'Thee will I love and reverence, evermore.'
--AUBREY DE VERE.
'There, Mab, I really can't write any more,' and throwing down her pen,
regardless that it is full of ink, and that it alights on a photograph
of Teddy, thereby giving him a black eye, Miss Seaton rises from the
writing-table and flings herself into an armchair.
'Well, dear,' says Mabel, 'I said I would do them for you, after you are
gone to-morrow, look at these little china figures, I don't believe
you've glanced at them, they came from old Mrs Boothly and I fancy they
are real Sévres--?'
'At it still,' interrupts George, poking his head in at the door, 'what
it is to be on the eve of a wedding; I suppose you'll want a detective,
and, oh, by the bye where are we going to dine?'
'In your room, I thought,' replies his wife, 'you see you can go to the
club, and we shall not want much.'
'Fasting before a festival, I suppose,' says he; 'or perhaps you are
afraid you will not be able to get into that new gown of yours.'
'How do you know anything about my new gown,' asks Mabel.
George laughs, 'I happened to see it put out for inspection in your
room.'
'My room, what were you doing there?' begins Mabel, but he has
departed.
'What can he have been doing?' she says.
'Go and see,' suggests Lippa, and Mabel filled with curiosity, hastens
upstairs, but returns again in a minute.
'Look, what the dear thing has given me,' she cries, holding up a little
blue velvet case, 'I must go and thank him,' and down she goes to the
smoking-room, 'George, you dear old boy,' she says, hugging him round
the neck, 'isn't it lovely,' she goes on, turning to Philippa who has
followed her.
'It is indeed,' says she, carefully examining the moonstone set in
diamonds. 'Did you choose it yourself, George?'
'Didn't give me credit for so much taste, eh?'
'No, I don't think I did,' replies Lippa, quietly slipping out of the
room.
She wants to be alone, to think a little, it all seems so strange and
lovely; this time to-morrow she will be Mrs Dalrymple--Mrs Dalrymple!
how funny it sounds--and Jimmy will be all her own, and they will go
away together;--and she sinks into a dream of delight, seeing the future
only as a golden mist through which she and her husband will pass side
by side. And she suddenly falls upon her knees, and buries her golden
head in her hands, and breathes forth an earnest prayer of heartfelt
gratitude to the great God who orders all things.
'The Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.'
The next morning, her wedding day, dawns at length; the first thing she
hears are some sparrows chirping outside, and anxious to see if it is
fine, she goes to the window and draws up the blind, letting in a whole
flood of crimson light.
It is one of those lovely days in London when there is just a little
breath of wind stirring among the trees that prevents it from being
sultry, and everyone seems to expand to the warmth and look happy. It is
still quite early, two or three costermongers' carts are being wheeled
along by their owners, fresh from Covent Garden; a lark belonging to the
house opposite is singing merrily despite its small cage, and Lippa
smiles as she recalls the old saying, 'Blessed is the bride whom the
sun shines on.'
As sleep seems impossible and rather loud voices are heard from
overhead, she throws a loose wrapper round her and goes up to the
nurseries. Teddy is in his bath and no power on earth can persuade him
to get out, in vain Marie gesticulates and calls him '_Un bien méchant
gamin_,' Teddy knows he has the best of it, as whenever she comes near
he throws water at her.
'Oh, Teddy! Teddy!' exclaims Philippa, opening the door, 'do be a good
boy, or else you know, you could not be my page.'
Teddy, surprised at his aunt's sudden appearance, ceases to splash about
and regards her gravely.
'I shall be your page if I'm good then,' he says.
'Certainly,' replies Philippa, 'get out of the bath now and after your
breakfast you shall come to my room.'
Teddy looks longingly at the water and then at her, finally with a deep
sigh he gets out of the bath and submits to being rubbed dry by Marie.
The morning wears on and five minutes after the appointed time Lippa
calm and very lovely in her bridal attire, walks up the aisle of St
P---- leaning on her brother's arm, and there before the altar takes
James Dalrymple to be her husband, for better, for worse, till death
them do part.
Into further details there is no need to go; weddings are all alike, you
will say, except, of course, when you happen to be one of the chief
parties concerned. There was of course, the orthodox best man,
bridesmaids, and spectators, the lengthy signing of the register and
last but not least Mendelssohn's wedding march. I wonder how the world
could have got on without it!
* * * * *
'Well, I'm glad that's over, ain't you?' says Mrs Dalrymple, who is
comfortably seated in a railway carriage, her husband opposite.
'Very,' replies Jimmy, looking unutterable things at her. 'I say though,
how late you were. I thought you were never coming, and Helmdon had the
fidgets.'
'It was exactly five minutes late,' says she, 'for George looked at his
watch just before the carriage stopped, but do look at that woman, isn't
she lovely?'
The train is stopping at one of the suburban stations, and the lady who
has caught Lippa's attention is hurrying down the platform, trying to
find a seat, holding a small child by the hand.
Jimmy pokes his head out of the window. 'By Jove,' he says, 'she is
handsome. She's getting into a third class, doesn't look like it, does
she?'
'No,' says Lippa, and then they forget all about her, till on reaching
their destination, they see her again.
'Hullo,' says Dalrymple, 'there's that woman again, I wonder who she
is?' As they pass out of the station, she drops her umbrella, and Jimmy
picking it up, restores it to her.
'Thank you,' she says, raising for a moment a pair of wonderful dark
eyes to his face.
Lippa looks at her curiously, wondering what her life story is, and then
they part, going in opposite directions.
Jimmy has a small house of his own, not far from C---- and only
half-a-mile from the sea coast and quite close to 'The Garden of Sleep,'
and here it is that he brings Lippa to pass the first days of their
married life, days of almost perfect happiness. But, in course of time,
as they are going to live together for the rest of their lives they come
to the wise conclusion that an overdose of solitude to begin with,
would be tedious, to say the least of it.
'It wasn't as if we were going to stop here long,' says Lippa one day.
'When we go back to London we must set to work to be very economical,
and that will give me heaps to do; I can't bear being idle, can you?'
'I am afraid, dear, that I rather like it,' replies Jimmy, 'but you're
not going to worry yourself over making both ends meet, are you? I dare
say it will be rather difficult, but if we let this place, it will help
us a little, and you said you wouldn't mind.'
'Mind,' and Lippa rises and goes up to him, kneeling down at his side,
'I shan't mind anything now, Jimmy,' she says.
'What does the "now" imply,' asks he, 'that you did once mind, eh?'
'Yes, I did, when you used to look so gravely at me, when we met in the
street, I think my heart was nearly breaking, you know you tried to
think I was a flirt, and--'
'Never mind now, sweetheart, it was blind of me not to see through it
all, and if you only could have guessed how I was longing to take you in
my arms, to ask you why you sent me away, you would not have looked so
cold, and--'
It is her turn to interrupt this time, which she does by kissing him.
'Do you know,' she says, 'you nearly made me forget what I was going to
say--'
'Is it of great importance?' asks he.
'Yes, it is. Don't you think it would be nice to ask Mabel and the
children down here, and we might all go back to London together. I know
Teddy would like the sands here; and there is plenty of room; shall we?'
Jimmy says yes, although he would have preferred to remain alone for a
little longer.
There is something so nice in knowing that the lovely little person who
is always with him, is his very own to take care of and protect against
everything, for all the years that lie before them. And he fears to be
disturbed, in case it may all prove a dream, and burst like a bubble
with the slightest contact of the outer world. But a week later Mabel
arrives accompanied by Teddy and the baby; George and Paul, whom Lippa
has also begged to come, turn up, and the lovely days that follow, when
the sun creeps into their rooms in the early morning enticing them out,
where the hedges are covered with sweet smelling honey-suckle and the
fields are carpeted with brilliant red poppies, and a walk will take
them to the 'Garden of Sleep,' where among the tombstones and long grass
they can watch the sea sparkling in a golden haze, and listen to the
waves as they break on the yellow sands; where the birds are ever
trilling forth their songs without words; those days for ever are stored
in the minds of some of them as the loveliest summer man could wish
for.
CHAPTER XI
'Love pardons the unpardonable past.'--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
It is six o'clock. The tea things have been taken away, and the
occupants of the little drawing-room are all apparently lazily enjoying
themselves.
Mabel has the baby on her knee, her husband is dozing in an armchair,
Jimmy is sitting half-in half-out of the window, Paul is reading, and
Philippa is lying on the sofa.
'Lippa,' says Dalrymple, 'sing us something.'
'What would you like?' she answers, rising slowly.
'Anything,' he replies.
She runs her fingers over the keys and then sings 'The Garden of Sleep.'
Paul closes his book as she begins, looking at her earnestly.
Why does she sing that song, so close as they are to the real spot; and
why does it say 'the graves of dear women,' the only one he knows buried
there is a little child. He rises abruptly as the song is finished, and
passes through the French window into the garden. Philippa has begun
something else. He pauses and listens.
'Why live when life is sad?
Death only sweet.'
Ah! thinks he, that is exactly it. What good is life to me!
The evening sun floods with a golden haze the road before him; he walks
on, the distant sound of the waves coming up from the sands, and almost
unconsciously he sings in a low voice,
'Did they love as I love
When they lived by the sea?
Did they wait as I wait
For the days that may be?'
And then, with a start he finds himself in 'The Garden of Sleep,' and
just on the edge of the cliff, reaching over to pick some poppies is a
child, a little girl with golden hair.
In an instant he is at her side, and without saying a word for fear of
starting her, he catches her in his arms.
'Mummy, mummy, don't,' she cries, and then seeing that it is a stranger
her anger is roused still more. 'Put me down, how dare lou touch me, me
wants the flowers.'
'Now look here,' replies Paul. 'Do you know, you might have fallen over.
It is very dangerous to go so near the edge. If I get you the flowers,
promise me you will go away,'--no answer--so he puts her down, he picks
the flowers, and gravely hands them to her.
'Sank lou,' she says, taking them in her little fat hand, 'sank lou, but
I could have gottened them meself.'
Paul smiles, wondering who she reminds him of.
'What's lour name?' she asks suddenly.
'Paul,' he replies, promptly, 'what is yours, and who are you with?'
'I doesn't know what's my name is,' she answers, gravely, 'Mummy always
calls me Baby, I'm wif Mummy. Does lou know Mummy?'
'I do not think I have that pleasure,' says he, 'but I should like to
speak to her,' thinking to reprove her for her carelessness in letting
the child wander about so far away.
'Vis way,' says the little girl catching hold of his hand, and turning
down a path among the tombstones, 'Mummy always comes to a little tiny
grave.'
Paul goes with her, wondering why he does so. When, why is it? that she
is taking him to the grave of his.... And, good heavens! the person the
child calls 'Mummy' is kneeling beside it, her head bent, apparently not
hearing their approach.
'Oh, Mummy look,' cries the child, 'look what bootiful flowers me's
gottened, him wouldn't let me get them meself. Look at him, Mummy,' she
urges as the woman still kneels with lowered head, 'him's name is Paul.'
She raises her head at the name, and he starts back on seeing her face
and looks at her for a moment with astonishment.
'Clotilde,' at length he says, and his voice is low, 'you here.'
Her head is once more bowed--
'You here,' he repeats, 'here at the grave of your child and'--with a
slight pause 'mine. It is four years since I saw you last, and now to
meet you like this.'
No sound comes from the kneeling figure. 'Where is ... he?' Paul asks in
a hoarse unnatural voice.
'Dead,' she whispers.
'Ah!' and he breathes a sigh of relief, 'so you always come here,' he
says, repeating the little girl's words, and then remembering her. 'Good
God!' he cries, 'that child! speak, Clotilde, tell me,' he bends forward
and touches her almost roughly, 'for Heaven's sake, speak, and say she
is not your child, but no! I would rather not hear it,' and overcome by
a strong emotion, he turns towards the sea, while a tumult of passionate
strife rends his very soul.
Why had he saved the child. One minute more where she had been would be
certain death, if he had only known who she was he would never have
rescued her, and yet--and yet--what harm has the _child_ done, that he
should wish for her death like this.
Poor little innocent child, but who does she remind him of--not
Clotilde, not that other, no it is Philippa she is like, what could it
all mean.
A little tug at his leg interrupts his train of thought, and he becomes
aware that the child is standing at his side, his first impulse is to
push her away roughly, but the little thing is looking up at him so
gravely. 'Mummy says,' she begins, 'that she doesn't know who I is,
I'se Baby, and got losted years ago, but Mummy loves me.'
Paul returns quickly, 'Is this true?' he asks.
'Yes,' she replies slowly, 'quite true, I found her, and was never able
to trace her parents; it is nearly three years ago now.'
'Three years, have you kept her,' he says, 'you! a woman with a past
like yours, how--'
'Spare me! spare me!' she cries, 'have I not suffered enough, am I not
suffering enough now, do not taunt me, I know well I deserve it; but I
have always thought of you, as I saw you last, and your sad reproachful
face has often stayed me from.... Last year, I thought I would go and
seek you, I got as far as Brook Street, and there I saw you talking to a
girl in a carriage, your back was turned to me, but I heard her say,
"Poor woman, how ill she looks!" and I dared not speak to you; death was
what I longed for, and I went to the river, but that girl's voice
haunted me. "Poor woman," aye indeed! I _was_ to be pitied; I had done
wrong, but I would try to atone--but why am I telling you all this, you
who ought to hate and despise me, I who have ruined your life. Oh! my
God! my God! have mercy--' And with a paroxysm of grief, she lays her
head on the little green mound.
A strange sight the old vicar sees as he passes through the long grass
on his way to the church; a tall man in flannels gazing down on the
figure of a woman, kneeling before him, divided only by a small grave,
and a little golden-haired child looking at them wonderingly; he has
spoken to the child before and now she leaves the other two and follows
him into the sacred edifice.
The bell begins to toll for even-song, but neither Paul nor Clotilde
move, so close they are together, only the past lies between them. A
small cross marks the grave of their child, whereon his name, and age
(but a few months) is inscribed.
Paul reads the inscription though he knows it only too well, and then he
once more rests his gaze on the woman before him; the woman he once
loved! nay, does still love, for a great desire to comfort her comes
over him.
'Clotilde,' he says at length, 'let us forget the past. Come.'
He takes her by the hand and he leads her gently to the church, up the
aisle they go, and side by side they kneel; and the old clergyman is not
surprised to see them, and the little golden-haired child watches them
from another pew.
CHAPTER XII
'I were but little happy, if I could say how much.'
SHAKESPEARE.
Twenty-four hours have come and gone and have left everyone a day older,
they are all in the garden, except Paul; a little golden haired girl is
playing with Teddy, and Mabel watches them from a distance with a
beaming smile. For a great happiness has come to her, the empty place in
her heart has been refilled, for a strange and wonderful thing has
happened; for only the evening before, her brother knocked at her
bedroom door, as she was dressing for dinner, and on her saying, come
in, he opened it, and said, 'Mabel, here is somebody I should like you
to see.'
Somebody! yes indeed; and a small somebody too, somebody so like
Philippa, somebody! who had a little gold locket with a turquoise in the
centre. Ah! it seems too good to be true!
'Lilian!' Mabel calls, and then as the child does not take any notice,
'Baby--' The child turns and looks shyly at her mother; and emboldened
by a sweet smile she runs and hides her head in her mother's gown, while
the little hands are covered with kisses.
'You won't be afraid of me, will you?' asks Mabel, 'and you will love me
very soon, I hope.'
'Ses,' is the answer, 'but I must love Mummy still.'
'Yes, dear, of course,' is the answer, 'Mummy, as you call her, is
coming to see me this afternoon.'
Teddy has been watching from the distance, his nose has been altogether
put out of joint, and it is rather a melancholy freckled face that
Philippa catches sight of.
'Why, Teddy,' she says, 'come here and tell me what you were doing all
the morning, and oh, Jimmy,' she says, turning to her husband, 'do be an
angel and take baby back to the nursery, Mabel is so engrossed with
Lilian.'
'Come along then, old woman,' and Jimmy lifts up his niece, 'but I say,
Lippa, don't you think it would be just as well to be out of the way
when Paul comes.'
'Perhaps it would,' answers she, 'and you had better take Teddy with you
as well.'
Jimmy has just turned the corner of the house, when he runs straight
into Paul and the lady he saw in the train.
There is no time to retreat, so he says, 'How do you do?' and the baby
puts further conversation out of the question, by beginning to howl,
Jimmy in the bottom of his heart feels thankful for it, though aloud he
says, 'I must depart with this tiresome person, come along Teddy.'
The baby deposited in the nursery, he keeps out of the way till
tea-time, when he finds them all seated round a table still in the
garden.
Clotilde had at first refused to see anyone, but Paul persuaded her at
length, 'Sooner or later, you must,' he had said, 'you know Mabel, and
Lippa is a dear little girl.'
'But--' and Clotilde had looked up at her husband with those large dark
eyes of hers 'they will--'
'The past will be forgotten,' was his reply, spoken sadly and quietly.
And now she seems to be more at her ease.
'Have some tea, Jimmy,' says Philippa as he approaches.
'No thanks, it is too hot,' he replies.
'Come and sit then,' suggests Mabel pushing forward an empty chair, into
which he sinks.
'Well, lazy boy, what have you been doing,' this from Lippa who is
eating strawberries with apparent relish.
'Nothing,' is the yawned reply.
'Not even thinking of me,' and Lippa looks coquettishly at him from
under her large shady hat.
'No, indeed, why should I, but you may as well spare me one strawberry.'
'Certainly not,' says she, 'this is my last one' (gradually raising it
to her lips), 'not unless you say, you thought of me, all the time.'
'Oh, well, if you must! I thought of no one but you, I saw you in every
one I met, even the gardener.'
'That's rude,' she says, 'but you may as well have this,' extending to
him the coveted strawberry, with an adorable smile.
'What a silly child you are,' is all the thanks she gets.
But some one has driven up, in a very old fly, to the front door and Mrs
Dalrymple is watching to see who it is.
'Chubby,' she exclaims as a man gets out clothed in an extraordinary
check suit. 'No one else could have clothes like that.' There is no
doubt about its being Lord Helmdon, he has caught sight of them and is
coming towards them, looking decidedly hot and dusty.
'Do look at him,' says Paul, though there is absolutely no need, as they
are all gazing at him.
'Hullo,' says Jimmy, 'who would have thought of seeing you here!'
'Eh! what,' is the inevitable answer.
'Dear Mrs Dalrymple,' he goes on, shaking her vigourously by the hand,
'I am stopping not far from here,--I thought you would not mind my
coming over to see you, what!'
'She didn't say a word,' says Jimmy still reclining in the armchair,
'you didn't give her time.'
Mabel shakes with suppressed laughter, and Lippa's mouth is contorted
into the most extraordinary shape, but she says calmly, 'I'm so glad to
see you, won't you stop the night now you are here?'
'I'm afraid I can't, ah, how do you do?' he says to Mabel, 'well, Paul,
pretty fit, eh?'
'Decidedly so,' replies he.
Clotilde has been sitting quite silent longing to get away, but Paul
will not look at her, and, oh! what shall she do, Philippa is
introducing her to the newcomer.
'Chubby allow me to introduce you to Paul's wife.'
'What!' he exclaims.
Jimmy who is in fear and trembling as to what he may say, kicks him
violently on the shins under cover of the tablecloth, which sends him
sprawling on his knees before Clotilde.
'I--er, I beg your pardon,' he says, 'but really, Jimmy, I wish you
would keep your legs to yourself.'
'Me,' says Dalrymple, regardless of grammar and looking quite
unconscious, 'never was further from doing anything else, in my life.'
'May you be forgiven,' whispers Lippa, who has observed it all--but
aloud she says, 'Won't you have some tea.'
'No thanks, really not,' replies Helmdon, 'but if I may stay, we may as
well tell the fly to go away.'
'Do,' says Dalrymple rising, 'have you got anything with you,' and
together they go back to the house, where Jimmy explains all, including
Clotilde, and the kick.
'Thanks, awfully, old man,' says Helmdon, 'I couldn't make it out a bit,
what!'
* * * * *
The evening is lovely, and two and two they gradually leave the
drawing-room, to Chubby, who, his body in one chair, and his legs in
another, is wrapt in peaceful slumbers. Mabel and her husband walk
slowly up and down, before the house discussing their children and
friends.
Quite unconsciously Paul and Clotilde take their way to the little
church, and pause not till they come to their baby's grave. The moon
shines down on them, as side by side they stand on the edge of the
cliff, the dark ocean stretching out before them, a type of the unknown
future that will be theirs.
Paul becomes aware that she is crying, and says, turning her face up to
his. 'My darling, dry your eyes, we have all done wrong, but it is no
use dwelling on the past, a future lies before us, in which by God's
help, we will try to atone for the past, "Heaven means crowned not
vanquished when it says forgiven."' For all answer Clotilde goes close
to him, and lays her sad weary head against his shoulder.
'Paul,' she murmurs, 'how good you are,' and then there is a silence
more eloquent than words.
In the meantime Jimmy and Philippa hand in hand have reached a
cornfield.
'Let us stop here,' she says seating herself on a stile.
'Very well,' he replies, following her example, 'only we must not stay
out too late you know.'
'No, we won't,' says Lippa, 'but Jimmy, dear, don't you feel awfully
happy, because I do.'
'Sitting on this stile,' queries he.
'No, of course not, don't be stupid, but,' and she puts her arm round
his neck, 'everybody is all right, are they not? Mabel has her child
back, Paul has Clotilde, and oh, Jimmy darling, I've got you.'
There is a little sob as she says this.
'Crying,' says he, placing his arm round her, 'if you cry when you're
happy, what will you do, when there is really something to cry for, oh
you silly child,' but the look in his eyes belies his words, and Lippa
raising hers sees something in them, which makes her draw still closer,
till their lips meet.
'Dearest,' he whispers.
And then a silence also falls on them, while the calm moon, unmoved at
what she sees, still shines on the same, and the distant ripple of the
waves breaking on the shore is all that is heard.
THE END