"Aren't you going to sit on Our Seat? Or don't you need a rest?"
It was said archly; the significant reference to Our Seat, subtly conveyed. She seemed to have shaken off the depression of yesterday. Was herself; her own blithe, bright self again.
Mechanically Masters accepted the implied invitation; sat. There ensued silence; a silence which told more than speech. Not the silence which breathes of sweet accord between two understanding hearts.
She, on her part, was filled with wonder—expectancy—an undefined sense of something being wrong. He was not insensible of the fact that the plumage of his dove was rustling. No woman could, of course, endure such treatment.
The need for speech on his part was plain: but, somehow, he was at a loss for words.Was yet alive to the fact that she would read his speechlessness her own way: would set him down as guilty of caddish behaviour. The silence became tense: the strain was fast becoming unbearable.
But little time passed; she got to her feet—being the kind of woman quick to take offence. The insult was felt the more acutely because, she told herself, she was alone to blame: had simply courted it, brought it on herself.
She had wanted to meet this man. Had hurried on to the parade with the feeling in her heart that it would be good to meet him. Had sat on the seat for a minute's rest and a faint sense of grief that she had not encountered him on her walk. Had been thinking disconsolately of walking home, when she was rendered joyful by his presence.
And then—to be treated like that! Had she offended him? Such a possibility passed rapidly through her mind; was as rapidly rejected as a theory untenable. Did he disapprove of her coming there alone, at that time?
She knew that some men were punctilious in regard to such matters. But he—natural, unconventional as he was himself—surely it could not be that. His voice interrupted her reflections. In a husky, strained tone,looking neither right nor left, but aimlessly in front of him, he said:
"Nice, fine evening, isn't it?"
Another credit note to our fickle climate! But the utter incongruity of the remark, the exceedingly strange tone of his voice, caused her to wheel round and look at him. Then she saw. The moon chanced to be free from clouds just then; its pale beams accentuated the lividity of Masters' face.
"Oh, my God! you are ill! What has happened—an accident? What can I do for you?"
As she was quick of thought so she was quick of movement. In a moment was kneeling beside him—all the annoyance and hastily-aroused temper gone to the winds. Only her helpful woman's instinct aching to be of service to him: to the man she loved.
"It is nothing. Don't—please. Don't worry yourself."
Impulsively her arms went up to his shoulders in sheer sympathy and kindliness. All the stiffness, all the resentment, left her. She was only just plainly and simply a woman.
That being the case, her womanly pride was relegated to a back seat. Her precious dignity went down in value; right down to nil. It was not in the question at all—thatquestion she asked as she gave herself to the needs of the moment; asked with real anxiety:
"Tell me—what to do?"
The light was there on her face, in her eyes! Oh, unmistakably there! The light which yesterday he had prayed he might see; that he had yearned for with his heart and soul. Her soft beautiful radiant eyes were looking with eager, tearful anxiety into his own.
For a moment—the influence of the moment and forgetfulness in combination—he felt that he must grasp, grip, strain her to him. Hold her in one long, lasting embrace. Then—he remembered! That an hour back she had been clinging to, looking into another man's face with the same tearful eyes! Oh, the excellence, super-excellence, of her acting! He would have given a king's ransom for the ability to laugh just then—at himself.
Could it be—could it? For a brief instant he doubted. The next moment blamed himself for being a fool. But not a blind fool—oh, no! He had the evidence of his own eyes: the evidence for the prosecution.
Most of us, under such circumstances, willingly take upon ourselves the threefold responsibility of witness, jury and judge.It is instinctive in most men: the desire to ladle out justice. But the appeal court sometimes oversets the decisions; Justice is not infallible—perhaps her blindness has something to do with it.
Few of us betray modesty when wearing the ermine. The more rigorously we silence the opposing counsel—the evidence of our own hearts—the more we pride ourselves on our impartiality, our exemplary Roman-fatherly administration of justice. We are apt to ignore any talk of a Court of Appeal; arrogate to ourselves supreme wisdom.
Curiously enough, the more severe the sentence we pronounce, the more we rise in our own estimation. The rise may not be permanent—seldom is; but while we are at the high water mark of self-assurance we generally make the most of the tide. The sailing along on it is helped by the wind of serene self-complacency; we sun ourselves in vanity of our prowess. Forgetfulness is there; that the tide—like the proverbial lane or worm—has a knack of turning.
The dominant note in Masters at the moment was anger. That such a woman should have power over men. He mentally thanked God that her power over him was of the past. Laid the flattering unction to his soul that perhaps he was cleaner-mindedthan his fellows. Man applies curious ointments to his wounds!
But that thankfulness did not arrest his anger; made it the greater perhaps. He was hardly in a state of that judicial calm which should characterize dispassionate inquiry. Being angry, he spoke—after the manner of the angry man—foolishly; said brutally:
"This has been a busy evening with you. Don't you get tired of hugging men? I am the second in one hour."
For a moment she made no movement, no sound—save of the quick indrawing of her breath. It was as if some icy blast had suddenly assailed and frozen her to the spot. Her face retained the same look; she was too amazed—not understanding—too astonished to do more than look. He went on mercilessly:
"I saw the parting at your back door; I was passing. Saw you slobbering over a man there as you seem inclined to slobber over me."
It was as if he had struck her! She drew in her breath so that it sounded whistle-like. Fell back; extending her arms, seemed as if she would push him from her as something unclean. In colourlessness her face rivalled his.
"How dare you——"
Those words were shaped on her white lips. Then she stopped. The lips trembled, tightened. Rising to her feet, the indignation in her eyes as she looked down at him completed the sentence.
He laughed; that laugh with the underlying sobbing catch in it, for his laughter was not born of merriment. Said, righteous indignation shining in his own eyes too:
"Dare! What do you mean? The witnessing of it, or telling you of it?"
She scorned reply; he was really too contemptible! Yet the woman in her bubbled to the surface; she could not resist an effort to hurt him:
"And you—you played the spy!"
A raising of his shoulders, a lowering of his eyes, as he answered:
"Call it so if you wish."
He really did not care what she thought of him; plainly showed that. The indifference roused her; she tried again. Spoke with forced quietness—standing a little way from him—her voice full of contempt:
"There is a man bearing your name in the High Street: a blacksmith. I could understand such behaviour on his part. But—a—gentleman!"
Her satisfaction came then: she had hurt.A deep flush streamed over his face, then faded altogether away, except for two red streaks.
"Am I not behaving as one?"
Keenly sensitive to her rebuke, he spoke half-apologetically. The bitterness of the incident was making him more himself. Brought home to him, forcefully, the irony of things.
"Pray pardon me." He rose and stepped towards her. "Will you allow me to see you home?"
"Don't touch me!"
There seemed an absolute fire burning in her eyes, so intense was her scorn. She could not have shrunk from him, or found him more repellent, had he been a leper. Her eyes seemed to scorch him.
He knew himself to be in the right; knew it perfectly well; beyond the shadow of a doubt. But standing before that searing indignation, it was he who appeared to be in the wrong, even to himself—his inmost self.
Such treatment hurt. Thought of the gross unfairness of it too was positively stinging. He who was suffering—the victim—to be put in the wrong! To be arraigned by the victimiser!
His blood, his forehead, seemed to beburning hot, the while he was conscious of cold shivers running through him. Was this—he despised himself as he questioned—carrying out his intention? Was he plucking up his love by the roots?
It was weakness—he labelled it so—weakness on his part that her words, her presence, had still such power to move him. He would be strong—strong and just. But he realized the hardness of the task he set himself. It was man's work; he would prove himself worthy of it.
She did not deign him another word; the wound to her pride was too severe for that. Her blue eyes blazed, as perhaps only blue eyes can. She would have given worlds for tears to soften their burning heat, but no tears came. Without another glance at him she turned and walked away—assumed an every-day gait; he should not think she was excited.
He did not attempt to stop her. Why should he? It was better so. Better that the sharp severing blow had been struck then than later: clean cuts heal quickest. He would let her get well on her way home before he moved. She must not think he was trying to follow.
Standing on the edge of the wall he looked out to sea. The water wore an appearanceof invitation: that dangerous aspect which has proved irresistibly attractive to so many. Right out too, it looked so—so—so away from everything.
The tide was receding; was going out and away—to the Great Beyond. He knew that if he chose he could go with it. It would be so easy an act, if he stepped off the rocks further down—into the water that was always deep.
Then he pulled himself up with a jerk. Pride came to the rescue. Was he to cave in, go under, just because of a woman? What a fool he was! What an unmitigated, arrant fool! Was there a woman in the world—the whole world—worth caring so much for? No. Not one!
But his heart contradicted. He remembered that anxious look on her face, the loving attitude, the feel of her arms as they rested on his breast, his shoulders. His, too, was the remembrance of the warmth of the sweet human breath; her eyes that had looked into his. Then he looked out to sea again; mentally out to the Great Beyond. Asked himself the old, old question: Was life worth living?
Bathos saved the situation. He remembered that a character in one of his stories had asked the same question: Was lifeworth living? The comic doctor had replied that it depended—depended on the liver!
He walked home.
Masters did not leave Wivernsea. The obstinacy of his character came into play there; he had come down for a month, and he stopped.
He had come for a purpose too—business purpose—had his book to finish. Was a trifling incident, the accident common to men's lives, to disturb the current of his life? To turn him from his prearranged plan in the smallest degree? Perish the thought!
All he altered was the direction of his walks; he thought that wisdom. Because, like other wise men, he left the east and went west. It was Cliffland there; sheltered spots innumerable were easily found.
She, yet more proud than he, altered nothing; took her walks with Gracie as usual. Sat on the seat at the far end of the walk; read novels there with stoic fortitude—except for an occasional long look across the waters.
Looking across the wide sea seems to afford scope for, to encourage, limitless, aimless reflections. At any rate hers were aimless; she knew that. But a woman dearly loves the memories of the past, to bring them before her: to pet and fondle and keep them alive with the warmth of her heart.
Being at opposite poles, east and west, their daily meetings ended. Once he met her in the post office; he was leaving as she was entering. He raised his hat, and would—from mere courtesy—have said: Good Morning. But the unframed words wilted on his lips.
Her eyes, as they fell on him, lighted up with indignation; a second edition of what he had seen before. As they for a moment rested on him they seemed to scorch up what he would have said. His raised-to-hat hand trembled and fell: he passed out.
Reaching home she found that she had carried with her a recollection of his face. By the seat he had said things to her that no woman could forgive. She told herself that an average hundred times a day—to say nothing of the sleepless nights she passed with thoughts full of him. But she was sorry to see the haggard, worn look he was wearing as he left the post office.
He had appeared ill. His, she had told him, was a face which had borne no worry lines; lines of thought but not of trouble. The absence of the latter had made him appear younger than he really was.
With a smile she thought back on the time—it seemed quite a long while ago—when she had fancied that she had almost come to love that eager, enthusiastic face; boyish, but still with an air of manly determination about it, set in a manly frame.
Masters' shoulders were quite abnormally broad and square; accentuated the impression of strength made by the broad bronzed forehead. How foolish women were, she thought. Well, she had learnt a lesson; she would profit by it. Experience had taught her; she would prove herself a grateful pupil.
She had deceived herself for the first time and the last. Of course it was painful—the awakening. Waking up to the perception of unvarnished facts generally is unpleasant. But she could look at her own foolishness without wincing, indulgently—her foolishness of a week ago. Just an error of judgment that there was no scrap of likelihood of her repeating.
Still—she admitted it to herself—he was undeniably attractive. Hardly less sobecause he looked older in the post office than he had done formerly. The worry lines, whose absence she had remarked, were there now.
One hasty glance had shown them to her; they were so apparent. She wondered—a kindly feeling stealing over her—whether she had anything to do with it: the change. Then memory came and withered up the softness; pointed out what had been said to her that night when she knelt by the seat! The memory was a blasting breath; her softness fell away.
The mere remembrance of it made her feel hot all over. She—she to kneel to a man! Because she had fancied he was ill—full of kind feelings towards him, she had knelt; and he had talked of hugging and slobbering! To have her kindness, so well meant, recoil on her, thrown back on her hands as it were, with gratuitous, unwarranted insult instead of thanks!
It is galling to have a gift returned; the gall is greater when the gift is of the heart's kindness; more galling still when the ungracious recipient vacates a place in that heart itself. The return then savours of brutality.
Fury, too, came to her at the mere memory of his speech. She was almost as angry aswhen the words rang freshly in her ears. But with all the temper there was mingled wonder. Surely he could not be a man to whom brutality came easily. Why—why—why—had he behaved so?
Fool? No. She told herself that she was not that. She had read in his eyes that he loved her; indeed, had more than once checked his telling her so. What could be the cause?
He had spoken of seeing her in the back garden that night—but that was a mere incident—there were a thousand-and-one explanations of that. He would know that; there must have been something else.
But why should she worry herself about the matter—about the man? Plainly he was not worthy a second thought. Ready to misjudge her as he had been—well let him! She did not care; not a scrap. She was quite capable of fighting her way alone.
Then she picked up one of the books of his he had given her. On the fly leaf she read:
Miss Mivvins; to remind her of Our Seat, on which so many of these pages were written.William Masters.
Miss Mivvins; to remind her of Our Seat, on which so many of these pages were written.
William Masters.
She stood with her eyes on the writing, the book in her hand, for many minutes. Then put the volume down with a sigh. Afterall, she thought, real friends are as rare as Christian charity.
Crunching sounds—boot pressure of gravel, made her look out of the window on to the path leading to the gate. The doctor was coming up it to the house. She went out to meet him.
Gracie was not well—restless and feverish—was now lying on her bed sleeping. The doctor, on his previous visit, had thought it a cold merely, but there were faint symptoms which made him promise to come again. He was there in fulfilment of that promise now.
She was waiting for him at the door when he reached it. Nodding to her, in an informal, friendly way, he questioned cheerily:
"And how is the little one this morning?"
"Much better, I think, doctor. She is sleeping peacefully now."
"Sleeping? Still? Is she drowsy?... Let me see her."
They walked into the bedroom together. The noise of their entrance roused the child. She looked up and around her, with the frightened eyes of one suddenly awakened from alarming dreams.
"Well, little girlie!"
The doctor spoke merrily. He was of that type; did not carry the undertaker with himwhen visiting a patient. He advanced to take the child's hand lying on the coverlet; continued:
"This is a nice idea of yours, upon my word! Going to sleep in the day——"
His intent in the adoption of a reassuring tone was to change the current of her thoughts: the wild thoughts evidently surging in that active little brain. But when he clasped the child's hand in his own, the merriment left his voice, the smile his face. His other hand he placed on her forehead, then turning, said:
"Why did you not send for me?"
The mother was standing close beside the child, stooping so that her face was on a level with the terror-stricken little one's bright eyes. She was speaking loving words, in the loving way that appeals to children. Words which read so foolishly, yet sound so sweetly. She turned round suddenly, startled by the gravity in the doctor's voice.
"Send!" she cried. "Why? She—she is not—oh, don't tell me——"
"Hush!"
She became quiet at once. Another phase of the doctor's character showed: his will power. The loving anxiety was suppressed. The practical woman was to the fore, intent on the doctor's instructions:
"She must be undressed and put to bed. Have a fire here; it must be kept going night and day. Send one of your maids"—he was writing on a leaf of his note-book as he spoke, and finishing, tore it out—"with this prescription at once."
Gracie was fever-stricken! Tossed in delirium all that night and the next day. All the next day and night—and the mother sat by the bedside, tending, never leaving the little one.
The doctor came three and four times a day. Each time he looked grave. There was no sign of improvement in the child's condition. The mother, worn out with watching, ever looking to him for comfort, read none.
Did ever—during all those hours of wearing, waiting, anxious watching—the thought of Masters cross her mind? She had shut him resolutely out of her heart, turned the key of consciousness upon him. But even bolts and bars are proverbially of small efficacy in such cases.
In those long hours, the only silence breaking sounds were the monotonous ticking of the clock and the short, quick breathing of the little white-robed, white-faced form on the white pillows. Sometimes, then, the woman's resolution broke down; thoughtsof The Man crept in upon her all unbidden. Gentler thoughts than she had harboured in the previous days: troubles' softening influence was around.
Their first meeting! She thought of that. Of his affection for Gracie; of the child's love for him. Surely a child's instinctive love and trust went for something. Perhaps, after all—and then those horrible words of his rang in her ears, and she hid her hot face in the white coverlet. Never, never—they were unforgivable. Besides, he did not seek forgiveness.
Strange that, by the bedside of the panting child, with Life and Death fighting for possession of the fragile little form, her ears ever straining to catch the sound of that softer breathing which she knew would signal Life's victory—strange, that with fear and hope surging in her bosom, even while her gentle hand restrained her dear one's restless tossing to and fro and cooled the burning forehead and feverish, clinging little fingers; strange that there should seem no wrong, nothing incongruous in the thought of an almost stranger—of William Masters. Perhaps it was because Gracie loved him so dearly: that must have been the reason.
Poor little Gracie! She little knew what manner of man it was to whom she hadoffered her affectionate, trusting little heart. Yet he had been kind to her, more than kind. There was pleasantness in the memory of that.
Fugitive thoughts were these; stealing in under cover of the night. Those hours when that watchful keeper of the heart—a woman's pride—is prone to forsake his trust; to leave the secret of that heart revealed before its Maker, and herself. A moment, and the watchful sentinel is back again at his post; repentant for his lapse, guarding his treasure more jealously than ever.
The white soul of the child stood at the entrance of the Valley of the Shadow. Hour by hour the watching woman seemed to see the Shadow deepening, growing. Hour by hour she strove with all the power that in her lay to lead that white soul back into life's sunshine.
The watching and anxiety told on her. The doctor, noting her sunken eyes, had to speak firmly:
"You must take rest. You need it as much as your patient."
"Rest!"
"Don't be foolish! You have a good woman; this woman who is helping you."
"She has been a nurse."
"I see she understands. You must takerest or you will be ill. Ill, too, at a time when you are most needed."
"Tell me, doctor. Oh! For God's sake, tell me—you don't know what she is to me! Tell me——"
"My dear madam, I can tell you nothing. As it nears midnight, will come a crucial time. Humour her; whatever she wants, no matter how extravagant it may seem, let her have it. She has an excitable nature, a nervous temperament. Do all you can to soothe her. She must not worry for anything: it might prove her death. Gratify her desires and she may sleep—sleep will be her salvation. You understand?"
"Yes, doctor."
"Whatever she asks for, gratify her."
"Yes, doctor."
"She is needing sleep; rest for that active little brain of hers. She is full of ideas of triple-headed giants, fairies and stories of that sort. Don't contradict her, get her into a state of contentment if possible. Who is this Prince Charlie she was asking for just now?"
"A friend—a casual friend—some one we know."
"She is inexplainably anxious to see him. Soothe, by letting her do so if possible. She has intervals when she is as rational as youor I; it is well to prolong those by letting her talk to people she knows and wants to see. Does he live far away—this Prince Charlie?"
"In—in the town."
"Then, by all means, if she asks again, send for him."
"Yes, doctor."
"Fretting and excitement are to be avoided. Soothe her in every possible way; gentleness and firmness combined go a long way. But this Prince Charlie—from the hold he seems to have on her—may go a longer way still. Of course she may not ask for him again—maybe it is a mere delirious fancy—but if she does, you will know how to act."
But Gracie did ask again. Asked persistently, petulantly, pleadingly. The watcher with the breaking heart allowed the mother in her nature to smother the mere woman. She resolved to humble herself in the dirt: to send for him; he who had so grossly insulted her.
She would not write, she would not see him herself: she could not. She would send a verbal message. Late as it was there was no fear of not finding him up, she knew. He had told her that he always wrote till one in the morning.
The midnight oil phrase was one he was ever using.
An upward glance at the clock on the mantel. It was late: within an hour of midnight. The servants had already gone to bed. Going to their rooms she gently knocked at the door; called to one of them by name:
"Ellen!"
"Yes, ma'am."
The reply in a frightened, startled voice. The tone betrayed the maid's fear that she was to hear bad news. The next words were a relief:
"You know where Mr. Masters lives?"
The possibility of a want of knowledge on the part of the servants never occurred to her. She was not in the least surprised when an affirmative answer was returned to her:
"Yes, ma'am."
"I want you to get up at once, Ellen—I am sure you will not mind—and dress yourselfquickly. Go to Mr. Masters, give him my compliments, and ask him—ask him to come here—to be kind enough to come here at once."
"Yes, ma'am. Certainly."
The girl had listened in astonishment, but obediently set about the task set her. She was fond of children, was Ellen; was thankful too that she had not, as she had feared at first, been called to hear bad news about Miss Gracie.
The maid had no thought of grumbling at the late service demanded of her, although greatly wondering at the message she was to deliver. The over-wrought, tired woman returned to the sick room and waited. Presently the little lips—for the hundredth time—shaped the question:
"I want Prince Charlie; won't he come and tell me about the fairy and Jack?"
The mother's heart was full of thankfulness that she had sent; that she had humbled herself to do so. She was able to bend over and whisper:
"Yes, darling. Mother has sent for him. He will be here directly."
She was without fear in making the promise; felt so sure he would come. He was a gentleman, he would understand. He would know how urgent must be the needwhich could demand his presence at that late hour—indeed, to send for him at all. Or would he think—No! The thought was too horrible! She stifled it.
Waiting, waiting, waiting—weary waiting! At last she heard the maid's returning steps on the path without; ran to the door and opened it. The girl spoke reluctantly; what she had to say made the mother turn sick at heart.
"Said, ma'am, it was too late to come out to-night. He would come round in the morning."
The mother's mind failed to grasp it: that message. The callous cruelty of it. It seemed too—too impossible. Had he misunderstood—misjudged her? Could it be? Had she fallen so low in his estimation? A crimson flood overspread her face.... After a pause, as if clutching at a straw, she inquired:
"Did you see him yourself?"
"Yes, ma'am. He seemed to wonder what you could want with him. Said it would keep, whatever it was, till the morning."
"Keep—till—the—morning!"
Gracie's pleading, her own promise, rang in her ears! Keep till the morning. The irony of it! She staggered against thewall, passed her hand across her brow—loath to believe that the author, fond of children, could behave so—asked again—
"You are quite sure you saw him yourself?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I know Mr. Masters quite well by sight." She did—Masters, the blacksmith! She had been to his shop in the High Street, and in response to her ringing of his house bell, he had put his head out of his bedroom window and spoken to her. Not in any very pleasant tone; he was not pleased that his beauty sleep had been broken into.
He was an early-to-bed and early-to-rise old man. He could see no sense in turning out at past eleven o'clock at night for any one. Not even for a sick child or for the finest lady in the land.
As he went grumbling back to his bed the blacksmith muttered that some of them fine ladies seemed to think it was a nonner to be at their beck and call; summat to be proud of, it was, for a poor man like hisself. None of their airs for him—he wasn't having any, this time. Such was his grumble; weighted with a plethora of adjectives—of a quite unprintable kind.
The mother staggered back into the bedroom, to the child's side. White-faced,trembling in every limb, supported herself by the bed rail. Noted the hour: past eleven o'clock. The crucial time the doctor had spoken of was approaching.
Gracie was in a quite rational mood. Her brightly burning eyes were fixed on her mother as she entered the room, and she spoke at once, eagerly—as eagerly as the feeble little lips could frame words—stuttering in her eagerness:
"Has Pr—Prince Charlie come yet, mamma?"
Right down into the depths of despair sank the mother's heart. She took the child's hot hand in her own; gently brushed the curls away from the little forehead with the other. As she did so the hot dryness of that brow was brought to her notice afresh. It was necessary to answer the child; the reply was gently given. Yet the utterance of each word was as a stab to her:
"Not—not yet, darling."
A little whimpering, plaintive voice uprose from amongst the pillows:
"I want him, mamma—won't he come?"
How was she to gratify the little one's desire: to get Prince Charlie there? The doctor had warned her that at this stage the child's demands were to be granted if possible. If possible. She had sent and he hadrefused to come. The doctor's words rang in her ears. If Possible.
She thought of the man sitting—as she knew he would be—shaping with his pen, fictional pathetic pictures, intended to draw tears from the tender-hearted. She thought of the real pathos of this child, perhaps dying, to whom he might bring life and hope by his mere immediate presence. And he had returned the message: That It Would Keep.
The child tossed uneasily from side to side. The corners of the arched little mouth went down threateningly. If Possible! Was it possible to bring him—by any means? Was it possible for her to sink her womanhood even deeper? To humble herself to Beg of him to come? Would he come even if she did?
Then the direction came from the little form tossing restlessly from side to side; the weak voice whispered:
"You said he would come, mamma. Won't you fetch him? He will come if you fetch him."
Would he? Was that the possibility? Was the little one wise in saying that? She remembered that out of the mouths of babes and——Well, she could but try. The mother in her was mighty, stronger than all else: prevailed.
There was no mental balance used in her decision. No conscious weighing of pros and cons. The duty—if aught prompted by love is duty—stood clear before her. Something greater than her own will impelled her decision. She would at once go to him herself.
Glancing at the clock again, she saw that the recorded time was half-past eleven. She would go to him. Go on her knees to him: would not spare herself further. Would beg him, for God's sake, to be more merciful than he had shown himself in his message. Entreat him not to put off till to-morrow—when it might be too late—that which could be done to-night.
Self-blame just then she was very full of; bitterness for not having gone to him in the first instance herself. Tortured herself with the thought that it might now be too late. Wondered if God would forgive her obstinate pride. Still be merciful to her: still let her keep her child.
She bent over the bed and spoke close into the little ear. Made spasmodic but unavailing attempts to control her emotion: could not bring herself to utter the words more than just audibly:
"You'll be quite still, darling, won't you, whilst mother goes to fetch him?"
The face turned upwards. The mother kissed it passionately, tenderly, again and again. The wasted little arms went round her neck and clung there gratefully. Mother was going to fetch Prince Charlie!
From the adjoining room the woman who assisted in the child's nursing came; posted herself by the bedside. Then the mother—staggering as if the unknown gaped before her—left the room. In the hall slipped on the cloak which, she remembered, he had buttoned.
She spent no time in seeking a hat. Swung the hood up from behind over her head. So hurried out of the house.
So, into the night.
Wivernsea was asleep. Like its blacksmith, it believed in the theory of early rising. Not a light was to be seen in one of the windows she passed. Not until she came to the end of the Marine Terrace. There she saw an illuminated window: her beacon.
It was but a short distance from her own place; not ten minutes' walk. She seems to have spent as many hours in covering it. Despite the proverb, time does not always fly.
The house which Masters lodged in was known to her. He had described the quaintness of its old-fashioned bay window; the only one in the row. She would have known it as his place without even the beacon light for identification. He was a slave of the lamp: consumed the midnight oil.
As she made towards the light she prayed,almost aloud. Prayed for a conquering power—over her pride. That she might be humble. For the framing of words to move this man when she besought him to come. Soulfully prayed that God would incline his heart to hear her prayer.
Three steps—she faltered up them; proximity to her goal rendered her invertebrate—brought her to the level of the door. If she put her hand over the rails she could tap at the window. It would be better so than disturbing the household by knocking. She tapped.
Her actions elicited no response! She waited, with a hard-beating heart. Still no reply: dead silence! Had he expected this—this visit of hers—and resolved to remain obdurate?
The window blind was not pulled down to its full length. Through the lace edging she could see the man calmly writing; writing as if thoroughly engrossed in his work. Evidently the thought of his cruelty did not trouble him in the least.
In desperation, there seemed nothing else to do, she used her fingers again: loudly. Masters looked up; started in astonishment. Heard a distinct tapping on the glass of his window!
He walked to the casement; pulled the cordattached to a spring roller, and in a moment the blind had shot up. Outside all was moonlight brightness. At first he looked straight away; saw only the sea with the intervening roadway. Then, suddenly, at the side, on the steps, saw a woman with a ghastly white, haggard face looking at him! The Woman He Loved!
Start? He almost jumped in his amazement! Was he dreaming? Was it his phantasy? Then he came plump to earth; lost no further time in surmises; went to the door.
The room opened on to the hall; the street door was but a couple of yards away. He had gripped its handle and opened it in a moment. The woman was there—no phantasy—flesh and blood, clinging to the railings.
"My God! What has happened to bring you at this hour?"
"Just—a—moment!"
The answer given weakly; breathlessly. A swerve, and she would have fallen, but for an almost nerveless clutch at the railings—but that he was by her side in a moment, with a strong upholding arm round her waist.
There was unconsciousness of his clasp; things were all going round with her.... She had a feeling of being lifted; then set downagain. Then—then a blankness: consciousness left her.
For a brief moment Masters held her in his arms; her whole weight. For a brief moment the blood coursed wildly through his veins; surged brainwards. A wild, mad impulse seized him: to press his lips to hers, helpless, passive as she lay there.
With difficulty he restrained himself. Laid down his burden reverently; her angel's face seemed eloquent of innocence. Once, surely once on a time, it had spoken truth. Ah! What Might Have Been.
She opened her eyes. Found herself lying on a sofa. Masters standing by her side, holding brandy. She tried, feebly, to push it away; but his now full-of-authority voice commanded:
"Drink!"
She was constrained to do so by reason of a hand which went under and lifted her head; another which placed the glass to her lips.... Struggling to a sitting position, passing her hand across her eyes, with a pitiful little drooping at the corners of her mouth, she said:
"I beg your pardon for—for—Was I silly? Did I—I felt a little faint."
He remained watching her. His own face had grown almost the colour of hers. Hehad touched her, had had her hand in his, had felt the softness of her hair! It seemed to him as if the noise of the beating of his heart drowned the ticking of the clock.
"Tell me," he inquired, still supporting her, "what brings you here so late?"
She shook her head. Womanlike, answered his question by another:
"Didn't the girl tell you?"
"What girl?" He asked in surprise. "Didn't the girl tell me what?"
"About Gracie. I—I sent to you half-an-hour ago. She—they tell me—I think—Oh, my God!—I am so—so afraid!—is dying. She asked for you again and again. You sent a message that you would come tomorrow."
"I!"
His astonished look, the blaze of suddenly aroused anger in his eyes, frightened her. Could he be even now deceiving her? His kindness—was it falsity? She hurried on with her explanation; in her embarrassment the words tumbled from her lips.
"Yes. You did—did you not? Ah! Don't tell me there was any mistake—the girl saw you herself! I ought to be with Gracie now, but you wouldn't come when I sent for you. She—I—thought if I came for you, you wouldn't be so hard. You could not—oh,you could not—if you knew that perhaps her very life depended on you."
In speaking she had fallen on her knees; knelt to him in her entreaty. It hurt; he could not bear to see her—a woman—in this attitude of supplication to him. Almost roughly he raised her to her feet.
When erect, not seeing through her tear-streaming eyes, choked with her emotion, she plucked at his coat sleeve. The action horrified him; recalled the night he had stood beside his mother's death-bed; the dying woman had plucked at the counterpane in just such a way. Roughly—to hide his aroused emotion—he shook himself free.
Then she seized on and took his hand in her own burning hot shaking ones. Continued to plead, sobs breaking her utterance:
"It is a child; a little child dying! She wanted to see you so much! The doctor said we were to gratify her, soothe her, and perhaps get her to a sleep which will save her life. You will come back with me—oh, you will, will you not? She knows I have come to fetch you. She was so confident you would come! I—I have annoyed you, or done something to displease you, I know that, but I am all humility now, Mr. Masters; humble, oh, so humble!"
She had slid to her knees again before he could stop her; continued;
"Humbly begging your pardon for whatever I have done. Praying you, for my little child's sake, to come back with me, please.... Please.... Please!"
For a second time he stooped and raised the sobbing woman; bodily picked her up. He was naturally a strong man, and the feeling filling him just then lent additional strength.
He was so much moved by the present that he lost sight of all he had heard, all he had seen in the past. Only knew that this woman, whom he loved with all his heart and soul, whose shoes he would have kissed, knelt to him.
"How dare you?"
His question was put fiercely, as in that moment of lifting, he held her tightly to him. He repeated it:
"How dare you kneel to me? How dare you beg of me to do what the most inhuman wretch in the world would do?"
For a moment he left her side; inside that time had slipped into his overcoat and drawn a cap from his pocket.
"Finish that brandy."
There was that in his voice which commanded obedience; she never thought of disobeying.
"You will come?"
She put the question tremblingly; holding the glass to her lips as she did so with a shaking hand.
"At once."
A feeling of anger took possession of him: that she could put such a question; he continued:
"How can you ask?"
Her only answer was a soulful, grateful cry; a cry from her heart:
"Thank God!"
He was feeling himself considerably less of a hero than on the last occasion of their meeting. But this was not a time for thought; as he opened the door he said, speaking almost gruffly:
"You can see your way?"
There was quite light enough shed by the moon for that; and there was light ahead too! She knew she could rely on him; the very sound of his voice told her that; was an inspiration in itself. Making her way to the hall door she staggered out; down the little stone flight to the pavement.
Ere she reached the bottom step, he had turned down the lamp, closed the house door and joined her.
"Take my arm.... Cling to me tightly. You are not fit to walk alone."
And she clung. Forgot all he had said to her. Just had something strong and powerful to cling to in her time of trouble, and she clung. Her heart beat so as to pain her. She heard him speak and spoke to him in reply. But all the while her heart was full of prayers of gratitude. God had been very good to her.
Every step they took brought them nearer the bungalow. Nearer the realization of hopes upon which she had almost erected a monument. She knew—felt rather—for certain that he would save Gracie. Faith was strong in her.
He kept her talking all the way they walked. Thought to divert her mind from thoughts of the sick chamber they were coming to. But she wanted to think of it; there was happiness in the thought. Her companion's voice rang so cheerily—it gave her hope. There seemed magic in it; power to dispel doubts and fears.
"What did you mean by a girl and a message you sent half-an-hour ago? My landlady went to bed about nine o'clock. There has not been a soul near the house since."
"A mistake evidently."
She answered feebly. Was too fatigued to seek explanation. He was there, going home with her—that was enough.
"In some way, yes. But there was no mistake in your thinking me capable of such brutality as——"
He stopped. Recollected the words he had himself used to her in his anger at their last meeting. She was entitled to judge him so; was fully justified. The reflection was bitter as gall.
She had no suspicion why he paused. Had she known, her answer might have been different. As it was she said meekly:
"Please don't be angry with me."
It would have been impossible for her to choose words more likely to touch him in his present mood of self-reproach. She spoke too with such an appeal in her tremulous voice, that retention of his anger would have meant changing his whole nature.
He strode on. It was all she could do to keep up with him. His anxiety was to get where he might be of help. He forgot; he had had so little to do with women.
They reached the bungalow. Divested themselves of their outdoor garments in the hall. The house was so quiet, Death himself might have been in possession. It struck an unpleasant chill to the new comer.
Then he followed her to the sick room.
Gracie was sitting up in bed, propped up by the pillows. Masters gave a sigh of relief: they were not too late. Death might be knocking at the door, but had not yet been admitted.
The child looked expectantly at the door as her mother opened it. Her cheeks and eyes were bright with the fever in them. Then the expectant look mellowed into a smile. She had seen the man behind!
"I knew you would come, Prince Charlie!"
"Of course you did! Knew I should come when I knew you wanted me. I shouldn't have been much of a Prince Charlie if I hadn't, should I?"
Masters sat on the bed with his back against the headrail. Put his arm round the little one and snuggled her to him. She nestled up to him with a croon—a little grunting ejaculation of content—as he tuckedthe clothes closely round her. Did not seem to desire to talk, was just simply happy in having him there. He inquired:
"Comfy?"
"Awful."
He was grieved to feel how she had fallen away. How, in a few days, she had grown so thin. For the mother's and child's sakes, he made no outward manifestation of his grief: expressed no surprise. He felt that his mission just then was to brighten, not to shed gloom. Spoke jestingly:
"Now that Prince Charlie is here, what have you to say to his royal highness? Nothing?"
"I dreamed a dream, Prince Charlie!"
"Oh!"
"Yes. That you were married to me; that you were my husband."
"Did you? Now that was something like a dream! What sort of husband did I make?"
"I don't know. You see the dream didn't last long enough."
"That was a bad job! Because if you had liked me in the dream, you might have married me later on."
"I thought that." She spoke quite gravely. "But you see I know I should like you as a husband."
"I am glad you think that."
"Who asks? Do you say to me 'marry me,' or do I say to you 'marry me'?"
"M'well, that depends. I really don't think it would matter much; which ever way you like best."
"Of course, you would marry me if I asked you? What do I have to do—kneel down, like the Prince in Cinderella?"
"That is the really proper way, of course. But if you have a very pretty pinafore on it would be a pity, wouldn't it? Then I think you could manage without kneeling."
"I see. I could put on my black dress, though. It's got some sticky stuff I spilt down the front."
"But I am afraid before this marriage takes place you will have to grow a little older."
"Of course!"
She essayed a laugh. The mother pricked up her ears: it was the first time the sound of laughter had come from those lips for many an hour; the child continued:
"You don't think I am so silly as to think I can be married in short frocks, do you? What an old goose you are! Of course, I mean when I am bigger and wear a train."
"I see. Do you think the black dress will grow too?"
"N—no. I forgot that—that's my fault. But you promised."
"Why certainly. I most cheerfully promise that I will marry you, if you ask me when you are a big girl."
"A real, real promise?"
"A most really, real, realiest of real promises. If you ask me when you are a big girl, to marry you, I promise you I will."
She sighed contentedly. Nestling to him, closed her eyelids as she said:
"People go away for honey-dews, don't they?"
He smiled. Gathered that she had confused names by reading the label on his tobacco packet. She had seen him fill his pouch, and clamoured for the silver paper to make impressions of coins on. To her huge satisfaction had more than once induced him to pick up her coinage in the belief that they were real.
"Yes," he answered. "It is usual for married persons to go away. We must consider where we will spend our honeymoon. You have been to the Hippodrome, haven't you?"
Her eyes opened; sparkled at the recollection. The dustmen were banished for a moment as she answered:
"Twice! That's where I saw Cinderella!"
"That wouldn't be altogether a bad place for a honeymoon, would it? Then there's the Zoo—how about that?"
"Lovely! You are a very dear old Prince Charlie. I think if I couldn't marry you I wouldn't marry anybody. I am sorry for all the other little girls that can't marry you. You know lots of little girls, don't you?"
"Yes. But then you are my real sweetheart, you know."
"I'm glad. 'Cos you can't marry more than one, can you? I hope the other little girls won't cry, all the same."
"I don't think they will. Some of them are bigger than you; have given up crying."
"Oh, big little girls cry! But they don't make a noise, and they don't like you to see. I've seen mamma cry!"
Prince Charlie was silent; he too had seen the mother's tears. The child prattled on:
"We shall have to go all the way to Heaven when we are married, shan't we?"
He wondered what childish idea could prompt such a question; asked:
"What makes you think that, darling?"
"When we went to church last Sunday—no, it was the Sunday before; the man in the white dress said so."
"Did he?"
"Yes; he did really. I heard him quiteplainly. He said 'marriages are made in heaven.' Is heaven very, very beautiful, Prince Charlie?"
"Much more beautiful than we can even think it is, darling."
"All the good little girls go there, don't they?"
"Yes. Most certainly."
"When doctors come to people they are ill, aren't they? And they die sometimes when they are ill, don't they?... If I die now shall I go right straight to heaven, Prince Charlie?"
The woman kneeling by the bedside turned away her head. The trembling hand found her throat and helped to stifle the sob bursting there. Life and death were fighting for conquest. Contemplation of the battle is ever sad; sadder because the watchers can do nought to turn the tide of victory. Time was arbiter; yet the little one was speaking as if the Grim One's victory were assured.
There was a little quaver, just a little huskiness, in Masters' voice, as he said:
"Don't talk of dying, Gracie."
"Oh, I am not going to die yet."
The child's attempt at a laugh was pitiful, by reason of the lack of mirth in it; she continued:
"I shouldn't be able to marry you till yougot to heaven if I did, should I? How full it must be up there of little boys and girls, Prince Charlie."
"Yes, darling."
He acquiesced aloud; truthfully. Then added, under his breath:
"Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
"God is very fond of children, isn't He?"
"Very fond."
Again there came to him a suggestion; to himself he quoted:
"Suffer little children to come unto Me."
"You are very fond of little children too, aren't you?" She nestled, if possible, a little closer. "Mamma says she knows you are."
"Mamma is right, darling. Very fond."
"But you don't love any of them better than you do me, do you?"
Her blue eyes were fixed on his face as she looked up, eager to hear his reply; quite truthfully he answered:
"Not one. Not one."
"I forgot." A little sigh of content. "You told me that before. You haven't any children of your real own, have you?"
"No dear."
"I'm glad of that."
She sighed in the same way again. Pillowedher head more deeply on his arm; inquired suddenly:
"God has a Child of his real own, hasn't He?"
"Yes, love."
"A little boy?"
"Was a little boy; yes, darling."
"I know. Because we keep His birthday; same as we keep mine. Only mine comes with the roses, His with the holly. You know—it is on Christmas day."
"Yes; we all of us keep it, dear."
"Prince Charlie?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Do you know any stories about God's Little Boy?"
"Yes, dear; some."
"Tell me—a nice story about Him—will you? No giants or bears in it, because I feel so sleepy—and I am too tired.... So tired.... I would like to go to sleep—just like this—in your arms."
He bent his head. Kissed the flushed, sweet little face he was cradling in the hollow of his arm. Then told the story of the birth of God's Little Boy; in a manner adapted to the little ears listening to it.
Her sleepiness grew; the blue eyes opened each time more reluctantly. As the little body lost its stiffness, he blue-pencilled thestory down to the stage where God's Little Boy was lying asleep in the manger. And the watching angels—even as the narrator was—were continually saying:
"Hus-s-h!"
The fact that he repeated this part of the story again and again to bring in the soothing "Hus-s-sh" passed unnoticed by Gracie. Her eyes had closed; she was asleep. The doctor had said sleep would be her salvation.
The crucial time—midnight—and she slept!