"I WILL NEVER BE FAITHLESS AGAIN."
"Nothing begins and nothing ends
That is not paid with moan,
For we are born in other's pain
And perish in our own."
THOMPSON.
"He had a face like a benediction."
CERVANTES.
In spite of her terrible exhaustion, Waveney instinctively dreaded the
surprised looks and curious questionings which she feared awaited her.
The idea of Joanna's pity and Betty's welcoming caresses seemed alike
repugnant; and when Thorold opened the parlour door, she drew back as
though afraid to enter; but he gently led her in.
"They are all out," he said, quietly; "but you can rest and get warm."
And then he drew up an easy-chair to the fire and placed her in it, and
brought her a footstool; the next moment, with careful hands, he
removed her hat, and put a cushion under her head; then he drew off her
gloves, and gently rubbed her benumbed fingers.
Waveney submitted to it all passively. The warmth and stillness soothed
her, in spite of herself. When Thorold left the room to speak to Jemima,
she rested her weary head against the soft cushion and closed her eyes.
How kind he was!--how kind every one was! And then, all of a sudden,
great tears welled up in her eyes. The little parlours, with their drawn
crimson curtains and bright fire, seemed to fade from her sight. She was
sitting on a bench in Old Ranelagh gardens, and Mollie was beside her.
The sunlight was filtering through the limes, the children were flitting
to and fro like butterflies. "Here he is--the noticeable man, with large
grey eyes," she was saying; and she could hear Mollie's sweet, scornful
laughter in reply.
"Dear Miss Ward, please drink this; it will warm you and do you good."
Thorold spoke in a clear, persuasive voice. But as Waveney opened her
eyes, the tears were rolling down her small white face.
"Why did you rouse me?" she said, with a little sob. "I was dreaming,
and it was so lovely. I was sitting with my Mollie, and we were laughing
and talking together. Oh, Mollie, Mollie!" And here a fit of bitter
weeping seemed to shake her from head to foot. No power on earth could
have hindered the flow of those tears.
For one moment Thorold almost lost his calmness.
"Waveney, my dear child, hush!" he said, hoarsely, "you will make
yourself ill. Why are you so hopeless? It is often darkest just before
the dawn." And then his hand rested for a moment lightly on her head.
"How do you know that your sister's life may not be spared? and then all
these tears may have been needlessly shed. Child, do not lose your
faith. God may be dealing mercifully with you and yours."
He spoke in a voice of intense feeling; then he gently raised her from
the cushions, and held the cup to her lips.
"You must drink this," he said, very quietly and gently. And Waveney
checked her tears and obeyed him.
"There, you are better now," he said, in a tone of relief, when the cup
was empty.
"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you, for being so good and patient. I ought
not to have troubled you so."
"Troubled?" returned Thorold, in a low, suppressed voice, "when there
is nothing on earth that I would not do for you, my darling!" The last
words were scarcely audible. Then he bit his lip, and rose hastily. What
was he doing? He had forgotten himself. The sight of her tears, the
anguish in her beautiful eyes, had utterly unnerved him. For the moment
he had been oblivious of everything but her suffering, and his great
love; and words of tenderness had forced themselves to his lips.
Good heavens! what had he done? And here he paced the room in agitation;
but a glance at the easy-chair reassured him. Poor child! she was so
dazed, so confused, that probably the words had not reached her ears. If
they had--and here he frowned, and stared at the fire in perplexity--if,
fool that he was, he had betrayed himself! And then, in spite of his
self-reproach, a gleam of joy crossed his face. What if she had
understood him, and knew, without doubt, that she was the darling of his
heart!
But he would not trust himself to be alone with her any longer. He sent
for a cab, and then went up to Joanna's room for an old fur-lined cloak,
that he knew hung in her wardrobe.
A few minutes later, when he returned to the room, the cloak was over
his arm. Waveney was still in the same position, lying back on the
cushions, with closed eyes, and listless hands folded on her lap. But at
the sound of his step, she struggled into a sitting posture.
"Have you come for me? May I go, now?" she asked, in a weak little
voice. But he noticed that the colour had returned to her lips.
"Yes," he said, quietly. "The cab is here. But you must let me wrap you
in this cloak, for it is bitterly cold outside, and this room is so
warm." Then she stood up without a word, and allowed him to put it round
her; then, still silently, he drew her hand through his arm, and led her
slowly down the little courtyard.
For some minutes no word passed between them.
Thorold pulled up the windows. Then he wrapped the old cloak a little
closer round her, and stooped to bring it under her feet. As he did so
she put out her hand to stop him.
"Oh, please--please do not trouble about me so," she said, in a
distressed tone. "I am quite warm now. You are so kind, and I cannot
even thank you?" Then, with a sudden impulse, he took her hand, and held
it firmly.
"Do you know how you can thank me best?" he said, very gently. "By
taking better care of yourself in future. Waveney, promise me that you
will never act so recklessly again. Good heavens! what would have become
of you if I had not found you! And even now----" Then, with an
involuntary shudder, he checked himself.
"I was very wrong," she returned, humbly, "but I was so unhappy, and I
wanted to tire myself; and somehow the river, and the loneliness,
soothed me. And then all at once I seemed to lose myself, and you came.
I think the cold numbed me; but I understand better now, and I am
sorry."
She spoke in broken little sentences, and it was with difficulty that he
could hear the words; they were just entering the Lodge gates at that
moment, and he leant forward in the darkness and lifted the cold little
hand to his lips. "Yes, you were wrong," he said, tenderly, as though he
were speaking to a child, "but you will never be so foolish again. You
will take care of yourself for the sake of those who love you." Then he
dropped her hand as a gleam of light from the open door streamed across
the shrubbery. And as the cab stopped he saw Althea standing in the
porch, with a light, fleecy wrap thrown over her head.
"Oh, Waveney," she exclaimed, in an anxious tone, as Thorold lifted the
girl out. "Where have you been?" Then, as she caught sight of Waveney's
face, "My dear child, you look dreadful. What has happened?"
"Nothing has happened," returned Thorold, impatiently. "Miss Ward is not
well; the cold has struck her. Please do not keep her standing here."
And, unceremoniously putting Althea aside, he almost carried Waveney
across the hall.
"Take her to Doreen's room. There is a nice fire there," Althea said,
quickly. But she was too late, for Thorold had already opened the
library door. As he did so, two people, sitting by the fire, rose
hastily and looked at them. The next moment Waveney uttered a cry and
freed herself from Thorold's supporting arm.
"Father," she exclaimed, in a voice of terror, "you have come--you have
come to tell me----" Then her breath failed her, and she almost fell
into Everard's arms.
"My darling, I have come to bring you good news," he said, pressing her
almost convulsively to him. "Oh, such good news, my Waveney! Mollie is
better; the danger has passed, and----" But here he stopped, as
Waveney's head fell heavily on his shoulder.
"You have told her too suddenly," observed Althea, in an alarmed voice.
But Thorold, without a word, took the girl from her father's arms and
laid her on a couch.
"She has fainted," he said, briefly. "You had better bring some brandy
and smelling-salts. The sudden revulsion has been too much for her." And
then he helped Althea apply the remedies, while Everard stood helplessly
by, too shocked and troubled to be of any use.
It seemed long before Waveney opened her eyes. She seemed rather
confused at first. As Thorold put a glass to her lips, she looked at him
a little wildly.
"Is it another dream?" she whispered. "Was not father here really?"
Then Thorold smiled at her.
"It was no dream," he said, quietly. "The good news is quite true. Mr.
Ward, will you take my place, please?"
Then Everard knelt down by her couch. Waveney's weak arms were round his
neck in a moment.
"Father," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "tell it me again.
Mollie--my Mollie--is not going to die?"
Then Everard, in rather a tremulous voice, repeated the good news. There
had been a change for the better early in the day, but he had waited
until the afternoon for the physician's verdict. The danger that they
dreaded was no longer imminent; the disease had run its course;
everything depended now upon skilful nursing, with care and
watchfulness; Sir Hindley hoped that Mollie would, in time, recover her
normal strength; but in this insidious disease there was the danger of
sudden collapse from exhaustion--indeed, there were other risks, but
Everard did not mention this.
Waveney listened with painful attention; then her heavy eyes were fixed
wistfully on her father's face.
"It is really true!" she murmured. "Thank God, oh, thank God! Father,
dear, may I see her now?"
Everard frowned anxiously; he had dreaded this question, but he had to
be firm, for the doctor's orders were stringent.
"No, dear," he said, sorrowfully, "you must not see her yet. It is for
Mollie's sake as well as yours. No one must see her; the least
excitement or agitation, in her weak state, might be fatal. You must be
patient, my little Waveney, and I will promise you this, that you shall
be Mollie's first visitor;" and then Waveney hid her face on his
shoulder.
"Do not let her talk any more," observed Althea, gently; and then
Thorold came forward to take his leave. As he pressed her hand, Waveney
looked at him with a touching expression of gratitude in her dark eyes.
"You were right," she said, in a low voice, "and I was wicked and
faithless; but I will never be faithless again."
But his sole answer was a smile so bright and reassuring that in her
weakness it almost dazzled her, as though some sudden sunbeam had
flashed across her eyes.
"Fear nothing," it seemed to say, "poor little tired child, rest and be
still." And indeed, before Everard left the house, an hour later, the
worn-out girl was sleeping peacefully, while Althea, with motherly eyes,
watched beside her.
It was late that night before Althea retired to rest. Thorold's account
had filled her with uneasiness; his description made her shudder. The
dark, solitary towing-path, with the dense mist rising from the river;
the exhausted little creature trying to walk off her sorrow and
restlessness. No wonder that Althea's kind heart ached with pity.
"Oh, Thorold," she said, and her eyes were full of tears, "how do we
know what that poor child may have to suffer for her imprudence? She may
have rheumatic fever. Oh, one cannot tell what may be the result of such
madness."
Then Thorold shook his head with rather a sad smile.
"You must not take such a gloomy view. Let us hope there will be no bad
result. I confess Miss Ward's exhausted condition alarmed me at first.
It was distressing to see her. And then there was so little one could
do!"
Thorold's tone had a note of pain in it, but Althea looked at him with
an affectionate smile.
"Don't undervalue yourself, Thorold. In any emergency or trouble I know
of no one who could give more efficient help. So many kind-hearted
people spoil everything by their fussiness."
"Oh, that is one for Joa!"
"No, no, I was not thinking of poor Joa. With all her goodness, she is
the last person I should care to have near me in any sudden trouble.
Perhaps it is unkind of me to say this, but I know we think alike on
this point;" and though Thorold made no verbal response to this, it was
evident that he agreed with her.
When Waveney woke the next morning, she was conscious of aching limbs
and unusual weariness and lassitude, and it was almost with a feeling of
relief that she heard Althea say she must remain in bed.
"You have been a naughty little child," she said, kissing her, "and
Doreen and I are excessively angry with you; so we have agreed that you
are to be punished by some hours of solitary confinement. I am going to
light your fire, and then you are to eat your breakfast and go to sleep
again."
Waveney smiled quite happily at this. She had no wish to dispute the
point. It was a luxury to lie still in her soft bed and watch the
pleasant firelight until her drowsy eyelids closed again. In spite of
her weariness and aching limbs, there was a fount of joy in her heart.
"Mollie is better. Mollie will get well." Those were the words she
repeated over and over again, and more than once her hands were folded,
and "Thank God!" came audibly from her lips.
At midday Althea brought a note that Moritz had sent by a boy messenger.
It was written to her, but there was a message for Waveney. She read
part of it aloud. Mollie had slept well, and the improvement continued.
Both doctor and nurses seemed satisfied.
"If I had my way, Sir Hindley should have a peerage," wrote Moritz. "He
is worth all the other doctors put together; and Miss Mollie would never
have pulled through without him, I'll take my oath of that." But Althea
kept the remainder of the letter to herself. It was too strictly private
and confidential even for Doreen's ears.
All day long, in her waking intervals, Waveney was keeping one thought
at bay. Deep down in her inner consciousness, she was aware of some
strange and secret joy which she dare not face, but which seemed to
distil some rare and precious aroma.
"Was it a dream?" she was continually asking herself; but the answer to
this perpetually eluded her. All the events of the previous evening had
resolved themselves into a sort of painful vision. The dark, sullen
river; her restless anguish; those confused moments when, giddy and
sick, she had sat on the bench with Mr. Chaytor beside her; the walk
through the lighted streets; and then the warmth and comfort of that
friendly refuge.
It was not until late in the afternoon, when the wintry dusk had closed
in, and the Pansy Room was bright with firelight, that the power of
consecutive thought and memory seemed to return to Waveney, when some
sudden remembrance made her bury her face in the pillow. What were those
words that, in spite of her weakness, seemed stamped on her heart and
brain?
"Trouble? When there is nothing on earth that I would not do for you, my
darling!" No, it was no dream. She had actually heard them. He had
really said them. Would she ever forget his voice, or the smile that had
seemed to steal into her weary heart like a benediction? Then, for a few
blissful moments, Mollie was forgotten in the overwhelming consciousness
that the man she most admired and revered, who seemed so far above her
in wisdom and intellect, should stoop from his great height to care for
her.