of the little cottage at Brackley. All that had happened to her since then—her eventful girlhood, her sufferings and joys, her wifehood had hardly as yet realized motherhood—her whole life in short, was for the time being, swept out of her mind. She was again little May Vere, chasing butterflies and running races on the grass with still smaller Harry. Suddenly, in the midst of their play there was wafted towards her a strong, sweet scent. It was that of honeysuckle; the scent which, ever since the meeting in the old garden at the Peacock, she had not been able to endure. Any day she would gladly have walked some miles rather than encounter it.
In her dream it acted upon her in a peculiar, bewildering way. For a short time there came over her the painful sensation of partial suffocation; it seemed to her that she stopped in her running, and lay down on the soft, velvety grass. At this point Harry disappeared; nor did the remembrance of him return to her again throughout the dream. Gradually the oppression cleared away, and her breathing became easy. She was still conscious of the honeysuckle scent; but no longer to a painful of disagreeable extent. Then some one called her by name, clearly and distinctly. She knew the voice to be Ralph’s; but, looking up eagerly to see him, to her amazement she recognized the person approaching her as Geoffrey. As he drew nearer she saw that he looked pale and tired and walked very slowly. Something too he was carrying in his arms, the form of which she could not at first distinguish. Then she saw that it was a little child, lying across his breast as if asleep. It was not a baby, for a shower of thick, dark hair fell over and concealed the face: and as Geoffrey came close to her, and stood half fainting beside her, with one hand he gently put aside the hair, and she saw that the child was Sybil. Then he spoke.
“Help me to carry her, Marion,” he said. “I promised to take care of her and see her safe home, but she was too tired to walk any further; and I am nearly worn out myself.”
Marion stretched out her arm to take the child, but suddenly, as she did so, Sybil seemed to awake, slid from her grasp, and stood before her. Without speaking, the child for a moment gazed at the husband and wife with yearning love in her face; then, kissing her little hands she turned from them and hastened rapidly away, seeming rather to fly than run; but ever as she went, turning to kiss her hands with a sort of beckoning gesture. Marion did not feel the least surprise; but looking at Geoffrey was amazed to see him in violent distress.
“I must go,” he cried, “I must go.” As these words reached her ears she was seized with that fearful, indescribable sensation of dream horror, combining in itself every shade of human agony. Throwing up her arms in her extremity, she heard again Ralph’s voice calling her by name; and immediately she felt her hands grasped in his. Looking up, she met his tender, loving gaze fixed on her.
“Marion, Marion,” he cried, as if in reproach, “why did you not tell me before? Why did you leave it for Sybil to tell? See only how Geoffrey is suffering. Could you not have trusted my great love, not even forhissake?”
Then blinding tears fell from her eyes. In a mist as it were, she saw Ralph dart forward, in time, barely, to prevent Geoffrey’s falling to the ground; the sense of suffocation again oppressed her, and making a strong effort to overcome it, she woke, with a slight scream — to find Geoffrey bending over her in some anxiety; for her sleep had been disturbed and he had obtained the nurse’s permission to watch beside her, while that good lady was occupied in performing Miss Baldwin’s toilette for the day.
It was early morning. There were birds, a few at least, even in Brewer Street; and their sweet spring chirping sounded fresh and bright to Marion’s waking ears.
“I have had such a queer dream,” she said to her husband, and she looked at him anxiously. “You are quite well this morning, dear Geoffrey, are you not?” she asked. “You have not been sitting up all night beside me?”
“Oh, dear, no,” he answered cheerfully, “I have had an excellent night’s rest. But now I must be off; for the old dragon in the next room made me promise I shouldn’t let you talk first thing in the morning, before you have had anything to eat. I shall get my breakfast and start for town. I’ll be back for an hour in the middle of the day to see how you’re getting on. Be a good girl, and get well as fast as you can, and don’t dream queer dreams that make you scream in your sleep.”
“It wasn’t a disagreeable dream exactly,” said Marion, “but I don’t quite understand it.”
Geoffrey smiled at the grave consideration she bestowed on the subject. Then he kissed her tenderly, and was gone.
It might have been only the faint light in the room, but somehow, Marion could not rid herself of the idea that Geoffrey didnotlook well that morning. Certainly he had had plenty to try him of late; his anxiety about her had of itself been enough to knock him up. She must not be morbid or fanciful, she said to herself. The best thing she could do for her husband, was to get well herself as quickly as possible; so as to be able to take care of him and see he played no tricks with himself; in the way of not changing his wet clothes, going too long without food, or any nonsense of that kind!
She did her best to keep to her resolution, and her recovery progressed satisfactorily. The baby was certainly very delightful, its fingers and toes especially. It really cried very little indeed, hardly at all “compared with a many,” said the nurse, and Marion thought it a round ball of perfection. The nicest time was the evening, when Geoffrey came and sat beside her, his day’s work over; and she made him hold the baby in his arms and laughed at his wonderful clumsiness till the tears ran down her cheeks.
When she was well enough to be carried downstairs, and established on the regulation sofa, which, by the help of a few pillows, Geoffrey had succeeded in rendering somewhat more comfortable, some few visitors dropped in to enquire after her. Kind Mrs. Allen, of course, who indeed had allowed few days to pass since baby Mary’s arrival, without calling herself, or sending a servant, with far more fruit than Mrs. Baldwin could possibly have consumed, and flowers in sufficient abundance to have decked the greater part of the front parlours in Brewer Street—not to speak of more substantial proofs of friendliness in the shape of jellies and blancmanges, and a dozen of old port surreptitiously confided to Mrs. Appleby’s care, for the use of the young mother “when she begins to get about again.” It was all done so simply, with such homely, matter-of-fact kindliness, that even Geoffrey could not feel offended, or otherwise than grateful for the motherly goodness which his young wife’s gentleness and sweetness had thus drawn forth.
The Baxter chariot made its appearance in Brewer Street one day, and the descended therefrom in person, to inspect the new thing in babies which had made its appearance at No. 32. She condescended to approve of small Mary, handled her in a wonderfully knowing manner, and altogether over-whelmed her mamma by the astonishing amount of monthly nurse talk she managed to get through in a quarter of an hour. In this domain evidently she felt herself at home, and thorough mistress of all she touched upon.
Two or three weeks soon passed, and Marion began to resume her regular habits. Her anxiety about Geoffrey, though it had to some extent subsided, had by no means altogether left her. At times he looked almost like his old self; then again any extra fatigue or unusual anxiety would tell on him fearfully. One day when he left for town he told her not to expect him home for an hour later than usual, as he thought it probable he would be detained till that time. It was a fine, mild evening. Marion opened the window of her room upstairs, from whence she could see some way down the street, and sat there watching for his return. He came at last, walking slowly and looking very wearied. A slight shiver crept through her as suddenly the remembrance of her strange dream flashed across her mind. She darted downstairs and met him at the door, then drawing him gently into the little sitting-room—
“Geoffrey,” she said, “are you not well? I have been watching you coming along the street, and I fancied you looked so pale and tired.”
He did not answer her immediately. He sank down on a chair and covered his face with his hand. She grew frightened.
“Geoffrey,” she said, with the slight petulance of nervous anxiety, “speak to me, do! Are you not well, or is anything the matter?”
He roused himself and looked up in a bewildered manner.
“Don’t be vexed with me, dear,” he said. “I know I am very stupid. No, there is nothing the matter. I am quite well, only a slight feeling of giddiness came over me just now. I have had rather an extra long walk, and it is getting very close and oppressive in the warehouse now the summer is coming on. I shall be all right after tea. Let us have it now, for I have a lot of things to talk to you about.”
She saw he was very tired, and therefore said no more, till, refreshed by the meal, he settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair by the window.
“How delightful it must be in the country just now,” said Geoffrey. “Brentshire will be looking its very best.”
“Yes,” said Marion, a little sadly. “I am not happy when I think of your being cooped up in this place all through the summer, Geoffrey. I can see it does not suit you.”
“It is not so bad for me as for you,” he replied. Then with a sudden change of tone: “Where do you think I went to-day after leaving the office? I set off to call on your friend, Mrs. Allen.”
“To thank her for all her kindness?” exclaimed Marion. “I amveryglad. It is just what I have been wishing you would do, but I didn’t like to propose it, for you have seemed so tired lately in the evenings.”
“Well, to tell the truth it was notmerelyto thank her,” said Geoffrey. “I wanted to consult her about you. I am not quite satisfied that you are getting as thoroughly strong again as you should. And one day the doctor said something about sea-air being always desirable after this sort of thing. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so at last I went to consult with Mrs. Allen as to how it should be managed. She has made the most capital arrangement, if only you will be a good girl and agree to it. What a good creature Mrs. Allen is!”
“Awfully good!” answered Marion, warmly. “What is this plan of hers?”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you. I shall be so horribly disappointed if you don’t agree to it,” said Geoffrey. “They, the Allens, are going to the sea-side on Friday, for a month and she has asked you and the baby, and nurse of course, to go with them for a fortnight.”
“And leave you?” exclaimed Marion in dismay.
“Only for a fortnight, dear,” he replied; “I shall get on very well. Possibly I may get away on Saturday-week and stay with you till the Monday. Don’t refuse to go, my darling. You don’t know what a relief it will be to my mind to know you are having a breath of fresh air.”
“But you want it more than I do, my poor Geoffrey!” remonstrated Marion, her voice faltering. “How can I leave you here alone for a whole fortnight? And you are not well. I see you are not well, though you won’t own to it.”
“But surely it would not mend matters foryounot to try to get stronger, now you have really a chance of doing so,” he urged. “Think of all depending on you—that little monkey, too. Supposing Iwereto fall ill, which Heaven forbid, so long as I am any good to you, my dearest, all the more reason foryouto keep strong.”
There was reason in this, Marion could not deny.
Geoffrey saw she was beginning to yield and resolved wisely to strike while the iron was hot.
“I promised to send Mrs. Allen a line by to-night’s post,” he said briskly. “Give me my portfolio, and I’ll write it now and get Sarah Ann, or whatever her name is, to post it. I am so glad to have it settled. You are a very good girl, Marion;” and he kissed her fondly.
“Promise me you won’t get ill while I am away,” she said wistfully.
“Of course I won’t. Don’t talk nonsense,” he replied. The words were rough, but the tone of the tenderest. “Seriously,” he went on, “I don’t think I am a bit worse than I was last year when we first came here. It is only the close weather that tries me.” And his satisfaction at the successful result of his little scheme, made him look so bright and cheerful that Marion’s spirits rose again, and she began to think her fears had been exaggerated.
“Be sure you write every day,” were her last words on the Friday morning, when, for the first time since their coming to Millington, the husband and wife separated. He nodded a cheerful assent, and in another minute the train puffed out of the station, and poor Geoffrey, standing solitary on the platform, straining his eyes to catch the last glimpse of his wife, was lost to sight.
Notwithstanding her misgivings on his account, Marion could not but feel that the change of air and scene was very acceptable and pleasant. The Allens were the kindest and most considerate of hosts; the fresh sea air seemed to give her new life and strength with every breath; little Mary throve as a Sunday child should, and everything but the thought of Geoffrey’s loneliness conspired to refresh and inspirit her.
For the first week every morning brought a few words from Brewer Street. He was “getting on all right,” wrote Geoffrey; delighted to hear she was so well and happy, and looking forward, if all were well, to a Saturday and Sunday together by the sea before her return.
One day he forwarded to her a letter in an unfamiliar hand. She opened it with some curiosity, and hastily glanced at the signature. It was that of “Maria Jane Baxter.”
“How kind of her to write,” thought Marion, and theCONTENTS OFthe letter pleased her very much.
“I have not been able to write before,” wrote Maria, “for at school we are not allowed to send letters to any one not a relation. The holidays have just begun, and I want very much to tell you that I gave your message to Lotty Severn immediately I saw her. She was so very glad to hear about you. She asked me a good many questions, and I hope it was not wrong of me to tell her what I know. That you were married, I mean, to Mr. Baldwin, and how handsome and kind he was, and also that I thought you had lost a great deal of money. I hope it was not wrong of me to tell that? I heard them speaking of you at my uncle’s, the next day after you dined there, and I was not sure that I caught your name rightly, for I think Uncle Baxter said your name used to beVere, and I understood you to sayFreer. But Lotty says I am quite right, and that before you were married, and at the time they knew you, you were Miss Freer. She asked me to give you her love if ever I saw you, and to tell you she would always remember you, and she hoped Mr. Baldwin would make a great deal of money at Millington. She said she would not talk about you to any one but her uncle—not to her grandmother, for Sybil always thought Lady Severn was unkind to you, Lotty says—but her uncle loved you very much for being so good to Sybil; and Lotty says she is sure he will like to hear about you. I think that was all Lotty said. I should like to see you again very much. I heard you had a little baby, and I told Lotty so. She wished you would call it ‘Sybil.’ I am afraid I shall not see you again, for my Aunt Baxter offended my mamma the last time we were there, and mamma says she will never go there again,” &c., &c.
And so the simple, girlish epistle ended. But it please Marion even while it recalled painful associations. She was glad to have been able to send a message to poor Lotty, and to receive this assurance of the little girl’s affection. Pleased, too, that, even in this indirect roundabout way, some tidings of her should penetrate to Ralph. She was glad that he should know that her strong interest in his little nieces had in no wise faded, that sweet Sybil had not been unmourned by her.
That the incident should lead to any other result in no wise occurred to her.
It was on the Thursday morning of the second week of her stay with the Allens that she received this letter. The day but one following—the Saturday—was to bring Geoffrey. Friday passed without any tidings of him; the first day he had missed writing. She felt a little uneasy. Still more so when Saturday morning brought no letter. But Mrs. Allen persuaded her that as he was coming that day he would not have thought it necessary to write; might, not improbably, have been detained late at business the previous evening in preparation for the Saturday’s holiday.
Marion felt but half satisfied, but tried to think it was all right. To kill time till the hour at which Mr. Allen promised to escort her to the station to meet her husband, she went a long walk with the two boys. She did her best to be cheerful; they hunted for shells, they built sand fortresses for the waves to undermine, they ran races on the shore; but for all that her heart was heavy with unacknowledged misgiving. At last they turned towards home. A few paces from their own door they met Mr. Allen hastening towards them.
“You must have been quite a long walk,” he said, speaking, it seemed to Marion, rather faster than usual. “I have been some distance in the other direction looking for you. What a lovely day it is!” he went on, hurriedly. “Just the day for the sea-side. Mr. Baldwin would have enjoyed it so much. Such a pity he can’t come.”
“Can’t come,” repeated Marion in astonishment. “He is coming, Mr. Allen. I had no letter this morning, and he would have been sure to write had anything prevented his coming.”
She glanced at Mr. Allen’s face; he did not speak, but she read something in his expression which caused her heart for an instant to stand still, and then again to beat with almost suffocating rapidity.
“Mr. Allen,” she exclaimed, wildly, “you are playing with me. It is nonsense. I see it all in your face. You have had some dreadful news while I was out. You have had a letter saying that——. Good God, tell me the worst. Give me the letter, if you won’t speak.”
“Not a letter,” stammered Mr. Allen, his rosy face suffused with perspiration drawn forth by his very unsuccessful attempt at “breaking it gently to the poor thing.” “Not a letter. A telegram from Mr. Baxter, and, and—— yes, you shall see it,” he went on, fumbling in his pocket for the large thin envelope, with the fatal “immediate” in the corner; “for I Heaven’s sake, don’t excite your-self so, my dear young lady. Think of the poor baby.” (He was a family man, you see, and none of the little Allens had been brought up “by hand.”) “After all, it may not be so bad as you think.”
She seized the envelope, tore out the paper it enclosed, and devoured the words with hungry eyes.From Robert Baxter, Esq., Millington, to “Henry Allen, Esq., Sandbeach.”(Thus ran the telegram.)
“Not seen Baldwin two days. Sent to enquire. Find him very ill. Better send his wife at once.”
That was all. All that could be learnt for the next dreadful three hours, which must elapse before the poor wife could be by the bedside of her suffering, perhaps dying, husband.
For “send,” good Mr. Allen read “bring”; and after a waking nightmare of hurry and confusion, Marion found herself but half conscious of where she was or what she was doing, in the railway, hastening back to the home she had quitted so unwillingly but a few days before.
Baby Mary was with her, of course, torn from her cot, poor child, to be hastily enveloped in hood and cloak, and hurried away on this unexpected journey. But it was all one to her. She was really a wonderful baby for taking things coolly, and reposed, poor little soul, in calm unconsciousness of her father’s danger, or her mother’s agonising anxiety.
“ ‘Never so bad but it might have been worse,’ ” quoted Mr. Allen to himself. “It would really have been dreadful if the poor baby, as they generally do, had seen fit to scream all the way!”
Millington, dirty, smoky, unlovely Millington at last. A wretched, jolting drive, in a wretched, jolting cab, with a stupid driver who could not, or would not, read the names of the streets or the numbers of the houses; (in consequence of which the greater part of the transit from the station to Brewer Street was performed by Mr. Allen with the upper half of his stout little person—ensconced in the regulation pater-familias sea-side costume of Scotch tweed, which he had not had time to change—extended out of the cab window as far as it could reach in the direction of the driver) ending at last in a sudden halt at Mrs. Appleby’s door.
Careless of cab fare, all but forgetful of baby, Marion dashed open the little garden gate and flew to the door. It was opened before she had time to ring; Mrs. Appleby had heard them stop.
“How is he?” was all she could say.
“Very poorly, I’m afraid,” replied the land-lady. But even that was better than the worst.
Then hastened up Mr. Allen; and, leading the way into the front parlour, Mrs. Appleby related to the two new-comers the particulars of Mr. Baldwin’s seizure.
“He had not been ‘not to saywell,’ since Mrs. Baldwin left,” said Mrs. Appleby. Up to Thursday, however, he had been able to go to business as usual. On that morning he had not got up, told Mrs. Appleby his head was so bad, he thought he must stay in bed. He seemed to sleep most of that day, and the landlady was in hopes by Friday morning he would be all right again. But it was not so. She felt at a loss what to do, and proposed to him to send for the doctor, or Mrs. Baldwin both of which propositions he most decidedly negatived.Thismorning, however, Saturday, he was so evidently worse, light-headed Mrs. Appleby fancied, that she grew frightened: and when a young man from Baxter Brothers called to ask if Mr. Baldwin were ill, she sent by him a note to the same medical man who had attended Mrs. Baldwin, and a request to some of the gentlemen at the office to telegraph to Mr. Allen at Sandbeach.
“Had the doctor been?”
“Oh yes,” and was to call again in the afternoon.
“I will wait till he has been,” said Mr. Allen decidedly. And when Marion began to make some piteous apology for so trespassing on his kindness: “My dear,” said the little man, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet five and a half. “My dear, do you take me for a monster---a monster,” he repeated, “in human form? No, no, as sure as my name is ’Enery Hallen, I. feel towards you, my dear, as a daughter in this time of trouble. Now run away to your ’usband, poor fellow, and do your best to be calm. I shall do very well here till I have seen Dr. ’Amley. This good lady, I have no doubt,” with a gallant inclination towards Mrs. Appleby, which forthwith gained the worthy landlady’s heart. “This good lady will get me a chop, and shall still have time to catch the last train to Sandbeach. Now don’t think any more about me. Run away to your ’usband.”
She needed no second bidding. But, alas! when she stood by Geoffrey’s bedside, laid her cool hand on his forehead, called him by every endearing name, he no longer knew her! He lay in a sort of stupor, perfectly quiet, not apparently suffering. His eyes were open, but for her, sightless. He stared at her, evidently without the slightest recognition. It was fearful! She had never before come in contact with this sort of illness, rarely indeed with serious illness of any kind: and she crouched down by the bedside and sobbed her very heart out.
Suddenly she fancied she heard him speak. He was only muttering to himself. “The letter,” he said, “I must put it where she will be sure to see it—at once, as soon as ever it is all over. Veronica will be good to her at first.”
He spoke so rationally, though the words made her shudder, that she fancied he must be recovering his consciousness.
“Yes, dear Geoffrey,” she said, “I am here. Shall I fetch the letter?” But he only stared at her vacantly, and repeated, “She will be to see it—yes, sure to see it, when all is over.”
Then he dozed off again, and for an hour or more she crouched beside him in her desolation of misery.
At the end of that time came Mrs. Appleby, to tell her that Dr. Hamley was below, and to entreat her to take some nourishment.
“For the dear baby’s sake, ma’am;” which reminder had the desired effect.
Marion could not succeed in obtaining much satisfaction from the doctor. At that early stage in an illness of the kind, he said to her, it was impossible to give an opinion. No doubt it was likely to be serious; but Mr. Baldwin was young, had an excellent and unimpaired constitution, and with care and patience they had every reason to hope the best. She must take great care of herself, he added, as a parting injunction—for every sake, baby’s of course in particular.
“Oh yes,” replied Marion, “you shall see how reasonable and sensible I shall be, Dr. Hamley, ifonlyyou will let me nurse him myself.”
“Not unassisted? Indeed, my dear young lady, it would be quite out of the question,” said the doctor. “For a short time you really must have a nurse. It is a case in which everything depends on constant, unflagging care and watchfulness. I shall look out a nice nurse myself and send her this evening.
“Thank you very much,” faltered Poor Marion, as he left her, promising to call again early the next morning.
To Mr. Allen, whom he saw alone on his way out, Dr. Hamley was much more out-spoken and explicit. “He is terribly ill, poor fellow,” he said. “It will be at best a touch-and-go case. You see it has been coming on evidently for some time. A sort of break up it is in fact; resulting from all he has undergone, and the complete change in his life and habits since coming here. If he recovers, a return to a country life will be his only chance. But it will be some weeks before we can venture to talk of him and recovery in the same breath! I only hope that poor girl’s strength may keep up.”
“Poor thing, poor thing,” said Mr. Allen, sympathisingly. Then he added with some little embarrassment, button-holing Dr. Hamley as he spoke: “They are very poor, Doctor, and illness is expensive. You will know where to apply to if there is any difficulty of this kind? I must hasten to catch the next train, but with you I feel that I leave them in good hands. You will see that they want for nothing that a little ready money can supply?”
“All right, my dear Sir,” replied the doctor cordially, and added as he shook hands with Mr. Allen, “They are fortunate in having such friends as, I know of old, your worthy lady and yourself are sure to prove in time need.”
The nurse arrived before night and was installed in her place.
Then began the weary monotony of a long and dangerous illness; to those who have not come directly in contact with it, so indescribable; to those who have themselves watched for weeks in a sick room, so painfully familiar.
It proved indeed, as Dr. Hamley had prophesied, a close race between me and death. For many days none could have said which was the more likely to win.
Of acute suffering there was little; for the occasional paroxysms of fever and delirium alternated with long fits of death-like stupor, during which for hours together, Geoffrey Baldwin neither moved nor spoke. When delirious, his thoughts appeared chiefly to run on the letter to which he had alluded in the beginning of his illness. Marion got accustomed to his speaking of it, and came to think it must be merely a dream, for though she looked in every direction, in likely and unlikely places, she found no letter to which his broken sentences could refer. She soothed, or tried to soothe, his anxiety on the subject (for she was never sure if she understood what she said) by assuring him she had read the letter and would attend to all its injunctions. “When all is over?” he asked her once, wistfully gazing in her face. But not even to satisfy him could she bring herself to repeat the dreadful words—“Yes, when all is over.”
All through the weary weeks she watched him, as if with the concentrated devotion of mother, sister and wife. She did not allow herself tothink:had she done so her strength must assuredly have failed; as it was, it stood the test in a way that astonished all about her.
“You do not know how wiry I am,” she said one day to Dr. Hamley, and she judged herself correctly.
At last, at last—when June had grown into July, and the leaves on the few trees in Brewer Street were already, poor stunted things, brown and shrivelled by Millington dust and smoke, and seemingly inclined in disgust and disappointment to drop off in premature decay—at last, after the long waiting, the heart sickness of hope deferred till it had all but become despair, Marion had her reward.
“He has got the turn, my dear,” said Dr. Hamley. “He has got the turn, and if we can now keep up his strength and spirits, we shall, by God’s blessing, pull him through.”
“One law holds ever good,That nothing comes to life of man on earthUnscathed throughout by woe.”
PLUMPTRE’SSOPHOCLES.