Name and Fame Part 44

In the second week of October, Mrs. Chigwin was at work in her garden, with her dress tucked up, a basket in her left hand, and a large pair of scissors in her right. Every flower that had begun to fade, every withered leaf and overgrown shoot fell before those fatal shears, and was caught in the all-devouring basket; and from time to time she bore a fresh load of snippets to their last resting-place. Her heart was in her work, and she would not rest until she had completed her round. From the clematis on the cottage wall and the jessamine over the porch she pa.s.sed to a clump of variegated hollyhocks, and from them to the hedge of sweet peas, to the fuchsias almost as high as the peas, the purple and white phlox, the yellow evening primrose, and the many-colored asters.

Stooping here and there, she carefully trimmed the rank-growing geraniums and the cl.u.s.ters of chrysanthemums, cut off the straggling branches of the mignonette and removed every pa.s.sing bloom of harebell, heartsease, and heliotrope.

The euthanasia of the fading blossoms filled her shallow skep half-a-dozen times over, and, to anyone ignorant (to his shame) of the art which our first ancestor surely learned from his mother, and loved, it might have seemed that Mrs. Chigwin used her scissors with a too unsparing hand. But the happy old soul knew what she was about. The evening was closing in, and she had cut both the flowers whose beauty had pa.s.sed away and those which would have been wrinkled and flabby before the morning, knowing full well that only so can you reckon on the perfection of beauty from day to day.

"There, now," she said, when her last basketful was disposed of, "I have done. And if old Squire Jermyn, who first laid out this garden, was to come to life again to-morrow, there would be nothing in Martha Chigwin's little plot to make his hair stand on end."

She threw her eyes comprehensively round the ring of cottages which encircled the village green, with a sniff of defiant challenge, as though she would dare any of her neighbors to make the same boast; and then she came and sat down on the garden-seat, and said to her old friend and companion,

"What do you think about it, Elizabeth?"

"You are right, Martha; right as you always are," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a feeble voice. "And I was thinking as you went round, cutting off the flowers that have had their day, that if you had come to me and cut me off with the rest of them, there would have been one less poor old withered thing in the world. Here have I been a wretched cripple on your hands all the summer, and surely if the Lord had had any need for me He would not have broken my stalk and left me to shrivel up in the suns.h.i.+ne."

"Now, Bessy," said Mrs. Chigwin, severely, "do you want to put out the light of peace that we have been enjoying for days past? Fie, for shame!

and in a garden, too. Where's your grat.i.tude--or, leastways, where's your patience?"

"There, there, Martha, you know I did not mean it. But I sit here thinking and thinking, till I could write whole volumes on the vanity of human wishes. Cut me off, indeed, just at this moment, when I am waiting to see my dear boy once more before I die!"

Mrs. Bundlecombe was silent again, and the other did not disturb her, knowing by experience what the effort to speak would be likely to end in.

Things had not gone well at Birchmead in the last six months. The news of Alan's arrest on the charge of wife-murder--that was the exaggerated shape in which it first reached the village--was a terrible blow to poor Aunt Bessy. She was struck down by paralysis, and had to keep to her bed for many weeks, and even now she had only the partial use of her limbs.

Mrs. Chigwin, buckling to her new task with heroic cheerfulness, had nursed and comforted her and lightened the burden of her life so far as that was possible. As soon as the cripple could be dressed and moved about, she had bought for her a light basket-chair, into which she used to lift her bodily. Whenever the weather was fine enough she would wheel her into the garden; and she won the first apology for a laugh from Mrs.

Bundlecombe when, having drawn her on the gra.s.s and settled her comfortably, she said,

"Now, Bessy, I have repotted you and put you in the sun on the same day as my balsams, and I shall expect you to be ready for planting out as soon as they are."

But that was too sanguine a hope, for Mrs. Bundlecombe was still in her chair, and there was not much chance of her ever being able to walk again. As it had been impossible for her to go and see her nephew, either before his trial or since, Mrs. Chigwin had written a letter for her, entreating Alan to come to Birchmead as soon as he was free; and the writer a.s.sured him on her own account that there was not a better place in England for quiet rest and consolation. They heard from the prison authorities that the letter had been received, and that it would be given to the prisoner; and now Aunt Bessy was counting the days until his time had expired.

There had been other changes at Birchmead in the course of the year.

Mrs. Harrington no longer occupied the adjoining cottage, but lay at peace in the churchyard at Thorley. Her grand-daughter had written once to the old ladies from London, according to her promise; after which they had heard of her no more, although they sent her word of her grandmother's death, to the address which she had given them.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, and it was time for Mrs. Bundlecombe to be taken indoors. So Martha Chigwin wheeled her into the house, rapidly undressed her, and lifted her into bed. Then there was a chapter to be read aloud, and joint prayers to be repeated, and supper to be prepared; and Mrs. Chigwin had just made the two cups of gruel which represented the last duty of her busy day's routine, when she heard a noise of wheels on the gravel outside.

It was not a cart but a cab, and it stopped at the door. Cabs were not very familiar in Birchmead, and the appearance of this one at Mrs.

Chigwin's cottage brought curious eyes to almost every window looking out upon the green. There was not much to reward curiosity--only a lady, dressed in a long fur-lined cloak, with a quiet little bonnet, and a traveling-bag in her hand, who knocked at Mrs. Chigwin's door, and, after a short confabulation, dismissed the cabman and went in. At any rate it was something for Birchmead to know that it had a visitor who had come in a Dorminster cab. That was an incident which for these good souls distinguished the day from the one which went before and the one which came after it.

It was Lettice Campion who thus stirred the languid pulse of Birchmead.

She had found her way like a ministering angel to the bedside of Alan's aunt, within three or four days of her arrival in England.

Mrs. Chigwin felt the utmost confidence in her visitor, both from what she had heard of her before and from what she saw of her as soon as she entered the cottage. Lettice could not have been kinder to her mother than she was to the poor crippled woman who had no claim upon her service. She told Mrs. Chigwin that so long as she was at Birchmead she should be Mrs. Bundlecombe's nurse, and she evidently meant to keep her word. Aunt Bessy was comforted beyond measure by her appearance, and still more by the few words which Lettice whispered to her, in response to the forlorn appeal of the old woman's eyes--so unutterably eloquent of the thoughts that were throbbing in the hearts of both--

"I shall wait for him when he comes out!"

"G.o.d bless you!" said Aunt Bessy.

"The world has been cruel to him. He has only us two; we must try to comfort him," whispered Lettice.

"I am past it, dearie. He has no one but you. You are enough for him."

And she went on in the slow and painful way which had become habitual to her.

"I have been tortured in my heart, thinking of his coming out upon the weary world, all alone, broken down may be, with none to take him by the hand, and me lying here upon my back, unable to help him. Oh, it is hard! And sometimes in a dream I see his mother, Lucy, my own little sister that died so many years ago, floating over the walls of his prison, and signing to me to fetch him out. But now she will rest in her grave, and I myself could die to-night and be happy, because you will not forsake him. My dear, he loves you like his own soul!"

Lettice did not reply, but she kissed the cheek of Alan's aunt, and bade her try to sleep.

It was growing dark. Through the window she could trace the outlines of the garden below. She was tempted by the balmy night, and went out.

"He loves you like his own soul!" Was not that how she loved him, and was she not here in England to tell him so?

The question startled her, as though some one else had put it to her, and was waiting for an answer. That, surely, was not her object; and yet, if not, what was? From the hour when she read Sydney's letter at Florence she seemed to have had a new motive power within her. She had acted hitherto from instinct, or from mere feeling; she could scarcely recall a single argument which she had held with herself during the past ten days. She might have been walking in a dream, so little did she seem to have used her reason or her will. Yet much had happened since she left Italy.

On Thursday she had arrived in London with Mrs. Hartley.

On Sat.u.r.day she went out by herself, and managed to see the governor of the gaol where Alan was lodged. From him she learned, to her dismay, that "Number 79" had had a severe and almost fatal illness. He was still very weak, though out of danger, and it was thought that with the careful attention which he was receiving in the infirmary he would probably be able to leave on the 29th of October.

Captain Haynes told her that his prisoner appeared to have no relatives "except the wife, who was not likely to give herself much trouble about him, and an aunt in the country who was paralyzed." So, Lettice arranged to bring a carriage to the prison gates on the morning of the 29th, and to fetch him away.

Having learned Mrs. Bundlecombe's address, thanks to the letter which had been written to the governor by Mrs. Chigwin, she came to Birchmead on Monday--lingering an hour or two at Angleford in order that she might see her native place again, and recall the image of the father whom she had loved and lost.

Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented and at rest. Now she could think, and reason with herself if need be. What did she mean to do? What had she done already? How had she committed herself? She was only too painfully aware that she had taken a step which there was no retracing. Had she not virtually broken with Mrs. Hartley, with the Daltons, with Sydney and his wife? They would doubtless think so, whether she did or not. She had no illusions in the matter. Not one of them would forgive her--not even Mrs. Hartley--for her treatment of Brooke Dalton, for her independent action since she left Italy, and for her a.s.sociation with Alan Walcott.

As for that--it was true that she had not yet gone too far. She had not coupled her name with Alan's in any public manner, or in any way at all, except that she had used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. He would not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act with greater secrecy and caution. She need not let anyone know that she had taken an interest in him, that she had been to his prison, and had promised to bring him away when he was released. Beyond that point of bringing him away she had not yet advanced, even in her own mind. What was to prevent her from sending a carriage, as though it had been provided by Aunt Bessy, and letting him find his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wished to go, like any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock her friends--she would not outrage the feelings of poor Sydney, who thought so much of the world's opinion and of the name they held in common.

That was a strong argument with her, for, to some extent, she sympathized with her brother's ambitions, although she did not greatly esteem them. She would do all that she could to avoid hurting him. How much could she do? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm and collected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear line beyond which she would not let her pity for Alan Walcott carry her? What she thought right, that she would do--no more, but certainly no less. Then what was right?

There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good conscience, she had been guided almost entirely by her feelings, and they had led her so straight that she had never been prompted to ask herself such questions as What is right? or What is the proper thing to do? She had done good by intuition and nature; and now it was out of her power to realize any other or stronger obligation than that of acting as nature bade her. One thing only was plain to her at the moment--that she must be kind to this man who had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and who, but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. Could she be kind without going to meet him at the prison gates?

She was trying to persuade herself that she could; and so deeply was she absorbed by the struggle which was going on in her mind that she did not notice the feeble wailing sound which ever and anon came towards her on the silent night air. But, at last, a louder cry than before disturbed her quiet reverie, and startled her into attention.

It seemed to be close at hand--a cry like that of a little child; and she stood up and peered into the shadow behind her. She could see nothing, but the wailing came again, and Lettice groped her way across the flower border, and stood by the low garden wall.

There was just enough light to enable her to distinguish the form of a woman, crouching on the rank gra.s.s in what used to be Mrs. Harrington's garden, and vainly attempting to soothe the baby which she held in her arms.

It was too dark to see the woman's features, or to judge if she were in much distress, but Lettice could not be satisfied to leave her where she was.

"Who are you?" she asked; and, at the sound of her voice the little child was hushed, as though it knew that a friend was near. But the mother did not answer.

"What do you want? Why are you sitting there? Have you no home?"

A very weak "No" reached her straining ears.

"Can you walk? Come here, if you can."

The figure did not move.

"Then I must get over the wall and come to you."

She was beginning to do as she had said, when the other slowly rose to her feet, and drew unwillingly a step nearer.

"Come," said Lettice, kindly, but firmly. She felt that this was a woman over whom it would not be hard to exercise authority.