WHILE LEAVES WERE FALLING.
Fondly as he loved his betrothed wife, Allan felt that affection and
duty alike forbade him to leave his father while the shadow of doom
hung over the threshold, while there could be no assurance from day
to day that the end would not come before sundown. There had been
enough in the physician's manner to crush hopefulness even in the most
sanguine breast; and it was in vain that Allan tried to argue within
himself against the verdict of learning and experience. He knew in
his inmost heart that the physician was right. The ordeal through
which George Carew had passed had changed him with the change that too
palpably foreshadows the last change of all. In the hollow eyes, the
blue-veined forehead and pale lips, in the inert and semi-transparent
hands, in the far-off look of the man whose race is run and who has
nothing more to do with active life, Allan saw the sign manual of the
destroyer. He had need to cherish and garner these quiet days in his
father's company, to hang fondly on every word from those pale lips,
to treasure each thought as a memory to be hereafter dear and sacred.
Whatever other love there might be for him upon this earth--even the
love of her whom he had made his second self, upon whom he depended for
all future gladness--no claim could prevail against the duty that held
him here, by the side of the father whose days were numbered.
"I am so glad to have you with me, Allan," Mr. Carew said, in the grave
voice which had lost none of its music, though it had lost much of
its power. "It seems selfish on my part to keep you here, away from
that nice girl, your sweetheart; but though you are making a sacrifice
now----"
"No, no, no," interrupted Allan, "it is no sacrifice. I had rather be
here than anywhere in the world. Thank God that I am here, that no
accident of distance has kept me from you."
"Dear boy, you are so good and true--but it is a sacrifice all the
same. This is the spring-time of your life, and you ought to be with
the girl who makes your sunshine. It is hard for you two to be parted;
and I should like her to be here; only this is a house of gloom. God
knows what might happen to chill that young heart. It is better that
you and I should be alone together, prepared for the worst: and in the
days to come, in the far-off days, you will be glad to remember how
your love lightened every burden for your dying father."
"Father, my dear father!"
The son uttered words of hope, declared his belief that Heaven would
grant the dear patient renewed strength; but the voice in which he
spoke the words of cheerfulness was broken by sobs.
"My dear Allan, don't be down-hearted. I am resigned to the worst that
can happen. I won't say I am glad that the end is near. That would be
base ingratitude to the best of wives, to the dearest of sons, and
to Providence which has given me so many good things. This world and
this life have been pleasant to me, Allan; and it does seem hard to be
called away from such peaceful surroundings, from the home where love
is, even though through all that life there has run a dark thread. I
think you have known that, Allan. I think that sensitive nature of
yours has been conscious of the shadow on my days."
"Yes, I have known that there was a shadow."
"A stronger character would have risen superior to the sorrow that has
clouded my life, Allan. I have no doubt that some of the greatest and
many of the most useful men the world has known have suffered just such
a disappointment as I suffered in my early manhood, and have risen
superior to their sorrow. You remember how Austin Caxton counsels his
son to live down a disappointed love--how he appeals to the lives of
men who have conquered sorrow? 'You thought the wing was broken. Tut,
tut, 'twas but a bruised feather.' But in my own case, Allan, the
wing _was_ broken. I had not the mental stamina, I had not the power
of rebound which enables a man to rise superior to the sorrow of his
youth. I could not forget my first love. I gave up a year of my life
to the search for the girl I loved--who had forsaken me in a foolish
spirit of self-sacrifice because she had been told that my marriage
with her would be social ruin. She was little more than a child in
years--quite a child in ignorance of the world, and of the weight
and measure of worldly things. We were both cruelly used, Allan. My
mother was a good woman, and a woman who would do nothing which she
could not reconcile to her conscience and her own ideas of piety. She
acted conscientiously, after her own narrow notions, in bringing about
the parting which blighted my youth, and she thought me a wicked son
because for two years of my life I held myself aloof from her."
"And in all that time could you find no trace of your lost love?"
"None. I advertised in English and Continental newspapers, veiling my
appeal in language which would mean little to the outside world though
it would speak plainly to her. I wandered about the Continent--Italy,
Switzerland--all along the Rhine, and the Danube, to every place
that seemed to offer a chance of success. I had reason to believe
that she had been sent abroad, and I thought that her exile would be
fixed in some remote district, out of the beaten track. It may be
that my research was conducted feebly. I was out of health for the
greater part of my wanderings, and I had no one to help me. Another
man in my position might have employed a private detective, and might
have succeeded where I failed. I was summoned home by the news of my
mother's dangerous illness, and I returned remorseful and unhappy.
At the thought that she might die unforgiving and unforgiven, my
resentment vanished. I recalled all that my mother had been to my
childhood and boyhood, and I felt myself an ungrateful son. Thank God,
I was home in time to cheer her sick-bed, and to help towards her
recovery by the assurance of my unaltered affection. I found that she
too had suffered, and I discovered the strength of maternal love under
that outward hardness, and allied with those narrow views which had
wrecked my happiness. In my gladness at her recovery from a long and
dangerous illness, I began to think that the old heart-wound was cured;
and when she suggested my marriage with Emily Darnleigh, my amiable
playfellow of old, I cheerfully fell in with her views. The union was
in every respect suitable, and for me in every respect advantageous.
Your mother has been a good and dear wife to me, and never had man
less reason to complain against Fate. But there has been the lingering
shadow of that old memory, Allan, and you have seen and understood; so
it is well you should know all."
Allan tearfully acknowledged the trust confided in him.
"When I am gone, if you care to know the story of my first love, you
will find it fully recorded in a manuscript which was written some
years ago. Heaven knows what inspired me to go over that old ground,
to write of myself almost as I might have written of another man.
It was the whim of an idle brain. I felt a strange sad pleasure in
recalling every detail of my brief love-story--in conjuring up looks
and tones, the very atmosphere of the commonplace surroundings through
which my sweet girl and I moved. No touch of romance, no splendour of
scenery, no gaiety of racecourse or public garden made the background
of our love. A dull London street, a dull London parlour were all we
had for a paradise, and God knows we needed no more. You will smile at
a middle-aged man's folly in lingering fondly over the record of his
own love-story, instead of projecting himself into the ideal world
and weaving a romance of shadows. If I had been a woman, I might have
found a diversion for my empty days in writing novels, in every one of
which my sweetheart and I would have lived again, and loved and parted
again, under various disguises. But I had not the feminine capacity
for fiction. It pleased me to write of myself and my love in sober
truthfulness. You will read with a mind in touch with mine, Allan;
and though you may smile at your father's folly, there will be no
scornfulness in your smile."
"My dear, dear father, God knows there will be no smile on these lips
of mine if I am to read the story--after our parting. God grant the day
for that reading may be far off."
"I will do nothing to hasten it, Allan. Your companionship has renewed
my pleasure in life. You can never know how I missed you when this
house ceased to be your home. It was different when you were at
the University--the short terms, the short distance between here
and Cambridge, made parting seem less than parting. But when you
transferred yourself to a home of your own, and half a dozen counties
divided us, I began to feel that I had lost my only son."
"You had but to summon me."
"I know, I know. But I could not be so selfish as to bring you away
from your pleasant surroundings, the prettier country, the more
genial climate, your hunting, your falconry, your golf, and your new
neighbours. A sick man is a privileged egotist; but even now I feel I
am wrong in letting you stay here and lose the best part of the hunting
season--to say nothing of that other loss, which, no doubt, you feel
more keenly, the loss of your sweetheart's society."
"You need not think about it, father, for I mean to stay. Please regard
me as a fixture. If you keep as well next week as you are to-day, I
may take a run to Wilts, just to see how Suzette and her father are
getting on, and to look round my stable; but I shall be away at most
one night."
"Go to-morrow, Allan. I know you are dying to see her."
"Then, perhaps, to-morrow. You really are wonderfully well, are you
not?"
"So well that I feel myself an impostor when I am treated as an
invalid."
"I may go then; but it will only be to hurry back," said Allan.
His heart beat faster at the thought of an hour with Suzette--an hour
in which to look into the frank bright face, to see the truthful eyes
looking up at him in all confidence and love, to be assured that three
weeks' absence had made no difference, that not the faintest cloud had
come between them in their first parting. Yes, he longed to see her,
with a lover's heart-sickness. Deeply, tenderly as he treasured every
hour of his father's society, he felt that he must steal just as much
time from his home duty as would give him one hour with Suzette.
He pored over time-tables, and so planned his journey as to leave
Fendyke in the afternoon of one day, and to return in time for luncheon
the day after. This was only to be effected by leaving Matcham at
daybreak; but a young man who was in the habit of leaving home in the
half-light of a September dawn to ride ten miles to a six-o'clock meet
was not afraid of an early train.
He caught a fast evening train for Salisbury, and was at Matcham
soon after eight. He had written to General Vincent to announce his
intention of looking in after dinner, apologizing in advance for so
late a visit. His intention was to take a hasty meal, dress, and drive
to Marsh House; but at Beechhurst he found a note from the General
inviting him to dinner, postponed till nine o'clock on his account; so
he made his toilet in the happiest mood, and arrived at Marsh House ten
minutes before the hour.
He found Suzette alone in the drawing-room, and had her all to himself
for just those ten minutes which he had gained by extra swiftness
at his toilet. For half those minutes he had the gentle fluttering
creature in his arms, the dark eyes full of tears, the innocent heart
all tenderness and sympathy.
"Why would not you let me go to you, Allan?" she remonstrated. "I
wanted to be with you and Lady Emily in your trouble. I hope you
don't think I am afraid of sickness or sorrow, where those I love are
concerned."
"Indeed, dearest, I give you credit for all unselfishness. But I was
advised against your visit. The hazard was too awful."
"What hazard, Allan?"
"The possibility of my father's sudden death."
"Oh, Allan, my poor, poor boy! Is it really as bad as that? How sad for
you! And you love him so dearly, I know."
"I hardly knew how dearly till this great terror fell upon me. Nothing
less than my love for a father whom I must lose too soon--whom I may
lose very soon--would have kept me from you so long, Suzette. And now
I am only here for a few hours, to see you, to hear you, to hold you
in my arms, and to assure myself that there is such a person; to make
quite sure that the Suzette who is in my thoughts by day and in all my
dreams by night is not a brilliant hallucination--the creature of my
mind and fancy."
"I am very real, I assure you--full of human faults."
"I hope you have a stray failing or two lurking somewhere amongst your
perfections; but I have not discovered one yet."
"Ah, Allan, Love would not be Love if he could see."
"Tell me all your news, Suzie. What have you been doing with yourself?
Your letters have told me a good deal--dear bright letters, coming
like a burst of sunshine into my sad life--but they could not tell me
enough. I suppose you have been often at Discombe?"
"Yes, I have been there nearly every day. Mrs. Wornock has been ill and
depressed. She will not own to being ill, and I could not persuade
her to send for the doctor. But I don't think she could be in such low
spirits if she were not ill."
"Poor soul!"
"She is so sympathetic, Allan. She has been as keenly interested in
your poor father's illness as if he were her dearest friend. She has
been so eager to hear about his progress, and has begged me to read the
passages in your letters which refer to him. She is so tender-hearted,
and enters so fully into other people's sorrows."
"And you have been much with her, and have done all in your power to
cheer her, no doubt."
"I have done what I could. We have made music together; but she has not
taken her old delight in playing, or in listening to me. She has become
dreamy and self-absorbed. I am sure she is out of health."
"And her son, for whose company she was pining all the summer? Has not
he been able to cheer her spirits?"
"I hardly know about that. Mr. Wornock is out hunting all day and every
day. He has increased his stud since you left, and hunts with three
packs of hounds. He comes home after dark, sometimes late for dinner.
He and his mother spend the evening together, and no doubt that is her
golden hour."
"And has Wornock given up his violin practice?"
"He plays for an hour after dinner sometimes, when he is not too tired?"
"And your musical mornings? Have there been no more of those--no more
concertante duets?"
"Allan, I told you that there should be no more such duets for me."
"You might have changed your mind."
"Not after having promised. I considered that a promise."
"Conscientious soul! And you think me a jealous brute, no doubt?"
"I don't think you a brute."
"But a jealous idiot. My dearest, I don't think I am altogether wrong.
A wife--or a betrothed wife--should have no absorbing interest outside
her husband's or her sweetheart's life; and music is an absorbing
interest, a chain of potent strength between two minds. When I heard
those impassioned strains on the fiddle, and your tender imitations on
the piano, question and answer, question and answer, for ever repeating
themselves, and breathing only love----"
"Oh, Allan, what an ignoramus you are! Do you suppose musical people
ever think of anything but the music they are playing?"
"They may not think, but they must feel. They can't help being borne
along on that strong current."
"No, no; they have no time to be vapourish or sentimental. They have to
be cool and business-like; every iota of one's brain-power is wanted
for the notes one is playing, the transitions from key to key--so
subtle as to take one by surprise--the changes of time, the syncopated
passages which almost take one's breath away----Hark! there is my
aunt. Father asked her in to support me. Uncle Mornington is in London,
and she is alone at the Grove."
"I think we could have done without her, Suzie."
Mrs. Mornington's resonant voice was heard in the hall while she was
taking off her fur cloak, and the lady appeared a minute later, in a
serviceable black-velvet gown, with diamonds twinkling and trembling in
her honiton cap, jovial and hearty as usual.
"You poor fellow! I'm very glad to see you," she said, shaking hands
with Allan. "I hope your father is better. Of course he is, though, or
you wouldn't be here. It's five minutes past nine, Suzie, and as I am
accustomed to get my dinner at half-past seven, I hope your cook means
to be punctual. Oh, here's my brother, and dinner is announced. Thank
goodness!"
General Vincent welcomed his future son-in-law, and the little party
went into the cosy dining-room, where Suzette looked her prettiest in
the glow of crimson shaded lamps, which flecked her soft white gown and
her pretty white neck with rosy lights. Conversation was so bright and
cheerful among these four that Allan's thoughts reverted apprehensively
now and again to the quiet home in Suffolk and the dark shadow hanging
over it. He felt as if there were a kind of treason against family
affection in this interlude of happiness, and yet he could not help
being happy with Suzette. To-morrow, in the early grey of a winter
morning, he would be on his way back to his father.
After dinner Mrs. Mornington established herself in an armchair close
to the drawing-room fire, and had so much to say to her brother about
Matcham sociology that Allan and his sweetheart, seated by the piano
at the other end of the room, were as much alone as if they had been
in one of the Discombe copses. No better friend than a piano to lovers
who want to be quiet and confidential. Suzette sat before the keyboard
and played a few bars now and then, like a running commentary on the
conversation.
"You will say all that is kind and nice to Mrs. Wornock for me?" Allan
said, after a good deal of other and tenderer talk.
"Yes, I will tell her how kindly you spoke of her; but the best thing I
can tell her is that your father is better. She has been so intensely
interested about him. I have felt very sorry for her since you went
away, Allan."
"Why?"
"Because I cannot help seeing that her son's return has not brought her
the happiness she expected. She has been thinking of him and hoping for
his coming for years--empty, desolate years, for until she attached
herself to you and me she had really no one she cared for. Strange, was
it not, that she should take such a fancy to you, and then extend her
friendly feeling to me?"
"Yes, it was strange, undoubtedly. But I believe I owe her kindly
feeling entirely to my very shadowy likeness to her son."
"No doubt that was the beginning; but I am sure she likes you for your
own sake. You are only second to her son in her affection; and I know
she is disappointed in her son."
"I hope he is not unkind to her."
"Unkind! No, no, he is kindness itself. His manner to his mother is
all that it should be; affectionate, caressing, deferential. But he is
such a restless creature, so eager for change and movement. Clever and
amiable as he is, there is something wanting in his character; the want
of repose, I believe. He hardly ever rests; and there is no rest where
he is. He excites his mother, and he doesn't make her happy. Perhaps
it is better for her that he is so seldom at home. She is too highly
strung to endure his unquiet spirit."
"You like him though, don't you, Suzette, in spite of his faults?"
"Oh, one cannot help liking him. He is so bright and clever; and he
has all his mother's amiability; only, like her, he has just a touch
of eccentricity--but I hardly like to call it that. A German word
expresses it better; he is _überspannt_."
"He is what our American friends call a crank," said Allan, relieved to
find his sweetheart could speak so lightly of the man who had caused
him his first acquaintance with jealousy.