Funerals were little attended in these sad days. The living had to be regarded more than the dead, and Raymond Poynsett was only followed to the grave by his two brothers, his father-in-law, and some of the servants. Rosamond, however, weeping her soft profuse tears, could hear everything from behind the blind at Terry’s open window, on that moist warm autumn day; everything, for no exception was made to the rule that coffins might not be taken into the church during this deadly sickness. She did hear a faltering and a blundering, which caused her to look anxiously at the tall white figure standing at the head of the grave, and, as she now saw, once or twice catching at the iron railing that fenced in the Poynsett tombs. Neither her husband nor his brother seemed to notice what she observed. Absorbed in the sorrow and in one another, they turned away after the service was ended and walked towards the Hall. Rosamond did not speak for a minute or two, then she turned round to Terry, who was sitting up in bed, with an awe-struck face, listening as well as he could to the low sounds, and watching her.
“Terry, dear, shall you mind my going to see after Herbert Bowater? I am sure they have let him overwork himself. If he is not fit to take Lady Tyrrell’s funeral this afternoon, Ishallsend to Duddingstone on my own responsibility. I will not have Julius doing that!”
“Do you think he is ill—Bowater, I mean?” asked Terry.
“I don’t like it. He seemed to totter as he went across the churchyard, and he blundered. I shall go and see.”
“Oh yes, go,” said Terry; “I don’t want anybody. Don’t hurry.”
Rosamond put on her hat and sped away to Mrs. Hornblower’s. As usual, the front door leading to the staircase was open, and, going up, she knocked at the sitting-room door; but the only response was such a whining and scratching that she supposed the dogs had been left prisoners there and forgotten, and so she turned the lock—but there was an obstruction; so that though Mungo and Tartar darted out and snuffed round her, only Rollo’s paw and head appeared, and there was a beseeching earnestness in his looks and little moans, as if entreating her to come in. Another push, vigorously seconded by Rollo within, showed her that it was Herbert’s shoulder that hindered her, and that he was lying outstretched on the floor, apparently just recalled to consciousness by the push; for as Rollo proceeded to his one remedy of licking, there was a faint murmur of “Who—what—”
“It is I! What is the matter?”
“Lady Rose! I’ll—I’ll try to move—oh!” His voice died away, and Rosamond thrust in her salts, and called to Mrs. Hornblower for water, but in vain. However, Herbert managed to move a little to one side. She squeezed into the doorway, hastily brought water from his bedroom within, and, kneeling down by him, bathed his face, so that he revived to say, in the same faint voice, “I’m so sorry I made such mulls. I couldn’t see. I thought I knew it by heart.”
“Never mind, never mind, dear Herbert! You are better. Couldn’t you let me help you to the sofa?”
“Oh, presently;” and as she took his head on her lap, “Thank you; I did mean to hold out till after this day’s work; but it is all right now Bindon is come.”
“Come!—is he?” she joyfully exclaimed.
“Yes, I saw him from the window. I was getting up to hail him when the room turned upside down with me.”
“There’s his step!” now exclaimed Rosamond. “Squeeze in, Mr. Bindon; you are a very welcome sight.”
Mr. Bindon did make his way in, and stood dismayed at the black mass on the floor. Rosamond and Rollo, one on each side of Herbert’s great figure, in his cassock, and the rosy face deadly white, while Mungo and Tartar, who hated Mr. Bindon, both began to bark, and thus did the most for their master, whose call of ‘Quiet! you brutes,’ seemed to give him sudden strength. He took a grip of Rollo’s curly back, and, supported by Mr. Bindon, dragged himself to the sofa and fell heavily back on it.
“Give him some brandy,” said Mr. Bindon, hastily.
“There’s not a drop of anything,” muttered Herbert; “it’s all gone—”
“To Wil’sbro’,” explained Rosamond; then seeing the scared face of Dilemma at the door, she hastily gave a message, and sent her flying to the Rectory, while Mr. Bindon was explaining.
“I wish I had known. I never will go out of the reach of letters again. I saw in theTimes, at Innspruck, a mention of typhoid fever here, and I came back as fast as trains would bring me; but too late, I fear.”
“You are welcome, indeed,” repeated Rosamond. “Herbert has broken down at last, after doing more than man could do, and I am most thankful that my husband should be saved the funerals at Wil’sbro’.”
Mr. Bindon, whose face showed how shocked he was, made a few inquiries. He had learnt the main facts on his way, but had been seeking his junior to hear the details, and he looked, like the warrior who had missed Thermopylæ, ashamed and grieved at his holiday.
The bottle Rosamond had sent for arrived, and there was enough vigour restored to make her say, “Here’s a first service, Mr. Bindon, to help this poor fellow into bed.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Herbert.
“You are not going to say there’s nothing the matter with you?” said Rosamond, as a flush passed over the pale face.
“No,” he said; “but I want to go home. I should have taken a fly at Wil’sbro’. Cranky will see to me without bothering anybody else. If you would send for one—”
“I don’t think I can till I know whether you are fit to move,” said Rosamond. “I desired Dilemma to tell them to send Dr. Worth here when he comes to Terry. Besides, is it quite right to carrythisinto another place?”
“I never thought of that,” said Herbert. “But they would shut me up; nobody come near me but Cranky.” But there a shivering fit caught him, so that the sofa shook with him, and Rosamond covered him with rugs, and again told him bed was the only place for him, and he consented at last, holding his head as he rose, dizzy with the ache.
“Look here, Lady Rose,” he said, falling back into a sitting posture at the first attempt, “where’s my writing-case? If I go off my head, will you give this to the Rector, and ask him if it will be any good in the matter he knows of?” and he handed her an envelope. “And this keep,” he added, giving her one addressed to his father. “Don’t let him have it till it’s all over. You know.” Then he took up a pen and a sheet of paper, and got as far, with a shaking hand, as ‘Dear Crank—’ but there he broke down, and laid his head on the table, groaning.
“I’ll do it. What shall I say, dear Herbert?”
“Only tell her to come to me,” he gasped. “Cranstoun—our old nurse. Then I’ll be no trouble.”
While Mr. Bindon helped Herbert into his room, Rosamond sped home to send for Mrs. Cranstoun, arrange for the care of the new patient in the intervening hours, and fetch some of those alleviations of which experience had taught the use. Mr. Bindon came to meet her on her return, carefully shutting the door, and saying, “Lady Rosamond, can he be delirious already? He is talking of being plucked for his Ordination.”
“Too true,” said Rosamond. “I thought it a great shame to be so hard on a man withthatin him; but I believe you expected it?”
“No; I may have said he would fail, but I never expected it.”
“Fail, indeed! Fancy a man being turned back who has worked night and day—night and day—doing all the very hardest services—never resting! Very likely killing himself!” cried Rosamond hotly. “May I come back to him? Terry can spare me, and if you will go to Wil’sbro’ I’ll stay till my husband comes, or the doctor. The Sisters will tell you what to do.”
Herbert was, however, so much more comfortable for being in bed, that he was able to give Mr. Bindon directions as to the immediate cares at Wil’sbro’; but he was distressed at occupying Lady Rose, his great object being to be no trouble to anybody, though he had seen so much of the disease as to have been fully aware that it had been setting in for the last two days, yet his resolution to spare his Rector had kept him afoot till he had seen other help arrive. He declared that he wanted nobody but Rollo, who could fetch and carry, and call any one, if only the doors were open, and really the creature’s wistful eyes and gentle movements justified the commendation.
“Only,” said Herbert anxiously, “I suppose this is not catching for dogs. You’ll make a home for him Lady Rose?” he added. “I should like you to have him, and he’ll be happier with you than with any one else.”
“Herbert, I can’t have you talk of that.”
“Very well,” he said, quietly. “Only you will keep my dear old fellow—I’ve had him from a puppy—and he is but three years old now.”
Rosamond gave all promises, from her full heart, as she fondled the soft, wise black head.
Herbert was unhappy too about Mrs. Hornblower’s trouble. Harry had been one of the slighter cases, and was still in his room, a good deal subdued by the illness, and by the attention the lodger had shown him; for Herbert had spent many hours, when he had been supposed to be resting, in relieving Mrs. Hornblower, and she was now in a flood of gratitude, only longing to do everything for him herself. Had he not, as she declared, saved her son, body and soul?
The most welcome sight was Julius, who came down in dismay as soon as he could leave the Hall. “I am so glad,” said the patient; “I want to talk things over while my head is clearer than it ever may be again.”
“Don’t begin by desponding. These fevers are much less severe now than six weeks ago.”
“Yes; but they always go the hardest with the great big strong young fellows. I’ve buried twelve young men out of the whole forty-five.”
“Poor lads, I doubt if their life had been such a preparation as yours.”
“Don’t talk of my life. A stewardship I never set myself to contemplate, and so utterly failed in. I’ve got nothing to carry to my God but broken vows and a wasted year.”
“Nothing can be brought but repentance.”
“Yes, but look at others who have tried, felt their duties, and cared for souls; while I thought only of my vows as a restraint, and tried how much pleasure I could get in spite of them. A pretty story of all the ministry I shall ever have.”
“These last weeks!”
“Common humanity—nonsense! I should always have done as much; besides, I was crippled everywhere, not merely by want of power as a priest, but by having made myself such a shallow, thoughtless ass. But that was not what I wanted to say. It was about Gadley and his confession.”
“O, Herbert! I am afraid I was very unkind that night. I did not think of anything but our own trouble, nor see how much it had cost you.”
“Of course not—nonsense. You had enough to think of yourself, and I was only ashamed of having bored you.”
“And when I think of the state of that room, I am afraid it was then you took in the poison.”
“Don’t sayafraid. If it was for Jenny, I shall have done some good in the world. But the thing is—is it good? Will it clear Douglas? I suppose what he said to you was under seal of confession?”
“Scarcely so, technically; but when a man unburthens himself on his death-bed, and then, so far from consenting, shows terror and dismay at the notion of his words being taken down as evidence, it seems to me hardly right or honourable to make use of them—though it would right a great wrong. But what did you get from him?”
“I gave Lady Rose the paper. He raved most horribly for an hour or two, as if all the foul talk of his pot-house had got into his brain,” said Herbert, with a shudder. “Rector, Rector, pray for me, that I mayn’t come out withthatat any rate. It has haunted me ever since. Well, at last he slept, and woke up sinking but conscious, knew me, and began to ask if this was death, and was frightened, clutching at me, and asking to be held, and what he could do. I told him at least he could undo a wrong, if he would only authorize us to use what he said to clear Douglas; and then, as Sister Margaret had come across, I wrote as well as I could: “George Gadley authorizes what he said to the Rev. Julius Charnock to be used as evidence;” and I suppose he saw us sign it, if he could see at all, for his sight was nearly gone.”
Julius drew a long breath.
“And now, what was it?” said Herbert.
“Well, the trio—Moy, young Proudfoot, and Tom Vivian—detained a letter of my mother’s, with a cheque in it, and threw the blame of it on Archie Douglas. They thought no one was in the office but themselves; but Gadley was a clerk there, and was in the outer room, where he heard all. He came to Moy afterwards, and has been preying on him for hush-money ever since.”
“And this will set things straight?”
“Yes. How to set about the public justification I do not yet see; but with your father, and all the rest, Archie’s innocence will be as plain as it always has been to us.”
“Where is he?”
“On an ostrich farm at Natal.”
“Whew!—we must have him home. Jenny can’t be spared. Poor Jenny, when she hears that, it will make all other things light to her.”
“What is their address?”
“No, don’t write. Mamma has had a fresh cold, and neither my father nor Jenny could leave her. Let them have a little peace till it gets worse. There will be plenty of time, if it is to be a twenty-eight days business like the others. Poor mamma!” and he rolled his head away; then, after some minutes of tossing and shivering, he asked for a prayer out of the little book in his pocket. “I should know it, but my memory is muddled, I think.”
The book—a manual for sick-rooms—was one which Julius had given him new five weeks back. It showed wear already, having been used as often in that time as in six ordinary years of parish work. By the time the hard-pressed doctor came, it was plain that the fever was setting in severely, aggravated no doubt by the dreadful night at the ‘Three Pigeons,’ and the unrelaxed exertions ever since; for he was made to allow that he had come home in the chill morning air, cold, sickened, and exhausted; had not chosen to disturb anybody, and had found no refreshment but a raw apple—the last drop of wine having been bestowed on the sick; had lain down for a short sleep worse than waking, and had neither eaten nor slept since, but worked on by sheer strength of will and muscle. When Julius thought of the cherishing care that he had received himself, he shuddered, with a sort of self-reproach for his neglect; and the doctor, though good-humouredly telling Herbert not to think he knew anything about his own symptoms, did not conceal from Julius that enough harm had been done in these few days to give the fine Bowater constitution a hard struggle.
“Grown careless,” he said. “Regular throwing away of his life.”
Careless Herbert might have been, but Julius wondered whether this might not be losing of the life to find it.
Cranstoun or Cranky arrived, a charming old nurse, much gratified in the midst of her grief, and inclination to scold. She summarily sent off Mungo and Tartar by the conveyance that brought her, and would have sent Rollo away, but that Herbert protested against it, and no power short of an order from him would have taken the dog from his bedside.
And Mr. Bindon returned from Wil’sbro’ in unspeakable surprise. “The heroes of the occasion,” he said, “were Bowater and Mrs. Duncombe! Every sick person I visited, and there were fourteen in all stages, had something to say of one or other. Poor things, how their faces fell when they saw me instead of his bright, honest face! ‘Cheering the very heart of one!’ as a poor woman said; ‘That’s what I calls a true shepherd,’ said an old man. You don’t really mean he was rejected at the Ordination?’”
“Yes, and it will make him the still truer shepherd, if he is only spared!”
“The Sisters can’t say enough of him. They thought him very ill yesterday, and implored him to take care of himself; but he declared he could not leave these two funerals to you. But, after all, he is less amazing to me than Mrs. Duncombe. She has actually been living at the hospital with the Sisters. I should not have known her.”
“Great revolutions have happened in your absence. Much that has drawn out her sterling worth, poor woman.”
“I shall never speak harshly again, I hope. It seems to be a judgment on me that I should have been idling on the mountains, while those two were thus devoting themselves to my Master in His poor.”
“We are thankful enough to have you coming in fresh, instead of breaking down now. Have you a sermon? You will have to take Wil’sbro’ to-morrow. Driver won’t come. He wrote to the churchwardens that he had a cold, and that his agreement was with poor Fuller.”
“And you undertook the Sunday?”
“Yes. They would naturally have no Celebration, and I thought Herbert’s preaching in the midst of his work would be good for them. You never heard such an apology and confession as the boy made to our people the first Sunday here, begging them to bear with him.”
“Then I can’t spare you anything here?”
“Yes, much care and anxiety. The visitation has done its worst in our house. We have got into the lull after the storm, and you need not be anxious about me. There is peace in what I have to do now. It is gathering the salvage after the wreck.”
Then Julius went into his own house, where he found Terry alone, and, as usual, ravenously hungry.
“Is Bowater really ill?” he asked.
“I am afraid there is no believing otherwise, Terry,” said Julius. “You will have to spare Rose to him sometimes, till some one comes to nurse him.”
“I would spare anything to him,” said Terry, fervently. “Julius, it is finer than going into battle!”
“I thought you did not care much for battles, Terry.”
“If it was battles, I should not mind,” said the boy; “it is peaceful soldiering that I have seen too much of. But don’t you bother my father, Julius, I won’t grumble any more; I made up my mind to that.”
“I know you did, my boy; but you did so much futile arithmetic, and so often told us thata+b-cequalled Peter the Great, that Dr. Worth said you must not be put to mathematics for months to come, and I have told your father that if he cannot send you to Oxford, we will manage it.”
A flush of joy lighted up the boy’s face. “Julius, you are a brick of a brother!” he said. “I’ll do my best to get a scholarship.”
“And the best towards that you can do now is to get well as soon as possible.”
“Yes. And you lie down on the sofa there, Julius, and sleep—Rose would say you must. Only I want to say one thing more, please. If I do get to Oxford, and you are so good, I’ve made up my mind to one thing. It’s not only for the learning that I’ll go; but I’ll try to be a soldier in your army and Bowater’s. That’s all that seems to me worth the doing now.”
So Julius dropped asleep, with a thankworthy augury in his ears. It is not triumph, but danger and death that lead generous spirits each to step where his comrade stood!
Frank was certainly better. Ever since that sight of Eleonora he had been mending. If he muttered her name, or looked distressed, it was enough to guide his hand to her token, he smiled and slept again; and on the Sunday morning his throat and mouth were so much better, that he could both speak and swallow without nearly so much pain; but one of his earliest sayings was, “Louder, please, I can’t hear. When does she come?”
Mrs. Poynsett raised her voice, Anne tried; but he frowned and sighed, and only when Miles uttered a sea-captain’s call close to his ear, did he smile comprehension, adding, “Were you shouting?” a fact only too evident to those around.
“Then I’m deaf,” he said. And Anne wrote and set before him, “We hope it will pass as you get better.” He looked grateful, but there was little more communication, for his eyes and head were still weak, and signs and looks were the chief currency; however, Julius met Eleonora after morning service, to beg her to renew her visit, after having first prepared her for what she would find. Eleonora was much distressed; then paused a minute, and said, “It does him good to see me?”
“It seems to be the one thing that keeps him up,” said Julius, surprised at the question.
“O, yes! I can’t—I could not stay away,” she said. “It is all so wrong together; yet this last time cannot hurt!”
“Last time?”
“Yes; did you not know that papa has set his heart on going to London to-morrow? Yes, early to-morrow. And it will be for ever. We shall never see Sirenwood again.”
She stood still, almost bent with the agony of suppressed grief.
“I am very sorry; but I do not wonder he wishes for change.”
“He has been in an agony to go these three days. It was all I could do to get him to stay to-day. You don’t think it will do Frank harm? Then I would stay, if I took lodgings in the village; but otherwise—poor papa—I think it is my duty—and he can’t do without me.”
“I think Frank is quite capable of understanding that you are forced to go, and that he need not be the worse for it.”
“And then,” she lowered her voice, “it does a little reconcile me that I don’t think we ought to go further into it till we can understand. I did make that dreadful vow. I know I ought not now; but still I did, in so many words.”
“You mean against a gambler?”
“If it had only been against a gambler; but I was stung, and wanted to guard myself, and made it against any one who had ever betted! If I go on, I must break it, you see, and if I do might it not bring mischief on him? I don’t even feel as if it weretrueto have come to him on Friday, and now—yet they said it was the only chance for his life.”
“Yes, I think it saved him then, and to disappoint him now might quite possibly bring a relapse,” said Julius. “It seems to me that you can only act as seems right at the moment. When he is his own man again, you will better have the power of judging about this vow, and if it ought to bind you. And so, it may really be well you do not see more of him, and that his weakness does not lead you further than you mean.”
A tottering step, and an almost agonized, though very short sob under the crape veil, proved to Julius that his counsel, though chiming in with her stronger, sterner judgment, was terrible to her, nor would he have given it, if he had not had reason to fear that while she had grown up, Frank had grown down; and that, after this illness, it would have to be proved whether he were indeed worthy of the high-minded girl whom he had himself almost thrown over in a passion.
But there was no room for such misgivings when the electric shock of actual presence was felt—the thin hollow-cheeked face shone with welcome, the liquid brown eyes smiled with thankful sweetness, the fingers, fleshless, but cool and gentle, were held out; and the faint voice said, “My darling! Once try to make me hear.”
And when, with all her efforts, she could only make him give a sort of smile of disappointment, she would have been stonyhearted indeed if she had not let him fondle her hand as he would, while she listened to his mother’s report of his improvement. With those eyes fixed in such content on her face, it seemed absolutely barbarous to falter forth that she could come no more, for her father was taking her away.
“My dear, you must be left with us,” cried Mrs. Poynsett. “He cannot spare you.”
“Ah! but my poor father. He is lost without me. And I came of age on Tuesday, and there are papers to sign.”
“What is it?” murmured Frank, watching their faces.
Mrs. Poynsett gave her the pen, saying, “You must tell him, if it is to be.”
She wrote: “My father takes me to London to-morrow, to meet the lawyers.”
His face fell; but he asked, “Coming back—when?”
She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears, as she wrote: “Sirenwood is to be put up to auction.”
“Your sister?” began Frank, and then his eye fell on her crape trimmings. He touched her sleeve, and made a low wail. “Oh! is every one dead?”
It was the first perception he had shown of any death, though mourning had been worn in his room. His mother leant down to kiss him, bidding Lena tell him the truth; and she wrote:
“I am left alone with poor papa. Let me go—now you can do without me.”
“Can I?” he asked, again grasping her hand.
She pointed to his mother and Anne; but he repeated, “You—you!”
“When you are better we will see how it is to be,” she wrote.
He looked sadly wistful. “No, I can’t now. Something was very wrong; but it won’t come back. By and by. If you wouldn’t go—”
But his voice was now more weak and weary, tired by the effort, and a little kneeling by him, allowing his tender touch, soothed him, enough to say submissively, “Good-bye, then—I’ll come for you”—wherewith he faltered into slumber.
Rosamond had just seen her off in the pony carriage, and was on the way up-stairs, when she stumbled on a little council, consisting of Dr. Worth, Mr. Charnock, and Grindstone, all in the gallery. “A widow in her twenty-second year. Good heavens!” was the echo she heard; and Grindstone was crying and saying, “She did it for the best, and she could not do it, poor lamb, not if you killed her for it;” and Dr. Worth said, “Perhaps Lady Rosamond can. You see, Lady Rosamond, Mrs. Grindstone, whose care I must say has been devoted, has hitherto staved off the sad question from poor young Mrs. Poynsett, until now it is no longer possible, and she is becoming so excited, that—”
Cecil’s bell rang sharply.
“I cannot—I cannot! In her twenty-second year!” cried her father, wringing his hands.
Grindstone’s face was all tears and contortions; and Rosamond, recollecting her last words with poor Cecil, sprang forward, both men opening a way for her.
Cecil was sitting up in bed, very thin, but with eager eyes and flushed cheeks, as she held out her hands. “Rosamond! Oh! But aren’t you afraid?”
“No, indeed, I’m always in it now,” said Rosamond, kissing her, and laying her down; “it has been everywhere.”
“Ah! then they sent him away—Raymond?” then clutching Rosamond’s hand, and looking at her with searching eyes, “Tell me, has his mother any right! Would you bear it if she keptyouapart?”
“Ah! Cecil, it was not her doing.”
“You don’t mean it was his own? Papa is not afraid. You are not afraid. If it had been he, I wouldn’t have feared anything. I would have nursed him day and night till—till I made him care for me.”
“Hush, dear Cecil,” said Rosamond, with great difficulty. “I know you would, and so would he have done for you, only the cruel fever kept you apart.”
“The fever! He had it?”
“Yes, hehadit.”
“But he is better. I am better. Let me be taken to him. His mother is not there now. I heard them say she was in Frank’s room. Call papa. He will carry me.”
“Oh! poor, poor Cecil. His mother only went to Frank when he did not need her any more.” And Rosamond hid her face on the bed, afraid to look.
Cecil lay back so white, that Grindstone approached with some drops, but this made her spring up, crying, “No, no, don’t come near me! You never told me! You deceived me!”
“Don’t, don’t, ma’am—my dear Miss Charnock—now. It was all for the best. You would not have been here now.”
“And then I should be with him. Rosamond, send her away, I can’t bear her. She sent him away from me that night. I heard her.”
“My dear Cecil, this will not do. You are making your father dreadfully unhappy. Dear Raymond stayed with you till he really could not sit up any longer, and then he kissed you.”
“Kissed me! Oh, where? Did you see? No, don’t ask Grindstone. She made me think he had left me, and fancy—oh, Rosamond! such—such things! And all the time—”
The moaning became an anguish of distress, unable to weep, like terrible pain, as the poor young thing writhed in Rosamond’s arms. It was well that this one sister understood what had been in Cecil’s heart, and did believe in her love for Raymond. Rosamond, too, had caressing power beyond any other of the family, and thus she could better deal with the sufferer, striving, above all, to bring tears by what she whispered to her as she held her to her bosom. They were a terrible storm at last, but Cecil clung to Rosamond through all, absolutely screaming when Grindstone came near; poor Grindstone who had been so devoted, though mistaken. Weakness, however, after the first violent agitation was soothed, favoured a kind of stunned torpor, and Cecil lay still, except when her maid tried to do anything for her, and then the passion returned. When old Susan Alston came with a message, she was at once recognized and monopolized, and became the only servant whom she would suffer about her.
The inconvenience was great, but relapse was such an imminent danger, that it was needful to give up everything to her; and Mr. Charnock, regarding his daughter’s sufferings as the only ones worth consideration, seemed to pursue Rosamond the instant she had sat down by the still feeble, weary, convalescent Terry, imploring her to return to Cecil with the irresistible force of tearful eyes and piteous descriptions; and as Terry had a week’s start in recovery, and was not a widow under twenty-two, he had to submit, and lie as contentedly as he could in his solitude.
Susan could be better spared to Cecil’s morbid fancy of being waited on by her who had attended her husband, for Miles and Anne were sufficient for Mrs. Poynsett and Frank. The long-sundered husband and wife scarcely saw each other, except over Frank’s bed, and Mr. Charnock was on the Captain’s hands whenever he came beyond it. On the Wednesday, however, Julius, who had only once spoken to his brother alone, came up to the breakfast-table where he and Mr. Charnock were sitting, and hurt the feelings of the latter by first asking for Frank. “He had slept all night, and only half woke when Miles and Anne changed watch and gave him beef-tea. Cecil, very moaning and restless—more fever about her, poor dear. When would Lady Rosamond come up?—she was asking for her.” When she had seen to a few things at home, given her brother his breakfast, and seen to poor Herbert; he had had a dreadful night, and that Cranstounwouldshut the window unless some one defended him. Mr. Charnock began to resume his daughter’s symptoms, when Julius, at the first pause, said:
“Have you finished, Miles? Could you speak to me in the library a minute? I beg your pardon, Mr. Charnock, but my time is short.”
“I hope—I quite understand. Do not let me be in your way.” And the brothers repaired to the library, where Julius’s first words were, “Miles, you must make up your mind. They are getting up a requisition to you to stand for Wil’sbro’.”
“To me?”
“You are the most obvious person, and the feeling for dear Raymond is so strong as to prevent any contest. Whitlock told Bindon yesterday that you should have no trouble.”
“I can’t. It is absurd. I know nothing about it. My poor mother bred up Raymond for nothing else. Don’t you remember how she made him read history, volumes upon volumes, while I was learning nothing but the ropes? I declare, Julius, there he goes.”
“Who?”
“Why, that old ass, down to hunt up poor Rosamond; I don’t believe he thinks there’s any one in the world but his daughter. I declare I’ll hail him and stop him.”
“No, no, Miles, Rosamond can take care of herself. She won’t come till she has seen to her patients down there; and, after all, Cecil’s is the saddest case, poor thing. To return. If you don’t take to politics in the end, I think you should let them put you in now, if only as a stop-gap, or we shall get some one whom it may not be easy to get rid of.”
“There’s something in that, but I can’t accept without knowing my position, and I would not utter a word to disturb my mother till it occurs to her of herself.”
“Now that Frank is better?”
“No. It will all come on her soon enough.”
“Would you stand if she made it right for you?”
“I can’t tell. There would be no punishment so great to my poor Anne as to be dragged into society, and I don’t know how she would bear it, even if she had no scruples. We never thought of anything but settling in Glen Fraser, only I wanted her to know you all. If that poor Cecil only had a child we could be free to go back. Poor Anne!”
“Do you think she is still as homesick as at first?”
“Well, not quite, perhaps; but I never can get to talk to her, and I know it is a terrible sacrifice to her to live here at all, and I won’t have her forced into a style of thing against her conscience. If they come to me, I shall tell them to take Mr. Bowater.”
“Poor Mr. Bowater! He will have little heart.”
“Who else is there? That fellow Moy would like it, I suppose.”
“That fellow Moy may have to change his note,” said Julius. “I think we have the means of clearing Archie, when we can see how to use them.”
Miles gave a sort of leap as he stood by the fire. “Tell me. Archie! I had no heart to write to him, poor fellow.”
“Write to him by all means, but say nothing here.” And Julius briefly repeated what Gadley had said.
“I don’t see that the scoundrel Moy deserves any consideration.”
“I don’t know whether he does; but he has a good wife, ailing and sickly, and a daughter. He has lived in good report these many years, and I think it is due to him and to old Proudfoot not to spread the report before giving him warning. In fact, I am not sure whether we could proceed against him as things stand.”
“It is just what Raymond would have known,” said Miles, with a sigh; “but you are right, Julius, one ought to give him fair play. Ah! what’s that, Jenkins?—Note from Lord Belfort? Wait for an answer. Can’t they give one any peace?”
While Miles was reluctantly answering his note, Julius, resolving to act before he was forbidden, mounted to Frank’s room, requested to speak with his mother, and propelled her into the outer room, leaving Anne on guard.
“Now then, my dear,” she said, “I have known a talk must soon come. You have all been very good to me to leave it so long.”
“I am come now without poor Miles’s knowledge or consent,” said Julius, “because it is necessary for him to know what to do.”
“He will give up the navy,” said his mother. “O, Julius! does he require to be told that he—?” and she laid her head on her son’s shoulder.
“It is what he cannot bear to be told; but what drives me on is that Whitlock tells me that the Wil’sbro’ people want to bring him in at once, as the strongest proof of their feeling for Raymond.”
“Yes,” she raised her head proudly, “of course he must come forward. He need have no doubt. Send him to me, Julius, I will tell him to open letters, and put matters in train. Perhaps you will write to Graves for me, if he does not like it, poor boy.”
She had roused herself into the woman of business, and when Miles, after some indignation at her having been disturbed, obeyed the summons, she held out her arms, and became the consoler.
“Come, my boy,” she said, “we must face it sooner or later. You must stand foremost and take up his work for him.”
“Oh, mother! mother! you know how little I am able,” said Miles, covering his face with his hands.
“You do not bring his burthened heart to the task,” she said. “If you had watched and felt with him, as perhaps only his mother could, you would know that I can be content that the long heartache should have ceased, where the weary are at rest. Yes, Miles, I feel as if I had put him to sleep after a long day of pain, as when he was a little child.”
They hardened themselves to the discussion, Mrs. Poynsett explaining what she thought the due of her eldest son, only that Cecil’s jointure would diminish the amount at her disposal. Indeed, when she was once aroused, she attended the most fully; but when Miles found her apologizing for only affording him the little house in the village, he cried out with consternation.
“My dear,” she said, “it is best so; I will not be a burthen on you young ones. I see the mistake.”
“I know,” stammered Miles, “my poor Anne is not up to your mark—not clever like you or Jenny—but I thought you did like her pretty handy ways.”
“I feel them and love them with all my heart; but I cannot have her happiness and yours sacrificed to me. Yes, you boys love the old nest; but even Julius and Rose rejoice in their own, and you must see what she really wishes, not what she thinks her duty. Take her out walking, you both need it badly enough.”
They ventured to comply, and eluding Mr. Charnock, went into the park, silvery with the unstanched dews, and the leaves floating down one by one like golden rain. “Not much like the Bush,” said Miles.
“No,” was all Anne durst say.
“Poor Nan, how dreary it must have looked to you last year!”
“I am afraid I wrote very complaining letters!”
“Not complaining, but a direful little effort at content, showing the more piteously, because involuntarily, what a mistake I had made.”
“No, no mistake. Indeed, Miles, it was not. Nothing else would have cured me of the dreadful uncharitableness which was the chief cause of my unhappiness, and if I had not been so forlorn, I should never have seen how good and patient your mother was with me. Yes, I mean it. I read over my old diary and saw how tiresome and presumptuous I was, and how wonderfully she bore with me, and so did Julius and Rosamond, while all the time I fancied them—no Christians.”
“Ah! you child! You know I would never have done it if I had known you were to be swamped among brides. At any rate, this poor old place doesn’t look so woefully dismal and hateful to you now.”
“It could not, where you are, and where I have so many to know and love.”
“You can bear the downfall of our Bush schemes?”
“Your duty is here now.”
“Are you grieved, little one?”
“I don’t know. I should like to have seen mamma; but she does not need me now as your mother does.”
“Then you are willing to be her daughter?”
“I have tried hard, and she is very kind; but I am far too dull and ignorant for her. I can only wait upon her; but when she has you and Julius to talk to, my stupidity will not matter.”
“Would you be content to devote yourself to her, instead of making a home of our own?”
“She can’t be left alone in that great house.”
“The question is, can you be happy in it? or do you wish for a house to ourselves?”
“You don’t, Miles, it is your own home.”
“That’s not the question.”
“Miles, why do you look at me so?”
“I was told to ascertain your wishes.”
“I don’t wish anything—now I have you—but to be a comfort to your mother. That is my first earthly wish just now.”
“If that be earthly, it has a touch of the heavenly,” muttered Miles to himself. “You will make it clear to mother then that you like to go on with her?”
“If she does not mind having me.”
“And Julius says it really cheered our dear Raymond to think you would be the one to look after her! But that’s not all, Nanny, I’ve only till to-morrow to decide whether I am to be Member for Wil’sbro’.”
“Is that a duty?”
“Not such a duty as to bind me if it were altogether repugnant to you. I was not brought up for it, and may be a mere stop-gap, but it is every man’s duty to come to the front when he is called for, and do his utmost for his country in Parliament, I suppose, as much as in action.”
“I see; but it would be leaving your mother alone a great deal.”
“Not necessarily. You could stay here part of the time, and I go backwards and forwards, as Raymond did before his marriage.”
“It would be better than your being at sea.”
“But remember,” he added, “there is much that can’t be shirked. I don’t mean currying popularity, but if one is in that position, there’s no shutting oneself up. It becomes a duty to keep society going, and give it the sort of tone that a nice woman can do. Do you see?”
“I think I do. Julius said so once.”
“So if we are to have such tears and despair as there were about the ball in the Chimæra, then—”
“I was wrong then,” said Anne. “I did not behave at all well to you all that time, dear Miles; I have been sorry for it ever since I understood.”
“It was not you, little one, it was Mr. Pilgrim.”
“No, it was not Mr. Pilgrim who made me cross.”
“Yes, it was. He exacted pledges that he had no right to lay on your conscience, and your poor little conscience was in terrible straits, and I was too angry to feel for it. Never mind all that; you have done with the fellow, and understand better now.”
“He thought he was right, and that only such abstinence could guard me. And, Miles, a promise is a promise, and I do not think I ought to dance or play at cards. It is not that I think them wrong for others, but I cannot break my word. Except those—I will do whatever is fitting for your wife.”
“Spoken like a heroine!”
“I don’t think I could ever give a tone. Rosamond could, if she tried, but I have no readiness and no training; but I do see that there is more good in being friendly like Jenny Bowater, than in avoiding everything, and as long as one does it because it is right and loving, it can’t be the world or worldliness.”
It was not lucidly expressed, but it satisfied the Captain.
“All right, my bonnie Nance, I’ll promise on my side never to ask you to go against your real conscience, and if you must have a Pope, I had rather it were Pope Julius than Pope Pilgrim.”
“Don’t, Miles. Popes are all wrong, and I don’t know whether Mr. Pilgrim would give the right hand of fellowship to Julius.”
Miles chuckled. “You may think yourself lucky you have not to adjust that question, Madame Nan.”
“There’s the quarter chiming, Frank will want his beef-tea.”
Presently after Miles laid his hand on his mother’s shoulder, and said, “Mother, here’s a daughter who thinks you want to turn us out because she is too slow and stupid for your home child.” And he drew Anne up blushing as if she were his freshly-won bride.
“My dear, are you sure you don’t want to go away from the old woman? Should you not be happier with him all to yourself?”
“I could not be happy if you were left,” said Anne. “May I go on as we did last winter? I will try to do better now I have him to help me.”
“My own dear child!”
That was the way Anne forgot her own people and her father’s house.
And of our scholars let us learnOur own forgotten lore.—KEBLE
And of our scholars let us learnOur own forgotten lore.—KEBLE
“Joan, Jenny, dearest old Joanie!” It was eagerly spoken, though the voice was strangely altered that came from behind the flowered curtain of that big bed, while the fingers drew it back, and Rollo raised his black muzzle near at hand. “Oh, Jenny! have you come to me?”
“My dear, dear, poor boy!”
“No kissing—it’s not safe,” and he burrowed under the sheet.
“As if I did not mean to do more for you than that! Besides, it is not catching.”
“So I said, till it caught me. What a jolly cold hand! You’ve not come in cold and hungry though?”
“No, indeed, Rosamond forced me to sit down to a whole spread. As if one could eat with a knot in one’s throat.”
“Mind you do, Jenny—it was what did for me. The Rector ordered me never to go about unfed; but one could not always—and there was something I have to tell you that drove all the rest out—”
“Dear Herbs! Papa can’t talk of what you have done without tears. He longed to come, but we could not leave mamma without one of us, and he thought I could do the most for you. I have a note for you.”
“Forgiving me?”
“I shouldthinkso. It is in my bag—”
“No, not this moment; I like to know it. And mammy—poor mammy—”
“She is as comforted as she can be that you have Cranky and me; and then papa’s being proud of you has cheered her—oh! so much.”
“I’m glad they can comfort themselves—”
“But, Herbert, dear, you must be much better; I did not expect to see you so well.”
“I am not so bad between whiles,” said Herbert, wearily. “And, while I can, I’ve got something to tell you that will make it up to you, and a great deal more.”
“Make it up?” said Jenny, looking with bewildered eyes at the dear face.
“Yes, I made Gadley consent. The Rector has it in writing, and it will do quite as well if I die. O, Jenny, woman, think of my never knowing what you had gone through!”
“Is it about Archie?” said Jenny, beginning to tremble.
“Yes. It will clear him.”
“I always knew he was clear.”
“Yes, but he can come back now all right. Eh! what an ass I am! I’ve begun at the wrong end. He wasn’t drowned—it was all a mistake; Miles saw him in Africa—Cranky, I say, come to her.”
“Yes, Master Herbert, you’ve been talking a great deal too much for your sister just off a journey. You’ll get the fever on again. Miss Joanna, you ought to know better than to let him run on; I sha’n’t be able to let you do nothing for him if this is the way.”
“Was it too sudden, Joan?” said Herbert, wistfully, as she bent to kiss his brow with trembling lips. “I couldn’t let any one tell you but myself, while I could; but I don’t seem able to go on. Is the Rector there, Cranky?”
“Yes, sir, waiting in the parlour.”
“Rector,” and Julius hurried in at once, “take her and tell her. I can’t do it after all.”
“Is he alive?” whispered Jenny, so much overcome that Julius had to hold her up for a moment as he led her into the other room.
“Really! She thinks me delirious,” said Herbert, rather amused. “Tell her all, Rector.”
“Really, Joan,” said Julius, putting her into the great chair, and holding her trembling hand. “Miles has seen him, has had him in his ship.”
“And you never told me!”
“He made Miles promise not to tell.”
“But he told you!”
“Yes, because it was Anne who gave the clue which led to his discovery; but when he found we all thought him dead, he laid Miles under the strictest charge to say nothing. He is on an ostrich farm in Natal, Jenny, well, and all that he ever was, and more too. He took your photograph from Miles’s book.”
“And I never knew,” moaned Jenny, quite overcome.
“He would not be persuaded that it was not more for your peace not to know of his life, and when Miles was put on honour, what could we do? But now it is all changed. Since Herbert’s discovery he need not be a banished man any more.” And Julius told Jenny the manner of the discovery. She listened, evidently gathering all in, and then she asked: “And what have you done?”
“Nothing as yet.”
“Nothing! while there is this blot on Archie’s name, and he is living in exile, and that Moy is revelling in prosperity. Nothing! Why don’t you publish it to every one?”
“My dear Jenny, I have only known it a week, and I have not been able to find out where Mr. Moy is.”
“What, to have him taken up?”
“Taken up, no; I don’t imagine he could be prosecuted after this length of time and on this kind of evidence. No, to give him warning.”
“Warning? To flee away, and never clear Archie! What are you about, Julius? He ought to be exposed at once, if he cannot be made to suffer otherwise.”
“Nay, Jenny, that would be hard measure.”
“Hard measure!” she interrupted; “what has my innocent Archie had?”
“Think of the old man, his wife and daughter, Jenny.”
“She’s a Proudfoot.—And that girl the scandal of the country! You want to sacrifice Archie to them, Julius?”
“You are tired and shaken, Jenny, or you would see that all I want to do is to act with common consideration and honour.”
She interrupted again. “What honour do you mean? You are not making it a secret of the confessional?”
“You are misunderstanding me, Joanna,” Julius gently said. “Herbert’s vigil spared me from that difficulty, but—”
“Then you would have sacrificed Archie to this imaginary—”
“Hush, Jenny! I fear he is wandering again. Alas! it is the sad oldrefrain!”
As they came to the door together, Herbert’s voice, under that strange change which wandering brings, was heard muttering, “Give an account of thy stewardship, for thou mayest be no longer steward.” And Mrs. Cranstoun received them, with her head shaking, and tearful eyes. “It has come on again, sir; I was afraid it would be too much for him.”
Herbert’s prayer had been granted, inasmuch as the horrible ravings that he feared repeating never passed his lips. If he had gone down to the smoke of Tartarus to restore his sister’s lover, none of its blacks were cleaning to him; but whether conscious or wandering, the one thought of his wasted year seemed to be crushing him. It was a curious contrast between poor Mr. Fuller’s absence of regret for a quarter of a century’s supineness, and this lad’s repentance for twelve months’ idleness. That his follies had been guileless in themselves might be the very cause that his spirit had such power of repentance. His admiration of Lady Tyrrell had been burnt out, and had been fancy, not heart, and no word of it passed his lips, far less of the mirth with the Strangeways. Habit sometimes brought the phrases of the cricket-field, but these generally ended in a shudder of self-recollection and prayer.
The delirium only came with the accesses of fever, and when sensible, he was very quiet and patient, but always as one weighed down by sense of failure in a trust. He never seemed to entertain a hope of surviving. He had watched too many cases not to be aware that his symptoms were those that had been almost uniformly fatal, and he noted them as a matter of course. Dr. Easterby came to see him, and was greatly touched; Herbert was responsive, but it was not the ordinary form of comfort that he needed, for his sorrow was neither terror nor despair. His heart was too warm and loving not to believe that his heavenly Father forgave him as freely as did his earthly father; but that very hope made him the more grieved and ashamed of his slurred task, nor did he view his six weeks at Wil’sbro’ as any atonement, knowing it was no outcome of repentance, but of mere kindliness, and aware, as no one else could be, how his past negligence had hindered his full usefulness, so that he only saw his failures. As to his young life, he viewed it as a mortally wounded soldier does, as a mere casualty of the war, which he was pledged to disregard. Hedidperhaps like to think that the fatal night with Gadley might bring Archie back, and yet Jenny did not give him the full peace in her happiness which he had promised himself.
Joanna had suffered terribly, far more than any one knew, and her mind did not take the revulsion as might have been expected. Her lighthouse was shining again when she thought it extinguished for ever, but her spirits could not bear the uncertainty of the spark. She could not enter into what Miles and Julius both alike told her, of the impossibility of their mother beginning a prosecution for money embezzled ten years back, when no living witness existed, nothing but the scrap of paper written by Herbert, and signed by him and Margaret Strangeways, authorizing Julius Charnock to use what had been said by the dying, half-delirious man. What would a jury say to such evidence? And when Julius said it only freed himself morally from the secrecy, poor Jenny was bitter against his scruples, even though he had never said more than that he should have been perplexed. The most bitter anti-ritualist could hardly have uttered stronger things than she thought, and sometimes said, against what seemed to her to be keeping Archie in banishment; while the brothers’ reluctance to expose Mr. Moy, and blast his reputation and that of his family, was in her present frame of mind an incomprehensible weakness. People must bear the penalty of their misdeeds, families and all, and Mrs. and Miss Moy did not deserve consideration: the pretensions of the mother had always been half scorn, half thorn, to the old county families, and the fast airs of the daughter had been offensive enough to destroy all pity for her. If an action in a Court of Justice were, as Miles and Julius told her, impossible,—and she would not believe it, except on the word of a lawyer,—public exposure was the only alternative for righting Archie, and she could not, or would not, understand that they would have undergone an action for libel rather than not do their best to clear their cousin, but that they thought it due to Mr. Moy to give him the opportunity of doing the thing himself; she thought it folly, and only giving him time and chance for baffling them.
The strange thing was, that not only when she argued with the two brothers, but when she brooded and gave way to these thoughts as she kept her watch, it probably made her less calm—for an access of restlessness and fever never failed to come on—with Herbert. Probably she was less calm externally, and the fret of face and manner communicated itself to him, for the consequences were so invariable that Cranstoun thought they proved additionally what she of course believed, that Miss Joan could not be trusted with her brother. At last Jenny, in her distress and unwillingness to abandon Herbert to Cranky’s closed windows, traced cause and effect, and made a strong resolution to banish the all-pervading thought, and indeed his ever-increasing weakness and danger filled her mind so as to make this easier and easier, so that she might no longer have to confess to herself that Rollo was a safer companion, since Herbert, with a hand on that black head, certainly only derived soothing influences from those longing sympathetic eyes. And he could not but like the testimony of strong affection that came to him. The whole parish was in consternation, and inquiries, and very odd gifts, which he was supposed to ‘fancy,’ came from all over Compton as well as from Strawyers, and were continually showering upon his nurses, so that Mrs. Hornblower and Dilemma spent their lives in mournful replies over the counter, and fifty times a day he was pronounced to be ‘as bad as he could be to be alive.’ Old servants and keepers made progresses from Strawyers, to see Master Herbert, and were terribly aggrieved because Miss Bowater kept them out of his room, as much for their sake as his; and Mrs. Cranstoun pointed to the open lattice which she believed to be killing him, as surely as it gave aches to her rheumatic shoulder.
Julius thought almost as much as Jenny could do of the means of recalling Archie; but it was necessary to wait until he could communicate with Mr. Moy, and his hands were still over-full, for though much less fatal, the fever smouldered on, both in Wil’sbro’ and Compton, and as St. Nicholas was a college living which had hitherto been viewed as a trump card, it might be a long time going the round of the senior fellows.
Julius had just been at poor Mrs. Fuller’s, trying to help her to put her complicated affairs in order, so as to be ready for a move as soon as one daughter, who had the fever slightly, could be taken away, and he was driving home again, when he overtook Mrs. Duncombe and offered her a lift, for her step was weary. She was indeed altered, pale, with cheek-bones showing, and all the lustre and sparkle gone out of her, while her hat was as rigidly dowdy as Miss Slater’s.
She roused herself to ask feebly after the remaining patients.
“Cecil is really getting better at last,” he said. “Her father wants to take her to Portishead next week.”
“And young Bowater?”
“No change. His strength seems to be going.”
“I wouldn’t pity him,” sighed Bessie Duncombe; “he has only seen the best end of life, and has laid it down for something worth! I’m sure he and your brother are the enviable ones.”
“Nay, Mrs. Duncombe, you have much to work for and love in this life.”
“And I must go away from everything just as I had learnt to value it. Bob has taken a house at Monaco, and writes to me to bring the children to join him there!”
“At Monaco?”
“At Monaco! Yes, and I know that it is all my own fault. I might have done anything with him if I had known how. But what could you expect? I never saw my mother; I never knew a home; I was bred up at a French school, where if one was not a Roman Catholic there was not a shred of religion going. I married after my first ball. Nobody taught me anything; but I could not help having brains, so I read and caught the tone of the day, and made my own line, while he went on his.”
“And now there is a greater work for you to do, since you have learnt to do it.”
“Ah! learnt too late. When habits are confirmed, and home station forfeited—What is there left for him or my poor boys to do?”
“A colony perhaps—”
“Damaged goods,” she said, smiling sadly.
“Then are you going?”
“As soon as I have seen this fever out, and can dispose of the things here. I have just been to Moy’s office to see about getting rid of the lease.”
“Is Mr. Moy come home?”
“Yes. Have you not heard?”
“What?—Not the fever?”
“No. Worse I should say. Gussie has gone off and got married to Harry Simmonds.”
“The man at the training stables?”
“Yes. They put up their banns at the Union at Brighton, and were married by the Registrar, then went off to Paris. They say it will kill her mother. The man is a scoundrel, who played Bob false, and won largely by that mare. And the girl has had the cheek to write to me,” said Mrs. Duncombe, warming into her old phraseology—“tome!—to thank me for opportunities of meeting, and to tell me she has followed up the teaching of last year.”
“What—the rights of women?”
“Ay. This is a civil marriage—not mocking her with antiquated servile vows,” she says. “Ah, well, it was my doing, I suppose. Clio Tallboys held forth in private, I believe, to poor Gussie, on theories that were mere talk in her, but which this poor girl has taken in earnest.”
“Very sad earnest she may find it, I fear. Can I do anything for you?” as they reached the gate of Aucuba Villa.
“No, thank you, unless to get the house off my hands.”
“You are alone. Will you not come and spend the evening with us?”
“That is very kind, but I have too much to do, and besides, Sister Margaret is coming to spend the night with me.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Yes, Mr. Charnock, I trust I have learnt something in this spell of work. I’ve not been for nothing in such scenes with those Sisters and young Bowater. I’m more ignorant than half the poor things that I’ve heard talk of their faith and hope; but I see it is not the decorous humbug it once looked like. And now that I would have learnt, here I go to Monaco.”
“You will learn. You have a work before you that will teach you.”
“My boys are young enough to start with on a different tack,” she said. “You will tell me—no—I’ll not hinder you now. I shall see you again.”
Julius was too anxious to get home to refuse to be released, much as he felt for this brave woman. The day before, Herbert had been frightfully faint and exhausted by the morning’s attack of fever, but had been so still ever since that there was a shade of hope that the recurrence might not take place; and this hope grew stronger, when Jenny came into the outer room to say that the usual time for the fever was passing so quietly in a sort of sleep that Dr. Worth seemed to think rally possible, if only there was no fresh access.
They stood over the fire, and Julius asked, “Can’t you lie on the sofa, Jenny? I can stay.”
“No,” said Jenny, restlessly. “No, I can’t. I know you have something to tell me.”
“Moy has come home, Jenny. He is in terrible trouble. His daughter has eloped with young Simmonds at the training stables.”
“The most appropriate end of her bringing up,” said Jenny, in the hard tone it was so difficult to answer—it was so unlike herself—and her thought was that weak pity and forbearance would hinder exertions in Archie’s cause. “Generous at other folks’ expense,” said she to herself. “Sparing the guilty and leaving the innocent to exile!”
But a moaning murmur, and Cranstoun’s movement at once summoned them both to the bedside.
Alas! here was the attack that the doctor had evidently apprehended as likely to be fatal. Hour after hour did sister, nurse, and friend stand watching, and doing their best, their piteously little best, while consciousness, if there was any, was far out of their reach.
Late into the night it went on, and then followed the collapse, with locked teeth, which could hardly be drawn asunder to put the stimulus hopelessly between them, and thus came the tardy December dawn, when the church-bell made Jenny bid Julius not stay, but only first read the commendatory prayer.
“I thought there was a little more revival just now,” he said; “his hands are warmer, and he really did swallow.”
The old nurse shook her head. “That’s the way before they go,” said she. “Don’t ye wish him, poor lamb, it makes it the harder for him.”
Julius prayed the prayer, and as he tenderly laid his hand on the brow, he wondered whether he should find the half-closed eyes shut for ever on his return.
But as he went, there was a quiver of lip and flicker of eyelid, the lightening, as Cranky called it, was evidently gaining ground. Herbert’s faint whisper was heard again—“Jenny!”
“Dearest!”
“The Lord’s Prayer!”
She began,—his fingers tightened on hers. “Pray it for old Moy,” he said; and as she paused, scarce hearing or understanding, “He—he wants it,” gasped Herbert. “No! One can’t pray it, without—” another pause. “Help me, Jenny. Say it—O Lord, who savedst us—forgive us. Help us to forgive from our hearts that man his trespasses. Amen.”
Jenny said it. Herbert’s voice sank in the Amen. He lay breathing in long gasps; but he thus breathed still when Julius came back, and Jenny told him that a few words had passed, adding—
“Julius, I will say nothing bitter again. God help me not to think it.”
Did Herbert hear? Was that the reason of the calm which made the white wasted face so beautiful, and the strange soft cool hush throughout the room?