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CHAPTER XLVI
As Carr was leaving the house he came across Esther, who, very white, but with a resolute look on her face, met him on the stairs.
"How is my mistress, sir?"
Carr felt nettled at her tone.
"Why do you ask?" he said shortly; "when last you saw her I presume she was well."
"No, sir."
"No?"
Carr paused. He gave Esther a quick piercing look, and his manner changed. Her face was strong, it could be relied on.
"You are the little boy's nurse, are you not?"
"I am, Mr. Carr."
"And you are attached to your mistress?"
Esther hesitated.
"I – I am," she said, but her voice trembled.
"Mrs. Wyndham wants some one who can be kind and sympathetic near her. Some one who can be tactful, and full of common-sense. Her nerves are greatly shaken. For instance she was much agitated at some music she heard in the street to-night."
"I heard it, sir. I was surprised. It wasn't like ordinary music."
"Oh, you thought so, did you? For heaven's sake don't repeat your thoughts to Mrs. Wyndham. You look a sensible young woman."
Esther dropped a curtsey.
"I hope I am," she said in a demure voice.
"Has your mistress a maid – a maid she likes?"
"No. I render her what little services are necessary."
"Can you stay in her room to-night? She ought not to be alone."
"I will sleep on the sofa in my mistress' room."
"That is right. Don't allude to the music in the street if you can help it."
Carr ran downstairs and went away, and Esther, slowly and hesitatingly, entered the drawing-room.
Mrs. Wyndham was standing with her two arms clasped round her husband's violin. The tears were raining from her eyes. Before she could disengage herself Esther saw the action, and a queer pang, half of pleasure, half of pain, shot through her. She saw at a glance that Gerald Wyndham's wife cared for no one but her husband. She stepped across the room quickly, and without any thought of the familiarity of the action put her hand through her mistress' arm, and led her towards the door.
"Come," she said, "you are tired and weak. Master baby is in his nest, and he wants you. Come, I am going to put you to bed."
Valentine raised no objection. She was trembling and cold. The tears were undried on her cheeks; the look of infinite pathetic patience in her eyes almost crushed Esther Helps.
"What a fool I was to suppose she didn't love her husband," she murmured. "As if any woman could be much with him and not love him. Ah, lucky Mrs. Wyndham – notwithstanding all your sorrow you are the woman I envy most on earth."
Valentine did not object to her maid's attentions. She felt shaken and worn out, and was glad passively to submit. When she was in bed she spoke for the first time.
"Esther, get a shawl, and lie here, outside the clothes. It comforts me to have you near."
Esther obeyed without any comment. She wrapped a thick shawl around her, and lay down near the edge of the big bed. Valentine took her little rosy boy into her arms.
"Now you must go to sleep, Mrs. Wyndham," said the maid, and she resolutely shut her own dark eyes.
For an hour she lay motionless, every nerve keenly awake, and on tension. For an hour she never lifted her eyelids. At the end of that time she opened them, and glanced at her mistress. Valentine was lying as still as if she were carved in marble. Her eyes were wide open. They were looking straight before her out into the big room. She scarcely seemed to breathe, and never saw Esther when she glanced at her.
"This won't do," thought the maid. "Poor little soul, she has got an awful shock. She will be very ill if I don't do something to rouse and interest her. I know she loves her husband – I will speak of him."
Esther moved on purpose somewhat aggressively. Valentine's wide-open eyes never flinched or changed their expression. The maid touched her mistress on the shoulder.
"This isn't good of you," she said; "you ought to be asleep."
Valentine started and shivered violently.
"I thought I was asleep," she said. "At any rate I was far away."
"When people sleep they shut their eyes," quoth Esther.
"Were mine open? I did not know it. I was looking at a picture – a picture in real life. It was lovely."
"I like beautiful pictures," said Esther. "Tell me what you saw."
By this time these two women had forgotten the relative positions they bore to each other. Valentine observed no familiarity in Esther's tone. Esther spoke and thought as though she were Valentine's social equal. She knew she was above her mentally just then; it was necessary for her to take the lead.
"Tell me what you saw, madam," she said. "Describe your beautiful picture."
Valentine obeyed with the docility of a child.
"It was a seaside picture," she began. "The sun was setting, and there was a path of light across the waters. The path seemed to go right up into the sky, and melt, and end there. And I – I thought of Jacob's ladder, from earth to heaven, and the angels walking up and down. On the shore a man and a girl sat. He had his arm round her waist; and she was filling her hands with the warm soft sand and letting it dribble away through her fingers. She was happy. She felt warm and contented, and protected against the whole world. Although she did not know that she loved it so much, it was the arm that encircled her that gave her that feeling."
Valentine stopped suddenly.
"That was a pretty picture, madam," said Esther. "A pretty picture, and you described it well. I suppose the gentleman was the girl's lover or husband."
"Her lover and husband in one. They were married. They sat like that once during their honeymoon. Presently he, the husband, took up his violin, which he had beside him, and began to play."
"Don't go into the music part, please, Mrs. Wyndham. I want just to keep to the picture alone. I want to guess something. I am good at guessing. You were the happy young girl."
"I was; oh, I was."
"And the gentleman was your husband; yes, your husband, whom you dearly loved."
"Don't talk of him, he is lost, gone. Esther, I'm a miserable, miserable woman."
Her icy quiet was broken up. Long-drawn sobs escaped her; she shivered as she wept.
"It is an awful thing to love too late – to love loo late," she moaned.
"Madam, I'm going to give you some sal-volatile and water: when you have taken it you shall tell me the whole story from first to last. Yes, you had better; you have said too much or too little. I may be able to comfort you if I know all."
Esther administered the restorative. When the distressful sobs were quieted, and Mrs. Wyndham lay back exhausted on her pillow, she took her hand, and said with infinite tact and tenderness: —
"You love him you have lost very deeply. Is that not so?"
"Beyond words to describe."
"You were young when you were married, Mrs. Wyndham; you are a very young woman still. Perhaps, as a young girl, as almost a child-girl, you did not know what great love meant."
"I always knew what great love meant. As a little girl I used to idolize my father. I remember when I was very young, not much older than baby here, lying down on the floor and kissing the carpet over which his steps had walked. I used to steal into his study and sit like a mouse; perfectly happy while I was watching him. When I saw his face that was bliss; when he took me in his arms I thought Heaven could give me no more. You are an only child. Esther Helps. Did you feel like that for your father?"
"No, madam, I always loved my father after a quiet fashion; I love him after a quiet fashion still. That kind of intense love I did not know. And you feel it still for Mr. Paget? I suppose it is natural. He is a handsome gentleman; he has a way about him that attracts people. For instance, my father would do anything for him. It is still bliss to you, Mrs. Wyndham, to watch your father's face."
"Come near to me, Esther; let me whisper to you. That love which I thought unquenchable is – dead!"
"Madam, you astonish me! Dead?"
"It died, Esther Helps, on the morning my husband sailed away."
"Then you only love your husband now?"
"I love many people. For instance, this little child; for instance, my sister Lilias. What I feel for my husband is high above all these things. I cannot describe it. It lies here – in my heart – and my heart aches, and aches."
"It would make Mr. Wyndham very happy to hear you," said Esther.
Her words were unguarded. Valentine began to sob feebly.
"He can never hear me," she said. "That is the dreadful part. I loved him when we were married, but I did not know it. Then the knowledge came to me, and I was so happy. One evening I told him so. I said, 'I love you!' I shall never forget his face. Often he was sad, but his face seemed to shine when I said those words, and he took me in his arms, and I saw a little way into the depth of his great heart. Soon after that something happened – I am not going to tell it, it doesn't matter – please don't hold my hand, Esther. It is very queer that you should be with me to-night."
"Why, dear madam? Don't you like to have me with you?"
"I think I do. I really quite think I do. Still it is strange that you should be here."
"Your story interests me wonderfully, Mrs. Wyndham. Will you tell me more?"
"There is not a great deal to tell. For a time I misunderstood my husband, and the love which really filled my heart seemed to go back and back and back like the waves when the tide is going out. Then the time came for him to go to Sydney. He could not say good-bye; he wrote good-bye. He said a strange thing in the middle of the letter; he asked me if I really loved him to join him the next morning on board the Esperance. Loved him! Of course I loved him! I was so relieved. Everything was made clear to me. He was first – all others everywhere were second. My father came in, and I told him what I meant to do. He was angry, and tried to dissuade me. When he saw that I would not yield he appeared to consent, and promised to go with me the next morning to Southampton. The Esperance was not to sail until noon. There seemed lots of time. Still, for the first time, I began to doubt my father. I determined not to wait for the train he had arranged to travel by with me, but to go down by a much earlier one. I went to Southampton with a German maid I had at the time. We arrived there at eight in the morning, we reached the docks soon after nine, the Esperance was away – she had sailed at eight. Don't question me about that day, Esther Helps. It was on that day my love for my father died."
CHAPTER XLVII
It was nearly morning before Mrs. Wyndham fell asleep. Before then, Esther had said a good deal.
"I am not surprised at your loving your husband," she began. "Men like your husband are worth loving. They are loyal, true, and noble. They make the world a better place. Once your husband helped me. I am going to tell you the story.
"Three years ago, Mrs. Wyndham, I was a very different girl from the one who now is by your side. I was handsome, and vain, and empty-headed. I thought most of dress and of flirting. I had the silliest form of ambition. I wanted to be a gentleman's wife. My mother had been a lady by birth, and I thought it was only due to me to be the same. My only chance of becoming a lady was by marrying a gentleman, and I thought surely someone would be found who would make me his wife for the sake of my handsome face. I had nothing else to recommend me. Mrs. Wyndham, for I was empty-headed and untrained, and I had a shallow, vulgar soul.
"One day I was skating in Regent's Park with some friends. I fell on the ice and hurt my foot. A gentleman picked me up. I looked into his face in the bold way I had, and then all of a sudden I felt ashamed of myself, and I looked down, and a modest, humble womanly feeling crept over me. The gentleman was your husband, Mr. Wyndham; the expression on his face impressed me, and I could not forget it. He came to our house that evening and brought a book to my father, and a present of flowers from you to me. I felt quite silent and queer when he was in the room; I did not talk, but I listened to every word he said. He was so uncommon. I thought what a clergyman he'd make, and how, if he were as eloquent in his words as in his looks, he might make us all good in spite of ourselves. He made a great impression on me, and I did not like to think my low silly thoughts after he had gone.
"Soon afterwards I made the acquaintance of a Captain Herriot, in the – th Hussars; he was a very fine gentleman, and had very fine words, and although I did not love him a bit nor a scrap, he turned my head with his flattery. He did go on about my face – I don't know how I ever was goose enough to believe him. He managed to get my secrets out of me though, and when I told him that I meant to be a gentleman's wife some day, he said that he was the gentleman, and that I should marry him, and him alone. I thought that would be fine, and I believed him. He made all arrangements – oh, how I hate to think of what I afterwards saw was his real meaning.
"I was not to let out a thing to my father, and on a certain night we were to go together to the Gaiety, and he was to take me home afterwards, and the next morning we were to go to church and be married. He showed me the license and the ring, and I believed everything, and thought it would be fine to be the wife of Captain Herriot.
"I kept my secret from my father, but Cherry, a cousin who lives with us, got some of it out of me, for I was mad with vain triumph, and it was indirectly through her that I came to be delivered. The night arrived, and I went away from my home thinking how proudly I'd come back to show myself in a day or two; and how Cherry would open her eyes when I told her I was the wife of Captain Herriot, of the – th Hussars. I reached the theatre, and Captain Herriot gave me his arm, and led me into the house, and we took our places in the stalls. People turned and looked at me, and Captain Herriot said it was no wonder, for I was the most beautiful woman in the Gaiety that night.
"Then the curtain rose, the house was darkened, and some one took the empty stall at my other side. I turned my head, Mr. Wyndham was sitting near me. He said a courteous word or two. I bowed my head; I could not speak. Madam, I did not see that play; I was there, looking on, but I saw nothing. Captain Herriot whispered in my ear; I pushed away from him. Suddenly he was horrible to me. I felt like a girl who was placed between an angel and a devil. Instantly the mask fell from my eyes. Captain Herriot meant to ruin me, never to marry me. Mr. Wyndham scarcely said a word to me till the play was over, then he spoke.
"'Your father wants you,' he said. 'Here is a cab, get into it. I will take you to your father.'
"He spoke out, quite loud and clear. I thought Captain Herriot would have fought him. Not a bit of it. His face turned an ugly color. He took off his hat to me, and slunk away through the crowd. That was the last straw. He had not even spirit to fight for the girl who thought she was about to become his wife.
"Mr. Wyndham got on the box of the cab, and took me to Mr. Paget's offices. My old father came out, and helped me out of the cab, and put his arms round me. He wrung Mr. Wyndham's hand, and said 'God bless you, sir;' and then he led me inside, and told me how Cherry had betrayed me, and how he (my father) had taken that stall ticket intending to sit beside me that night, and give Captain Herriot a blow in his face afterwards, as he was known to be one of the greatest scoundrels going. Pressing business kept my father at the office that night, and Mr. Wyndham promised to go in his place.
"'There isn't another young gentleman who would do it,' said my father. 'No not another.'
"After that, madam, I was changed; yes, a good bit. I thought I'd live more worthy. Mr. Wyndham's face used to come between me and frivolous ways and vain sins. It seemed as if his were the hand to lead me up. You don't mind, do you, madam, that he should have rescued one poor girl from the pit of destruction, and that she should love him – yes, love him for what he has done?"
"Oh, Esther, do I mind? Come here, Esther, come here. Let me put my arms round you. Kiss me. You have lifted something from my heart – how much you can never know. Esther, I was at the Gaiety that night, and I saw my husband with you, and I – I doubted him."
"Madam —you?" Esther sprang away – her whole face became crimson.
"I did, Esther; and that was when my love went away like the tide going out; but now – now – Esther, lie down. Let me hold your hand. I am sleepy. I can sleep sweetly now."
CHAPTER XLVIII
When the wandering minstrel, with his violin under his arm, left the neighborhood of Park-lane, he walked with a somewhat feeble and faltering step through Grosvenor-square and into Bond-street. A few people looked at him as he passed, and a hungry-looking girl who was leaning against a wall suddenly asked him to play for her. He stopped at the sound of her voice and said a word or two.
"I am sorry my violin only knows one air, and I have played it."
"Can you not play it again?"
"It is not meant for you, poor girl. Good-night."
"Good-night, kind sir. I'll say a prayer for you if you like; you look miserable enough."
The minstrel removed his soft hat, made a gesture of thanks, and hurried on. He was going to Queen's Gate. The walk was long, and he was very feeble. He had a few coins in his pocket from the change of Esther's sovereigns; he determined to ride, and mounted on the roof of a Hammersmith omnibus in Piccadilly.
By-and-bye he reached his destination, and found himself in familiar ground. He walked slowly now, hesitating – sometimes inclined to turn back. Presently he reached a house; he went up the steps, and took shelter for a moment from the biting east winds under the portico. It was late, but the lights were still shining in the great mansion.
He was glad of this; he could not have done what he meant to do except under strong excitement, and sheltered by the friendly gas light. He turned and gave the visitor's bell a full peal. The door was opened almost instantly by a liveried footman.
"Is Mr. Paget within?"
The man stared. The voice was not only refined, but to a certain extent familiar. The voice, oh, yes; but then the figure, the thin, long reed-like figure, slouching forward with weakness, buttoned up tight in the seedy frock coat whose better days must have been a matter of the very distant past.
"Is Mr. Paget within?"
The tone was so assured and even peremptory that the servant, in spite of himself, was overawed.
"I believe so, sir," he said.
"Ask if I can see him."
"Mr. Paget is not very well, sir, and it is late."
"Ask if I can see him."
The footman turned a little surly.
"I'll inquire," he said; "he's sure to say no, but I'll inquire. Your name, if you please. My master will require to know your name."
"I am known as Brother Jerome. Tell your master that my business is urgent. Go; I am in a hurry."
"Rum party, that," murmured the servant. "Don't understand him; don't like him. All the same, I can't shut the door in his face. He's the sort of party as has seen better days; 'ope as the umbrellas is safe."
Then he walked across the hall and entered his master's study.
The room, with its old oak and painted glass, and electric light, looked the perfection of comfort. The tall, white-headed man who sat crushed up in the big armchair was the envied of many.
"If you please, sir," said the servant.
"Yes; don't leave the door open. Who were you chatting to in the hall?"
"A man who has called, and wants to see you very particular, sir."
"I can't see him."
"He says his name is Brother Jerome."
"I can't see him. Go away, and shut the door."
"I knew it would be no use," muttered the footman. "Only he seems a sort of a gentleman, sir, and in trouble like."
"I can't see him. Shut the door and go away!"
"Yes, you can see me," said a voice.
The minstrel walked into the room.
"Good heavens!"
CHAPTER XLIX
At the sound of his voice the footman fell back as white as a sheet. Mr. Paget rose, walked over to him, took him by the shoulders, and pushed him out of the room. He locked the door behind him. Then he turned, and backing step by step almost as far as the window, raised his hands, and looked at his forbidden visitor with a frozen expression of horror.
Wyndham took his hat off and laid it on the table. Mr. Paget raised his hands, covered his face with them, and groaned.
"Spirit!" he said. "Spirit, why have you come to torment me before the time?"
"I am no spirit," replied Wyndham, "I am a living man – a defrauded and injured man – but as much alive as you are."
"It is false – don't touch me – don't come a step nearer – you are dead – you have been dead for the last three years. On the 25th April, 18 – , you committed suicide by jumping into the sea; you did it on purpose to revenge yourself, and since then you have haunted me, and made my life as hell. I always said, Wyndham, you would make an awful ghost – you do, you do."
"I am not a ghost," said Wyndham. "Touch me, and you will see. This wrist and hand are thin enough, but they are alive. I fell into the sea, but I was rescued. I came to you to-night – I troubled you to-night because you have broken our contract, because – What is the matter? Touch me, you will see I am no ghost."
Wyndham came nearer; Mr. Paget uttered a piercing shriek.
"Don't – don't!" he implored. "You are a lying spirit; you have often lied – often – to me. You want to take me with you; you know if you touch me I shall have to go. Don't – oh, I beseech of you, leave me the little time longer that I've got to live. Don't torment me before the time."
He dropped on his knees; his streaming white hair fell behind him, his hands were raised in supplication.
"Don't," said Wyndham, terribly distressed. "You have wronged me bitterly, but I, too, am a sinner; I would not willingly hurt mortal on this earth. Get up, don't degrade yourself. I am a living man like yourself. I have come to speak to you of my wife – of Valentine."
"Don't breathe her name. I lost her through you. No, you are dead – I have murdered you – your blood is on my soul – but I won't go with you yet, not yet. Ha! ha! I'll outwit you. Don't touch me!"
He gave another scream, an awful scream, half of triumph, half of despair, sprang to the door, unlocked it and vanished.
Wyndham took up his violin and left the house.
"Mad, poor fellow!" he muttered to himself. "Who'd have thought it? Even from a worldly point of view what fools people are to sin! What luck does it ever bring them? He made me his accomplice, his victim, in order to keep his daughter's love, in order to escape dishonor and penal servitude. He told me the whole story of that trust money – to be his if there was no child – to be kept for a child if there was. He was a good fellow before he got the trust money I have no doubt. The friend died, and soon afterwards Paget learned that he had left a son behind him. Mr. Paget told me – how well I remember his face when he told me how he felt about the son, who was then only an infant, but to whom he must deliver the trust money when he came of age. 'I wanted that money badly,' he said, 'and I resolved to suppress the trust papers and use the money. I thought the chances were that the child would never know.'"
The chances, however, were against Mr. Paget. The friend who had left him the money in trust had not so absolutely believed in him as he supposed. He had left duplicate papers, and these papers were in the boy's possession. One day Mr. Paget learned this fact. When he knew this he knew also that when his friend's son came of age he should have to repay the trust with interest; in short, he would have to give the young man the enormous sum of eighty thousand pounds or be branded as a thief and a criminal.
"I remember the night he told me this story," concluded Wyndham with a sigh.
He was walking slowly now in the direction of the Embankment.
"So the plot was made up," he continued. "The insurance on my life was to pay back the trust. Valentine would never know her father's dishonor. She would continue to love him best of all men, and he would escape shame, ruin – penal servitude. How have matters turned out? For the love of a woman I performed my part: for the love of a woman and self combined, he performed his. How has he fared? The woman ceases to love him, and he is mad. I – how have matters fared with me? How? The wages of sin are hard. I saw a sight to-night which might well turn a stronger brain than mine. I saw my wife, and the man who may soon be her husband. I must not dwell on that, I dare not."
Wyndham walked on, a burning fever gave him false strength. He reached the Embankment and presently sat down near a girl who looked even poorer and more miserable than himself. There were several men and girls occupying the same bench. It was a bitter cold, frosty night; all the seats along the Embankment were full, some poor creatures even lay about on the pavement. Wyndham turned to look at the slight young creature by his side. She was very young, rather fair in appearance, and very poorly clad.
"You are shivering," said Wyndham, in the voice which still could be one of the kindest in the world.
The poor worn young face turned to look at him in surprise and even confidence.
"Yes," said the girl. "I'm bitter cold, and numb, and starved. It's a cruel world, and I hate God Almighty for having made me."
"Hush, don't say that. It does no good to speak against the one who loves you. Lean against me. Let me put my arm round you. Think of me as a brother for the next hour or two. I would not harm a hair of your head."
"I believe you," said the girl, beginning to sob.
With a touching movement of absolute confidence she laid her faded face against his shoulder.
"That is better, is it not?" said Wyndham.
"Yes, thank you, sir. I'm desperate sleepy, and I shan't slip off the bench now. I was afraid to go to sleep before, for if I slipped off somebody else would get my seat, and I know I'd be dead if I lay on the pavement till morning."
"Well, go to sleep, now. I shan't let you slip off."
"Sir, how badly you are coughing."
"I am sorry if my cough disturbs you. I cannot help giving way to it now and then."
"Oh, sir, it is not that; you seem like a good angel to me. I even love the sound of your cough, for it is kind. But have you not a home, sir?"
"I certainly have a shelter for the night. Not a home in the true sense of the word."
"Ought you not to go to your shelter, sir?"
"No, I shall stay here with you until you have had a good sleep. Now shut your eyes."
The girl tried to obey. For about ten minutes she sat quiet, and Wyndham held her close, trying to impart some of the warmth from his own body to her frozen frame. Suddenly the girl raised her eyes, looked him in the face, and smiled.
"Sir, you are an angel."
"You make a great mistake. On the contrary I have sinned more deeply than most."
"Sir?"
"It is true."
"I don't want you to preach to me, sir; but I know from your face however you have sinned you have been forgiven."
"You make another mistake; my sin is unabsolved."
"Sir?"
The girl's astonishment showed itself in her tone.
"Don't talk about me," continued Wyndham. "It is a curious fact that I love God, although it is impossible for Him to forgive me until I do something which I find impossible to do. I go unforgiven through life, still I love God. I delight in His justice, I glory in the love He has even for me, and still more for those who like you can repent and come to Him, and be really forgiven."
He paused, he saw that he was talking over the girl's head. Presently he resumed in a very gentle pleading voice: —
"I don't want to hear your story, but – "
The girl interrupted him with a sort of cry.
"It is the usual story, sir. There is nothing to conceal. Once I was innocent, now I am what men and women call lost. Lost and fallen. That's what they say of girls like me."
"God can say something quite different to you. He can say found and restored. Listen. No one loves you like God. Loving He forgives. All things are possible to love."
"Yes, sir; when you speak like that you make me weep."
"Crying will do you good. Poor little girl, we are never likely to meet again in this world. I want you to promise me that you won't turn against God Almighty. He is your best friend."
"Sir! And He leaves me to starve. To starve, and sin."
"He wants you not to sin. The starving, even if it must come, is only a small matter, for there is the whole of eternity to make up for it. Now I won't say another word, except to assure you from the lips of a dying man, for I know I am dying, that God is your best friend, and that He loves you. Go to sleep."
The girl smiled again, and presently dropped off into an uneasy slumber with her head on Wyndham's shoulder.
By-and-bye a stout woman, with a basket on her arm, came up. She looked curiously at Wyndham. He saw at a glance that she must have walked from a long distance, and would like his seat. He beckoned her over.
"You are tired. Shall I give you my seat?"
"Eh, sir, you are kind. I have come a long way and am fair spent."
"You shall sit here, if you will let this tired girl lay her head on your breast."
"Eh, but she don't look as good as she might be!"
"Never mind. Jesus Christ would have let her put her head on His breast. Thank you, I knew you were a kind hearted woman. She will be much better near you than near me. Here is a shilling. Give it her when she wakes. Good-night."
