THOSE BITTER, BITTER WORDS.
Yes, on the dull silence breaking
With a lightning’s flash—a word,
Bearing endless desolation
On its blighting wings, she heard.
Earth can forge no keener weapon
Dealing surer death and pain.
Shall the cruel echo answer
Through long years of pain?
A. A. PROCTOR.
“Oh, no, father!” exclaimed Adrian Fleming, with a laugh that sounded so
utterly heartless, under the circumstances. “Oh, no! you need not warn
me! There is no danger of my being burdened with those imps! I do not
_intend_ to let my wife bring those children into this house! I have
fully made up my mind on that subject. I have my own plans in regard to
the parson’s orphans, and I mean to carry them out at once, without
consulting ‘Mistress Net.’ It saves a world of trouble _to act_, instead
of to talk!”
“So it does! I am glad to hear you say it! That is right, my boy! Do you
be master! Your wife has been her own mistress so long that she has
acquired a very strong will; but you must break it if you wish to rule
in your home, as you should do. This _will_ be your home, of course?”
added the baronet, half interrogatively.
“Yes, in its season, and the town house on Westbourne Terrace, during
the London season.”
“Ah, to be sure! And it is a very good thing you have got them, else I
do not know how you would have managed—had to come to Fleming Chase,
perhaps, and that might have been awkward. There never was a house yet
large enough for two families.”
“No,” assented Adrian.
“But mind you, my boy, do not, because this fine estate is your wife’s
inheritance, and not yours, fall into the lamentable weakness of
becoming a mere cipher in your own house. You must assert yourself as
master, and one of your first acts of authority should be to pack those
children off to the alms-house, if she objects to the Clerical Orphan’s
Home for them,” said Sir Adrian, decisively.
“I shall place them in the Orphan’s Home myself, before a week is over
their heads, and I shall not take the trouble to consult Mrs. Adrian
Fleming on the subject. I shall take her by surprise, with the deed
accomplished,” replied the young man, with a laugh that sounded, ah! how
harshly and cruelly to the wounded ears and heart of the listening
woman.
“And now, mind you, keep to that resolution. Don’t be persuaded out of
it.”
“I tell you I shall not consult her; how, then, should she have the
opportunity of trying to persuade me out of it?” inquired Adrian,
somewhat impatiently.
“After it is all over, when she finds out how you have disposed of the
children, you will have some difficulty with your wife. You will have to
meet opposition, arguments, pleadings, tears, hysterics, Lord knows
what!”
“I shall know how to meet them!” laughed the young man.
“That is right! Don’t you yield a jot! If you should feel tempted for an
instant to do so, just take time to consider what a burden those
children would be to you. And how that burden would increase with
years—growing heavier and heavier every year. _Now_ it would be a
nursemaid and nursery governess to be maintained as well as the
children; then in a few years a tutor and a governess; then private
masters for the girl, and Eton and Oxford for the boy; then a commission
or a profession for him and a marriage portion for her.”
“A formidable array of responsibilities,” laughed Adrian.
“Yes! and marrying as early as you and your wife have done, you may
expect a very large family of your own. Think of that! and send these
brats to the alms-house at once and be rid of them,” concluded the
baronet, as he was heard to walk away.
“As I said before, I shall put them in the Orphan’s Home before a week
is over their heads, and without consulting my wife on the subject,”
reiterated Adrian Fleming, as he followed his father out of the room.
Then all Net’s strength forsook her and she sank down upon the floor and
buried her face in her folded arms on the cushion of her chair.
Oh, the hardness, the coldness, the selfishness and treachery of the
words she had just unwillingly overheard.
Her bitter anguish was not caused alone by grief for the prospective
fate of the children, but by shame for her husband’s conduct.
Was this the man she had vowed before Heaven to love and honor? Whom she
did devotedly love and tried sincerely to honor?
Nothing but his own self-convicting words could have convinced her that
he, Adrian Fleming, could be guilty of such baseness as he now proposed.
In all her former troubles—and she had had her share, as we know—she had
been enabled by faith to “cast ‘her’ burden on the Lord,” and to feel
that he did “sustain” her.
But she would not do so now. She seemed to have no strength to raise the
burden to cast it anywhere. She sank under it and let it settle down
upon her like the heavy stone of a sepulchre. She could not seek comfort
in prayer, she could not even find relief in tears.
While she lay there, with her head buried in her folded arms on the
cushion of her chair, the little maid, Cally, came through all the suite
of apartments, looking for her mistress, and finally reached the
dressing-room and started back in affright to see the lady in that
abject position.
“Oh, madame! madame! Are you ill?” she cried, apprehensively,
approaching.
“Yes, give me your hand, child,” faintly replied the lady, as she
endeavored to rise.
The frightened girl gave both her hands to her mistress, who got upon
her feet, and leaning on her maid, walked to the bedroom.
“Shall I call Mrs. Koffy, madame?” inquired Cally.
“No, child. Help me to undress, and then you may bring me a strong cup
of tea. I have a splitting headache, and must go to bed,” replied Mrs.
Fleming, sinking down into her easy-chair, and putting her feet out to
the little maid, who knelt to unlace her boots.
“Indeed, I do not wonder, dear madame, with all you have gone through
this week, traveling backwards and forwards from one end of England to
t’ other, between a murder trial there and a funeral here! It is a
wonder you have not been down in your bed before this, ma’am. I don’t
know how you kept up,” said Cally, as she put away the boots, and began
to take down her mistress’s hair and comb and brush it out.
“Does it do your head any good, my combing it out so, ma’am?”
affectionately inquired the girl.
“Yes, but do not linger over it, child; I am tired and I must lie down,”
said Net, wearily.
“No wonder, indeed,” sighed the little maid, in sympathy, as she wound
up her mistress’s hair and inclosed it in a little white silk net.
A few minutes after, her night toilet being complete, Net went to bed,
and the little maid brought her a cup of tea.
When Net had drank that, the girl set down the cup and then closed the
shutters, drew the curtains, mended the fire, lowered the light and
finally took the tassel of the bell-cord and laid it on the bed within
reach of her mistress, and inquired whether she should sit by her until
she—her mistress—should fall asleep.
“No, child, you may go. If I should ring you can return to me. In the
meantime, if any one should inquire for me, say that I have gone to bed
and do not wish to be disturbed. Do you hear?”
“Yes, madame, and I understand. You shall not be disturbed. I hope you
will sleep the headache off.”
“I hope so,” wearily replied the lady.
“Good-night, madame!”
“Good-night, child.”
The little maid withdrew.
Net clasped her hands above her burning and throbbing head, and tried to
pray again; but she could utter no more than the most helpless, human
cry.
“Lord! Lord! Have mercy.”
Later on there came a gentle knock at her door. It was repeated two or
three times before Net heard it, or rather before she noticed it or
thought to answer it, so deeply was she absorbed in her troubles.
“Who is there?” she inquired, expecting to hear the voice of a servant
in reply.
“It is I—Adrian. They tell me you are ill, Net. Will you let me come
in?” inquired Mr. Fleming from without.
Now Net and Adrian had never been fully reconciled. He had never yet
crossed the threshold of Net’s chamber, wherever they might have been
stopping.
Net’s heart shrank within her at the sound of his voice, and at the
request with which it was laden. She did not reply. She could not just
then.
“Will you let me come in and see you, Net, dear?” he repeated, and his
tones were kind and affectionate as were his words.
But Net was thinking of other words, in other tones, that were ringing
through her memory:
“‘I do not intend to let Net bring those children to this house. * * I
shall place them in an Orphan’s Home before a week is over their heads,
without consulting “Mistress” Net.’”
These were the words that rendered her deaf and insensible to any softer
words from Adrian Fleming.
“Net—do you hear me, love? Will you let me come in and see how you are?”
he resumed, after a listening pause.
“No, I thank you, Mr. Fleming. My head aches very badly, and I wish to
be left in silence and darkness,” she replied at last.
“I am very sorry. I would like to do something for you, Net. Is there
anything that I can do?”
“Nothing,” she answered, wearily.
“Is there anything you would like?”
“Yes, quietness, if you please.”
He took the hint and saying:
“Good-night, dear,” he went away.
Then the flood gates of Net’s grief were opened and she wept.
Ah! the contrast was so great between the gentle, affectionate words and
tones of this evening and the cold, sarcastic, cruel words and tones of
the afternoon.
Still later there was another rap on the door.
“Who is it?” inquired Net, a little impatiently.
“Knollis, madame. May I come in for a moment?” answered the nurse who
had attended Antoinette Deloraine during her last illness, and who had
not yet left the house, but was going away in the morning.
“I came to see how you are, ma’am, and if I could do anything for you
before I go to rest,” said the woman, approaching the bed.
“No, I do not think you can,” answered the sleepless and suffering girl.
“Nay, but, dear ma’am, the very weak and shaky tone of your voice proves
what’s the matter with you. You are as nervous and excitable as you can
be. All this trouble has been too much for you, ma’am, and if you do not
get to sleep to-night you will be ill to-morrow, sure enough,” urged the
woman.
Net made no reply.
“I will mix you a composing draught, ma’am, that will put you to sleep,
and give you a chance to recover yourself,” said the nurse.
Net would have been glad to sleep and forget her troubles; so she
answered:
“I thank you, nurse. You may give me that sleeping draught. I suppose
you know how to make it?”
“I? Oh, yes, my dear ma’am, I do!” replied Knollis; “and the sooner you
have it the better. I won’t be five minutes.”
She left the room and encountered Mr. Fleming in the hall.
He it was, really, who had sent the nurse in to see after his wife; and
now he was waiting outside to hear her report.
“How is Mrs. Fleming?” he inquired.
“She is just as nervous and excitable as it is possible for any human
creetur to be sir! I am going to give her a composing draught to quiet
her, and if she gets a good sleep to-night I hope she will be all right
to-morrow.”
“After you have administered that composing draught, can you not remain
with her through the night to watch its effects?” anxiously inquired Mr.
Fleming.
“Which it is my intention so to do, sir,” replied the nurse, courtesying
and hurrying off on her errand.
She soon compounded the medicine and took it to the suffering girl, who
took it willingly.
Net was not used to sedatives and narcotics—in fact, she had never taken
either in her life—and the consequence now was that the sleeping potion
took prompt and powerful effect upon her, so that she was soon buried in
a profound slumber that lasted through the night and late into the
forenoon of the next day.
Then she awoke much refreshed, and at first oblivious of her troubles.
The nurse was sitting by the bed.
“I hope, Mrs. Knollis, that you have not been there all night,” she
said.
“I?—dear ma’am, yes! I have not left you a minute, except to get a
mouthful of breakfast at nine o’clock, and then Cally Adler took my
place. How do you find yourself, ma’am, if you please?”
“I am very much better, I thank you.”
“But you will take your breakfast in bed?”
“Not at all. I am going to get up. I suppose the gentlemen have
breakfasted?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am—two hours ago, and gone.”
“Gone!” echoed Net. “Where have they gone?”
“I don’t know, ma’am; but here is a note Mr. Fleming left to be given
you when you waked,” answered the nurse, rising, taking a paper from the
mantel-piece and handing it to the lady.
By this time the tide of memory had turned and brought back all Net’s
troubles to her mind. She opened the note, with a sinking heart.
It ran as follows:
“DEAREST NET.—I am told by the nurse that you are sleeping comfortably
this morning, so I will not have you disturbed. I am going a part of the
way home with Sir Adrian; but I shall be back on Saturday morning. Take
care of yourself.
“Your true ADRIAN.”
Net did not know how to take this note, with the news it conveyed. Was
it a respite from that impending scene with her husband, which she
dreaded so much, yet which she was determined to have?—for she had
decided to make a strong appeal to Mr. Fleming on behalf of the
children.
Not that she had much hope of its success. The words that she had heard
seemed to preclude all possibility of a successful appeal to him in the
interests of the little orphans.
But Net resolved to hazard it all the same.
Now, however, it could not be made before Saturday morning, and Net
began to feel the delay as a reprieve.
She arose and dressed herself, and partook of a slight breakfast, and
then sat down and wrote to Lady Arielle Montjoie, thanking her warmly
for her protection of the children, and expressing a hope that she would
be able to relieve her of the charge within a few days.
Net sent this letter off immediately to be posted.
She was very anxious to see the children, but ah! very fearful that
insurmountable obstacles would be thrown in the way of her doing so
effectually.