‘Tears from the depth of some divine despair.’
Thus it was arranged, and when another week has come and gone, the day
arrives when Crosby is to carry off little Bonnie to distant lands with
a view to his recovery.
Susan had of course been told, and there had been a rather painful scene
between her and her aunt and her father.
‘Bonnie to be taken from her!’ and so soon.
‘But for his good, Susan.’
She had given in at the last, as was inevitable, with many cruel
tearings at her heart, and miserable beliefs that his going now would
mean his going for ever. He would never come back. And they would bury
him there in that strange land without his Susan to comfort him and
soothe his dying moments.
It is with great fainting of the spirit that Susan rises to-day—to-day,
that will see her little lad carried away from her, no matter in whose
kindly hands, to where she cannot know under three days’ post whether he
be alive or——
At one part of his dressing (he has never yet since his first illness
been dressed by anyone but Susan) she had given way.
Of course, the child knew he was going somewhere with Mr. Crosby—he
liked Crosby—‘to be made well and strong, my own ducky,’ as Susan had
told him, with her heart bursting.
But I think it was when she was halfway through his dressing, and,
kneeling on the floor beside him, was fastening his small suspenders,
that Susan’s courage failed her.
‘Oh, Bonnie! Oh, my own Bonnie!’ she cried, pressing her head against
his thin little ribs.
‘Susan,’ said the child earnestly, turning and clasping his arms round
her bent head, ‘I’ll come back to you. I will indeed! I promise!’
It was a solemn promise; but it gave Susan nothing but such an awful
pang of sure foreboding that it subdued her. Despair gives strength. She
stopped her tears, and rose, and ministered to his little needs, and
became as though grief was no longer hers—as though she lived and moved
as her usual self. This immobility frightened her, because she knew she
would pay the penalty for it later on, when he was gone.
* * * * *
Now, standing in the garden, awaiting Mr. Crosby and the carriage that
is to carry the boy away from her for six long months, she is still
dry-eyed and calm.
Here it comes. She can hear the horses’ hoofs now, and the roll of the
carriage-wheels along the road. And now it is stopping at the gate. And
now——
Mr. Crosby has jumped out and is coming towards her.
‘You must say good-bye to me here, Susan,’ says he, ‘because there will
only be good-bye for the little brother presently.’
‘Good-bye,’ says she.
‘Obedient child.’ But as he holds her hand and looks at her, he can see
the rings that grief has made around her beautiful eyes.
Seeing him still waiting, as if for a larger answer, as she thinks,
though in reality he is only silent because of his studying of her sad
sweet face with its tears and its courage, so terrible in one so young,
she says tremulously, ‘I have not even thanked you!’
‘That is not it,’ says Crosby. ‘There is nothing to thank me for, but
there is something, Susan, you might say. Tell me that you will miss me
a little bit whilst I’m away.’
Susan’s hand trembles within his, but answer makes she none.
‘Well?’ says he again, as if determined not to be defrauded of his
rights by this child—this pretty child. She may not love him, but surely
she may miss him.
Susan raises her eyes, and he can see that they are filled with tears.
‘Oh, I shall!’ says she earnestly. ‘I shall miss you, and long for your
return.’
This fervid speech is so unlike Susan, that all at once he arranges a
meaning for it. Of course, Bonnie will be with him; she will long for
the child’s return. If he resents a little this thought of Susan’s for
Bonnie, to the entire exclusion of himself, he still admires the
affection that has inspired it and that desolates her lovely face.
‘Susan, I shall take care of him,’ says he earnestly. ‘Trust me in this
matter. If human skill can do anything for him, I shall see that it is
done; if care and watching and attention are of any use, he shall have
them from me.’
‘Ah, but love?’ says Susan. ‘He has been so used to love! And now he
will not have me. Mr. Crosby’—clasping her hands together as if to keep
the trembling of them from him—‘try—try to love him! He is so sweet, so
dear, that it can’t be hard—and—and——’
She stops; her face is as white as death.
‘I would to God, Susan,’ says he, ‘that you could have come with us too;
but that—that was impossible.’
‘I know—I know. And, of course, I sound very ungrateful; but he is so
ill, so fragile, so near to——’ She shivers, as if some horrid pain had
touched her. ‘And it is to me he has turned for everything up to this.
And to-morrow’—suddenly she lifts her hands to her face, and breaks down
altogether—‘oh, who will dress him to-morrow?’
* * * * *
The end has almost come. Bonnie has said good-bye to his father and all
the rest of them, and is now clinging to Susan and crying bitterly. Poor
Susan! she is very pale, and is visibly trembling as she holds the child
to her with all her strength, as though to let him go is almost
impossible to her; but she holds back her tears bravely, afraid of
distressing him further.
‘I told you I should have taken you with us,’ says Crosby in a low tone
to Susan, more with a view to lightening the situation than anything
else. But the situation is made of material too heavy to be blown aside
by any such light wind. Susan pays no heed to him. He is quite aware,
indeed, after a moment, that Susan neither sees nor hears him. She is
holding the child against her heart, and breathing into his ear broken
words of love and hope and courage.
At last the final moment comes. Crosby has shaken hands with Mr. Barry,
who is looking paler and more gaunt than usual, for at least the fourth
time, and has now come to the carriage in which Susan has placed Bonnie,
having wrapped him warmly round with rugs. Betty is standing near her.
‘Good-bye,’ says Crosby, holding out his hand to Betty, who is crying
softly.
‘Oh, good-bye,’ cries she, flinging her arms round his neck and giving
him a little hug. ‘We shall never forget this of you—never!’
‘I shall bring him back,’ says he, smiling. He pats her shoulder—dear
little girl!—and turns to Susan. ‘Don’t be unhappy,’ he whispers
hurriedly. ‘You spoke of love for him. I shall love him! I shall never
let him out of my sight, Susan. I swear that to you. You believe me? You
will take comfort?’
‘I believe you,’ says Susan, lifting her miserable eyes to his, ‘and I
trust you.’
‘Good-bye, then.’
‘Good-bye. I heard what you said to Betty. You will bring him back—that
is a promise.’
‘With the help of God I’ll bring him back to you,’ says Crosby solemnly.
‘And now, good-bye again.’
‘Good-bye,’ says Susan. And then, to his everlasting surprise, she leans
forward, lays her hands upon his shoulders, and presses her lips to his
cheek, not lightly or carelessly, but with heartfelt feeling. She shows
no confusion. Not so much as a blush appears upon her face. It seems the
most natural thing in the world—to her!
That it is gratitude only that has impelled her to this deed is quite
plain to Crosby. He pushes her back from him very gently, and, stepping
into the carriage, is soon out of sight.
But the memory of that kiss goes with him. It seems to linger on his
cheek, and he can still see her as she raised her head, with her lovely
tear-dimmed eyes on his. It was all done in the most innocent, the most
friendly way. She had no thought beyond the fact that he was being very
good to the little idolized brother. It was thus she showed her
gratitude.
But even through gratitude to kiss him! Suddenly a fresh, a most
unpleasant thought springs to life. No doubt she regards him as an old
fogey—a man of such and such an age—a kind of bachelor uncle! Oh,
confound it! He is not so very much older than she is, if one comes to
think of it. He feels a rush of anger towards Susan, followed by a
strange depression, that he either will not or does not understand. The
anger, however, he understands well enough. There is no earthly reason
why she should think him old enough to kiss like that. It was abominable
of her.
He is conscious of a longing to go back and have it out with her—to ask
her at what age she considers a man may be kissed. But at this point he
checks himself, and gives way to a touch of mirth that is a trifle grim.
She might mistake his meaning, and say twenty—that would be about her
own age.
And of course it is impossible to go back, the journey once begun.
Though why he had undertaken the charge of this child except to please
her he hardly knows. And in all probability the cure will never be
effected. And then she will go even further, and regret having given him
that insulting kiss—of gratitude. And what on earth is he to do with
this child—this burden?
Here he looks round at the little burden. Bonnie is asleep. All the
tears and excitement have overcome him, and he is lying back in a deep
slumber, and in a most uncomfortable position.
Crosby bends over him, and tenderly, very tenderly, lifts the small
delicate, flower-like head from its uneasy resting-place against the
side of the carriage, and lays it softly on his arm. And thus he
supports it for the rest of the drive, until, Dublin being reached, he
gives him into the care of a trained nurse procured from the Rotunda,
who is to accompany the child abroad.