He felt wonderfully calm and quiet; he was not excited, nor did his conscience smite him with a sense of any special wrong-doing. Right or wrong he was going to do something on which no blessing could be asked, over which no prayer could be uttered. He had been brought up in a house where prayers had been many; he had whispered his own baby prayers to his mother when he was a little child. Well, well, he would not think of these things now. The hour was come, the moment for action was ripe. There was a little daylight, and during that time he meant to occupy himself with one last task; he would write a letter to his wife, a cheerful, bright everyday letter, to the wife for whose sake he was about to rush unbidden into the arms of death. He had a part to act, and this letter was in the programme. To make all things safe and above suspicion he must write it, and leave it carelessly on his table, so that the next ship they touched should convey it to her.
He took out a sheet of foreign notepaper, and wrote steadily. His hand did not shake, he covered the whole sheet of paper; his words were bright, contented; no shadow of gloom touched them. They were full of anticipation, of pleasure in the moment – of pleasure in the coming reunion.
The writing of this letter was the very hardest task of the man's whole life. When it was over great drops of sweat stood on his forehead. He read it steadily, from beginning to end, however, and his only fear was that it was too bright, and that she might see through it, as in a mirror, the anguish beneath.
The letter was written, and now Wyndham had nothing to do. He had but to sit with his hands before him, and wait for the gathering darkness and the ever-increasing gale.
He sat for nearly an hour in his own cabin, he was past any consecutive thought now; still, so great was the constraint he was able to put over himself that outwardly he was quite calm. Presently he went into the saloon. Cecily Harvey alone was there, all the ladies having gone in to dinner. She sprang up with a cry of delight when she saw Gerald.
"Mr. Wyndham, have you come to stay with me? Why aren't you at dinner? How white you look."
"I am not hungry, Cecily. I thought you would be alone, and I came out to see you. I wanted you to give me a kiss."
"Of course I will – of course I will," said the affectionate child, throwing her arms around his neck.
"You remind me of one of the little sisters I have lost," he said hurriedly. "Thank you, Cecily, thank you. Be a good child, always. I would say 'God bless you' if I dared."
"Why don't you dare? You are a good man, a very good man, the best I know."
"Hush, Cecily, you don't know what you are talking about. Give me another kiss. Thank you sweet little girl."
He went back again to his own cabin. The longing for compassion at this crucial moment had made him run a risk in talking so to Cecily. He blamed himself, but scarcely regretted the act.
It was certainly going to be a dirty night, and already the sailors were busy overhead. The good ship creaked and strained as she to fought her way through the waters. The ladies loudly expressed their uneasiness, and the gentleman-passengers fought down some qualms which they considered unmanly.
Wyndham rose from his seat in the dark, pressed his lips to the letter he had written to his wife, suddenly he started, reeled a step and fell back.
There is no accounting for what happened – but happen it did.
Valentine herself stood beside him, stretched out her arms to him, uttered a brief cry, and then vanished.
He felt like a madman; he pressed his hands to his head and rushed on deck.
"Stand there, Mr. Wyndham, there," said the sailor Loggan. "You'll be safe enough. Oh, yes, more than one wave will wash us. Shall I lash you to the wheel, sir? Maybe it would be safer."
"No, no, thank you."
The voice was quite quiet and calm again.
Certainly the night was a rough one, but between and under the loud voice of the storm, Loggan and his companion exchanged some cheerful phrases.
"No, sir, I ain't never afeared."
"What if you were to go to the bottom?"
"The will of the good God be done, sir. I'd go a-doing of my duty."
"You're an honest fellow, Loggan; shake hands with me."
"That I will, Mr. Wyndham. What are you doing with that rope, sir? It's cold, it's slippery – oh, the knot has got loose, I'll call a man to tighten it, sir; let me – let me. You'll be over, sir, if you don't look out; we're going to lunge this way. Take care, sir – take care —for God's sake, take care!"
Wyndham took care.
CHAPTER XXXII
The summer came early that year. The rectory was a charming place in the summer, and on this particular bright day in June one of the numerous school-feasts was in course of preparation, and all the young Wyndhams were working with a will and energy which could scarcely be surpassed. The feast was in full progress; the village children consumed tea and buns, as only village children can. Augusta was refusing to help the babies to any more; Joan and Betty were half-crying because she snatched the rich currant buns out of their hands; Marjory was leading the most obstreporous members of her flock away to the other end of the long meadow, where they could play orange and lemons, nuts in May, and other festive games; and Lilias, as she helped to pack away the remnants of the feast, was answering some questions of Carr's.
"We ought to have heard by now," she was saying. "My father is a little uneasy, but I am not – at least, of course, I am anxious for Valentine. The suspense must be very trying for her!"
"When did your brother's ship sail?"
"On the 25th of March."
"And this is the 15th of June. The Esperance must have been reported at Lloyd's long ago."
"How stupid of me never to think of that," said Lilias, her face brightening. "But would they not put the arrivals in the papers? I have certainly looked and never seen it."
"You have probably overlooked it. I will write and inquire for you. The Esperance, even allowing for delays, has probably reached its destination some weeks ago. On the other hand it would be scarcely possible for you to have had a letter from your brother. Yes, you are right not to be anxious; I will go and have a chat with your father presently. Is Mrs. Wyndham well?"
"I think so – fairly well. She is coming to stay with us next week."
Carr strolled away.
"What a nice comfortable young man he is turning into," said Marjory, who came up at that moment. "Ah, yes, your face is brighter already for having had an interview with him. Whisper no secrets to me. I know – I know."
Lilias' clear brown skin was transfused with color.
"Don't be silly, Marjory," she said. "I don't mind owning that Mr. Carr is a comfortable person to talk to. He has just been removing my fears about Gerald."
"Oh, I thought you had no fears."
"Well, father's fears, then. He has been saying things to me which will remove my father's fears completely."
"That is right – Heaven be praised. You and the rector are nothing but a pair of old croaks lately. Hey-ho! I am perfectly weary of your long faces and your apprehensions. Thank goodness. Val is coming; she'll wake us up a little."
Lilias opened her dark eyes.
"I did not know you cared so much for Valentine," she said.
"I admired her very much the last time I saw her. That was a month ago – she seemed so spirited and courageous. I used to think her something of a doll, but she's a woman now, and a fine one. Perhaps it's the thought of the baby coming."
"Or perhaps," said Lilias, "she has found out at last what our Gerald is."
"Both, most likely," said Marjory. "Anyhow, she's changed; and the funniest part is that that old man – "
"What old man, Marjory?"
"Don't interrupt me – her father. I always call him that old man – well, I think he's afraid of her. She doesn't pet him the way she used, but she's very gentle with him. Oh, she's a good bit altered; there's something in her now."
"I suppose there was always something in her," said Lilias. "For Gerald" – her lips trembled – "gave up so much for her."
"No more than any man gives up for any woman," said Marjory. "A man shall leave his father and mother. Oh, yes, poor old Lil, I know how you felt it. You always made an idol of Gerald. I suppose you'll marry some day; you are so pretty – and h'm – h'm – there's somebody waiting for somebody – there, I don't want to tease, only when you do marry, my pretty sister, I wonder if he'll come inside Gerald in your heart."
"I won't marry until I love some one even better than my only brother," replied Lilias in a grave voice. "That time has not come yet," she added, and then she turned away.
The games went on as fast as ever; Marjory romped with the merriest. Lilias was graver than her sister, not so fond of pastimes, perhaps not quite so generally popular. She went into the house, sat down by the organ in the hall and began to play. She had almost as much talent as Gerald; her fingers wandered over the keys, she was in a dreamy mood, and her thoughts were carrying her back to a bygone scene – to Gerald's face on that Sunday night. She heard again the rich tones of his voice, and heard his words: —
"Till in the ocean of Thy love
We loose ourselves in Heaven above."
"Oh, Gerald," she said with a kind of sob, "things have been hard for me since you went away. It was not your marriage alone, I had prepared myself for that; but it was more – it was more. The Church of God – you gave that up. Yes, yes. There has been a shut door between us. Gerald, since you and Valentine first met; and where are you now – where are you now?"
"Lilias," said little Joan running in breathlessly, "father wants you in his study, quickly. I don't think he's quite well. He has just had a letter, and he looks so queer."
"I'll go to him at once," said Lilias.
She could be apprehensive enough, but in real danger, in times of real anxiety, her head could be cool and her steps firm.
"Yes, father," she said, motioning the frightened little Joan away.
She shut the library door behind her.
"Yes, father. What is it? Jo says that you have got a letter, and that you want me."
"Oh, I don't suppose it's anything," said the rector. "That is, I don't mean to be uneasy. Here's the letter. Lilias. You ought to read it, perhaps. It's from Paget. He is evidently nervous himself, but I don't suppose there is any need. Read it, and tell me what you think."
The rector thrust a sheet of paper into his daughter's hand. Then went over to one of his book shelves and pretended to be busy rummaging up some folios. Lilias read as follows: —
My Dear Sir, – I write on a subject of some little anxiety. I did not wish to trouble you before it was necessary, but now I confess that we – I refer to my house of business – have cause to feel uneasiness with regard to the fate of the Esperance. She is quite a month overdue at Sydney; even allowing for all possible delays, she is at least that time overdue. The last tidings of her were from the Cape, and it is feared from their date that she must have encountered rough weather in the Southern Ocean. Nothing is known, however, and every hour we look for a cable announcing her arrival at Melbourne if not at Sydney. It is possible she may have been injured, which will account for the delay, but I scarcely apprehend anything worse. I ought scarcely to say that I am anxious; up to the present there is no real cause to apprehend anything worse than an accident to the vessel. Vessels are often a month behind their time, and all is satisfactorily explained at the end. I am now troubling you with regard to another matter. I do not want my daughter and your son's wife to be needlessly alarmed. It is most important that her mind should be kept free from apprehension until after the birth of their child. You kindly asked her to go to see you. Can you have her at the rectory at once? And will you send Lilias to fetch her? I know you and yours will keep all fears from her, and, poor child, she reads my face like a book.
Yours faithfully,"Mortimer Paget."
"Well, Lilias," said the rector. "Well? He's a little over nervous, isn't he, eh? Vessels are often a month overdue. Eh, Lilias? But of course they are. Somehow I'm not nervous since I got that letter. I was before, but not now."
He rubbed his hands together as he spoke.
"It's summer now, and we'll have Gerald back before the next snow comes. I told the boy so when he bid me good-bye; he was a bit upset that night after you girls went to bed. Poor fellow, I had quite to cheer him; he's a very affectionate lad. No, I'm not nervous, and I wonder at Paget. But what do you think, Lilias?"
Lilias folded up the letter, and put it back in her old father's hand. Then she stole her arm round his neck, and kissed him.
"We will be brave," she said. "If we have fears we won't speak of them; we have got to think of Valentine now, not of ourselves."
The rector almost shook Lilias' hand from his neck.
"Fears," he said, in a light and cheerful voice, a voice which was belied by his tremulous hands, and by his almost petulant movement. "Fears! my dear girl, they really don't exist. At this moment, were we clairvoyant, we should see Gerald either rising leisurely from a good night's rest, or sitting down to his breakfast in one of those luxurious houses one reads of in Froude's 'Oceana.' Vessels like the Esperance don't go to the bottom. Now, Lil, at what hour will you go to fetch Valentine? You will go up to town to-morrow, of course."
"By the first train," replied Lilias. Her lips quivered. She turned away; there was nothing more to be said. Her father's manner did not in the least deceive her.
"Dear old man!" she said to herself. "If he can be brave, so will I. But oh, Gerald, does any heart ache more for you than the heart of your sister Lilias?"
CHAPTER XXXIII
Valentine had got a blow. The first real great blow which had ever been dealt to her. It had a most curious effect. Instead of stunning or rendering her weak and incapable, it suddenly changed her from a child into a practical and clever and wide-awake woman. The very quality of her voice changed. It became full, and inspired respect the moment she spoke. She was quite aware that her father had deceived her, that he did not mean her to accompany Gerald to Sydney.
She said nothing about this knowledge – not even that evening when she got home and found her father looking ten years older, but standing on the step of her own little home waiting for her.
"I was too late," she said, quietly. "The Esperance sailed four hours before its time. I must do without Gerald for six months; in six months he will be home."
"In six months," echoed Mr. Paget, following her upstairs to the drawing-room. "Kiss me, my darling," he said. "Valentine, you will come back to your own home to-morrow."
Valentine raised her cheek to meet her father's lips.
"I think I would rather remain here," she said. "This, after all, is my only real home; you don't mind my keeping the house, do you, father?"
"No, my dear, if you wish it. Only I thought – " His last words came out almost tremulously.
"Sometimes we are mistaken in our thoughts," responded Valentine. "I should like best to stay on in my husband's house. Six months will not be long passing; and – father. I have some news for you. In July – if I live until July – God is going to give me a child – Gerald's child and mine. I should like it to be born here."
"Thank God," exclaimed Mr. Paget. "I am very glad of this, Valentine," he said. "This – this – is an inestimable mercy. I hope your child will be a son. My dear daughter, this news lifts a great weight off my mind."
He looked what he felt, delighted.
"Of course you must live wherever you like best," he said. "July – this is March – the child's father will be – " but he did not finish this sentence.
He went away soon afterwards. Ten years had been added to his life in that one single day.
He knew, one glance into Valentine's eyes told him, that she no longer believed in him. What was any success with the heart of his darling turned aside?
He walked home feeling tottering and feeble; he had had a blow, but also a strong consolation – his daughter's child – his grandson. Of course the child should be a boy. There was something to live for in such news as this. A boy to step into his shoes by-and-bye – to keep up the credit of the old house; a boy who should have no shame on him, and no dark history. Yes, yes, this was very good news, and unlooked for; he had much to live for yet.
After this Mr. Paget followed his daughter about like a shadow. Every day her mind and her powers were developing in fresh directions. She had certainly lost some of the charm of her childish ways, but her gain had been greater than her loss. Her face had always been spirituelle, the expression sprightly, the eyes under their arched brows full of light. People had spoken of the girlish face as beautiful, but now that it belonged to a grave and patient, in some respects a suffering woman, they found that it possessed more than ordinary loveliness. The soul had come back again into Valentine's eyes. She knew two things. She was loved – her husband told her that no woman had ever been loved so well before. She was also to become a mother. She considered herself, notwithstanding her crosses, blessed among women, and she resolved to live worthily.
Patience and faith both were hers, and whenever she felt inclined to rebel, to fret, to fume, she thought of the day when she should show her baby to her husband, and tell him face to face that all her heart, all her best affections were divided between him and their child.
She kept to her resolution of living on in the little house in Park-Lane. She led a busy life, interesting herself a good deal in the anxieties and cares of others. When a woman takes up that rôle she always finds abundance to do, for there are few pairs of shoulders that have not a burden to carry. She also wrote by every mail to her husband. She had already received one letter from him, posted at Teneriffe. This letter was affectionate – cheerful. Valentine read it over and over. It was a very nice letter, but its words did not reach down into her heart as that other letter of Gerald's, written before he sailed, had done. She was puzzled by it. Still she owned to herself that it was just the letter she ought to receive, just the pleasant happy words of a man who was leading a busy and useful life; who was going away for a definite object, and hoped soon to return to his wife and his home.
All went well with Valentine until a certain day. She rose as usual on the morning of that day, went down to breakfast, opened one or two letters, attended to a couple of domestic matters, and went slowly back to the drawing-room. She liked to dust and tidy her little drawing-room herself. She had put it in order this morning, had arranged fresh flowers in the vases, and was finally giving one or two fresh touches to Gerald's violin, which she always kept near her own piano, when she was startled by the consciousness that she was not alone.
She raised her head, turned quickly, a cold air seemed to blow on her face.
"Valentine!" said her husbands voice, in a tone of unspeakable agony.
She fancied she even saw his shadowy outline. She stretched out her arms to him – he faded away.
That afternoon Mrs. Wyndham paid her father a visit in the City. She was shown into his private room by Helps, who eyed her from head to foot with great anxiety.
Mr. Paget looked into her face and grew perceptibly paler. He was certainly nervous in these days – nervous, and very much aged in appearance.
"Is anything wrong, Valentine?" he could not help saying to his daughter. It was the last sentence he wished to pass his lips – he bit them with vexation after the words had escaped them.
"Sit down, my dear; have you come to take me for a drive, like – like – old times?"
"I have not, father. I have come to know when you expect to hear tidings of the arrival of the Esperance at Sydney."
"Not yet, Valentine. Impossible so soon. In any case we shall have a cable from Melbourne first – the vessel will touch there."
"When are you likely to hear from Melbourne?"
"Not for some days yet."
"But you know the probable time. Can you not ascertain it? Will you hear in ten days? In a week? In three days?"
"You are persistent, Valentine."
Mr. Paget raised his eyes and looked at her from head to foot.
"I will ascertain," he said in an almost cold voice, as he sounded an electric bell by his side.
Helps answered the summons.
"Helps, when is the Esperance due at Melbourne?"
Again Helps glanced quickly at Mrs. Wyndham; he was standing rather behind her, but could catch a glimpse of her face.
"By the end of May," he said, speaking slowly. His quick eyes sought his chief's; they took their cue. "Not sooner," he continued. "Possibly by the end of May."
"Thank you," said Valentine.
The man withdrew.
"I have nearly a month to wait," she said, rising and looking at her father. "I did not know that the voyage would be such a lengthy one. When you do hear the news will be bad, father; yes, the news will be bad. I have nothing to say about it, no explanation to offer, only I know."
Before Mr. Paget could make a single reply, Valentine had left him. He was decidedly alarmed about her.
"Can she be going out of her mind?" he soliloquized. "Women sometimes do before the birth of their children. What did she mean? It is impossible for her to know anything. Pshaw! What is there to know? I verily believe I am cultivating that abomination of the age – nerves!"
Whatever Valentine did mean, she met her father that evening as if nothing had happened. She was bright, even cheerful; she played and sang for him. He concluded that she was not out of her mind, that she had simply had a fit of the dismals, and dismissed the matter.
The month passed by, slowly for Valentine – very slowly, also, for her father. It passed into space, and there was no news of the Esperance. More days went by, no news, no tidings of any sort. Valentine thought the vessel was a fortnight overdue. Her father knew that it was at least a month behind its time. When he wrote his letter to the rector of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold he felt even more anxious than his words seemed to admit.
The day after the receipt of this letter Lilias came to town and took Valentine home with her. The next morning Mr. Paget went as usual to his office. His first inquiry was for news of the Esperance. The invariable answer awaited him.
"No tidings as yet."
He went into the snug inner room where he lunched, where Valentine's picture hung, and where he had made terms with Gerald Wyndham. He sank down into an easy-chair, and covered his face with his hands.
"Would to God this suspense were at an end," he said.
The words had scarcely passed his lips when Helps knocked for admission at the inner door, he opened it, caught a glimpse of his servant's face, and fell back.
"You heard," he said. "Come in and tell me quick. The Esperance is lost, and every soul on board – "
"Hush, sir," said Helps. "There's no news of the Esperance. Command yourself, sir. It isn't that – it's the other thing. The young gentleman from India, he's outside – he wants to see you."
"Good God, Helps. Positively I'm faint. Shut the door for a moment; he has come, then. You are sure?"
"This is his card, sir. Mr. George Carmichael."
"Give me a moment's time, Helps. So he has come. It would have been all right but for this confounded uncertainty with regard to the Esperance. But it is all right, of course. Plans such as mine don't fail, they are too carefully made. All the same, I am shaken, Helps. Helps, I am growing into an old man."
"You do look queer, Mr. Paget; have a little brandy, sir; you'd better."
"Thank you; a little, then. Open that cupboard, you will find the flask. Brandy steadies the nerves. Now I am better. Helps, it was in this room I made terms with young Wyndham."
"God forgive you, sir, it was."
"Why do you say that? You did not disapprove at the time."
"I didn't know Mr. Wyndham, sir; had I known, I wouldn't have allowed breathing man to harm a hair of his head."
"How would you have prevented it?"
"How?"
The old clerk's face took an ugly look.
"Split on you, and gone to prison, of course," he said. "Now, shall I send Mr. George Carmichael in? It was for his sake you did it. My God, what a sin you sinned! I see Mr. Wyndham's face every night of my life. Good God, why should men like him be hurled out of the world because of sinners like you and me?"
"He's not hurled out of the world," exclaimed Mr. Paget.
He rose and swore a great oath. Then he said in a quieter voice: —
"Ask Mr. Carmichael to step into my office."
"Into this room, sir?"
"Into this room. Go, fool."
Certainly Mr. Paget had some admirable qualities. By the time a pale-faced, slight, languid-looking man made his appearance, he was perfectly calm and self-possessed. He spoke in a courteous tone to his visitor, and bade him be seated.
They exchanged a few common-places. Then Mr. George Carmichael, who showed far more uneasiness than his host, explained the motive of his visit.
"You knew my father," he said. "Owing to a strange circumstance, which perhaps you are aware of, but which scarcely concerns the object of this call, certain papers of importance did not come into my hands until I was of age. These are the papers."
He placed two yellow documents on the table.
"I find by these that I am entitled to money which you hold in trust."
"You are," said Mr. Paget, with a kindly smile.
"I am puzzled to know why I was never made aware of the fact. I was brought up as a poor man. I had no expectations. I have not been educated to meet the position which in reality awaited me. Somebody has done me a wrong."
"I assure you not me, Mr. Carmichael. Perhaps, however, I can throw some light on the subject. If you will do me the favor of dining with me some evening we can talk the matter over at our leisure."
"Thank you, I have very little leisure."
The stranger was wonderfully restless.
"After a struggle I have succeeded in obtaining a good post in Calcutta. I hurried over to see you. I must hurry back to my work. Oh, yes, thanks, I like India. The main point is, when can you hand me over my money. With interest it amounts to – "
"Including interest it amounts to eighty thousand pounds, Mr. Carmichael. Allow me to congratulate you, sir, as a man of fortune. There is no need to hurry back to that beggarly clerkship."
"It's not a clerkship, Mr. Paget, nor beggarly. I'm a partner in a rising concern. The other man's name is Parr; he has a wife and children, and I wouldn't desert him for the world. Eighty thousand pounds! By Jove, won't Parr open his eyes."
Mr. George Carmichael was now so excited that his shyness vanished.
"When can I have my money, sir?"
"In a month's time."
"Not until then? I wanted to go back to India next week."
"It can be sent after you."
A slow suspicious smile crept round the young man's lips; he looked more well-bred than he was.
"None of that," he said. "I don't stir until I get the cheque. I say, can't you give it me at once? It's mine."
"Not a day sooner than a month. I must take that time to realize so large a sum. You shall have it this day month."
"Beastly inconvenient. Parr will be in no end of a taking. I suppose there's no help for it, however."
"None."
"This is the 17th of June. Now you're not playing me a trick, are you? You'll pay me over that money all square on the 17th of July."
Mr. Paget had an imposing presence. He rose now, slowly, stood on the hearthrug, under his daughter's picture, and looked down at his guest.
"I am sorry for you," he said. "Your education has certainly been imperfect. Your father was a gentleman, and my friend. You, I regret to say, are not a gentleman. I don't repeat my invitation to dine at my house. With regard to the money it shall be in your hands on the 17th July. I am rather pressed for time this morning, Mr. Carmichael, and must ask you to leave me. Stay, however, a moment. You are, of course, prepared to give me all proofs of identity?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"What I say. The certificate of the marriage of your parents and certificate of the proof that you are the person you represent yourself to be must be forthcoming. I must also have letters from your friends in India. No doubt, of course – no doubt who you are, but these things are necessary."
Notwithstanding that he was the owner of eighty thousand pounds, Mr. George Carmichael left the august presence of the head of Paget Brothers feeling somewhat crestfallen.
He had scarcely done so before Helps rushed in.
"A cable, sir! Praise the Lord, a cable at last!"
He thrust the sheet of paper into his employer's hands. It came from Melbourne, and bore the date of the day before.
"Esperance arrived safely. Delay caused by broken machinery. Accident of a painful nature on board. Full particulars by mail.
"Jellyby."