CHAPTER XXVI
Lilias Wyndham never forgot that last Sunday with Gerald spent at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. The day in itself was perfect, the air blew softly from the west, the sun shone in a nearly cloudless heaven; the gentle breezes, the opening flowers, the first faint buds of spring on tree and hedge-row seemed all to give a foretaste of summer. Nobody knew, none could guess, that in one sense they foretold the desolation of dark winter.
It was in this light that Wyndham himself regarded the lovely day.
"I leap from calm to storm," he said to himself. "Never mind, I will enjoy the present bliss!"
He did enjoy it, really, not seemingly. He took every scrap of sweetness out of it, almost forgetting Valentine for the time being, and living over again the days when he was a light-hearted boy.
He went to church twice, and sat in the corner of the square family pew which had always been reserved for him. As of old, Lilias sat by his side, and when the sermon came he lifted little Joan into his arms, and she fell asleep with her golden head on his breast. The rector preached and Gerald listened. It was an old-fashioned sermon, somewhat long for the taste of the present day. It had been carefully prepared, and was read aloud, for the benefit of the congregation, in a clear, gentlemanly voice.
Gerald almost forgot that he was a man with an unusual load of suffering upon him, as he listened to the time-honored softly-flowing sentences.
"Blessed are the pure in heart," was the rector's text, and it seemed to more than one of that little village congregation that he was describing his own son when he drew his picture of the man of purity.
In the evening Carr preached. He was as modern as the rector was the reverse. He used neither M.S. nor notes, and his sermon scarcely occupied ten minutes.
"To die is gain" was his text. There were some in the congregation who scarcely understood the vigorous words, but they seemed to one weary man like the first trumpet notes of coming battle. They spoke of a fight which led to a victory. Wyndham remembered them by-and-bye.
It was the custom at the rectory to have a kind of open house on Sunday evening, and to-night many of Gerald's friends dropped in. The large party seemed a happy one. The merriment of the night before had deepened into something better. Lilias spoke of it afterwards as bliss.
"Do you remember," she said to Marjory, in the desolate days which followed, "how Gerald looked when he played the organ in the hall? Do you remember his face when we sang 'Sun of my soul?'"
The happiest days come to an end. The children went to bed, the friends one by one departed. Even Lilias and Marjory kissed their brother and bade him good-night. He was to leave before they were up in the morning. This he insisted on, against their will.
"But we shall see you soon in London," they both said, for they were coming up in a few weeks to stay with an aunt. Then they told him to kiss Valentine for them, and went upstairs, chatting lightly to one another.
The rector and his son were alone.
"We have had a happy day," said Gerald, abruptly.
"We have, my son. It does us all good to have you with us, Gerald. I could have wished – but there's no good regretting now. Each man must choose his own path, and you seem happy, my dear son; that is the main thing."
"I never thought primarily of happiness," responded Gerald. "Did you listen to Carr's sermon to-night? He proved his case well. To die is sometimes gain."
The rector, who was seated by the fire, softly patted his knee with one hand.
"Yes, yes," he said, "Carr proved his case ably. He's a good fellow. A little inclined to the broad church, don't you think?"
"Perhaps so."
Gerald stood up. His face had suddenly grown deadly white.
"Father, I kept a secret from you all day. I did not wish to do anything to mar the bliss of this perfect Sunday. You – you'll break it to Lilias and Maggie, and the younger children. I'm going to Sydney on Wednesday. I came down to say good-bye."
He held out his hand. The rector stood up and grasped it.
"My dear lad – my boy. Well – well – you'll come back again. Of course, I did know that you expected to go abroad on business for your firm. My dear son. Yes, my boy – aye – you'll come back again soon. How queer you look, Gerald. Sit down. I'm afraid you're a little overdone."
"Good-bye, father. You're an old man, and Sydney is a long way off. Good-bye. I have a queer request to make. Grant it, and don't think me weak or foolish. Give me your blessing before I go."
Suddenly Wyndham fell on his knees, and taking his father's hand laid it on his head.
"I am like Esau," he said. "Is there not one blessing left for me?"
The rector was deeply moved.
"Heaven above bless you, my boy," he said. "Your mother's God go with you. There, Gerald, you are mor bid. You will be back with me before the snows of next winter fall. But God bless you, my boy, wherever you are and whatever you do!"
CHAPTER XXVII
Valentine was sitting in her pretty drawing-room. It was dinner time, but she had not changed her dress. She was too young, too fresh, and unused to trouble, for it yet to leave any strong marks on her face. The delicate color in her cheeks had slightly paled, it is true, her bright hair was in confusion, and her eyes looked larger and more wistful than their wont, but otherwise no one could tell that her heart was beating heavily and that she was listening eagerly for a footstep.
Seven o'clock came – half-past seven. This was Gerald's last night at home; he was to sail in the Esperance for Sydney to-morrow. Valentine felt stunned and cold, though she kept on repeating to herself over and over: —
"This parting is nothing. He's sure to be home in six months at the latest. Six months at the very latest. In these days there is really no such thing as distance. What is a six months' parting? Besides, it is not as if I were really in love with him. Father asked me the question direct last night, and I said I wasn't. How could I love him with all my heart when I remember that scene at the Gaiety? Oh, that scene! It burns into me like fire, and father's look – I almost hated father that night. I did really. Fancy, Valentine hating her father! Oh, of course it passed. There is no one like my father. Husbands aren't like fathers, not in the long run. Oh, Gerald, you might have told me the truth? I'd have forgiven you, I would really, if you had told me the truth. Oh, why don't you come? Why don't you come? You might be in time this last evening. It is a quarter to eight now. I am impatient – I am frightened. Oh, there's a ring at the hall door. Oh, thank God. No, of course, Gerald, I don't love you – not as I could have loved – and yet I do – I do love you – I do!"
She clasped her hands – a footstep was on the stairs. The door was opened, Masters brought her a thick letter on a salver.
"Has not Mr. Wyndham come? Was not that ring Mr. Wyndham's?"
"No, madam, a messenger brought this letter. He said there was no answer."
The page withdrew, and Valentine tore open the envelope. A letter somewhat blotted, bearing strong marks of agitation, but in her husband's writing, lay in her hand. Her eager eyes devoured the contents.
"I can't say good-bye, my darling – there are limits even to my endurance – I can't look at you and hear you say 'Good-bye, Gerald.' I bade you farewell this morning when you were asleep. I am not coming home to-night, but your father will spend the evening with you. You love him better than me, and I pray the God of all mercy that he may soften any little pang that may come to you in this separation. When you are reading this I shall be on my way to Southampton. I have bid your father good-bye, and he will tell you everything there is to tell about me. The Esperance sails at noon to-morrow, and it is a good plan to be on board in good time. I cannot tell you. Valentine, what my own feelings are. I cannot gauge my love for you. I don't think anything could probe it to its depths. I am a sinful man, but I sometimes hope that God will forgive me, because I have loved as much as the human heart is capable of loving. You must remember that, dear. You must always know that you have inspired in one man's breast the extreme of love!
"Good-bye, my darling. It is my comfort to know that the bitterness of this six months' separation falls on me. If I thought otherwise, if I thought even for a moment that you cared more for your husband than you do for the world's opinion, or for riches, or for honor, that you would rather have him with poverty and shame, that he was more to you even than the father who gave you your being, then I would say even now, at the eleventh hour, 'fly to me, Valentine. Let us go away together on board the Esperance, and forget all promises and all honor, and all truth.' Yes, I would say it. But that is a mad dream. Forget this part of my letter. Valentine. It has been wrung from a tortured and almost maddened heart. Good-bye, my wife. Be thankful that you have not it in you to love recklessly.
"Your husband,"Gerald Wyndham."
"But I have!" said Valentine. She raised her eyes. Her father was in the room.
"Yes, I can love – I too can give back the extreme of love. Father, I am going to my husband. I am going to Southampton. What's the matter? What are you looking at me like that for? Why did you send Gerald away without letting him come to say good-bye? Not that it matters, for I am going to him. I shall take the very next train to Southampton."
"My darling," began Mr. Paget.
"Oh, yes, father, yes. But there's no time for loving words just now. I've had a letter from my husband, and I'm going to him. I'm going to Sydney with him. Yes – you can't prevent me!"
"You are talking folly, Valentine," said Mr. Paget. "You are excited, my child; you are talking wildly. Going with your husband? My poor little girl. There, dear, there. He'll soon be back. You can't go with him, you know, my love. Show me his letter. What has he dared to say to excite you like this?"
"No, you shan't see a word of his dear letter. No, not for all the world. I understand him at last, and I love him with all my heart and soul. Yes, I do. Oh, no, I don't love you as I love my husband."
Mr. Paget stepped back a pace or two. There was no doubting Valentine's words, no doubting the look on her face. She was no longer a child. She was a woman, a woman aroused to passion, almost to fury.
"I am going to my husband," she said. And she took no notice of her father when he sank into the nearest chair and pressed his hand to his heart.
"I have got a blow," he said. "I have got an awful blow."
But Valentine did not heed him.
CHAPTER XXVIII
"Yes, my darling," said Mr. Paget, two hours later; his arms were round his daughter, and her head was on his shoulder. "Oh, yes, my dear one, certainly, if you wish it."
"And you'll go with me, father? Father, couldn't you come too? Couldn't we three go? Yes, that would be nice, that would be happiness."
"A good idea," said Mr. Paget, reflectively. "But really, Val, really now, don't you think Wyndham and I rather spoil you? You discover at the eleventh hour that you can't live without your husband, that as he must cross to the other side of the world, you must go there too. And now in addition I have to accompany you. Do you think you are worth all this? That any girl in the world is worth all this?"
"Perhaps not, father."
Valentine was strangely subdued and quiet.
"I suppose it would be selfish to bring you," she said; "and we shall be back in six months."
"True," said Mr. Paget in a thoughtful voice; "and even for my daughter's sake my business must not go absolutely to the dogs. Well, child, a wilful woman – you know the proverb – a wilful woman must have her way. I own I'm disappointed. I looked forward to six months all alone with you. Six months with my own child – a last six months, for of course I always guessed that when Wyndham came back you'd give yourself up to him body and soul. Oh, no, my dear, I'm not going to disappoint you. A wife fretting and mourning for her husband is the last person I should consider a desirable companion. Run upstairs now and get your maid to put your things together. I shall take you down to Southampton by an early train in the morning, and in the meantime, if you'll excuse me. Valentine, I'll go out and send a telegram to your husband."
"To tell him that I'm coming?"
"Yes, are you not pleased?"
"No, don't do that. I will meet him on board the boat. I know exactly what the scene will be. He'll be looking – no. I shan't say how he'll be looking – but I'll steal up behind him, and slip my hand through his arm, and then – and then! Father, kiss me. I love you for making me so happy."
Mr. Paget pressed his lips to his daughter's forehead. For a brief moment his eyes looked into hers. She remembered by-and-bye their queer expression. Just now, however, she was too overwrought and excited to have room for any ideas except the one supreme longing and passion which was drawing her to her husband.
"Shall we have dinner?" said Mr. Paget after another pause.
Valentine laughed rather wildly.
"Dinner? I can't eat. Had not you better go home and have something? Perhaps I did order dinner, but I can't remember. My head feels queer; I can't think properly. Go home and have something to eat, father. You can come back later on. I am going upstairs now to pack."
She left the room without a word, and Mortimer Paget heard her light step as she ran up to her bedroom. He began to talk vehemently to himself.
"Does that child, that little girl, whom I reared and fostered – that creature whom I brought into existence – think she will checkmate me now at the supreme moment. No, there are limits. I find that even my love for Valentine has a bottom, and I reach it when I see the prisoner's cell, solitary confinement, penal servitude, looming large on the horizon. Even your heart must suffer, little Valentine, to keep such a fate as that from my door. Poor little Val! Well, the best schemes, the most carefully laid plans sometimes meet with defeat. It did not enter into my calculations that Val would fall madly in love with that long-faced fellow. Pah! where's her taste? What men women will admire. Well, Valentine, you must pay the penalty, for my plans cannot be disturbed at the eleventh hour!"
Mr. Paget went softly out of the house, but he did not go, as Valentine innocently supposed, home to dinner. No, he had something far more important to attend to. Something in which he could be very largely assisted by that confidential clerk of his, Jonathan Helps.
Meanwhile, Valentine and her maid were having a busy time. Dresses were pulled out, trunks dusted and brought into the middle of the room, and hasty preparations were made for a journey.
Valentine's low spirits had changed to high ones. She was as happy as some hours ago she had been miserable. Her heart was now at rest, it had acknowledged its own need – it had given expression to the love which was fast becoming its life.
"You are surprised, Suzanne," said Mrs. Wyndham to her maid. "Yes, it is a hurried journey. I had no idea of going with Mr. Wyndham, but he – poor fellow – he can't do without me, Suzanne, so I am going. I shall join him on board the Esperance in the morning. You can fancy his surprise – his pleasure. Put in plenty of dinner dresses, Suzanne. Those white dresses that Mr. Wyndham likes – yes, that is right. Of course I shall dress every evening for dinner on board the Esperance. I wonder if many other ladies are going. Not that it matters – I shall have my husband. What are you saying, Suzanne?"
"That it is beautiful to lof," replied the maid, looking up with adoring eyes at her pretty animated young mistress.
She was both young and pretty herself, and she sympathized with Valentine, and admired her immensely for her sudden resolve.
"Yes, love is beautiful," answered Valentine gravely. Her eyes filled with sudden soft tears of happiness. "And there is something better even than love," she said, looking at Suzanne, and speaking with a sudden burst of confidence. "The highest bliss of all is to give joy to those who love you."
"And you will do that to-morrow, madame," replied Suzanne fervently. "Oh, this lof, so beautiful, so rare – you will lay it at monsieur's feet – he is goot, monsieur is, and how great is his passion for madame."
The young Swiss girl flitted gaily about, and by-and-bye the packing even for this sudden voyage was accomplished.
"You will take me with you, madame?" said Suzanne.
"No, Suzanne, there is no time to arrange that, nor shall I really want you. We may have to rough it a little, my husband and I; not that we mind, it will be like a continual picnic – quite delicious."
"But madame must be careful of her precious health."
The color flushed into Valentine's cheeks.
"My husband will take care of me," she said. "No. Suzanne, I shall not take you with me. You will stay here for the present, and my father will arrange matters for you. Now you can go downstairs and have some supper. I shall not want you again to-night."
The girl withdrew, and Valentine stood by the fire, gazing into its cheerful depths, and seeing many happy dream pictures.
"Yes, I shall certainly go with him. Even if what I dread and hope and long for is the case, I shall be with him. I can whisper it first to him. I ought to be with him> – I ought to be with my husband then. Why did Suzanne speak about my health? No one will take such care of me as Gerald. Even my father cannot approach Gerald for tenderness, for sympathy when one is out of sorts. How soothing is Gerald's hand; how quieting. Once I was ill for a few hours. Only a bad headache, but it went when he made me lie very still, and when he clasped my two hands in one of his. Yes, I quite believe in Gerald. Even though I do not understand that night at the Gaiety, still I absolutely believe in my husband. He is too noble to tell a lie; he had a reason for not explaining what looked so strange that night. He had a right reason, probably a good and great one. Perhaps I'll ask him again some day. Perhaps when he knows there's a little – little child coming he'll tell me himself. Oh, God, kind, good, beautiful God, if you are going to give me a child of my very own, help me to be worthy of it. Help me to be worthy of the child, and of the child's father."
Mr. Paget's ring was heard at the hall door, and Valentine ran down to meet him. He had made all arrangements he told her. They would catch the 8.5 train in the morning from Waterloo, and he would call for her in a cab at a sufficiently early hour to catch it.
His words were brief, but he was quite quiet and business-like. He kissed his daughter affectionately, told her to go to bed at once, and soon after left the house.
Valentine gave directions for the morning and went back to her room. She got quickly into bed, for she was determined to be well rested for what lay before her on the following day. She laid her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and prepared to go to sleep. Does not everybody know what happens on these occasions? Does not each individual who in his or her turn has especially desired for the best and most excellent reason a long sleep, a deep sleep, an unbroken and dreamless sleep found it recede further and further away – found eyes more watchful – brain more active, limbs more restless, as the precious moments fly by? How loud the watch ticks, how audible are the minutest sounds!
It was thus with Valentine Wyndham that night. No sleep came near her, and by slow degrees as the fire grew faint and the night deepened in silence and solemnity, her happy excitement, her childish joy, gave place to vague apprehensions. All kinds of nameless terrors came over her. Suppose an accident happened to the train? Suppose the Esperance sailed before its time? Above all, and this idea was agonizing, was so repellant that she absolutely pushed it from her – suppose her father was deceiving her. She was horrified as this thought came, and came. It would come, it would not be banished. Suppose her father was deceiving her?
She went over in the silence of the night the whole scene of that evening. Her own sudden and fierce resolve, her father's opposition, his disappointment – then his sudden yielding. The more she thought, the more apprehensive she grew; the more she pondered, the longer, the more real grew her fears. At last she could bear them no longer.
She lit a candle and looked at her watch. Three o'clock. Had ever passed a night so long and dreadful? There would not be even a ray of daylight for some time. She could not endure that hot and restless pillow. She would get up and dress.
All the time she was putting on her clothes the dread that her father was deceiving her kept strengthening – strengthening. At last it almost reached a panic. What a fool she had been not to go to Southampton the night before. Suppose Gerald's ship sailed before she reached it or him.
Suddenly an idea came like a ray of light. Why should she wait for her father? Why should she not take an earlier train to Southampton? The relative depths of Valentine's two loves were clearly shown when she did not reject this thought. It mattered nothing at all to her at this supreme moment whether she offended her father or not. She determined to go to Southampton by the first train that left Waterloo that morning. She ran downstairs, found a time-table, saw that a train left at 5.50, and resolved to catch it. She would take Suzanne with her, and leave a message for her father; he could follow by the 8.5 train if he liked.
She went upstairs and woke her maid.
"Suzanne, get up at once. Dress yourself, and come to me, to my room."
In an incredible short time Suzanne had obeyed this mandate.
"I am going to take you with me to Southampton. Suzanne. I mean to catch the train which leaves here at ten minutes to six. We have plenty of time, but not too much. Can you make some coffee for us both? And then either you or Masters must find a cab."
Suzanne opened her bright eyes wide.
"I will go with you, my goot madam," she said to herself. "The early hour is noting, the strangeness is noting. That olt man – I hate that olt man! I will go alone with you, mine goot mistress, to find the goot husband what is so devoted. Ach! Suzanne does not like that olt man!"
Coffee was served in Valentine's bedroom. Mistress and maid partook of it together. Masters was aroused, was fortunate enough in procuring a cab, and at five o'clock, for Valentine's impatience could brook no longer delay, she and Suzanne had started together for Waterloo.
Once more her spirits were high. She had dared something for Gerald. It was already sweet to her to be brave for his sake.
Before she left she wrote a short letter to her father – a constrained little note – for her fears stood between her and him.
She and Suzanne arrived at Waterloo long before the train started.
"Oh, how impatient I am!" whispered Mrs. Wyndham to her maid. "Will time never pass? I am sure all the clocks in London must be wrong, this last night has been like three."
The longest hours, however, do come to an end, and presently Valentine and Suzanne found themselves being whirled out of London, and into the early morning of a bright clear March day.
The two occupied a compartment to themselves. Suzanne felt wide awake, talkative, and full of intense curiosity; but Valentine was strangely silent. She ceased either to laugh or to talk. She drew down her veil, and establishing herself in a corner kept looking out at the swiftly passing landscape. Once more the fear which had haunted her during the night returned. Even now, perhaps, she would not be in time!
Then she set to work chiding herself. She must be growing silly. The Esperance did not leave the dock until noon, and her train was due at Southampton soon after eight. Of course there would be lots of time. Even her father who was to follow by the later train could reach the Esperance before she sailed.
The train flew quickly through the country, the slow moments dropped into space one by one. Presently the train slackened speed – presently it reached its destination.
Then for the first time Valentine's real difficulties began. She had not an idea from which dock the Esperance was to sail. A porter placed her luggage on a fly. She and Suzanne got in, and the driver asked for directions. No, the Esperance was not known to the owner of the hackney coach.
When the porter and the cabman questioned Mrs. Wyndham she suddenly felt as if she had come up against a blank wall. There were miles of ships all around. If she could afford no clue to the whereabouts of the Esperance the noon of another day might come before she could reach the dock where it was now lying at anchor.
At last it occurred to her to give the name of her father's shipping firm. It was a great name in the city, but neither the porter nor the cabman had come under its influence. They suggested, however, that most likely the firm of Paget Brothers had an office somewhere near. They said further that if there was such an office the clerks in it could give the lady the information she wanted.
Valentine was standing by her cab, trying not to show the bewilderment and distress which had seized her, when a man who must have been listening came up, touched his hat, and said civilly: —
"Pardon, madam. If you will drive or walk down to the quay, this quay quite close, there is an office, you cannot fail to see it, where they can give you the information you desire, as they are always posted up with regard to the out-going and in-coming vessels. That quay, quite near, cabby. Messrs. Gilling and Gilling's office."
He touched his hat again and vanished, being rewarded by Valentine with a look which he considered a blessing.
"Now," she said, "now, I will give you double fare, cabman, treble fare, if you will help me to get to the Esperance in time; and first of all, let us obey that good man's directions and go to Messrs. Gilling and Gilling."
The quay was close, and so was the office. In two minutes Valentine was standing, alas, by its closed doors. A sudden fierce impatience came over her, she rang the office bell loudly. Three times she rang before any one answered her summons. Then a rather dishevelled and sleepy-looking boy opened the door wide enough to poke his head out and asked her her business.
"I want to get news of the ship called the Esperance."
"Office don't open till nine."
He would have pushed the door to, but Suzanne stepping forward deftly put her foot in.
"Mine goot boy, be civil," she said. "This lady has come a long way, and she wants the tidings she asks very sore."
The office boy looked again at Valentine. She certainly was pretty; so was Suzanne. But the office really did not open till nine, and the boy could not himself give any tidings.
"You had better step in," he said. "Mr. Jones will be here at nine. No, I don't know nothing about the ship."
It was now twenty-five minutes past eight. Valentine sank down on the dusty chair which the boy pushed forward for her, and Suzanne stood impatiently by her side.
Outside, the cabman whistled a cheerful air and stamped his feet. The morning was cold; but what of that? He himself was doing a good business; he was certain of an excellent fare.
"Suzanne," said Valentine suddenly. "Do you mind going outside and waiting in the cab. I cannot bear anyone to stare at me just now."
Suzanne obeyed. She was not offended. She was too deeply interested and sympathetic.
The slow minutes passed. Nine o'clock sounded from a great church near, and then more gently from the office clock. At three minutes past nine a bilious-looking clerk came in and took his place at one of the desks. He started when he saw Valentine, opened a ledger, and pretended to be very busy.
"Can you tell me, at once, please, from which dock the Esperance sails?" asked Mrs. Wyndham.
Her voice was impressive, and sharp with pain and waiting. The clerk thought he might at least stare at her. Things were slow and dull at this hour of the morning, and she was a novelty. He could have given the information at once, but it suited him best to dawdle over it. Valentine could have stamped with her increasing impatience.
The clerk, turning the leaves of a big book slowly, at last put his finger on an entry.
"Esperance sails for Sydney 25th inst., noon. Albert and Victoria Docks."
"Thank you, thank you," said Valentine. "Are these docks far away?"
"Three miles off, madam."
"Thank you."
She was out of the office and in the cab almost before he had time to close his book.
"Drive to the Albert and Victoria Docks, instantly, coachman. I will give you a sovereign if you take me there in less than half an hour."
Never was horse beaten like that cabby's, and Valentine, the most tender-hearted of mortals, saw the whip raised without a pang. Now she was certain to be in time; even allowing for delay she would reach the Esperance before ten o'clock, and it did not sail until noon. Yes, there was now not the most remote doubt she was in good time. And yet, and yet – still she felt miserable. Still her heart beat with a strange overpowering sense of coming defeat and disaster. Good cabman – go faster yet, and faster. Ah, yes, how they were flying! How pleasant it was to be bumped and shaken, and jolted – to feel the ground flying under the horse's feet, for each moment brought her nearer to the Esperance and to Gerald.
At last they reached the dock. Valentine sprang out of the cab. A sailor came forward to help with her luggage. Valentine put a sovereign into the cabman's hand.
"Thank you," she said, "oh, thank you. Yes, I am in good time."
Her eyes were full of happy tears, and the cabman, a rather hardened old villain, was surprised to find a lump rising in his throat.
"Which ship, lady?" asked the sailor, touching his cap.
"The Esperance, one of Paget Brothers' trading vessels. I want to go on board at once; show it to me. Suzanne, you can follow with the luggage. Show me the Esperance, good man, my husband is waiting for me."