THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.
Thus 'twas granted me
To know he loved me to the depth and height
Of such large natures, ever competent
With grand horizons, by the land or sea,
To love's grand sunrise. Small spheres hold small fires,
But he loved largely.
Maud was inexpressibly shocked at her husband's appearance. Neither the
telegrams nor the doctors' notes nor Boldero's description had in the
faintest degree prepared her for what she saw. She had heard of death,
and even seen it, but in its gentle, peaceful, unagonised aspect; she
had seen illness, but in its milder mood, as it visits the European
household: not the savage, destroying, desolating demon-angel that waves
a sword across the cholera-stricken plain or city in the East. A
sickness of a few days, a few hours, shatters the sufferer's frame,
blurs out the familiar features, leaves the stalwart man a quivering
skeleton, deadens the sense and clouds the strong mind with a deep,
dreadful shadow of oblivion.
And to this stage Sutton had come. Maud, despite all entreaties and
warnings, went straight to her husband's side and let the full horror of
the scene take possession of her soul. It wrung her very heart to see
him--the man whom, after all, she loved with a passion which, if
sometimes forgotten, was never extinct for an instant. She had loved him
at first; she loved him now ten times more than ever. She had wronged
him, neglected him, dishonoured him--alas, how grievously!--her one hope
lay in confession, reconciliation, forgiveness: and he lay there, more
dead than alive--speechless, motionless, except when some spasm of
suffering shook him--and, so far as outward sign showed, unconscious of
her presence. Maud thanked Heaven that she was on the spot to know and
see the worst, and yet it was almost more than she could bear. Her load
of anguish seemed too much for one till now a stranger to sorrow. Again
and again some old trait in the haggard, suffering face, a moan of pain,
a gesture too slight from weakness to be intelligible to any eye but
hers, touched a fresh chord in her heart, broke down her wavering
fortitude, and sent her rushing to her room to shed in solitude the
tears of sorrow and remorse. Again and again she washed away the useless
tears, nerved herself once more to maintain a courageous exterior, and
returned, with a fortitude which she felt gather strength within her,
to the sad task of watching and waiting for the crisis which a few hours
more must bring.
Let us leave that terrible passage of Maud's life, with its trembling,
agonising suspense, its heartfelt vows and prayers, its remorseful
tears, its thrilling hopes, its mysterious communings with another
world. Let us drop a curtain over that solemn season. Maud will emerge
from it, we may be sure, with a new-born fortitude, patience, loftiness
of soul; courage, the child of suffering; calmness, the attribute of
those who have been close upon despair.
A fortnight later Sutton was lying in the drawing-room, with no other
malady than excessive weakness, and with no other occupation than to
recruit his shattered powers. Maud was busied with the composition of
some appetising beverage, which was, the doctor said, the only kind of
medicine of which he now stood in need, and which could, in Maud's and
her husband's opinion, be properly concocted and administered by no hand
but hers. Then the invalid's pillows needed skilful arrangement, for he
was still at the stage when mere lying still is an exertion which seems
to tax every limb and muscle in the aching frame. Maud found an
indescribable relief and pleasure in waiting on her husband, and proved
herself a nature-taught adept in the kindly art of nursing. Every act,
though her husband knew it not, had, to Maud's aching conscience, a sort
of penitential devotion about it, and said a hundred things of love and
sorrow which as yet found no utterance in spoken words.
'What a model wife!' said Sutton, as he lay watching her movements, in
grateful admiration at her skill and care on his behalf.
'Ah! but,' said Maud, thankful for the opportunity of the confession she
was longing to make, 'I am not a model wife at all, but just everything
that a model ought not to be.'
'Then,' said Jem gallantly, 'I am for you, and not for the model,
whoever drew it.'
'Jem,' she said, with sudden seriousness, 'I want to tell you something,
and be forgiven. I meant to do so before, but you have been too poorly.
I am afraid it will hurt you. I have been going on very stupidly at
Elysium, and very wrongly, and doing everything that you would most have
disliked, and that I dislike now--oh! how bitterly!'
Sutton, to Maud's great relief, did not seem in the least surprised or
inclined to be serious about the matter. He took her hand and held it
with the kindest caressing manner.
'I have no doubt,' he said, 'that Mrs. Vereker did all she could to get
you into a scrape. It was a shame of me to let you go to her.'
'No,' said Maud, 'it was not her fault at all. The truth is, I have been
flirting with--some one.'
'Some one,' said Sutton, 'has been trying to flirt with you, you mean,
and no wonder. Some one showed his good taste at any rate.'
'Yes, but,' said the penitent, 'I flirted with him. I think I must have
been crazy.'
'You risked your life, dear, to come and be with me. Why look further
back than that? I cannot.'
'But,' said Maud, her cheeks burning scarlet at the awful confession
which conscience compelled her to make, 'that is not all: _I gave him a
kiss_.'
'Then,' said her husband, 'you gave him a great deal more than he
deserved, whoever he was. Well, now, give me one, and let us say no more
about it.'
The blinding tears fell fast and hot as Maud bent over her husband's
haggard face and exchanged the sweet pledge of reconciliation,
confidence, and love. There was something so generous, sparing and
delicately magnanimous in her husband's ready, uninquiring forgiveness,
and his refusal to know more of a matter which it grieved and shamed her
to narrate. Maud knew that his was a temperament which jealousy would
torture like any Othello's, and that his passion against an offender,
had it once forced its way to light, would have been a sort of fury. She
could perfectly realise to herself her husband doing anything--the
worst--to a man who, he thought, had in the slightest degree wronged
him. He was accustomed to stern deeds and stern sights, and, as any man
does who has a hundred times seen death face to face and found nothing
to dread in it, held life the cheapest of all his treasures. Maud had
felt an awful misgiving lest he should utter some dreadful, quiet threat
at the wrong-doer. As it was, her husband would not even know his name
and treated the whole thing as a mere childish misadventure. It was
indeed an heroic kindness. Her whole nature went out to him in
thankfulness and love; she bent her head beside him and hid her face and
wept in the fulness of her heart. No wonder his soldiers had learnt to
worship him. No word more was spoken, but Sutton had good cause to know
that the last touch of waywardness, the last fickle mood, the forgetful
moment, the girlish caprice, were gone for ever--the last spot in her
heart that had not been wholly his was carried at last. 'I am thankful,'
the surgeon said, 'that he is better: the poor child is ten times more
in love with him than ever.'
Then the three friends had a very happy time. It is so pleasant to be
getting well; and nursing, too, is a pleasant labour when the invalid
is interesting and considerate and well-beloved. Happy the patient whose
lot it is to pass from the dreary land of sickness with such sweet
companionship! Boldero, though the gravity of his loss kept pace in his
thoughts with each new-discovered charm in Maud, got himself into an
heroic mood, and derived a satisfaction, less blackened with melancholy
than he would have conceived possible, from the sight of his friend's
felicity. At any rate he made himself very pleasant--was always
available for whatever was wanted of him--submitted, it is probable, to
a little delightful tyranny from the woman he adored, and went away at
last leaving almost a little blank behind him.
'How kind and useful he has been!' Maud said, as they watched his
cavalcade winding along the valley; 'and how clever about your
barley-water! Yes--I certainly like him.'
'Like him!' said Sutton. 'I should think so. He is the best fellow in
the world.'
'Yes,' said his wife, 'all the same there is something pleasant in a
_tête-à-tête_; and I don't like anybody taking care of you but me.'
L'ENVOI.
Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts!
Hope, which catches up the brush as it falls from the narrator's hand,
adds yet another scene, in the faint, hazy, indistinct hues of a distant
horizon, to the picture at which we have been looking for awhile.
We are on Aldershot Heath. Troops are marching up from different
directions; orderlies are galloping wildly on their behests; words of
command ring noisily through the air; great masses of red come looming
out of the dust as each regiment tramps solidly along; there is the roar
of cannon from the neighbouring hill; the horse artillery goes rattling
by like a hurricane of horses and iron; in front is a long array of
spectators, and in the midst a blaze of uniforms and the carriage where
a gracious Sovereign sits to inspect and compliment the heroes of the
day--the men who had served their country well; for there has been a
successful expedition, led by an Indian General; and the victorious
army, with its leader, bearing his honours thick upon him, at its head,
is marching past amidst the shouts of a joyful and sympathetic crowd.
When Sutton, for it is he, has passed the Royal carriage and made his
salute, he turns his horse and joins the staff who glitter round their
Sovereign. Kind words are spoken and a Royal hand adds one more to his
long list of decorations. Presently he makes his way to a group of
ladies in a carriage near at hand. There is Felicia, with a sweet,
matronly air, her beautiful features none the less fair for the lines
that sorrow had left upon them and some silvery threads among the waving
gold; she sits serene and joyous in the presence of two lovely girls,
Sutton's playfellows of old, now, as he tells them, when he wants to be
very polite, the very repetition of their mother. Vernon is in England,
at home for his last furlough, and beyond lies, near enough now to be a
source of pleasure, not of pain, the prospect of a final settlement at
home. Beside Felicia sits Maud, blushing under her husband's honours,
but rejoicing that all the world should recognise his claim to homage.
As he comes up the smile that she gives him tells us that all is more
than well between them. Suddenly she jumps up with an exclamation, for
she has recognised a familiar face--it is Boldero, who is making his way
to them through the crowd. He brings a blushing lady on his arm, and he
is blushing too, and there are introductions and greetings which sound
as if his old love-wound had been healed by the only effectual remedy.
Meanwhile the long armed array is flowing steadily past. Maud, who is
quite the soldier's wife, criticises and approves. At length the last
regiment has come and gone, the last band has crashed out its music, the
Royal carriage makes a move, the staff gallops away, the crowd is
pushing and hurrahing and scattering itself over the wide plain; the
shades of evening are gathering over it; the Indian friends drive off
merrily for home; the scene fades--fades and dies away.
Let us leave this party of happy people to themselves--we must be their
companions no longer.
THE END.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
FOOTNOTES:
[1] For the sake of readers who might mispronounce the name of the
famous station Das-tipúr if the official spelling were retained, the
name is spelt phonetically.
[2] Club.
[3] Blackwater, _i.e._, sea.
[4] Government.
[5] Native porters.
Transcriber's Notes
Obvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired.
Hyphen added: good-nature (p. 88), half-way (p. 133), light-hearted (p.
111), over-wrought (p. 135), school-girl (p. 35).
Hyphen removed: dreamland (p. 164), hillside (p. 320), lifetime (p. 33).
The following words appear both with and without hypens and have not
been changed: off[-]hand.
Pp. 8, 158: "Fortheringham" changed to "Fotheringham".
P. 11: "alterative" changed to "alternative" (a very agreeable
alternative).
P. 42: "biddin" changed to "bidding" (only too happy to do her bidding).
P. 99: "hat" changed to "that" (there is no necessity for that).
P. 111: "he" changed to "she" (she might console herself).
P. 111: "protégé" changed to "protégée" (her _protégée_ be put beyond
the reach of danger).
P. 131: "dot" changed to "got" (You've got a big tear on your cheek).
P. 209: "adepts" changed to "adept" (adept at interpreting them).
P. 213: "corps" changed to "corpse" (each one motionless and
corpse-like).
P. 239: "or" changed to "for" (Here I shall be for weeks).
P. 293: "incongrous" changed to "incongruous" (rendered them somewhat
incongruous companions).
P. 296: added "I" (I have my beloved Browning).
P. 337: "violent" changed to "violet" (Mrs. Vereker's violet eyes).
P. 344: "terzo incommodo" changed to "terzo incomodo".