"Down thou climbing sorrow!Thy element's below."King Lear.
"Down thou climbing sorrow!Thy element's below."King Lear.
"Till now thy soul has beenAll glad and gay:Bid it awake, and lookAt grief to-day."Adelaide Anne Procter.
"Till now thy soul has beenAll glad and gay:Bid it awake, and lookAt grief to-day."Adelaide Anne Procter.
As Althea walked into the library, she was aware that Waveney was following her closely. Doreen had made some excuse and had gone off to her own room, probably to write letters.
"Do you want me to read to you to-night?" asked Waveney. She looked wonderfully bright and animated this evening. As she spoke she slipped her hand into Althea's arm, in a coaxing, girlish way. "Dear Miss Harford, I am not a bit tired. I feel as springy as possible"—this being a favourite word in the Ward vocabulary to express latent and superfluous energy.
"No, my child, not to-night," returned Althea, gravely. "Waveney, dear, I am afraid I have rather bad news for you. You were out when the message came, so I went over to Cleveland Terrace to inquire."
Then a troubled, almost a scared look, came into the girl's eyes.
"A message!" she gasped. "Did they send for me? Is any one ill—father? or——" But she did not finish the sentence, as Althea quietly handed her the telegram.
"What does it mean?" she asked in a bewildered tone; but her lips were trembling. "Mollie ill! But she is never ill. Except when we had the measles, she has never been in bed a single day for years. What is it? Why do you not tell me?" and Waveney spoke in a tone of intense irritation.
"I am waiting, dear, until you can listen to me," returned her friend, soothingly. "My cousin Moritz was with me when the telegram came"—here Waveney started—"and I thought—we both thought—that the best thing would be for me to go over to Cleveland Terrace. Moritz went with me. We saw your father, and I went up to Mollie. It is diphtheria—no one knows how she has caught it. She is ill, and her throat is very painful, but she could speak to me. She sent her love, and said that you must not think of coming to her."
Then an incredulous smile crossed Waveney's face.
"Mollie said that, but of course she did not mean it; the idea is too absurd. If I were not so miserable I could laugh at it. Not go to my Mollie when she is ill and in pain! Has father sent for Dr. Duncan, and have they given her a fire?—the room is so cold!" Then, interrupting herself with sudden impatience, "Why do I stop to ask these questions when it is getting late? Oh, Miss Harford, you ought to have told me before dinner! What does that matter? But I will get ready now. And if you will be kind enough to send for a cab, I shall not be five minutes changing my frock"—for even at the supreme moment some instinct told the girl that sapphire blue velveteen was not quite suitable for a sick room.
Althea was quite shaken by Waveney's impetuosity. It was evident that her young companion had entirely forgotten herrôle; her sole idea was that Mollie was ill, and that nothing else mattered. She was actually half-way to the door when Althea called her back in a tone that arrested even her attention.
"Waveney, my poor child, what are you doing? Did you not understand the telegram? Your father will not allow you to go home—he told me so himself; and here is a note he has sent you." Then Waveney, without a word, took the letter.
"My precious Child," wrote Everard, "we are in sad trouble. Our dear Mollie is very ill, but Dr. Duncan tells me that it will not be safe for you to be with her, and that he must have a properly trained nurse—one is coming in directly—and then she will have every care and attention. Do not come unless I send for you; it is enough to have one child ill, and I will not have you here, my little Waveney. I know I can trust you. Since you were a baby you have never given me a moment's uneasiness—you have been my dear, good child, who has always obeyed my least wishes. If you love me, my darling, you will be brave and calm. Miss Harford will tell you everything. She is a good, kind creature, and I feel you will be safe with her. You shall know everything: nothing shall be kept from you—I promise you that faithfully."Your loving"Father."
"My precious Child," wrote Everard, "we are in sad trouble. Our dear Mollie is very ill, but Dr. Duncan tells me that it will not be safe for you to be with her, and that he must have a properly trained nurse—one is coming in directly—and then she will have every care and attention. Do not come unless I send for you; it is enough to have one child ill, and I will not have you here, my little Waveney. I know I can trust you. Since you were a baby you have never given me a moment's uneasiness—you have been my dear, good child, who has always obeyed my least wishes. If you love me, my darling, you will be brave and calm. Miss Harford will tell you everything. She is a good, kind creature, and I feel you will be safe with her. You shall know everything: nothing shall be kept from you—I promise you that faithfully.
"Your loving"Father."
When Waveney had finished the letter, there was despair in her eyes.
"He is cruel. Every one is cruel," she said, in a choked, unnatural voice. And then, with a dry sob, "Oh, why am I not lying there in her place!"
"Do not say that, dear child," returned Althea, gently; "for then Mollie would have to suffer." And at this Waveney winced.
"Where are you going?" Althea spoke rather nervously, for again the girl seemed about to leave her. "Oh, Waveney, surely you will not go against your father's wishes." But she need not have asked the question. The loyal little soul would have died sooner than grieve that beloved parent.
"No, I cannot disobey father," she said, in a dull voice; and her poor little face looked so white and rigid. "I am going to my own room now."
"Will you not stay and let me talk to you a little?" asked Althea, anxiously. "You are taking things too hardly, dear. Mollie may be better to-morrow."
But she spoke to deaf ears.
"No, no. Please do not keep me. I must be alone. There is no use in talking. How do you know, how does any one know about things?" and Waveney abruptly turned away.
Althea's eyes looked very sad as the door closed behind her. "I knew it," she said to herself. "I knew how she would suffer. Her nature is intense. Those who love much, suffer much. Mollie and she seem to have only one heart between them. It is not so with all twins." But the next moment her dreary moralising was interrupted; for Waveney came hastily back and stood by her.
"I did not bid you good-night," she said, huskily. "I am afraid I was rude and abrupt; but I did not mean it. And you are so kind, so kind."
Then Althea put her arms round the girl and kissed her tenderly. "My dear, do not trouble about that. I quite understand. May I come to you presently? I may be able to think of something to comfort you." But Waveney shook her head.
"No; please do not come. There is no comfort for me while my Mollie is ill and suffering;" and Waveney drew her cold hands out of Althea's detaining grasp. It was sad to see how her step had suddenly lost its springiness. To be alone—that was her one thought now, as it is the instinct of all sorely wounded creatures in God's free world.
Waveney never recalled that night of misery without a shudder. The sudden shock quite prostrated her. That Mollie should be ill, perhaps dangerously ill!—for every one knew that people died of diphtheria: Princess Alice had, and the butcher's little daughter, and one or two others that she and Mollie knew—that Mollie should be ill, and that her only sister should not be allowed to nurse her!—this was almost inconceivable to Waveney.
It was this separation that seemed so unnatural, and Waveney chafed bitterly against her father's restrictions. After those first unguarded expressions she did not blame him in words, but again and again in her heart she accused him of cruelty.
"Oh, father, how could you, how could you!" she said over and over again that night. "It is not right, it is not fair, that you should torture me like this. If I were only there I should not be so unnerved and frightened, but everything is worse when one is kept away."
Waveney was right from her own point of view. She would have been her brave, resolute little self at Cleveland Terrace, and Mollie would have had the tenderest and most cheery of nurses.
"I should not have taken it. I should have been careful and left the nurse to do things," she said later on. "It was just father's nervousness."
Dr. Duncan's opinion she treated with contempt. It was part of a doctor's duty to say these things.
More than once Althea crept to the girl's door; but she could hear nothing. Once she turned the handle, but the door was locked. Waveney, who was still sitting huddled up in the easy-chair, heard the soft, retreating footsteps go down the passage again. Her fire had burnt out, and she felt strangely chilled. "I may as well go to bed," she thought, drearily; but it was long before the deadly cold left her limbs. Even when she slept, her dreams troubled her, and she woke the next morning to see Althea standing beside her bed with a cup of hot coffee in one hand, and in her other a yellow envelope.
"Will you drink this, my dear? Doreen and I have had our breakfast, but there is no need for you to hurry. If you lie still Nurse Marks will bring you yours."
"Oh, no, I could not think of such a thing," returned Waveney, quite shocked. "I am not ill. I would rather get up, please. I am so sorry I have overslept myself; but I was late, and——" Then she looked at the telegram wistfully. "Is that for me, Miss Harford?"
"No, my dear, it is for me. Moritz sent over to Cleveland Terrace quite early this morning. You will see what he says.
"'Miss Ward not so well. A bad night. Shall wire for Richmond.'"
"What does it mean?" returned Waveney, faintly, and her head sank back on the pillow. "I don't understand it."
"It means that you and Mollie have a good friend," returned Althea, sitting down beside her, "a very kind and generous friend. Moritz wants to help you all. Sir Hindley Richmond is the great throat doctor. He is wonderfully clever, and some of his cures are marvellous; but his fees are immense, and of course Moritz knows that Mr. Ward could not afford to have him, so he is arranging it with Dr. Duncan."
"But we have no right—we have no claim on Mr. Ingram," stammered Waveney. "But he is doing it for Mollie's sake."
She said it quite simply. In her own mind it had long been an assured fact that Mr. Ingram was her sister's lover. How could any one mistake such devotion?
"Yes, he is doing it for Mollie's sake," returned Althea, with equal frankness. "Poor fellow! he is very unhappy about her, and his only comfort is to do her service."
And Althea smiled a little as she thought of that tender and fantastic chivalry with which Moritz was wooing his beautiful Mollie.
"I will get up now," Waveney observed, restlessly. Mollie was not so well. It would drive her frantic to lie still and think of that. She would dress and go out. Miss Althea was too kind to think of asking her to write and read. She could not sit still. She must have air and movement. But though she said no word of this, Althea understood her perfectly.
"We must leave her alone," she said, rather sadly, to Doreen. "Her nerves are unhinged by the suspense, and she is not used to trouble.
"I shall drive down to Cleveland Terrace," she continued, "on my way to Aunt Sara. There may be some little thing Mollie requires, and Waveney will be glad of news." She spoke rather hurriedly, as though she feared Doreen might raise some objection. But Doreen, who could read her sister like a book, merely nodded assent.
So all the morning Waveney wandered about the common like a little lost spirit, until her limbs ached with weariness; and after luncheon Noel arrived.
Mr. Ingram had sent him, he said, bringing out the words rather sheepishly. They had been shopping all the morning, tearing up and down Regent's Street and Bond Street in a hansom, and they had had luncheon at the Army and Navy Stores. Then they had called at the door of Number Ten, and Noel had seen his father. Things were much the same, and he sent his love, and so on.
Althea had already started when Noel made his appearance, so it was too late to prevent her fruitless journey to Chelsea.
There was nothing Mollie wanted, Noel declared, bluntly, and he chuckled as he thought of all the things Ingram had ordered. "My word, there's no mistake about his being a viscount," he thought. "If he turned out to be a duke I should hardly be surprised."
Waveney was very fond of her young brother, but his society failed to give her comfort; and Noel, on his side, was so awed and depressed by her sad face and unusual silence, that he could find little to say. It was quite a relief when his visit was over, and he had to return to Eaton Square.
But one word he did say as Waveney followed him into the hall.
"I say, Wave, I suppose you will send your compliments or kind regards to Mr. Ingram"—and here Noel cleared his throat. "He is awfully cut up, you know, and all that."
"Oh, yes, you may give him my kind regards," returned Waveney, in a listless tone. Then her conscience accused her of ingratitude. "Yes, certainly, Noel, my kindest regards. I know how good he has been; he is actually going to have that great throat doctor down to see dear Mollie."
"I know that," replied Noel, mysteriously. "I know a thing or two that would make you stare. He is a good old sort; he is as good as they make them, and he deserves to turn up trumps." And with this peculiar form of blessing—which was nevertheless genuine in its way—Noel adjusted hispince-nez, and marched off with his head in the air as usual.
When Althea returned, she had very little to add to this. Mollie was no better, certainly, and Dr. Duncan was undoubtedly anxious about her; but she had excellent nurses, and Sir Hindley Richmond was to come the next day.
There had been some hitch or difficulty, and Moritz had been much put out. Althea was in the dark about it, for Mr. Ward had volunteered no explanation.
"Sir Hindley Richmond is coming to-morrow," was all he said. "Mr. Ingram insists on it. He wired for him to-day, but there was some difficulty, and Ingram fussed awfully about it. I am not allowed to put in a word," he continued, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "The doctor and nurses manage everything; all sorts of things come to the house. Of course Ingram sends them, and if I remonstrate, I am told that the doctor ordered them, or that Nurse Helena wished for it."
Althea was the bearer of another sad little missive from Everard. Waveney carried it off to her own room. She was still reading it with dry, tearless eyes when the gong sounded.
"Do not lose heart, my darling," it finished. "It is always darkest before day. We will pray to our Heavenly Father that our sweet Mollie may be spared." Waveney was repeating this sentence over and over again, as she sat at the dinner-table. And Althea, seeing that she ate nothing, told Mitchell to fill her glass with Burgundy.
"You must take that, my dear, and some of this nice light roll. If you make yourself ill, it will only give additional trouble."
Althea spoke with such quiet decision that Waveney was compelled to obey. As she sipped the wine a tinge of colour came into her lips. But the bread was sadly crumbled on her plate. As she rose from the table her knees trembled under her, and she almost tottered as she followed Althea.
Last night about this time she had told her. What a nightmare of horror these four-and-twenty hours had been!
No wonder she felt giddy—no wonder—but here Althea took possession of her with gentle force.
"Sit down, Waveney. Why, you foolish child, you have over-walked yourself, and eaten nothing, and of course you feel bad." And before Waveney could summon up sufficient energy to contradict this, she found herself lying on the library couch, with the softest of pillows under her head and a warm quilt over her.
"Doreen and I are going across to the Porch House," observed Althea, kissing her. "It is Thursday evening. But dear old Nursie will look after you."
"Thank you. But she need not trouble," returned Waveney, drowsily. "I am quite well, only tired."
Every one was very kind, she thought. And Miss Althea, how dear and good she was! After all, it was very comfortable to lie still. The silence, the firelight, the soft warmth, were so soothing. Why were the bees humming so? Beehives and libraries were surely incongruous. And there were white lilies, too, nid-nodding at each other. And the writing-table had gone, and there was a bed of pansies. "Pansies, that's for thoughts," she said to herself. For, little as she knew it, Waveney was fast asleep.
"Only upon some cross of pain and woe,God's Son may lie.Each soul redeemed from self and sin, must haveIts Calvary."Anon.
"Only upon some cross of pain and woe,God's Son may lie.Each soul redeemed from self and sin, must haveIts Calvary."Anon.
"The Porch House Thursdays," as they were called, had become red letter days in Thorold Chaytor's life. Ever since that wet Christmas Eve when he had partaken of "cakes and ale" in the hall at the Red House, he had looked forward to them with an intensity that had surprised himself. Little had he thought, when he had generously given a few hours of his scanty leisure to help Althea in her good work, that such deep enjoyment would be the result, and that he would actually count the hours until he could see a certain curly head bending over the book. If only any one had guessed how his heart always leaped at the sight!
Thorold's life until now had been laborious and joyless. His home was utterly uncongenial to him. He loved his sister, but there was no real sympathy between them, and, as he would often say bitterly to himself, "Joa cares more for Trist's little finger than for me;" and he was right. Joanna was one of those women whose short-sighted tenderness makes them lavish their best affection on some prodigal, or black sheep.
Perhaps the fault might lie a little with Thorold. His calm, self-controlled nature was somewhat repressive; few people understood him, or guessed that underneath the quiet, undemonstrative surface, there was a warm, passionate heart. Perhaps only Althea knew it; and even she was in error about him, for she thought that his intellect dominated his heart; but in this she was wrong.
Thorold Chaytor was a keenly ambitious man; he loved his work for its own sake; but he was also desirous of success.
As he knew well, his feet were on the first rung of the ladder. His literary work was already meeting with appreciation, and now he held his first brief. The first cold breakers had been passed, and the bold swimmer had his head well above water. Poverty would soon be a thing of the past. But even as he grasped this fact gratefully, he was aware that fresh responsibilities fettered him.
Tristram and Betty were on his hands. It would be long, probably years, before Tristram would be able to provide a comfortable home for his child, and when they quitted his roof he clearly foresaw that Joanna would go with them. Nothing would part her from Betty.
But, for years to come, how was he to marry? Would any girl care to enter that incongruous household? Would he wish to bring her? He was a man who would want his wife to himself, who must have all or none. No one must interfere with his monopoly. And then, with a pang of proud sensitiveness, he told himself that the thing was impossible. Nevertheless, the Porch House Thursdays were his high days and festivals.
As he walked up the hill, in the darkness, some new, strange feeling was throbbing at his heart; a sudden yearning to know his fate. It was no use to delude himself with sophistries, or to cheat himself any longer. The first moment he had looked into the depth of those wonderful eyes he knew that he loved Waveney, as such men only love once in their lives; and he knew now, too well, that he must win her for his wife, or for ever live solitary.
His mind was in a chaotic state this evening. A subtle form of temptation was assailing him. Why should it be hopeless? True, he could not marry for years; but what if he were to tell her that he loved her, and ask her to wait for him, as other women had waited?
He dallied with this thought a moment. "Give me a little hope," he would say to her; "it will strengthen my hands, and I shall fight the battle of life more bravely. Let me feel that I am no longer lonely." But even as the words crossed his lips, he chid himself for his selfishness. Why should he bind down that bright young life, and condemn her to years of wearisome waiting? Why should his burdens be laid on her young shoulders? How could he know what the years would bring? His health might fail. And then, in a mood of dogged hopelessness, he let himself into the little gate that led to the tennis-ground and the Porch House. Little did he guess, as he passed the lighted window of the library, that the objects of his thoughts lay there sleeping for sorrow.
But his first glance, as he entered the Recreation Hall, showed him that the chair by Nora Greenwell was empty, and his face was graver and more impassive than ever as he took up his book. But more than once that evening, as he heard the latch lifted in the adjoining room, he lifted his head, and his wistful look was fixed on the opening door. But no little figure in sapphire blue came lightly into the room.
As soon as his duties were over Thorold crossed the room to Althea.
"Where is Miss Ward?" he asked, quietly. And Althea, who knew he had personal interest in all his pupils, took the question as a matter of course.
"I thought you would have heard," she said, a little sadly. "The poor child is in great trouble." And then she gave him a brief account of the last two days.
Thorold's face paled a little. He was extremely shocked.
"Her twin sister—that beautiful girl I saw in Old Ranelagh gardens?"
"Yes," returned Althea, sorrowfully. "I really think Mollie Ward has the sweetest face I have ever seen. Oh, I do not wonder that Waveney loves her so. She is suffering cruelly, poor child; but her father will not allow her to go home."
"No, of course not," he returned, so quickly that Althea glanced at him. "He is right, quite right. Diphtheria is terribly infectious. She might be ill, too. Good heavens! No one in their sense would expose a girl to such a risk." And Thorold spoke in a low, vehement tone of suppressed feeling; but Althea was too much engrossed with her own painful train of thoughts to notice his unusual emotion.
"No; you are right," she replied. "They must be kept apart. But, Thorold, it makes my heart ache to see her, poor child! It is impossible for any one to comfort her. I can do nothing with her."
Then Thorold's firm lips twitched a little.
"I am sorry," he said, in a quick undertone; "more sorry than I can say. Will you tell her so, please? Good-night. I must go home and work." And then he went off hastily, forgetting that it was his usual custom to help Althea extinguish the lights, and to walk down the dark garden with her; but Althea, sad and pre-occupied, hardly noticed this desertion on Thorold's part.
The evening had seemed a long one to her; her thoughts were in poor Mollie's sick room. Down below a lonely, anxious man sat by his solitary fire. "God comfort him," she said to herself, softly, as she rose from her seat.
The next few days dragged heavily on—days so dim with fear and anguish that for many long years Waveney never willingly alluded to that time, when the mere mention of it drove the colour from her face. Even Mollie, suffering tortures patiently, hardly suffered more than Waveney.
Sir Hindley Richmond had paid his visit, but had spoken very guardedly about the case. There were complications. It was impossible to say. A great deal depended upon nursing. He would come again—yes, certainly, if Mr. Ingram wished it; and then the great doctor drove off.
Everard took the news to the Red House. Perhaps he needed comfort himself, and pined for a sight of his darling. But Waveney's changed looks and languid step filled him with dismay.
She came to him silently, and as he took her in his arms a sob burst from his lips. "Waveney, you will break my heart. Have pity on your poor father. I have but two daughters, and Mollie——" And here he could say no more. Waveney put her hands on his shoulders; they were cold as ice, and her eyes had the fixed, heavy look of one who walks in her sleep.
"Father, is Mollie dying?" Her voice was quite toneless. Everard started in horror.
"My darling child, no—God forbid that such sorrow should be ours; but she is very ill, and I am afraid Sir Hindley Richmond thinks very gravely of the case. There are complications; but he will come again. Ingram insists on it. They are nursing her splendidly. Everything depends on that." But it may be doubted if Waveney heard this.
"Father," she said, in the same dull voice, "I want you to make me a promise. If there is no hope, if Sir Hindley says so, promise me that I shall see her—before—before—you know what I mean."
"Oh, Waveney, my little Waveney, for God's sake do not ask me that!" and Everard shook with emotion.
"But I do ask it." And then her arms went round his neck in a sudden passion of pleading. "Father, I will be good—I will not go near or kiss her; but her dear eyes must see me—she must know that I am there. Father, if you love me, you will not refuse." And then, with a choking sob, poor Everard gave reluctant consent.
Very little more passed between them, when Everard said he must go; Waveney made no attempt to keep him. For the first time in her life her father's presence failed to comfort her, and instinctively he realised this.
"Take care of yourself for my sake," he said, as he kissed and blessed her; but she made no answer when he left her. She paced up and down the room restlessly. Movement—that was her sole relief; and bodily fatigue—that would make her sleep. Once she pressed her face against the window and looked out at the darkness. "Mollie is dying," she said to herself, "and perhaps the dear Lord will let me die, too;" and then she smiled at the thought, and resumed her pacing to and fro in the firelight.
As Everard stumbled out of the room, Althea opened the door of the library and beckoned to him. She had no need to ask him any question; one glance at his face was enough. "Mr. Ward," she said, in her soft voice, "I cannot let you go like this. Sit down by the fire, and I will give you a nice hot cup of coffee. You always liked coffee better than tea, I remember."
"You are very good," he returned, in a hesitating voice. "But I am anxious to get back to my poor child. Dr. Duncan will be coming at six, and Ingram will be round for news."
"Oh, I would not keep you for worlds," replied Althea, gently. "But you must drink this first; and there is no need to drink it standing." And then, with a half-smile, Everard yielded. The beautiful room, the soft lamplight, the quiet face and kindly ministering hands of his old friend, gave him a sudden feeling of warmth and repose. He felt like a tired child brought out of the cold and darkness. As he drank his coffee, the numb, strained feeling gave way.
"Miss Harford," he said, suddenly, "it makes me miserable to see Waveney."
"Ah!" she returned, quickly, "I was afraid you would say that. But the poor child is not herself. She is stunned with trouble. When we talk to her, she does not seem to hear what we say. Doreen spoke to her a little sharply, to-day," she went on. "She did it to rouse her; but, of course, I told her that it would be useless. When she had finished, Waveney merely looked at her, and then went out of the room. And Doreen was so afraid she had hurt her that she followed her to say something kind. Waveney seemed quite astonished. 'You have not hurt me, oh, no!' she said. 'It is I who am rude, for I did not hear half you said. When I try to listen, my head pains me, and I get confused. But I think nothing hurts me.'"
Everard sighed. "What are we to do with her?" he asked, in a despairing voice.
"Dear Mr. Ward," returned Althea, in her flute-like voice, "we can do nothing but love her, and pray for her. She and her dear Mollie, too, are in God's hands—not ours. Try to trust them both to Him." And then Everard looked gratefully in her face.
"She is a sweet woman," he said to himself, as he walked towards the station. "I wonder why she has never married?" But no suspicion of the truth entered his mind.
Moritz used to send Noel up to the Red House nearly every day. But he never came himself. He spent most of his time at Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace.
Everard took very kindly to his visits. Moritz turned up at all hours, with all sorts of excuses. He would send up messages to the nurses, and very often would waylay Nurse Helena in the road outside. Nurse Helena, who had a kindly, womanly nature, would smile a little sadly, as she walked on. "He does not know, poor man, that he has a rival," she said to herself. "There is a Monsieur Blackie. I have heard the name often. But, poor child, what does it matter?" And here Nurse Helena shook her comely head. For that day, dear, sweet Mollie was at her worst. And Moritz was like a man distracted.
That afternoon Thorold Chaytor came home unusually early. He was bringing his work with him. Joanna and Betty were spending the day with a friend at Richmond, and Tristram had promised to join them in the evening, so he would have the house to himself.
It was nearly four o'clock, but down by the river there was still light. The water had a cold, steely gleam on it, and the black hulls of the boats drawn up on shore, looked hard and forbidding. There was a touch of frost in the air, and as Thorold lingered for a moment on the bridge, he was surprised to see a solitary figure on the towing-path. The next moment he uttered an exclamation, and then walked rapidly in the same direction; his keen, far-sighted eyes had recognised the pedestrian.
Waveney's restlessness had amounted almost to disease that day; she simply could not sit still. All the morning she had been wandering over the common with the little dogs running beside her, and the moment luncheon was over she started off on an errand to the Model Lodging-house.
Her limbs ached with fatigue, but a streak of red sunset, casting a glow on the river, attracted her irresistibly, and though the light had long faded, and the air was chill and damp, she still paced up and down; but she started, and a sudden giddiness came over her, as a deep voice accosted her.
"Miss Ward, is this wise or right? Have you no regard for your health?" and Thorold's voice was unusually stern; but even in that dim light, the drawn pallor of her face frightened him. Could sickness and sorrow of heart have wrought this change in these few days?
"Perhaps I have walked too much," she returned, faintly. "I am so fond of walking, and the river is so beautiful, and there is nothing else to do." And then a sudden impulse of self-preservation made her catch at his arm. "I am so giddy," she said, in a tired little voice. "If I only could sit down a moment!"
"There is a seat near," he returned, quietly; "let me help you." And then his strong arm almost lifted her off the ground. The next moment she was on the bench; but his arm was still around her. She was not faint; her eyes were wide open and fixed on the water, but her strength had gone, and, as far as he could judge, she seemed scarcely conscious of her surroundings. She even submitted like a child when he drew her head against his shoulder.
"Do not try to speak. It will pass, and you will be better soon." And then he felt her pulse. The feeble beats spoke of utter exhaustion. Very likely she had eaten nothing all day. There was only one thing to be done. She must be warmed and fed, and then he must take her home.
"Do you think you could walk a little now?" he asked, when a few minutes had passed, and the cold breeze from the river seemed to pierce through him. "It is not safe to sit any longer. There is a frost to-night, and we have only such a little way to go. Will you try?—and I will help you."
"Oh, yes, why not?" returned Waveney, dreamily. "But it is not a little way to the Red House, is it?" And then she rose stiffly, and if Thorold had not held her she would have fallen. "Why am I like this?" she panted. "I have never been weary before."
"You have walked too far," was his sole answer, "and you are numb with cold." And then, half-supporting, half-carrying her in his man's strength, they reached the bridge.
Under the gaslight he saw she had revived a little, and then he made her take his arm. The town was lighted, and there were plenty of passers-by; but, happily, there was not far to go. More than once, even in that short distance, he was obliged to let her pause for a minute.
As he opened the little gate, she pressed his arm feebly.
"Oh, not here," she said. "I must go home. Please do not make me go in; please—please, Mr. Chaytor."
"My dear child, can you not trust me?" was all his answer. "Do not fear. I mean to take you home." And, somehow, his calm, authoritative voice seemed to control her at once.
"Nothing begins and nothing endsThat is not paid with moan,For we are born in other's painAnd perish in our own."Thompson.
"Nothing begins and nothing endsThat is not paid with moan,For we are born in other's painAnd perish in our own."Thompson.
"He had a face like a benediction."Cervantes.
"He had a face like a benediction."Cervantes.
In spite of her terrible exhaustion, Waveney instinctively dreaded the surprised looks and curious questionings which she feared awaited her. The idea of Joanna's pity and Betty's welcoming caresses seemed alike repugnant; and when Thorold opened the parlour door, she drew back as though afraid to enter; but he gently led her in.
"They are all out," he said, quietly; "but you can rest and get warm." And then he drew up an easy-chair to the fire and placed her in it, and brought her a footstool; the next moment, with careful hands, he removed her hat, and put a cushion under her head; then he drew off her gloves, and gently rubbed her benumbed fingers.
Waveney submitted to it all passively. The warmth and stillness soothed her, in spite of herself. When Thorold left the room to speak to Jemima, she rested her weary head against the soft cushion and closed her eyes. How kind he was!—how kind every one was! And then, all of a sudden, great tears welled up in her eyes. The little parlours, with their drawn crimson curtains and bright fire, seemed to fade from her sight. She was sitting on a bench in Old Ranelagh gardens, and Mollie was beside her. The sunlight was filtering through the limes, the children were flitting to and fro like butterflies. "Here he is—the noticeable man, with large grey eyes," she was saying; and she could hear Mollie's sweet, scornful laughter in reply.
"Dear Miss Ward, please drink this; it will warm you and do you good." Thorold spoke in a clear, persuasive voice. But as Waveney opened her eyes, the tears were rolling down her small white face.
"Why did you rouse me?" she said, with a little sob. "I was dreaming, and it was so lovely. I was sitting with my Mollie, and we were laughing and talking together. Oh, Mollie, Mollie!" And here a fit of bitter weeping seemed to shake her from head to foot. No power on earth could have hindered the flow of those tears.
For one moment Thorold almost lost his calmness.
"Waveney, my dear child, hush!" he said, hoarsely, "you will make yourself ill. Why are you so hopeless? It is often darkest just before the dawn." And then his hand rested for a moment lightly on her head. "How do you know that your sister's life may not be spared? and then all these tears may have been needlessly shed. Child, do not lose your faith. God may be dealing mercifully with you and yours."
He spoke in a voice of intense feeling; then he gently raised her from the cushions, and held the cup to her lips.
"You must drink this," he said, very quietly and gently. And Waveney checked her tears and obeyed him.
"There, you are better now," he said, in a tone of relief, when the cup was empty.
"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you, for being so good and patient. I ought not to have troubled you so."
"Troubled?" returned Thorold, in a low, suppressed voice, "when there is nothing on earth that I would not do for you, my darling!" The last words were scarcely audible. Then he bit his lip, and rose hastily. What was he doing? He had forgotten himself. The sight of her tears, the anguish in her beautiful eyes, had utterly unnerved him. For the moment he had been oblivious of everything but her suffering, and his great love; and words of tenderness had forced themselves to his lips.
Good heavens! what had he done? And here he paced the room in agitation; but a glance at the easy-chair reassured him. Poor child! she was so dazed, so confused, that probably the words had not reached her ears. If they had—and here he frowned, and stared at the fire in perplexity—if, fool that he was, he had betrayed himself! And then, in spite of his self-reproach, a gleam of joy crossed his face. What if she had understood him, and knew, without doubt, that she was the darling of his heart!
But he would not trust himself to be alone with her any longer. He sent for a cab, and then went up to Joanna's room for an old fur-lined cloak, that he knew hung in her wardrobe.
A few minutes later, when he returned to the room, the cloak was over his arm. Waveney was still in the same position, lying back on the cushions, with closed eyes, and listless hands folded on her lap. But at the sound of his step, she struggled into a sitting posture.
"Have you come for me? May I go, now?" she asked, in a weak little voice. But he noticed that the colour had returned to her lips.
"Yes," he said, quietly. "The cab is here. But you must let me wrap you in this cloak, for it is bitterly cold outside, and this room is so warm." Then she stood up without a word, and allowed him to put it round her; then, still silently, he drew her hand through his arm, and led her slowly down the little courtyard.
For some minutes no word passed between them.
Thorold pulled up the windows. Then he wrapped the old cloak a little closer round her, and stooped to bring it under her feet. As he did so she put out her hand to stop him.
"Oh, please—please do not trouble about me so," she said, in a distressed tone. "I am quite warm now. You are so kind, and I cannot even thank you?" Then, with a sudden impulse, he took her hand, and held it firmly.
"Do you know how you can thank me best?" he said, very gently. "By taking better care of yourself in future. Waveney, promise me that you will never act so recklessly again. Good heavens! what would have become of you if I had not found you! And even now——" Then, with an involuntary shudder, he checked himself.
"I was very wrong," she returned, humbly, "but I was so unhappy, and I wanted to tire myself; and somehow the river, and the loneliness, soothed me. And then all at once I seemed to lose myself, and you came. I think the cold numbed me; but I understand better now, and I am sorry."
She spoke in broken little sentences, and it was with difficulty that he could hear the words; they were just entering the Lodge gates at that moment, and he leant forward in the darkness and lifted the cold little hand to his lips. "Yes, you were wrong," he said, tenderly, as though he were speaking to a child, "but you will never be so foolish again. You will take care of yourself for the sake of those who love you." Then he dropped her hand as a gleam of light from the open door streamed across the shrubbery. And as the cab stopped he saw Althea standing in the porch, with a light, fleecy wrap thrown over her head.
"Oh, Waveney," she exclaimed, in an anxious tone, as Thorold lifted the girl out. "Where have you been?" Then, as she caught sight of Waveney's face, "My dear child, you look dreadful. What has happened?"
"Nothing has happened," returned Thorold, impatiently. "Miss Ward is not well; the cold has struck her. Please do not keep her standing here." And, unceremoniously putting Althea aside, he almost carried Waveney across the hall.
"Take her to Doreen's room. There is a nice fire there," Althea said, quickly. But she was too late, for Thorold had already opened the library door. As he did so, two people, sitting by the fire, rose hastily and looked at them. The next moment Waveney uttered a cry and freed herself from Thorold's supporting arm.
"Father," she exclaimed, in a voice of terror, "you have come—you have come to tell me——" Then her breath failed her, and she almost fell into Everard's arms.
"My darling, I have come to bring you good news," he said, pressing her almost convulsively to him. "Oh, such good news, my Waveney! Mollie is better; the danger has passed, and——" But here he stopped, as Waveney's head fell heavily on his shoulder.
"You have told her too suddenly," observed Althea, in an alarmed voice. But Thorold, without a word, took the girl from her father's arms and laid her on a couch.
"She has fainted," he said, briefly. "You had better bring some brandy and smelling-salts. The sudden revulsion has been too much for her." And then he helped Althea apply the remedies, while Everard stood helplessly by, too shocked and troubled to be of any use.
It seemed long before Waveney opened her eyes. She seemed rather confused at first. As Thorold put a glass to her lips, she looked at him a little wildly.
"Is it another dream?" she whispered. "Was not father here really?"
Then Thorold smiled at her.
"It was no dream," he said, quietly. "The good news is quite true. Mr. Ward, will you take my place, please?"
Then Everard knelt down by her couch. Waveney's weak arms were round his neck in a moment.
"Father," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "tell it me again. Mollie—my Mollie—is not going to die?"
Then Everard, in rather a tremulous voice, repeated the good news. There had been a change for the better early in the day, but he had waited until the afternoon for the physician's verdict. The danger that they dreaded was no longer imminent; the disease had run its course; everything depended now upon skilful nursing, with care and watchfulness; Sir Hindley hoped that Mollie would, in time, recover her normal strength; but in this insidious disease there was the danger of sudden collapse from exhaustion—indeed, there were other risks, but Everard did not mention this.
Waveney listened with painful attention; then her heavy eyes were fixed wistfully on her father's face.
"It is really true!" she murmured. "Thank God, oh, thank God! Father, dear, may I see her now?"
Everard frowned anxiously; he had dreaded this question, but he had to be firm, for the doctor's orders were stringent.
"No, dear," he said, sorrowfully, "you must not see her yet. It is for Mollie's sake as well as yours. No one must see her; the least excitement or agitation, in her weak state, might be fatal. You must be patient, my little Waveney, and I will promise you this, that you shall be Mollie's first visitor;" and then Waveney hid her face on his shoulder.
"Do not let her talk any more," observed Althea, gently; and then Thorold came forward to take his leave. As he pressed her hand, Waveney looked at him with a touching expression of gratitude in her dark eyes.
"You were right," she said, in a low voice, "and I was wicked and faithless; but I will never be faithless again."
But his sole answer was a smile so bright and reassuring that in her weakness it almost dazzled her, as though some sudden sunbeam had flashed across her eyes.
"Fear nothing," it seemed to say, "poor little tired child, rest and be still." And indeed, before Everard left the house, an hour later, the worn-out girl was sleeping peacefully, while Althea, with motherly eyes, watched beside her.
It was late that night before Althea retired to rest. Thorold's account had filled her with uneasiness; his description made her shudder. The dark, solitary towing-path, with the dense mist rising from the river; the exhausted little creature trying to walk off her sorrow and restlessness. No wonder that Althea's kind heart ached with pity.
"Oh, Thorold," she said, and her eyes were full of tears, "how do we know what that poor child may have to suffer for her imprudence? She may have rheumatic fever. Oh, one cannot tell what may be the result of such madness."
Then Thorold shook his head with rather a sad smile.
"You must not take such a gloomy view. Let us hope there will be no bad result. I confess Miss Ward's exhausted condition alarmed me at first. It was distressing to see her. And then there was so little one could do!"
Thorold's tone had a note of pain in it, but Althea looked at him with an affectionate smile.
"Don't undervalue yourself, Thorold. In any emergency or trouble I know of no one who could give more efficient help. So many kind-hearted people spoil everything by their fussiness."
"Oh, that is one for Joa!"
"No, no, I was not thinking of poor Joa. With all her goodness, she is the last person I should care to have near me in any sudden trouble. Perhaps it is unkind of me to say this, but I know we think alike on this point;" and though Thorold made no verbal response to this, it was evident that he agreed with her.
When Waveney woke the next morning, she was conscious of aching limbs and unusual weariness and lassitude, and it was almost with a feeling of relief that she heard Althea say she must remain in bed.
"You have been a naughty little child," she said, kissing her, "and Doreen and I are excessively angry with you; so we have agreed that you are to be punished by some hours of solitary confinement. I am going to light your fire, and then you are to eat your breakfast and go to sleep again."
Waveney smiled quite happily at this. She had no wish to dispute the point. It was a luxury to lie still in her soft bed and watch the pleasant firelight until her drowsy eyelids closed again. In spite of her weariness and aching limbs, there was a fount of joy in her heart. "Mollie is better. Mollie will get well." Those were the words she repeated over and over again, and more than once her hands were folded, and "Thank God!" came audibly from her lips.
At midday Althea brought a note that Moritz had sent by a boy messenger. It was written to her, but there was a message for Waveney. She read part of it aloud. Mollie had slept well, and the improvement continued. Both doctor and nurses seemed satisfied.
"If I had my way, Sir Hindley should have a peerage," wrote Moritz. "He is worth all the other doctors put together; and Miss Mollie would never have pulled through without him, I'll take my oath of that." But Althea kept the remainder of the letter to herself. It was too strictly private and confidential even for Doreen's ears.
All day long, in her waking intervals, Waveney was keeping one thought at bay. Deep down in her inner consciousness, she was aware of some strange and secret joy which she dare not face, but which seemed to distil some rare and precious aroma.
"Was it a dream?" she was continually asking herself; but the answer to this perpetually eluded her. All the events of the previous evening had resolved themselves into a sort of painful vision. The dark, sullen river; her restless anguish; those confused moments when, giddy and sick, she had sat on the bench with Mr. Chaytor beside her; the walk through the lighted streets; and then the warmth and comfort of that friendly refuge.
It was not until late in the afternoon, when the wintry dusk had closed in, and the Pansy Room was bright with firelight, that the power of consecutive thought and memory seemed to return to Waveney, when some sudden remembrance made her bury her face in the pillow. What were those words that, in spite of her weakness, seemed stamped on her heart and brain?
"Trouble? When there is nothing on earth that I would not do for you, my darling!" No, it was no dream. She had actually heard them. He had really said them. Would she ever forget his voice, or the smile that had seemed to steal into her weary heart like a benediction? Then, for a few blissful moments, Mollie was forgotten in the overwhelming consciousness that the man she most admired and revered, who seemed so far above her in wisdom and intellect, should stoop from his great height to care for her.