Hetty Wesley Part 38

Janet noted that her mistress's face was pale and her eyes unnaturally bright with want of sleep, but held her tongue, being ever a woman of few words. Together the two dressed the table and set out the cold viands in case the travellers should arrive in time for dinner. The rest of the meal would be sent in at a few minutes'

notice from the tavern at the entrance of the court.

Having seen to these preparations and paid a visit of inspection to the bedrooms, she set out on her way back to Frith Street just as St.

Dunstan's clock was striking eleven. She left, promising Janet to return before nightfall.

Night was dusking down upon the narrow court as she entered it again out of the rattle of Fleet Street. She had lost her springy gait, and dragged her legs heavily under the burden of the unborn child and a strain which during the past four or five days had become a physical torture. She came out of her own thoughts with an effort, to wonder if the travellers had arrived.

Her eyes went up to the windows of Uncle Matthew's parlour: and, while they rested there, the room within of a sudden grew bright.

Janet had entered it with a lamp, and, having set it down, came forward to draw the curtains and close the shutters. At the same moment in the other window an arm went up to the curtain and the slim figure of Patty stood dark against the lamplight. She stood for a moment gazing out upon the court; gazing, as it seemed to Hetty, straight down upon her. Hetty came to a halt, crouching in the dusk against the wall. Now that she knew of their arrival she had no wish to greet either her sister or her uncle: nay, as her own dark shadow overtook her--the thought of the drunkard at home in the lonely house--she knew that she could not climb to that lighted room and kiss and welcome them.

As her sister's hand drew the curtain, she turned and sped back down the court. She broke into a run. The pedestrians in the dim streets were as ghosts to her. She ought not to have left him. Heaven alone knew how long this fit would last; but while it lasted her place was beside him. Twice, thrice she came to a dead stop, and panted with one hand at her breast, the other laid flat against a house-wall or the closed shutters of a shop, and so supporting her. Men peered into her face, pa.s.sed on, but turned their heads to stare back at her, not doubting her a loose woman the worse for drink, but pierced with wonder, if not with pity, at her extraordinary beauty.

She heeded them not, but always, as soon as she caught her breath again, ran on.

She turned the corner of Frith Street. Heaven knows what she expected to see--the house in a blaze, perhaps: but the dingy thoroughfare lay quiet before her, with a shop here and there casting a feeble light across the paving-stones. The murmur of the streets, and with it all sense of human help within call, fell away and were lost. She must face the horror alone.

The house was dark--all but one window, behind the yellow blind of which a light shone. She drew out her latchkey and at first fumbled at the opening with a shaking hand. Then she recalled her courage, found the latch at once, slipped in the key and pushed the door open.

No sound: the stairs stretched up before her into pitchy darkness.

She held her breath; tried to listen. Still no sound but one in her ears--the thump-thump of her own overstrained heart. She closed the door as softly as she could, and mounted the first flight.

Hark! the sound of a step above, followed by a faint glimmer of light. At the turn of the stairs she looked up and faced him.

He stood on the landing outside their bedroom door, with a candle held aloft. His eyes were blazing.

He must be met quietly, and quietly she went up. "See how quick I have been!" she said gaily, and her voice did not shake. She pa.s.sed in by the open door. He followed her stupidly and set the candle down.

"They have arrived," she said, drawing off her mittens. Her eyes travelled round the room to a.s.sure her that no weapon lay handy, though for her own sake she had no wish to live.

"Come here," he commanded thickly.

"Yes, dear: what is it?"

"Where have you been?"

"Why, to Johnson's Court, as you know."

"Conspiring against me, eh?" He pushed his face close to hers: his reeking breath sickened her: but she smiled on, expecting him to strike.

"Come here!"--though she was close already. "Stand up. I'll teach you to gossip about me. You and your gentry, my fine madam.

I'll teach you--I'll teach you!"

He struck now, blow after blow. She turned her quivering shoulders to it, s.h.i.+elding the unborn child.

He beat her to her knees. Still she curved her back, holding her arms stiffly before her, leaving her head and neck exposed.

Would the next blow kill her? She waited.

The table went over with a crash, the light with it. He must have fallen across it: for, an instant later, she heard the thud of his head against the floor.

It seemed to her that she crouched there for an endless while, waiting for him to stir. He lay close beside her foot.

Her heel touched him as she rose. She groped for the tinder-box, found the candle, lit it, held it over him.

A trickle of blood ran from his right temple, where it had struck against the bed-post. His eyes were closed. She loosened his collar, put forth all her strength--her old maiden strength for a moment restored to her--and lifted him on to the bed.

By and by his lips parted in a sigh. He began to breathe heavily--to sleep, as she thought. Still the blood trickled slowly from his temple and on to the pillow. She stepped to the water-jug, dipped her handkerchief in it, and drawing a chair to the bedside, seated herself and began to bathe the wound.

When the bleeding stopped, as the touch of cold water appeared to soothe him, she fetched a towel and pressed it gently about his neck and behind his ears. He was sleeping now: for he smiled and muttered something. Almost she thought it was her own name.

Still she sat beside him, her body aching, her heart cold; and watched him, hour after hour.

CHAPTER VII.

"And my brothers visit her?"

Twilight with invisible veils closed around Epworth, its parsonage, and the high-walled garden where Molly, staff in hand, limped to and fro beside Johnny Whitelamb--promoted now to be the Reverend John Whitelamb, B.A. He had arrived that afternoon, having walked all the way from Oxford.

--"Whenever they visit London," he answered.

"Charles, you know, upheld her from the first; and John has come to admit that her sufferings have lifted her above man's judgment.

They talk with her as with their equal in wit--"

"Why, and so she is!"

"No doubt: but it does not follow that John would acknowledge it.

They report their Oxford doings to her, and their plans: and she listens eagerly and advises. To me the strange thing is, as she manages it, that her interest does not tie her down to sharing their opinions. She speaks always as a looker-on, and they recognise this.

She keeps her own mind, just as she has always held to her own view of her marriage. I have never heard her complain, and to her husband she is an angel: yet I am sure (without being able to tell you why) that her heart condemns your father and will always condemn him."

"She knows what her punishment has been: we can only guess. Does the man drink still?"

"Yes; he drinks: but she is no longer anxious about him. Your Uncle Matthew told me that in his first attacks he used to be no better than a madman. Something happened: n.o.body seems to know precisely what it was, except that he fell and injured his head. Now the craving for drink remains, but he soaks harmlessly. No doubt he will kill himself in time; meanwhile even at his worst he is tractable, and obeys Hetty like a child. To do the man justice, he was always fond of her."

"Poor Hetty!"

"John has spoken to her once or twice about her soul, I believe: but he does not persist."

"H'm," said Molly, "you had better say that he is biding his time.

John always persists."

"That's true," he owned with a laugh: "but I have never known him so baffled to all appearance. The fact is, she cannot be roused to any interest in herself. Of others she never ceases to think. It was she, for instance--when I could not afford to buy myself a gown for ordination--who started the notion of a subscription in the family."

He was wearing the gown now, and drew it about him with another laugh. "Hence the majestic figure I cut before you at this moment."

"But we all subscribed, sir. You shall not slight my poor offering-- all made up as it was of dairy-pence."

"Miss Molly, all my life is a patchwork made up of kind deeds and kind thoughts from one or other of you. You do not believe--"

"Nay, you love us all, John. I know that well enough."