Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife Part 107

'Five o'clock.--Mrs. Delaval is come, and there is no room nor need for us, so we are going home. It is best, for mamma was nursing him all night, and is tired out. He has improved much in the course of the day, and they hope that he may soon be moved home. The pitmen want to carry him back on his mattress on their shoulders. He has made himself king of their hearts! He has been able to inquire after them, and Lady Lucy, who forgets no one, has been down-stairs to see the old Betty. "Ah! my pretty lady," she said, "you are not sorry now that you tried to take the Lord's Cross patiently, and now, you see, your sorrow is turned into joy." And then Lady Lucy would not have it called patience, and said she had had no submission in her, and Betty answered her, "Ah! well, you are young yet, and He fits the burden to the shoulder." How an adventure like this brings out the truth of every character, as one never would have known it otherwise. Who would have dreamt of that pattern of saintly resignation in the Coalworth heath, or that Lady Lucy Delaval would have found a poor old woman her truest and best comforter? and this without the least forwardness on the old woman's part.

'Just going! Lady Lucy so warm-hearted and grateful--and Lord St. Erme himself wished mamma good-bye in such a kind cordial manner, thanking her for all she had done for his sister. I am sorry to go, so as not to be in the way of seeing anything more of them, but it is time, for mamma is quite overcome. So I must close up this last letter from Coalworth, a far happier one than I thought to end with.

'Your most affectionate,

A. M.

'P. S.--Is he not a hero, equal to his "hoch-beseeltes Madchen"? I am ashamed of having written to you what was never meant for other eyes, but it will be safe with you. If you had seen how he used to waylay us, and ask for our tidings from you after the fire, you would see I cannot doubt who the "madchen" is. Is there no hope for him? The other affair was so long ago, and who could help longing to have such minstrel-love rewarded?'

That postscript did not go on to Brogden, though Annette's betrayal of confidence had been suffered to meet the eye of the high-souled maiden.

The accounts of Lord St. Erme continued to improve, though his recovery was but slow. To talk the adventure over was a never-failing interest to Lady Martindale, who, though Theodora suppressed Annette's quotation, was much of the opinion expressed in the postscript, and made some quiet lamentations that Theodora had rejected him.

'No, we were not fit for each other,' she answered.

'You would not say so now,' said Lady Martindale. 'He has done things as great as yourself, my dear.'

'I am fit for no one now,' said Theodora, bluntly.

'Ah, my dear!--But I don't know why I should wish you to marry; I could never do without you.'

'That's the most sensible thing you have said yet, mamma.'

But Theodora wished herself less necessary at home, when, in a few weeks more, she had to gather that matters were going on well from the large round-hand note, with nursery spelling and folding, in which Johnnie announced that he had a little brother.

An interval of peace to Violet ensued. Arthur did not nurse her as in old times; but he was gentle and kind, and was the more with her as the cough, which had never been entirely removed, was renewed by a chill in the first cold of September. All went well till the babe was a week old, when Arthur suddenly announced his intention of asking for a fortnight's leave, as he was obliged to go to Boulogne on business.

Here was a fresh thunderbolt. Violet guessed that Mr. Gardner was there, and was convinced that, whatever might be Arthur's present designs, he would come back having taken a house at Boulogne. He answered her imploring look by telling her not to worry herself; he hoped to get 'quit of the concern,' and, at any rate, could not help going. She suggested that his cough would bear no liberties; he said, change of air would take it off, and scouted her entreaty that he would consult Mr.

Harding. Another morning, a kind careless farewell, he was gone!

Poor Violet drew the coverlet over her head; her heart failed her, and she craved that her throbbing sinking weakness and feverish anxiety might bring her to her final rest. When she glanced over the future, her husband deteriorating, and his love closed up from her; her children led astray by evil influences of a foreign soil; Johnnie, perhaps, only saved by separation--Johnnie, her precious comforter; herself far from every friend, every support, without security of church ordinances--all looked so utterly wretched that, as her pulses beat, and every sensation of illness was aggravated, she almost rejoiced in the danger she felt approaching.

Nothing but her infant's voice could have recalled her to a calmer mind, and brought back the sense that she was bound to earth by her children.

She repented as of impatience and selfishness, called back her resolution, and sought for soothing. It came. She had taught herself the dominion over her mind in which she had once been so deficient. Vexing cares and restless imaginings were driven back by echoes of hymns and psalms and faithful promises, as she lay calm and resigned, in her weakness and solitude, and her babe slept tranquilly in her bosom, and Johnnie brought his books and histories of his sisters; and she could smile in thankfulness at their loveliness of to-day, only in prayer concerning herself for the morrow. She was content patiently to abide the Lord.

CHAPTER 8

But one, I wis, was not at home, Another had paid his gold away, Another called him thriftless loone, And bade him sharply wend his way.

--Heir of Lynne

'He is done for. That wife of his may feel the consequence of meddling in other folk's concerns. Not that I care for that now, there's metal more attractive; but she has crossed me, and shall suffer for it.' These short sentences met the ear of a broad-shouldered man in a rough coat, as, in elbowing his way through the crowd on the quay at Boulogne, he was detained for a moment behind two persons, whose very backs had all the aspect of the dissipated Englishman abroad. Struggling past, he gained a side view of the face of the speaker. It was one which he knew; but the vindictive glare in the sarcastic eyes positively made him start, as he heard the laugh of triumph and derision, in reply to some remark from the other.

'Ay! and got enough to get off to Paris, where the old Finch has dropped off his perch at last. That was all I wanted of him, and it was time to wring him dry and have done with him. He will go off in consumption before the year is out--'

As he spoke, the stranger turned on him an honest English face, the lips compressed into an expression of the utmost contempt, while indignation flashed in the penetrating gray eyes, that looked on him steadily.

His bold defiant gaze fell, quailing and scowling, he seemed to become small, shrink away, and disappeared.

'When scamp number two looks round for scamp number one, he is lost in the crowd,' muttered the traveller, half smiling; then, with a deep breath, 'The hard-hearted rascal! If one could only wring his neck!

Heaven help the victim! though, no doubt, pity is wasted on him.'

He ceased his reflections, to enter the steamer just starting for Folkestone, and was soon standing on deck, keeping guard over his luggage. The sound of a frequent cough attracted his attention, and, looking round, he saw a tall figure wrapped in great-coats leaning on the leeward side of the funnel.

'Hollo! you here, Arthur! Where have you been?'

'What, Percy? How d'ye do?' replied a hoa.r.s.e, languid voice.

'Is Mrs. Martindale here?'

'No.' He was cut short by such violent cough that he was obliged to rest his forehead on his arm; then s.h.i.+vering, and complaining of the cold, he said he should go below, and moved away, rejecting Percy's offered arm with some impatience.

The weather was beautiful, and Percy stood for some time watching the receding sh.o.r.e, and scanning, with his wonted keen gaze, the various countenances of the pa.s.sengers. He took a book from his pocket, but did not read long; he looked out on the sea, and muttered to himself, 'What folly now? Why won't that name let one rest? Besides, he looked desperately ill; I must go and see if they have made him comfortable in that dog-hole below.'

Percy shook himself as if he was out of humour; and, with his hands in his pockets, and a sauntering step, entered the cabin. He found Arthur there alone, his head resting on his arms, and his frame shaken by the suppressed cough.

'You seem to have a terrible cold. This is a bad time to be crossing.

How long have you been abroad?'

'Ten days.--How came you here?'

'I am going to Worthbourne. How are all your folks!'

'All well;' and coughing again, he filled up a tumbler with spirits and water, and drank it off, while Percy exclaimed:

'Are you running crazy, to be feeding such a cough in this way?'

'The only thing to warm one,' said he, shuddering from head to foot.

'Yes, warm you properly into a nice little fever and inflammation. Why, what a hand you have! And your pulse! Here, lie down at once,' as he formed a couch with the help of a wrapper and bag. Arthur pa.s.sively accepted his care; but as the chill again crept through his veins, he stretched out his hand for the cordial.

'I won't have it done!' thundered Percy. 'I will not look on and see you killing yourself!'

'I wish I could,' murmured Arthur, letting his hand drop, as if unequal to contest the point.

The conviction suddenly flashed on Percy that he was the victim! 'You have got yourself into a sc.r.a.pe' he said.

'Sc.r.a.pe! I tell you I am ruined! undone!' exclaimed Arthur, rearing himself up, as he burst out into pa.s.sionate imprecations on Mark Gardner, cut short by coughing.

'You! with your wife and little children entirely depending on you! You have allowed that scoundrel, whose baseness you knew, to dupe you to your own destruction!' said Percy, with slowness and severity.

Too ill and wretched to resent the reproach, Arthur sank his head with a heavy groan, that almost disarmed Percy; then looking up, with sparkling eyes, he exclaimed, 'No! I did not know his baseness; I thought him a careless scape-grace, but not much worse than he has made me. I would as soon have believed myself capable of the treachery, the unfeeling revenge--' Again he was unable to say more, and struggling for utterance, he stamped his foot against the floor, and groaned aloud with rage and pain.