CHAPTER XLIV
AT THE SOUND OF THE CLOCK
She left the room, tripping lightly upstairs in her neat nurse's dress. When she got to Wyndham's door and knocked gently for admission her heart, however, was beating so wildly that she feared he might notice it.
"Come in," said his voice; she entered.
He was lying back in his easy-chair. When he saw Esther he took off the soft hat which he always wore in Cherry's presence, and greeted her with that brightness in his eyes which was the greatest reward he could possibly offer her.
"You are a little late," he said; "but I thought you would not fail me."
"I won't ever fail you, Mr. Wyndham; you know that."
"Esther, it is safer to call me Brother Jerome."
"Not at the present moment. The house is empty but for my father. Still, if you wish it, sir."
"I think I do wish it. A habit is a habit. The name may slip out at a wrong moment, and then – my God, think what would happen then!"
"Don't excite yourself, sir. Esther Helps is never likely to forget herself. Still I see the sense of your wishes. You are Brother Jerome to me always from this out. And now, before I go any further, I want to state a fact. Brother Jerome, you are ill."
"I am ill, Esther. Ill, nigh unto death."
"My God, you shan't die!"
"Hush; the question of dying does not rest with you or me. I want to die, so probably I shall live."
"You look like dying. Does Cherry feed you well?"
"Better than well. I want for nothing."
"Is your fire kept up all night?"
"Esther, I have not come to requiring a night nurse yet. My fire goes out in the early hours before the dawn."
"The coldest part of the twenty-four hours. Brother Jerome, you must give up visiting in East London at present."
"No, not while I can crawl. You forget that on a certain night I surrendered my body as well as my spirit to the service of comfort. While I can comfort others I will. There is nothing else left to me."
"Then, sir, you will die – you will deliberately kill yourself."
"No, I tried that once. I won't again. Esther, what is the matter? You are a good girl. It is a mistake for you to waste your pity on me."
"You must forgive me, sir. Pity comes to one unbidden. Pity – and – and sympathy. If you get worse, I shall leave my situation and come home and nurse you."
"Then you will indeed kill me. You will take away my last hope. My one goblet of new wine will be denied me. Then I shall truly die. Esther, what is your budget of news? How is my wife? Begin – go on – tell me everything."
"Mrs. Wyndham is well, sir."
"Well? Do you mean by that that she is happy? Does she laugh much? Does she sing?"
"Sometimes she laughs. Once I heard her sing."
"Only once, Esther? She had a very sweet voice. I used sometimes to tell her that it was never silent."
"Once, sir, I heard her sing."
"Oh, once? Was it a cheerful song?"
"It was on a Sunday evening. She was singing to your little boy. I think she sang the 'Happy Land.' I don't quite remember. I came to fetch the boy to bed, and she was singing to him. She took her hands off the piano suddenly when I came in, and there were tears in her eyes."
"Tears? She was always sensitive to music. And yet you say she does not look sad."
"I should not call her sad, Brother Jerome. Her face is calm and quiet. I think she is a very good young lady."
"You need not tell me that, Esther; you managed very well about the boy."
"Thank you, sir. I think I did. What did you feel when you saw him, sir?"
"Rapture. All my blood flowed swiftly. I lived and breathed. I had an exquisite five minutes."
"The boy is not like his mother, sir."
"No, nor like me. He resembles my sister Lilias. Esther, I must see him again."
"You shall, by-and-bye, but not too soon. We must not run any risks."
"Certainly not. I will have much patience. Hold out the hope only, and I will cling to it indefinitely."
"You shall see the child again, Brother Jerome."
"God abundantly bless you. Now go on. Tell me more. How does my wife spend her time? Has she many visitors?"
"Sometimes her father."
"Only sometimes? They used to be inseparable."
"Not now, sir. There is something wrong between them. When they meet they are constrained with one another, and they don't meet very often. I have orders, though, to take the child every morning to see Mr. Paget."
"Have you? I am sorry for that. He kisses my son, does he?"
"Yes, sir. He seems wrapped up in him; he – "
"Don't talk of him. That subject turns my blood into vinegar. Go on. Tell me more. What other visitor has my wife?"
"Sometimes your sister, Miss Lilias Wyndham."
"My sister? Esther, you don't know what that name recalls. All the old innocent days; the little hymns before we went to bed, and the little prayers at our mother's knee. I don't think I can bear to hear much about Lilias; but I am glad she loves my wife."
"She does, sir. She is devoted to Mrs. Wyndham. I don't think any other visitors come except Mr. Carr."
"Adrian Carr, a clergyman?"
Wyndham's tone had suddenly become alert and wakeful.
"I believe the gentleman's name is the Rev. Adrian Carr. Brother Jerome."
"Why do you speak in that guarded voice, Esther? Have you anything to conceal?"
"No, sir, no. Don't excite yourself. I conceal nothing; he comes, that is all."
"But surely, not often? He is my father's curate; he cannot often come to London."
"He is not Mr. Wyndham's curate now, sir; he has a church of his own, St. Jude's they call it, at the corner of Butler-street."
"And he comes constantly to my house? To – to see my wife?"
"Your – your widow, sir."
"God help me, Esther! God help me! How am I to endure this! My poor – my beloved – my sweet – and are you exposed to this? Esther, Esther, this care turns me into a madman."
"You must stay quiet, Brother Jerome. Mr. Carr comes, and your – your widow sees him."
"Do you think she likes him?"
"Oh, sir, I would rather die than have to tell it to you."
"I cannot listen to your sentimentalisms. Does my wife seem happy when Adrian Carr calls upon her?"
"I think she is interested in him, Brother Jerome."
"Does she see him alone?"
"Often alone."
"And you say she seems pleased?"
"I think so. It is incomprehensible to me."
"Never mind whether you understand it or not. Do you know that by this news you are turning me into a devil? I'll risk everything – everything. I'll expose the whole vile conspiracy if my wife is entrapped into engaging herself to Adrian Carr."
Brother Jerome was no longer a weak-looking invalid; he began to pace his attic floor; a fire burnt in his sunken eyes, and he clenched his thin hands. For the time he was strong.
"Listen to me, Esther Helps. My wife shall run no risk of that kind. It was in the contract that that should be prevented. I sinned for her – yes, I willingly sinned for her – but she shall never sin for me. Rather than that we'll all go to penal servitude. I, and your father, and her father."
"Do quiet yourself, Mr. Wyndham. There may be nothing in what I told you."
Esther felt really frightened.
"Perhaps the gentleman comes to see your sister, Miss Wyndham. He certainly comes, but – but – "
"Esther, the whole thing must be put a stop to – the faintest shadow of risk must not be run. My wife thinks herself a widow, but she must retain the feelings of a wife. It must be impossible for her, while I live, to think of another man."
"Can you not bring yourself back to her memory, sir? Is there no way?"
"That is a good thought. Don't speak for a little. Let me think."
Wyndham continued to pace the floor. Esther softly built up the fire with trembling fingers. In this mood she was afraid of Wyndham. That fire in his eyes was new to her. She was cowed – she shivered. With her mental vision she already saw her grey-headed father in the prisoner's dock.
"Esther," said Wyndham, coming up to her suddenly. "I have thought of a plan. It won't implicate anyone, and if a chord in Valentine's heart still beats true to me this must touch it. At what hour does Carr generally call to see my wife?"
"He is a busy man; he comes mostly at night, about nine o'clock. He has a cup of tea, and goes away at ten. When Miss Wyndham is there he sometimes stays on till nearly eleven."
"He comes every night?"
"Almost every night."
"And he leaves at ten?"
"A few minutes after ten. When the clock strikes ten it seems to be a sort of a signal to him, and he gets up and goes away."
"Thank you. Ten, then, will be the hour. Esther, something else may happen at ten of the clock. You need not look so white. I said no risk would be run. It is possible, however, that my wife may be agitated. No, you don't suppose I am going to reveal myself to her – nothing of the sort. Still, something will happen which may break down her nerve and her calm. In that case she may even appeal to you, Esther, you will be very guarded. You must remember that on the success of this scheme of mine depends your father's safety, for if she engages herself to Carr I swear by the God above me that we three, Paget, your father, and I, go to prison."
"Sir, I must own that I feel dreadfully frightened."
"Poor Esther! And you don't deserve it, for you are the best of girls and quite innocent. But that is ever the way. The innocent bear the sins of the guilty. In this matter, however, Esther, you must trust me, and keep your own counsel. Now, I want to know if you have any money you can lend me?"
"I have two sovereigns in my purse, sir. Will that do?"
"Plentifully. I will tell you what I want the money for. I want to hire a violin – a good one. Once, Esther. I used to express my feelings through the violin. It talked for me. It revealed some of the tortures of my soul. The violin shall speak again and to my wife. Now you are prepared at all points. Good-bye. Be as brave as you are good, and the worst may be averted."
CHAPTER XLV
On the following night, as Esther was preparing to go to bed, the nursery door was suddenly opened and Mrs. Wyndham entered.
"Esther," she said, "I want baby."
"He is sound asleep, madam. You would not wake him?"
"He can be moved without disturbing him. I want him to sleep in my bed. I want his company. My little child?"
She was trembling. She caught hold of the rails of the baby's cot.
"Little children are sacred innocent things, aren't they, nurse? I want my little child to-night."
"Strange," thought Esther. "I listened with all my might, and I could not hear anything except the usual barrel organs and German bands in the street. But she has heard something, there isn't a doubt. How queer and shaken she looks. Poor young thing, I do pity her; she can't help thinking she is a widow when she is a wife."
Aloud Esther complied with Mrs. Wyndham's request cheerfully.
"Certainly, madam. The child will never know that we are moving him. If you will go on to your room, ma'am, I'll follow with master baby."
Mrs. Wyndham turned away at once.
When the nurse entered her mistress' room with the child, there was a soft nest made in the big bed to receive him, and the fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow over everything.
"Let me kiss him," said the mother. "My darling, my beloved. I'll take him into my arms presently, nurse, and then all fears will fly away."
"Fears, Mrs. Wyndham? No one ought to fear in this cheerful room."
"Perhaps not, nurse; but sometimes I am superstitious – painfully so. Yes, put baby there. Is he not a handsome boy? Although I could wish he were more like his father."
"He seems to feature your sister-in-law, Miss Lilias Wyndham, madam."
"How queer that you should find that out! He is not like what Lilias is now, but they all say she was just such another little child. Nurse, I hate high winds – there is going to be a storm to-night."
"Would you like me to sleep on the sofa in your room, madam?"
"Yes, no – yes, oh, yes."
"I will bring a shawl, and wrap it round me and lie down."
"No, don't, nurse, don't. I must not yield to this nameless thing. I must – I will be brave. And the child, my own little child, will comfort me."
"What is the nameless thing, dear madam?"
"I cannot – I won't speak of it. Esther, are you – are you going?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Wyndham. I mean, not yet."
"That is right. Take this chair; warm yourself. Esther. I don't look on you as an ordinary nurse. Long ago I used to be so much interested in you."
"It was very kind of you, madam; young ladies, as a rule, have no time to interest themselves in poor girls."
"But I had plenty of time, and did interest myself. My father was always so much attached to yours. I was an only child and you were an only child. I used to wonder if you and your father cared for each other as passionately, as loyally, as I and my father cared."
"I don't know that, madam; we did love each other. Our love remains unchanged. True love ought never to change, ought it?"
"It ought never to change," repeated Mrs. Wyndham. Her face grew white, her lips trembled. "Sometimes true love is killed by a blow," she said suddenly. Then her expression changed again, she tried to look cheerful. "I won't talk any more. I am sleepy, and that nest near baby looks inviting. Good-night, dear nurse."
"Let me undress you, ma'am. Let me see you in your nest beside the child."
"No. Go now. Or rather – rather —stay a moment or two longer. Esther, had you ever the heartache?"
"There are a few women, madam, who don't know what the heartache means."
"I suppose that is true. Once I knew nothing about it. Esther, you are lucky never to have married."
Esther Helps made no response.
"To marry – to love – and then to lose," dreamily murmured Mrs. Wyndham. "To love, and then to lose. Esther, it is a dreadful thing to be a widow, when you are young."
"But the widow can become a wife again," suddenly replied Esther.
The words seemed forced from her lips; she was sorry the moment she had uttered them.
Mrs. Wyndham opened her big eyes wide.
"I suppose the widows who can become wives again have not lost much," she responded in a cold voice.
Then she moved over to the bedside and began to undress.
A few moments later Esther left her. She felt puzzled, perplexed, unhappy. She had no key to the thoughts which were passing in her mistress' mind. Her impression was that Valentine loved Carr, but felt a certain shame at the fact.
The next evening the vicar of St. Jude's called again. He came hurriedly to the door, ran up the stairs without being shown the way, and entered Valentine's presence with a brisk step. Esther leant over the banisters to watch him as he entered the drawing-room. It was half-past nine when he arrived; he had been conducting a prayer meeting and was later than usual.
The drawing-room door was shut on the two, and Esther, who had been sitting with the child, now crept softly downstairs and entered a small bedroom at the back of the drawing-room. This bedroom also looked on the street. It was the room occupied by Lilias when she visited her sister-in-law. Esther closed the door softly behind her. The room was dark. She went up to the window and looked eagerly up and down the gaily-lighted street.
She could distinguish no words, but the soft murmur of voices came to her through the drawing-room wall.
"You are better to-night?" said Carr, in a cheery, confident tone; "although you took it upon yourself to disobey me."
"I could not go to the prayer-meeting. I could not."
"Well, well, you must act as you think best; only I don't think staying at home is the best thing for you."
"Oh, I shan't get over-nervous; and Lilias is coming to me next week."
Carr's eyes brightened.
"That is good," he said. "Well, I must not stay. I just looked in for a moment. I knew you would not let these superstitious fears get the better of you. Good-night."
He held out his hand. Valentine put hers behind her.
"No," she said; "you always stay until past ten. It was at ten o'clock last night – " She trembled – more words would not come.
"And I will stay until past ten to-night," responded Carr resuming his seat. "Now, don't look at the clock. Turn your thoughts to me and my affairs. So Miss Wyndham comes here next week?"
"She does."
"Shall I put everything to the test, then?"
Valentine's face grew bright.
"Oh how earnestly I wish you would," she cried, clasping her hands.
"Do you, indeed? Then you must think there is some chance for me. The fact is, Mrs. Wyndham, I am the veriest coward that ever breathed. If I win, I win for ever. I mean that I am made, body, soul, and spirit. If I lose, I think morally I shall go under. A main spring will be broken which has kept me right, kept my eyes looking upwards ever since I knew your sister Lilias."
"But even if she refuses you, you will live on," said Valentine, in a dreamy voice. "We often have to live on when the main spring is broken. We creep instead of running, that is all."
"Now you are getting gloomy again. As your spiritual adviser I cannot permit it. You have put a daring thought into my head, and you are bound to think of me, not yourself, at present. Will you sing something to me before I go? You know Lilias' song of triumph; you taught it to her. Sing it to me to-night, it will be a good omen."
Valentine hesitated for a moment. Then she went over to the piano and opened it. Her fingers touched one or two chords tremblingly. Suddenly she stopped, her face worked. She looked at Carr with a piteous expression.
"I cannot sing the triumph song," she said, "it is not in me. I should do it no justice. This must take its place. But it is not for you, remember. Oh, no, I pray God never for you. Listen, don't scold me afterwards. Listen."
Her fingers ran over the keys, her voice swelled and filled the room: —
"The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine.
Oh, Keith of Ravelston.
The sorrows of thy line!
Ravelston, Ravelston.
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill.
And through the silver meads.
Ravelston, Ravelston.
The stile beneath the tree.
The maid that kept her mother's kine.
The song that sang she.
She sang her song, she kept her kine.
She sat beneath the thorn.
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring.
His belted jewels shine —
O, Keith of Ravelston.
The sorrows of thy line!"
"Now, good-night," said Valentine, springing to her feet. "Don't question me about the song. I sang it, but I cannot speak of it. The clock is about to strike. It is your hour for farewell. Oh, yes, I wish you all luck – all luck. The clock is striking – ! Oh, what a noise there is in the street!"
"What a silence you mean," said Carr, as he took her hand.
It was true. The thunderous rattle of a heavy waggon, the discordant notes of a brass band, the din of a hurdy-gurdy frightfully out of tune, suddenly stopped. It was as if a wave of sound had been arrested, and in the quiet floated up the passionate wail of a soul. There are no other words to describe what the sound meant. It had a voice and an interpretation. It was beautiful, but its beauty was torture. Trembling in every limb, Valentine sprang away from Carr, flew to one of the French windows, wrested it open, and stepped on to the balcony. She was in white, and the people in the street could see her. She pressed to the front of the balcony and looked eagerly up and down.
The wailing of the lost soul grew more feeble – more faint. It stopped. There was a pause of half a minute, and then the waggon lumbered on, and the hurdy-gurdy crashed out its discordant notes.
"I saw nothing," said Carr, who had followed Mrs. Wyndham on to the balcony and now led her back to the drawing-room. "I saw nothing," he repeated. "I mean. I did not see the man who played."
"But you heard?"
"Oh, yes, I heard."
"You could not see. That was spirit music. My husband played. Don't speak to me; don't touch me; you tried to argue me out of my belief last night, but even you heard to-night. My husband has come back in the spirit, and he has played for me. Only he knows that air – only he in all the world. That was 'Waves.' Once I told you the story of 'Music waves.'"
She did not faint, she crouched down by the fire; but no face to be alive could be whiter than hers.
"What is the matter, Mr. Carr?" she said suddenly. "Why cannot my husband's spirit rest? They say that those spirits that are hurried out of life before their time cannot rest. O, tell me what you think. O, tell me what it means. You heard the music yourself to-night."
"I did. I certainly heard it."
"And at the same hour. When the clock struck."
"That is a mere coincidence, not worth considering."
"I don't believe in its being a coincidence."
She beat her hands passionately together.
"The thing was planned – he planned it. He will come again to-morrow night when the clock strikes ten."
Again she beat her hands together; then she covered her face with them.
Carr looked at her anxiously. The weird soft wailing music had affected even his nerves. Of course he did not believe in the supernatural element, but he was touched by the distress of the woman who was crouching at his feet. This mental unrest, this superstitious terror, might have a disastrous effect. He must do his utmost to check it. If necessary he must even be cruel to be kind.
"Mrs. Wyndham," he said, "you must go away to-morrow; you must go into the country for a few days."
"I will not. I won't stir a step."
"You ought, your nerves are shaken. There is nothing for shaken nerves like change of air. Go to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and talk to Lilias. She, too, loved your husband; she will sympathize, but she will not lose sight of common-sense."
"I will not stir from here."
"I think for your child's sake you ought. The child belongs to your husband as well as you, to your dead husband. The child is fatherless as far as this world is concerned. You have no right – it is very, very wicked of you to do anything to make him motherless."
"What do you mean? Why do you speak to me in that tone? I don't deserve it."
"You do."
"I think you are cruel."
Valentine's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"What do you mean by saying that I will leave baby motherless?"
"I mean that if you encourage the fancy which has now taken possession of you you are extremely likely to lose your senses – to become, in short, insane. How can you train your child if you are insane?"
Valentine shuddered.
"But I did hear the music," she said. "The old story music that he only played. How can I doubt the evidence of my senses? Last night at ten o'clock I heard 'Waves' played on the violin, my husband's favorite instrument – the melody which he made, the harmony and melody with all the passion and its story, which he made about himself and me. No one else could produce those sounds. I heard them last night at ten o'clock, you were here, but you heard nothing. To-night there was silence in the street, and we both heard – we both heard."
"I certainly heard some very melancholy music."
"Played on the violin?"
"Yes, played on the violin."
"In short, you heard 'Waves.'"
"I heard something which I never heard before. I cannot tell the name."
"No. What you heard was 'Waves,' in other words the cry of a soul."
"Mrs. Wyndham, get up. Give me your hand. Look me in the face. Now, that is better. I am going to talk common-sense to you. You have been from the first impressed with the idea that foul play was done to your husband. For a time I own I shared your apprehension. I discovered one or two things in connection with his death which far more than your words inclined me to this belief. Since I came to London I have thought a great deal over the matter. Last week a lucky chance brought me in communication with Captain Jellyby of the Esperance. Ah, you start. I saw him. I think you would like me to bring him here some night. He entered into minute particulars of Wyndham's last days. He would like to tell you the story himself. I can only say that a fairer story could not be recorded of any man. He was beloved by every one on board the ship. 'We all loved him,' said Captain Jellyby. 'Emigrants, passengers, sailors, all alike. Sir,' he said, 'when Mr. Wyndham was washed over, there wasn't a dry eye on board. But if ever a man humbly and cheerfully went forth to meet his Creator, he was the man, sir. He met his death trying to help the man at the wheel. Bless his heart, he spent all his life trying to help other people.'"
Valentine was silently crying.
"You comfort me," she said; "you comfort me much. Go on."
"That is all, my dear friend, that is all. It set my mind at rest with regard to your husband. It ought to set yours at rest also. He is a glorious, and happy spirit in heaven now. Is it likely that he would come back from there to frighten you for no object or purpose? No, you must dismiss the idea from your mind."
"But the music – the unearthly music."
"Played by a strolling musician with a talent for the thing. That was all."
"His air and mine – 'Waves.' The air that no one else knew, that was never written down."
"You imagined the likeness to the air you mention. Our imaginations play strange tricks with us. The air played to-night was of a very minor character, and had notes in common with the one your husband composed. Hence a fleeting resemblance. It is more natural and in accordance with sense to believe this than to suppose that your husband came back from heaven to torture you. Now, good-night. You are good. You will try and be brave. I ask you to be brave for the sake of your noble husband's child."