A HALCYON DAY.
'They had been much together; and one for ever bears
A name upon the loyal heart, and in the daily prayers;
The other but remembers, when the pleasant hours are past,
That something has been sending them so sweetly and so fast.'
_S.M._
On Whit-Monday forenoon 'Mr. Underwood' was announced in the
drawing-room at Stoneborough, and Gertrude May's face, which had
at first clouded at the pre-prandial intrusion of any visitor,
brightened at the name, but lost a little eagerness when the entering
visitor proved himself to be only Lancelot, shaven now all but his
moustache, and with an air of entirely recovered health, justifying his
declaration that he had no desire to see the Doctor professionally,
and had been quite well ever since his return to Bexley at Easter.
He was now on his way to keep his holiday at home, but had made a
deviation 'to show that I have tried to obey you,' he said, proffering
to Gertrude a roll of music, the stiff paper cover beautifully and
delicately adorned with a daisy border, with pen-and-ink etchings in
the corners illustrating the receipt of telegrams for weal or woe, and
the first bars were made to resemble the wires and posts, the notes,
the birds perched thereon, the whole being of course William Harewood's
poem set to music. So beautiful and elaborate was the finish, that
Gertrude was startled and confused; the meaning flashed on her, and the
sudden recoil roused the contradictoriness of her nature. The earnest
look abashed and frightened her, and with a sort of anger she coldly
said, 'Very pretty, very nicely got up.'
'I think it may suit your voice,' said Lance wistfully.
'Thank you' (more nervously, and therefore more coldly), 'we will order
some copies.'
Lance, after a moment's pleading gaze, dropped his eyes, coloured, and
stammered, 'Not that.'
Ethel came to the rescue with praise of the etching, but this availed
little; Gertrude spoke not a word, and Lance, though making some kind
of reply, clearly did not know what he was saying, and presently took
leave, in spite of Ethel's entreaties that he would stay to the early
dinner, and to see her father. He made answer in a bewildered voice
about not meaning--and getting home; shook hands, and was gone.
'That was not gracious, Daisy,' said Ethel.
'I'm sure I didn't want it,' said the spoilt child.
'You need not have hurt him.'
No answer but scarlet colouring.
About half-past three he was at the Priory, just as the whole party
and Charles Audley besides were standing on the lawn, with rugs and
cloaks betokening boating intentions. His first impulse was to shrink
away like some wounded animal, but he had been spied, and was eagerly
hailed--'O Lance! just in time! Here's the four-oar coming out! Clem
and Angel want to go up the river to Tranquillity Bridge, and we are
taking them.'
Lance would have done anything rather than betray his wound, so he took
his place in the boat, and tried to shake himself into the present;
but Felix thought he looked tired, and would not let him take an oar
against the stream. Then it occurred to Cherry to ask whether he had
had anything to eat. No, he believed not; but he was resolute that he
wanted nothing, not even a draught of cider, which Angela mischievously
recommended as they passed the 'Hook and Line,' a little tea-garden
public-house, a favourite Sunday resort of Ewmouth idlers, and a great
scandal and grievance to the Vicar, but secured, like other abuses, by
a lease. A boat, belonging no doubt to some holiday-makers, was moored
at the steps; but as it was the day of a great Maying at East Ewmouth,
most observers of 'tide time' were likely to be there absorbed.
Angela amused herself with wild proposals to Charlie Audley to repair
thither in disguise together, talking nonsense that greatly annoyed
Clement, and was far from pleasing Felix or Cherry; but she was in so
reckless and defiant a mood, that they could only hope that she might
work it off at the oar. Her arms were strong as well as long, and
rowing was a pastime she loved, having been franked as an A B S ever
since she had taken lessons at a swimming-bath. The day was delicious,
with clouds chasing one another so as to make fleeting lights and
shadows on Penbeacon and the hills beyond; the clear brown water
sparkling in ripples or lying in deep pools, shadowed by the woods that
came down to the bank in the early green of spring, flowering may,
mountain ash, and wreaths of blushing eglantine overhanging the margin,
or where the space was open, revealing meadows all one golden sheet of
buttercups, while the fringe of the stream was the feathery bogbean and
the golden broom, mixed with tall sword leaves of the flag and the reed.
Shaded at length by a picturesque high-backed one-arched bridge, the
boat waited while Clement and Angela went on their cottage visiting.
Charlie did not, as Cherry expected, invite Lance to promenade the
bank with a cigar, but applied himself to helping Stella in collecting
a grand nosegay of every sort of flower and grass within reach.
The others remained in the boat: Lance leaning over the gunwale
dreamily watching the ripples, apparently half asleep, lulled by the
monotonously sweet humming of Theodore, and the songs of the birds in
the woods; Cherry was sketching, and Felix rested musingly.
'Tranquillity Bridge,' he said. 'I always fancy it must have been named
by some pious builder imbued with the spirit of the Pilgrim's Progress.'
'An unconscious poet,' said Cherry.
'Yes. Such a tranquil rest, amid such perfect peace and loveliness,
without one discordant element, is one of the choicest boons of life.'
Lance swallowed a sigh; and Cherry answered, 'The very movements and
sounds are all peace, though full of life.'
For a gold-billed moorhen was swimming among its little ones at the
margin of the reeds at the bend of the river, and a sapphire kingfisher
darted across the arch.
'Halcyon days,' said Felix.
'Oh no! Halcyon days precede storms.'
'Maybe they give strength for them. Times like these are surely
foretastes of perfect bliss.'
'How does that prepare for storms?'
'Not only by calming nerves and spirits, but by giving some experience
of the joy beyond--ay, and sense of love and confidence in Him who has
made all so exquisite for our delight.'
It seemed to come from his heart, drawn forth by the grateful enjoyment
of that sweet Whitsun hour.
Cherry held up her finger as a ring-dove began to coo from the thicket,
making fit answer to one thus resting in the Feast of the Comforter;
Theodore cooed in return, and the bird seemed to be replying. Even the
tumult of pain and grief in Lance's breast was soothed by the spirit of
the words and scene, while he felt the contrast, like an abyss, between
himself and the others.
But when the rest of the party came gaily back with talk and laughter,
inaction had become intolerable to him. He wanted to take Angela's oar,
but she would not hear of giving it up, and Felix resigned his, while
Cherry owned that she preferred having him at the helm when going down
the river.
Theodore, with a shout, held out his hands for Stella's flowers,
and she gave the whole into his hands, Charlie for a moment looking
disappointed; but as the twins sat together, and the little fellow drew
out the flowers singly and dropped them into his sister's lap, while
she whispered their names, it was evidently perfect joy to both. Some,
such as the bright spires of broom, he greeted with a snatch of nursery
song, though otherwise the pair were scarcely audible as long as the
nosegay lasted, and that was for a long time; but when Stella had made
it up again, only leaving the broom to him, he returned to his usual
hum, and this time with the tune of 'The strain upraise,' which had
been practised that morning for Trinity Sunday, and which met the sound
of the bells ringing for Evensong.
'That's rather too much!' exclaimed Angela. 'We shall be taken for some
of the pious, a singing of hymns.--Come, Tedo.'
'No, no,' said Felix, 'I'll not have him interfered with.' And he
hummed the tune.
'That's always the way when Baby goes out with us,' muttered Angela,
audaciously singing out at the top of her clear soprano--
'Six o'clock is striking,
Mother, may I go out?
My young man is waiting,
To take me all about.
First he gives me apples,
Then he gives me pears;
Then he gives me sixpence,
To take me round the fairs;'
thus effectually silencing both the others, the one from sense of
discord, the other from serious displeasure. At that moment, shooting
from behind the bend of the river where stood the Hook and Line,
came the other boat. Excited probably by the song, the young men in
it shouted 'Come on! Who'll be first! We'll take a couple of your
sweethearts aboard, to make fair play! We'll have your nightingale!'
'Next he gives me bacon
And eggs to fry in the pan,
And no one there to eat them
But me and my young man.'
sung they lustily, as on they came, as fast as the current, assisted by
twelve vigorous arms, could carry them.
A few strokes would have gained the garden landing-place, but the
pursuers' velocity was reckless. One moment as they passed the eddy of
the junction of the Leston, and the end of the four-oar swung round
into the middle of the river, there was a shock, a shriek of many
voices; and just as John and Wilmet Harewood were crossing the lawn to
return to their own cottage, they beheld both boats upset, and fifteen
persons struggling in the midstream.
Even as the collision took place, Felix had seized Theodore, and after
both had been drawn down for a second, rose again, making vigorous
strokes with one arm for the bank, reaching that of the churchyard,
where it was built up high and steep; but with one of the violent
efforts of a supreme moment, he grasped a branch of the overhanging
willow tree, swung himself up by one arm till his feet had a hold, and
he could launch himself partly over the iron rail, and deposit his
burthen on the grass, when climbing over, he reached down and dragged
up Geraldine from the arm of Clement, who had closely followed him.
By that time both the other sisters were safe; Charles Audley,
thoroughly at home in the water, had directed himself more skilfully,
holding Stella by her shoulder, to the garden landing-place, further
off, but of easier access. Indeed, she had not lost the power of
helping herself, when Wilmet's arms clasped her on the steps; and only
a few moments later, Angela, who had kept herself afloat, was likewise
landed, with very little aid from Charles.
Lance's rescue was harder. He could not swim at all, sank twice, and
rose the second time a little way down the stream, where John Harewood
grappled him and brought him to the steps, helpless and at first
unconscious. Of the other boat's crew, two reached the bank alone,
another had saved his fellow, a fifth clung to his oar, and was guided
ashore by Clement, a sixth was drawn out insensible by young Audley;
the last was still missing, and John, Charles, one of the other lads,
and old Tripp, were all striving to find and rescue him. Four figures
lay insensible, three more were struggling back to life--the servants
rushing down; Wilmet, supporting Lance in his gasping efforts, took
the command. 'Angel, Stella--don't wait, back to the house. Change
instantly.--Amelia, go with them, give them something hot, never mind
what, and put Miss Underwood to bed.--Yes, Clement, carry her to her
room; and you--don't do anything else till you have changed--Felix,
we'll take Tedo to the laundry; it is hot, and flannels can be warmed
sooner.--Golightly, you and Martha take this one.--You two the
other.--Follow Mr. Underwood--Yes, dear Lancey, you are better. They
are all safe. Shall I help you up? That's right. Lean on, my dear, more
than that; don't be afraid, I'm strong enough; there, you get on very
well.'
Before they had made many steps, a shout proclaimed that the last
sufferer had been found; and while he was carried between his friend
and Tripp, Wilmet hastily insisted that her husband should hurry home
and change his clothes before doing anything else, and relinquishing
Lance to Charlie to be helped up-stairs, hastened to the scene of
action in the laundry, where the four lifeless figures were stretched
on the ironing tables. The other three young men were sent to be
between blankets till their clothes could be dried; and Felix, after
having laid down his unconscious burthen, lingered for a moment, till
Wilmet ordered him off to change his dripping clothes, when he obeyed
without a word.
Clement, half-dressed, was finding garments for Charlie, and insisting
that bed was the place for Lance, when there was a sudden call at
his door, and as he opened it Angela stood before him, exclaiming,
'Come this instant!' and as he followed her flying steps, he beheld
Felix on the stairs, sitting propped against the balusters, holding a
handkerchief to his mouth covered with blood. He had been standing,
supporting himself against the post at the bottom, when Angela had
first found him, and had so far helped him up; but the effort had
evidently been agonizing, and increased the bleeding so much, that she
had tried to place him safely, and hurried for aid. He could do nothing
for himself, but Charles Audley coming to their assistance, they
brought him to his room door, where Angela, crying, 'Ice! ice is the
thing!' dashed away to the offices, where she heard voices.
'Miss Angela, you mus'n't come here.'
'Quick, Martha, the key of the ice-house.'
'Hice-ouse! bless you, Miss Hangela, 'tis 'ot as is wanted.'
'It is ice for the bleeding. It's a blood-vessel! It is Felix. I must
have the key.'
But Martha, always despising Angela, and now all the more with her hair
streaming below her waist, simply did not hear, and hurried away with
her flannels. Angela rushed after her, but only heard, 'You can't come
here.'
As she was raising her voice for a more peremptory cry, she saw John
Harewood returning. He understood in a moment, made entrance, obtained
the key, and while she fetched the ice, he hurried to the scene of the
most pressing and grievous need.
By the time she brought the ice, the drenched clothes had been removed,
and Felix was in bed, and the remedy she had obtained did at last check
the flow of blood, but there was not only exhaustion but evidently very
severe pain. 'Where?' He put his hand to his right side; and at that
moment, to their infinite relief, they found among them Dr. Thomas
May, the professor, who--on his way home from a visit to his friend
the chemist--had been met in the village and brought to their aid even
before Page, who was out on his rounds.
The verdict of the first moment was that the hæmorrhage was not from
the lungs, and indeed the patient showed no difficulty in speaking
after the first faintness. Had he felt the hurt on throwing himself
over the rail? He thought so, but could not recollect; it only
became disabling when he tried to go up-stairs, and that brought the
bleeding--'but Theodore! Pray go to Theodore!'
There was no withstanding his anxiety, only the Professor directed
the unsuccessful endeavour to make the posture easier, and ordered
fomentations as the only present alleviation, except perfect stillness.
No judgment could be formed as yet, and he therefore gratified the
ardent desire faintly breathed forth, while the great drops of pain
stood on the brow. 'Please, see Geraldine! And when Theodore comes
round, bring him here! Clem, see it is so; he will be pacified in sight
of me.'
Clement promised, and made it plain that it would be better for both;
and then he took the young doctor first to Geraldine, who, once in
bed, could not leave it without assistance, and was chained there
in terrible anxiety, with Stella as her messenger; but her agony of
suspense was her chief ailment, and after saying all he conscientiously
could to soothe her, Dr. Tom was guided to the laundry, where he
vanished.
Long, long was news watched for from thence. Even those who went in
quest of hot water learnt nothing, till at last Charlie heard that one
of the young men was reviving, and presently he was carried up to the
spare room.
Another quarter, another half-hour dragged by. Felix renewed his
entreaty for Theodore's presence, but messenger after messenger
returned not. First John went and came back no more, then Clement was
called for and never returned, and Felix became so restless under the
impression that Wilmet would choose to put the child to bed unhappy
in Sibby's room, that Lance could only carry down his mandate to the
contrary. Then when the next access of watching and anxiety was visibly
increasing the suffering and danger, Angela left Stella in charge,
and went herself to represent that the dire suspense must be relieved
before it did further harm.
The ear was in a state of agonized tension, and caught a sound. 'Open
the door, Stella. Hark!'
She obeyed. There were voices; Wilmet's--Clement's. 'You go!'--'He will
bear it best from you!' they said.
She heard no more, for Felix had started up on his elbow, and the blood
had again rushed to his lips. She called for help. All were about
him, there was no checking it, for seconds--for minutes. His face was
deathly, his hands cold. Clement, holding him on his breast, whispering
prayers, felt him more prone and feeble every instant; all believed
that a life was ebbing away far more precious than the little feeble
spark so easily quenched.
When a respite came, it was with a hand on the pulse, and with an
anxious face, that the doctor durst signify to them that this was
relief--not the end as yet; but as Clement laid the head back the
furrows of pain had cleared, the brow had smoothed, the breath came
without the stifled groans, the position was less constrained, and when
Angela ventured to say, 'He looks more comfortable,' there was an air
of assent and rest, the worst of the pain was evidently relieved for
the time.
Stella stole away with the tidings to poor Geraldine, whom she found
sitting up in bed, trembling so that the whole framework shook,
and totally unable to move from it, without the appliances that
assisted her lameness. Before long, Wilmet was able to attend to a
representation of her condition, and could bring her wonted remedies,
and what was even better, her strong soft arms to enfold the little
frail quivering frame, and her sweet, steady, full voice to assure her
that Felix was undoubtedly better, and not suffering near so much.
And when Cherry was quieted, and Wilmet would have returned, the
little handmaid said, in an imploring voice, 'Where is dear Tedo?
mayn't I go to him now?'
'My dear child!' exclaimed Wilmet, in pitying consternation, 'then you
don't know?'
Cherry saw what was implied! How else could the helpless darling have
been left by all!
'It is so?' she said.
Wilmet bent her head.
Stella gave a kind of moan.
'Yes,' Wilmet said, 'It is nearly three hours since. The Professor
said there might be hope for two. One young man is getting better at
last, Page is with him. We went on trying--John says for two hours and
a quarter, and Sibby is going on still; but there is no hope now; and
when I heard about Felix--Stella, dear child, where are you going?'
'Mayn't I help Sibby?' The voice was so plaintively imploring, the eyes
looked so mournfully earnest out of the loose damp mass of dark brown
hair, that it seemed cruel to answer, 'Stella, dear dear little one,
indeed you must not, you can't go there.'
Instinctive obedience recalled her; but still she pleaded, 'He must get
better! He was such a little moment under water! I think he is afraid
to open his eyes because I am not there, nor Brother. Do let me try!
I'm sure he would know me.'
'Stella, sweet, indeed I would let you if I could; but you can't go to
the laundry, there are strange men about, and they are making up a bed
for young Light; he can't be moved. The hope is quite gone, my dear, it
was such a feeble little tender life.'
'And there could have been no pain or fright,' said Cherry.
But she broke off, as poor little Stella collapsed with her face
between her hands, sitting on the floor, lost in her hair, not
speaking, only a great stifling smothering sob heaving up, as if the
oppression of her first grief were crushing, nay strangling her.
Wilmet knelt down to gather her into her motherly arms, and whisper
comfort, but this was not what she wanted; she somehow slid away, stood
up, and said, 'Please, may I go into my own room? I want to be by
myself.'
'To your room and your bed, my dear,' said Wilmet. 'I am going to send
you both some tea.'
Cherry only had visits from the maids, with tea that refreshed her, but
from which Stella in the inner room turned away. The summer twilight
had passed into night before a long black figure looked in. 'Asleep,
Cherry?'
'Oh no, Clem! I knew you would come.'
'I am sorry not to have come before, but there has been so much to do.'
'And he?'
'Tom May thinks his pulse stronger, and was struck by the look of rally
about his face when we came back after supper.'
'Who is there now?'
'Wilmet and the Professor. May will let no one sit up who has been in
the water. I care the less because with my door open it is almost like
being in the same room.'
'But he is better?'
'Not in pain,' said Clement; 'and May thinks that there are no ribs
broken, though there is a great bruise. Much may be only violent
sprain, and it may be only some unimportant vessel that has given
way; but he is too weak and tender yet for anything like examination.
However, as long as the bleeding does not return, he is gaining every
hour.'
'It was that dreadful scramble up the bank!'
'That quite accounts for it; and he must have twisted himself as he
threw himself over the rail. No one could have done it in cold blood,
even without dear Baby's weight.'
'And after that he pulled me up! Clem, it was you that saved me,
and yet I could not thank you if--O Clem!' She laid her head on his
shoulder, struggling with horror at the bare notion of life without
Felix.
He was very sorry for her. He had always loved her the best of his
sisters, yet he felt himself so inadequate to fill to her the place of
their eldest, or even of the lost Edgar.
'My poor Cherry!' he said, stroking her damp hair; 'but thus far God
has been very gracious to us, and we will take hope, and trust Him.
Think how much worse it might have been. So many in danger, and the
only one taken so surely gone home!'
'Ah! I can only think how happy we were so short a moment before. He
said halcyon weather came to bear us through storms; but oh! it makes
it worse.'
'You will not think so when you see our little one's countenance,
sealed with his Alleluia! The vacancy is gone, and there is a wonderful
depth in his face, as if his Ephphatha had come to the guileless lips.
Sibby and I have been dressing him in his surplice, and laying him
under the Cross in the Oratory with his broom blossoms in his hand.
Sibby says he was still clutching them when Felix gave him to her. Poor
Sibby, she says her heart stood still then; but she would not cease
from trying to restore him till long after we all knew it was vain;
and when I made her desist, for the sake of young Light, who must be
kept quiet, I thought she would have broken her heart; but at last she
seemed to feel the soothing awe of the dear little face; and she has
got her beads, and means to keep her vigil over him all night.'
'Does _he_ know?'
'Wilmet fancies not, and is on the watch for his asking; but I am sure
he understood, when I thought he was fast going, and told him Theodore
was "safe home." I am sure it made it easier;' and as Cherry winced and
shuddered, he added, 'This calmness after the suspense was over was
really what did him most good. He is better every hour, and no one else
of ourselves at all the worse except Lance. When the alarm was over, we
found him shivering violently, and hardly able to hold up his head. I
believe that his danger was the greatest of all, and that he could not
have been saved but for John; the stream was carrying him down against
the bridge.'
'O Clem! help me to be thankful! But is not one poor fellow really
taken?'
'Yes, a fine young lad about Bernard's age. He had been under water so
long, that we never had much hope; but the whole frame seemed so made
for vigour, that Page thought there might be a return, and went on with
Krishnu's help for four hours--nor did Sibby leave off till after that.
They were a party of clerks and shopmen from Spiers and Hart's. The
four who are gone home are very subdued and grateful. The father of one
came out in a fly and took them all back, though I thought it rather a
risk for the lad who had been so long insensible.'
'Then there is one in the red-room.'
'He had had some blow, and was too much done up to move; but Page says
he will be all right to-morrow. I am more afraid for the one in the
laundry, and have got Kerenhappuch to sit up with him. The poor boy who
is lying by our dear child was a clerk of Hart's; Audley was going to
see about sending to his people. He went off in his skiff a couple of
hours ago.'
'There's eleven o'clock! O Clem, I ought not to keep you from resting.'
'This is rest, Cherry.'
'Only leave me something to rest on.'
'What shall I say to you?'
'What you like. There are matches.'
'I need not read.'
And he murmured over her Psalm, Collect, thanksgiving, and prayer,
half quoted, half from his own heart, and then stood to give her his
blessing of peace, and his kiss, which left her hushed, softened,
comforted, attuned to meet whatever might be coming.
Again he was at her door in early morning, with tidings of reassurance.
Felix had spent a quiet night, without recurrence of bleeding, and
though too feeble almost for speech, and unable to make the least
movement without pain, he had so far surmounted the first danger, that
Professor May meant to go away on the return of the carriage he had
sent home at night, and, unless telegraphed for, would not come again
till Thursday, only enforcing absolute quiescence though not forbidding
speech. Clement had seen a great improvement in looks, and Wilmet had
consented to lie down on her husband's coming to take charge of the
patient.
'And Lance?'
'He is getting up to come to Church, though he has had a bad night, and
he looks anything but fit for it. He says he must come even if he has
to go back to his bed.'
'Surely it is too great a risk.'
'So I told him, but he declares he has caught no cold, and that it is
all headache and feverishness, which fresh air will relieve. I don't
know, but I can't withhold him.'
'Whit-Tuesday! I had forgotten. Sunday seems to have been ages ago!'
'And how are you, Cherry? Did you sleep?'
'In a sort of way; I am quite well, if only any one would come and help
me to get up! I can't bear lying here any longer. Do try to send me one
of the maids. I can't disturb that poor little dear; she is asleep at
last. Take my heart with you, Clement! After all, it is a sacrifice of
thanksgiving this morning.'
Clement was wont to gather his small daily congregation in the Lady
Chapel, where never since the family migration had the early Holy-day
Celebration been so scantily attended. It was in unison with the many
beyond that he made his Commemoration, his oblation, his intense
intercession, in the dewy light of the early summer morning, his
apparently low yet really powerful deep-pitched voice sounding far down
the aisles and among the pillars in the nave.
The blessing echoed beyond the enclosing screen, and presently Lance
rose from his knees and moved slowly westwards. If for a space he had
felt some of the joy of holy comfort on the renewal of the sacrifice of
self, soul and body, love and hope, before the Lord of life and death,
yet he was more conscious of the oppression of the sickly odour of the
drooping greenery and faded flowers that hung trailing on column and
poppy-head, and which compelled him to leave the Church, though every
step down the nave seemed to increase the load of sorrow, anxiety, and
wounded affection, beneath which head and heart had burnt and throbbed
the long night through. If he had reinforced patience and resolution,
he could not yet feel the benefit.
A slight sound made him raise his eyes. Whom did he see catching at
a bench for support, with white cheek and dilated eye? Whose voice
exclaimed, 'You! you safe then!' Whose hand, so strangely cold, grasped
his with convulsive eagerness, as her lips formed but did not utter the
inquiry, 'Who?'
'Our poor little Theodore,' he said. 'My brother is better this
morning.'
'Theodore! I never thought of him!' she gasped. 'Two lives--one in
great danger--the note said--Tom's man could not tell which--I could
not bear it--I had behaved so ill to--'
And she was cut short by a violent though hushed fit of weeping, while
he exclaimed incoherently, 'No! no! don't think--I was a fool--oh!
don't cry--don't--it is all over now--and this is so good and precious!
Oh! please don't cry! Come in to Cherry! Take my arm.'
'Oh!' between her sobs, in a panting whisper. 'I never meant that. But
I should have died if I had not come with the carriage to find out. I
went in here to wait. I meant no one to know.'
'You must come in now. Cherry is well, and up.'
'I can't! I ought not! Don't let any one know.'
'Indeed you must come in! Think of the comfort to Cherry. Besides, you
will hear of them all. Come.'
The tone was most persuasive, and Gertrude felt that she must yield;
indeed, she trembled so much as to need the support of his arm as he
took her along the cloister into the darkened house, up the stairs to
the Prior's room, where he was glad to find preparations for breakfast;
and placing Gertrude on the sofa, he was knocking at Cherry's door,
when he heard the tap of her stick as she came along the gallery from a
visit to Felix.
She had only been allowed to give him ocular demonstration that she
was well and afoot, and exchange a kiss and five fond words; but the
welcoming smile of gladness had so enlightened his face, that she was
cheerful enough to be able to meet Lance's eager face and gesture as he
threw his arm round her, whispering, 'She's here, Cherry. She's come in
May's carriage. That most dearest--!'
And before she had fairly recollected who was most dearest to Lance,
she was borne away into the room, to see tearful eyes, and crimson
face, find them hidden against her, and be almost stifled in Gertrude
May's embrace.
The explanation was made in more detail than in the church. Tom May,
on finding that he must stay, had scribbled a pencil-line to his
wife--'Terrible boat accident; two lives gone, fears for two more. Send
the other horse for me to-morrow morning.'
The groom was only sure that it was the Squire of whom scarcely a hope
was given, and another brother drowned, which he could not say, except
that it was not the clergyman. Dr. May and Ethel were spending the
night at Abbotstoke; and Gertrude, after hours of tossing under remorse
for her discourtesy, and misery of suspense, found waiting unendurable,
and obeyed the impulse to rise and go with the carriage.
'Indeed,' she said, looking up to Lance, 'it was very wrong. I could
not believe anything so exquisite had been done for me.'
'As if anything--'
'But haven't I been punished!' she went on, not pausing. 'Oh! to think
I never--never could unsay it, nor ask your pardon!'
'Pardon!' he gasped, turning as red as before he had been pale, and
holding a chair for support; and before he could say another word, the
impulsive girl cried, 'And oh! it is all my selfishness, bothering him
when he looks so dreadfully ill.'
'No, no,' broke out Lance, afraid he was frightening her away, and
still almost beside himself. 'This is perfect healing.'
'Don't talk nonsense,' broke in Cherry, half comprehending, but
a good deal alarmed, and therefore assuming authority with some
peremptoriness; 'the truth is, you are both famished, and must have
some breakfast this instant.' She poured out coffee, and then moved to
provide eatables. Lance's instinct was of course to help her, but his
hand shook so much that he had to relinquish the bread-knife. 'Yes,'
said Cherry, as she took it from him; 'no wonder! When did you eat
last?'
'I--can't tell. Somebody made me swallow something hot and abominable
when I came in, and my head has never stopped going round ever since;
but I don't care now.'
'No doubt it saved you from something worse.--You know he was longer in
the water than any of us.'
'I don't know anything,' said Gertrude. 'I thought Mr. Underwood--'
Then it had to be explained--that is, as much as Cherry and Lance knew.
'Some tipsy fellows racing us--the shock--the helpless plunge;' then
Cherry had felt the instant security of Clement's arm, and was drawn up
the bank.
'How beautiful it was!' said Gertrude softly, 'that care for poor
little Theodore first, and then you!'--and softer tears came into her
eyes. 'It is just like all his life.'
'Just,' they both said, gratefully.
'And how does he look?'
'Perfectly white, dear fellow--lips and all,' said Cherry; 'and he
speaks so slowly, and only just above his breath; but his eyes watch
one about with all their grave brightness.'
'Grave brightness,' whispered Gertrude to herself, while a sweet
satisfied look passed over her face. 'Did he know how it was with the
poor little one before he--was ill?'
'No,' said Lance; but he could now add that when Felix had seen
Clement about to go to church, he had said, 'Remember me, and give
thanks--above all for dear Baby.'
Never perhaps had Gertrude shown such soft shy tenderness; and Lance
confirmed the trust that Theodore could scarcely have felt a pang, for
he said that in his own case the drowning had been far preferable to
the coming back to life, when Wilmet had seemed a cruel tormentor.
'Who was it that brought you out?'
'Who, Cherry? I never asked!'
'Oh!' emphatically exclaimed Gertrude; then in a murmur under her
breath, 'or what would it not have been to me?'
'It was John Harewood,' said Cherry.
There was a knock. Professor May, at his principal patient's entreaty,
had come to inspect Miss Underwood. His amazement at the spectacle of
her companions was unbounded, and did not make him merciful to Lance,
whom he meant to have next visited in bed, and whose throbbing pulses,
varying complexion, heavy eyes, aching limbs, palpitating breath,
and untasted meal, all indicated that he ought to have been there.
The reproof was not like the rough uncompromising scolding Rugg was
wont to bestow; but with quiet irony Dr. Tom impressed on Lance that
getting up had been a recklessly foolish pastime, in which he might
have been permitted to indulge so far as his own insignificant welfare
was concerned, but that he could not be permitted to inflict another
serious illness on his family. The only thing that was proper by them
was immediately to repair to his bed, and there await the upshot of his
imprudence, so as to mitigate the effect as much as possible.
And then summarily carrying off his sister, Tom began as soon as
they were outside the gate, 'This is simply the most extraordinary
proceeding I ever heard of.'
Gertrude held her tongue.
'May I ask whether my father is in the habit of permitting these freaks
when he is visiting his patients?'
'I beg your pardon,' she answered. 'I forget the unapproachableness of
your patients when they are my dearest friends.'
'Oh, indeed!' Then presently, and as if for fear the groom should
hear--'_Les demoiselles font beaucoup de choses mal à propos à l'heure
qu'il est, mais je vous conseille de ne pas avouer votre préférence à
si haute voix_.'
'I don't care,' she said, scorning the veil, 'who knows that I glory in
appreciating heroism.'
'The heroism of getting upset in a boat!'
She deigned no reply; and he waited, trusting to her feminine nature to
make her begin again, but silence was her only refuge from angry tears
or words, and she kept it till the Church Ewe station was in sight.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I'll go home by train.'
He had visits to make, and was glad to be quit of her, but with
elaborate cold care came to the station, found that a train was nearly
due, and waited with her. He must have done so for the purpose of
saying, 'Mind! these are estimable persons, but that is no reason for
dropping self-restraint.' Then, as her pout nettled him, 'Nothing is
more disgusting or unmaidenly than pursuit of one in a lower walk of
life.'
'Walks of life are what men make them.' And they treated each other
with dignified silence till the train came.
'Well,' said Dr. May, on hearing his son's story, 'the Press is king
now-a-days, and one daughter is his tribute.' The Doctor still liked to
tease Tom.
Meantime, Lance, in no condition to resist, had betaken himself to
his own chamber, but only to find the housemaid had left the bed in
the most approved sanitary state--so long as it was not to be lain
on. Not sorry for a dispensation from captivity, he extracted his
private horse-hair pillow from the pile of bed-clothes, and came
back to the painting-room, where Cherry cleared her large sofa, and
covered him up with her Indian silk quilt, he smiling blissfully, and
observing, 'Isn't she the dearest girl in the world?' Cherry might
have heard a great deal, had it been possible to her to sit and talk
when innumerable messages were coming for her. When she had answered
the first, he began again with 'So sweet and generous.' Then came the
second which involved a note. When she looked at him again, he only
smiled. She next had to go down to the kitchen; and on her cautious
return she found him asleep, breathing like a child, and a colour--not
fever--coming into his cheek.
'Poor fellow!' she sighed to herself. 'I wonder if there is any hope
for him; but if the notion only bears him through to-day, it is a
blessing!'
Poor Cherry! Such as this was all the nursing she was good for. Her
nerves made her not to be trusted alone in a sick-room, not to do equal
damage to herself and the patient; and she could only sit with the door
ajar, writing notes, and acting as referee to countless questions, all
in an undertone out of respect to Lance's slumbers.
And there meanwhile sat Angela, trusted to fan Felix, refresh him
with a strawberry or spoonful of iced lemonade, bathe his face with
eau-de-cologne, or catch his slightest wish, cares so congenial,
that she liked them for a stranger, how much more delightful for 'my
brother;' and though she knew more clearly than anyone save John
and Clement how precarious his state was, youthful buoyancy viewed
the danger as the cause of future triumph. To be a lady-doctor was
surely her vocation! What a pity Charlie was heir to a baronetcy! And
he had finally saved her--though she had kept herself afloat--_he_
might be allowed the honour of her rescue; and if it made him her
fate, Lady Audley, M.D., should obtain a magnificent triumph over
conventionality, far beyond all her former conceptions.
When Clement came into the room at noon, she would not give up her
place. Felix looked up to him, and said, 'You are seeing to things!'
'Yes--' interrogatively.
'Try how near that willow it can be.'
'I will.'
'How about the inquest?'
'At the Rood this afternoon. Never mind about that.'
'Only see there is no injustice to those poor lads! It was our own
doing;' and as Clement looked amazed, 'if our boat had not swung
round;' but the earnestness with which the words were spoken brought
a thrill of pain that cut him short; and they wiped his brow, and
sprinkled him with scent, and watched anxiously till the lines about
the eyes and mouth began to relax, and he smiled thanks back, then
closed his eyes.
Clement left the room unheard, for the heat of the day compelled the
opening of window and doors. He had only just became conscious that
from the moment of the accident he had never had leisure to consider
the cause; and he went across to the painting-room, where he did not
find Cherry; but Lance awoke at his entrance, sat up, and in answer to
his apology and inquiry pronounced, 'There's wonderful virtue in sleep.
I don't think any of the ills Tom May threatened me with are coming to
pass.'
'Your head?'
'No worse than I'm well used to, thank you. How is it in there?'
Clement told him what had just passed, adding, 'What do you remember?'
'My notion,' said Lance, 'was simply that we were overtaken by a lot of
scamps too excited to perceive what they were about, and egged on by
Angel's unlucky song.'
'I doubt the "excitement" being of the technical kind, unless the water
had a very sudden sobering effect.'
'Indeed! Well, considering that you were in your shirt-sleeves, their
not perceiving that we weren't in their style was not so wonderful.
So Felix says we ought to have cleared them. Ay, I do remember the
swinging round now.'
'An oar must have missed the stroke, and brought her stern foul of the
other.'
'He must have seen who it was,' said Lance.
'Yes, but as the point is to exonerate these fellows, there seems no
need to drive it close home among ourselves.'
'No, _she_ need never know exactly what she has done,' said Lance.
'I did not say she never should,' returned Clement; 'but the public
need not. In fact, we have nothing to say. Felix, in the stern, may
have seen, but I did not.'
'And Charlie Audley?'
'If he knows no more positively than we do, you may be sure he will
not draw inferences. I wonder he has not been here yet, by-the-by.'
'You don't mean to forewarn him?'
'Certainly not.'
'No, it would not be right. All we determine is that it shall not be
known through us, if we can keep truth and justice without,' said
Lance; 'and if appearances are to be trusted, he is likely to be as
ready--or more so--to shield her as any one of us.'
'I believe that is as great an absurdity as any of the rest,' said
Clement, gloomily.