A BANKRUPT HEART.
A BANKRUPT HEART.
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’ ‘PARSON JONES,’
ETC., ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1894.
_This story being already dramatised, all rights are reserved._
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 25
CHAPTER III. 52
CHAPTER IV. 73
CHAPTER V. 101
CHAPTER VI. 118
CHAPTER VII. 137
CHAPTER VIII. 168
CHAPTER IX. 189
CHAPTER X. 213
A BANKRUPT HEART.
A BANKRUPT HEART.
CHAPTER I.
For seven weeks Nell Llewellyn fluctuated between life and death
before she was fully roused again to a sense of living and its cares
and responsibilities. It was on a sunny afternoon, in the middle
of October, that she first awoke to the consciousness that she was
herself. But she was too weak to do more than be aware of it. The
afternoon sun was glinting through the white blind of her bedroom
window, and a little breeze caused it to flap gently against the
latticed panes. Nell lay on her bed, as weak and unreasoning and
incurious as a little child, and watched the tassel of the blind
bobbing up and down, without questioning why she lay there, unable to
move or think. An old woman named Betsy Hobbs, who came in sometimes
to help in an emergency at the farmhouse, was seated by the window,
with a large pair of knitting-needles in her hands, a ball of worsted
at her feet, and her head sunk on her breast, enjoying a snooze after
the labours of the day. Nell stared at her unfamiliar figure with the
same sense of incapacity to understand her presence, and the same
sense of utter indifference to not understanding it. Her feeble sight
roved over everything in the room with the same apathy. The coverlet
on her bed was a coloured one, and she kept on counting the squares
and wondering in a vague manner why one should be red and the next
blue. One red, and the next blue--one red, and the next blue--she kept
on mentally repeating to herself, until her eyes had travelled to the
foot of the bed, over the footboard of which was thrown a pink knitted
shawl, or kerchief, which her mother had bought for her just before
she was taken ill, and which she had worn around her shoulders on the
evening she had gone to hear Hugh Owen preach in the field. That little
link between the past and the present recalled it all. In a moment
she comprehended. She was no longer happy, innocent Nell Llewellyn,
spending her young life at Panty-cuckoo Farm, but the disgraced and
degraded daughter of the house, who had crept home, a living lie,
to hide her shame and sorrow in her mother’s bosom. The remembrance
brought with it but one desire--one want--which expressed itself in a
feeble cry of ‘Mother!’ At least, it was what Nell intended for a cry;
but her voice was so faint and weak, that Betsy Hobbs only roused from
her nap with a feeling of curiosity if she _had_ heard anything. She
was accustomed to nursing the sick, however, and was a light sleeper,
so she hobbled up to the bedside and peered into her patient’s face.
Sure enough her eyes were open and there was reason in them.
‘Praise the Lord, dearie,’ she ejaculated, ‘you’re yourself agin at
last!’
But Nell turned her face to the wall with the same cry of ‘Mother!’
‘To be sure, dearie; and I’ll fetch ’er in ’alf a minnit. She’s only
stepped down to the dairy to see ’ow things are goin’ on, for business
’as been sadly neglected of late. Night and day--night and day--the
pore dear’s bin by your side, longin’ to ’ear your own voice agin, and
she’ll be overj’yed to find you in your senses. Come, drink a drop o’
milk, do, and then I’ll fetch ’er.’
But Nell turned fractiously from the proffered cup and reiterated
her cry for her mother. She was gaunt and emaciated to a degree.
The cruel fever had wasted her rounded limbs, and dug deep furrows
beneath her eyes, and turned her delicate complexion to yellow and
brown. She looked like a woman of forty or fifty, instead of a girl of
three-and-twenty. As the old woman ambled out of the room, Nell raised
her thin hands and gazed at the white nails and bony knuckles with
amazement. Where had she been? What had happened to her, to alter her
like that? Her questions were answered by the entrance of Mrs Llewellyn.
‘Oh, my dear lass--my own poor lamb!’ she exclaimed, as she came
hurriedly to the bedside, and folded her daughter in her arms. ‘Praise
the Lord that you have taken a turn at last! I’ve been watching for
this days and days, till I began to fear it might never be. You’ve been
main ill, my girl, and all the house nursing you through it. Father’s
lying down on his bed. He hasn’t had his coat off for three nights. But
you’re better, my lass, you’re better, thank God for that!’
‘How long have I been ill?’ asked Nell in a faint voice.
‘Better than six weeks--going on for seven,’ replied her mother; ‘and
it’s been an anxious time for all of us. I thought poor Hetty would
have cried herself sick last week, when Dr Cowell told us we mustn’t
build our hopes too much on keeping you here. I think he will be as
surprised as anyone when he hears the good news. Oh, my lass, it would
have been a sore day for more than one of us if we had lost you!’
‘I may go yet, mother,’ said Nell, looking at her skeleton hands;
‘there’s not much of me left, I’m thinking.’
‘Oh, no you won’t, my dear, not this time, thank God. I know what these
fevers are. I’ve seen too many of them. When they’ve burnt themselves
out, they’re over. And you’re as cool as a cucumber now. You feel
terrible weak, I know, but good feeding and care will soon set you up
again.’
‘What a trouble I must have been to you,’ sighed Nell wearily; ‘and so
unworthy of it too. Mother, why didn’t you let me die, and make an end
of it? Life is not worth living at any time, and I’ve seen the best of
mine.’
‘Nonsense, my girl, you talk like that because you’re so weak, that’s
all. You’ll feel quite different in another day or so. Here, just let
me give you a few spoonfuls of this beef-tea. I made it myself, so I
won’t take a refusal. There’s a good maid, and now you must shut your
eyes and go to sleep again.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ murmured Nell, as she lay with her hand clasped in
her mother’s. ‘Talk to me, mother. Tell me you are really glad that I
am better, and I will try to live for your sake.’
‘Glad, child! Why, what are you thinking of? Glad to get my own lass
back from the grave, as you may say? I should be a nice mother if I
weren’t. Don’t you know by this time that you’ve been my hope and pride
ever since you was born? Why, I’ve been praying night and day to the
Lord to spare you for weeks past. Ay, and not only me; all Usk has
been asking the same thing, and there’s been one in particular as has
wearied Heaven with prayers for your recovery, if ever man did.’
‘_One in particular?_’ echoed the sick girl faintly curious. ‘Who was
that, mother?’
‘Why, that young saint on earth, Hugh Owen, to be sure. I never saw
a man so unhappy as he’s been about you. He looks ten years older
since you were taken ill. Do you know, Nell, that he’s been here every
minute he could spare from his work, kneeling by your bedside whilst
you were raving in delirium, praying with all his heart and soul, that
God would spare your precious life to us a little longer. Hugh Owen
has been your tenderest nurse. I’ve seen him sit here, without saying
a word for hours together, only holding you in his arms when you got
a bit violent, and coaxing you by every means in his power to take a
drop of wine or a spoonful of jelly. I do believe that you owe your
life in a great measure to Hugh’s care (and so I’ve told father that if
you lived, it would be), for though we all tried our best, no one has
had so much influence over you as him, or been able to make you take
nourishment like he could.’
‘Did he hear me talk?’ asked Nell, fearfully.
‘Hear you talk, child? Well, pretty nearly all Usk heard you talk,
you used to scream so loud sometimes. But it was all nonsense. No one
could understand it, so you needn’t be afraid you told any of your
little secrets. I couldn’t make head nor tail of what you said, nor
Hugh either. But his presence seemed to comfort you, so I let the poor
lad have his way. He was nearly broken-hearted when he left the farm
last night, you were so terribly weak and low. I expect he’ll nearly go
out of his mind when he hears the news I shall have to tell him this
evening. He’ll offer up a grand prayer of thanksgiving before he goes
to his bed to-night.’
But at this juncture, seeing that Nell’s weary eyes had closed again,
Mrs Llewellyn covered her carefully with the bedclothes, and went to
communicate the fact of her improvement to the farmer. As the husband
and wife were sitting at their evening meal, Hugh Owen, as usual,
walked in. His face was very pale, and his expression careworn. His
first anxious inquiry was naturally for Nell. When he heard the great
improvement that had taken place in her, and that Doctor Cowell had
said at his last visit that she was now on the road to recovery, his
pallid cheeks glowed with excitement.
‘God Almighty be thanked for all His goodness!’ he said solemnly,
and then added rapidly,--‘May I see her, Mrs Llewellyn? Just for one
moment. I will not speak to her, if you do not think it desirable,
but to see her once more sensible and in her right mind would make me
so happy. I shall hardly be able to believe the joyful news is true
otherwise.’
The mother looked doubtful.
‘Well, I don’t quite know how Nell would take it, my lad. You’ve been
main good to her, I know; but it wouldn’t do to upset her now, and you
would be the last to wish it.’
‘Upset her! Oh, no; but I have sat by her so often during her illness.’
‘Ay, when she wasn’t aware of your presence; that makes all the
difference. But,’ noting the look of disappointment in the young man’s
face, she added, ‘I’ll just step up and see how matters are now; and
if Nell’s sleeping you shall have a peep at her, in return for all your
goodness.’
The young man thanked her, and in a few minutes she came back to say
that her daughter was fast asleep, and, if Hugh would follow her, he
should see so for himself. He rose at once, his face radiant with joy,
and crept on tip-toe up the stairs and into the familiar bedroom.
There lay Nell, prostrate in the sleep of exhaustion--her hands folded
together on the coverlet, her head well back on her pillow, her mouth
slightly parted, her breathing as regular and calm as that of an
infant. At the sight Hugh’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Doesn’t she look as if she were praying--thanking God for His goodness
to her?’ he whispered to Mrs Llewellyn. ‘Oh, let us pray too. We can
never thank Him enough for all He has done for us.’
And he fell on his knees by the bedside, Mrs Llewellyn following his
example.
‘Oh, Father, God, Protector, Friend,’ said the young man, with tears
running down his worn cheeks, ‘what can we render to Thee for all
Thou art to us, for all Thou doest for us? We have cried to Thee in
our distress, and Thou hast heard our cry. We wept in our abject fear
of loss, and Thou hast dried our tears. Thou hast sent Thy messenger
angels, with healing in their wings, to succour this dear child of
Thine--this dear companion of ours--and give her and us alike time to
do something to prove the sense of gratitude we have for Thy great love
to us. Oh, Father, make us more grateful, more thankful, more resolved
to live the lives which Thou hast given us, to Thee, more careful of
the beautiful, earthly love with which Thou hast brightened and made
happy these lives. Amen.’
No one could mistake the earnestness and fervour and genuineness
of this address, which Hugh delivered as simply as if he had been
speaking to his earthly father in his earthly home. Mrs Llewellyn
could not restrain mingling her tears with his. She told the farmer
afterwards that Hugh’s way of praying made her feel as if the Almighty
were standing just beside them where they knelt. Softly as the young
minister had preferred his petition, it seemed to have reached the
sleeper’s ear, even through her dreams, for as his ‘Amen’ fell on the
air, Nell opened her eyes and said very softly,--
‘Thank you, Hugh.’
The sound of her voice, and the assurance that his presence had not
disturbed her, so moved his sensitive disposition that he sprung
forward, and, sinking again upon his knees by her side, raised her thin
hand to his lips and kissed it several times in succession, whilst his
dark eyes glowed with feeling.
‘Thank you,’ again sighed Nell. ‘Good-night.’
‘Yes, yes, my lad, it must be good-night, for you mustn’t stay
here!’ exclaimed Mrs Llewellyn, who was fearful of the effects of any
agitation on her invalid. ‘You’ve had your wish and seen Nell, and
you’ve prayed a beautiful prayer, and now you must come back to the
parlour with me and have a bit of supper. Go down to the kitchen,
Betsy,’ she continued to the old nurse, ‘and get our Nell another drop
of beef-tea, and I’ll be up to see after her as soon as the table’s
cleared. Bless her heart! if she isn’t off again. She’ll want all
the sleep she can get now, to make up for the sore time she’s passed
through. Come, Hugh.’
But the young minister refused all her offers of hospitality. He felt
as if food would choke him just then. He wanted to be alone to think of
his great and unexpected joy--to thank the Giver of it over and over
again. He walked home through the crisp October evening, wandering far
afield, in order to commune with his own thoughts, and enlarging the
prayer of thankfulness, with which his heart was bursting, by another
petition, that God, who had given this woman back to him and her
friends, would give her to him also and altogether as his wife.
He did not see Nell again during the period of convalescence that she
spent in her own room. But not one day passed without his presence at
the farm and his thoughts of her being brought to her notice by some
little offering from his hands. One day it would be a bunch of glowing
chrysanthemums, from the deepest bronze to the palest pink and purest
white. The next, he brought a basket of fruit--a cluster of hothouse
grapes--to get which he had walked for miles, or a bunch of bananas, or
anything which was considered a dainty in Usk. Once he sent her a few
verses of a hymn, neatly copied out on fair paper; but these Nell put
on one side with a smile which savoured of contempt. She was now fairly
on the road for recovery; and even Hetty, who had been going backwards
and forwards every day, began to find the walk from Dale Farm was
rather long, and that her mother-in-law needed a little more of her
company. The services of the doctor and old Betsy Hobbs were dispensed
with, and Mrs Llewellyn found there was no longer any necessity for
her to leave all the churning and baking to her farm maids, but that
she could devote the usual time to them herself. It was an accredited
fact that Nell had been snatched from the jaws of death, and that
her relatives need have no more fears on her account. Still Hugh
Owen continued to pay her his daily attentions, till she, like women
courted by men for whom they have no fancy, began to weary of seeing
the flowers and fruit and books coming in every afternoon, and to cast
them somewhat contemptuously aside. It was a grand day at Panty-cuckoo
Farm when she first came down the stairs, supported by her father and
mother--very shaky and weak, but really well again, and saying good-bye
to bed in the daytime for good and all. Mrs Llewellyn was a proud and
happy woman when she saw her daughter installed on the solitary sofa
which the house could boast of, swathed round in shawls and blankets,
and a very ghost of her former self, but yet alive, and only needing
time to make her strong again.
‘Well, my dear lass,’ she said, as she helped Nell to her cup of
tea, ‘I never thought at one time to see you on that sofa again, nor
downstairs at all, except it was in your coffin. You’ve got a lot to
be thankful for, Nell; it’s not many constitutions that could have
weathered such an illness.’
Nell sipped the tea she held in her hand, and wondered what was the use
of coming back to a world that didn’t want her, and which she didn’t
want. But she was still too weak to argue, even if she would have
argued such a subject with her mother. As the meal was in the course of
progress a gentle tap sounded on the outer door.
‘Now, I’ll bet that’s Hugh Owen, dear lad!’ exclaimed Mrs Llewellyn
briskly, as she rose to answer it. ‘He’ll be main pleased and surprised
to see our Nell downstairs. He’s been so curious to hear when the
doctor would let her get up, and I wouldn’t tell him, just to keep him
a bit in suspense.’
She opened the door as she spoke, calling out,--
‘How are ye, Hugh, my lad? Come in, do. We’ve got company to tea
to-night, and you’re heartily welcome.’
But Hugh shrunk back.
‘I won’t disturb you if you’ve company, Mrs Llewellyn,’ he said. ‘I
only stepped over to hear how your daughter is this evening, and to ask
her acceptance of these,’ and he shyly held out a bouquet of hot-house
flowers.
‘Eh, Hugh, but they’re very beautiful. Wherever did you get them?’ said
Mrs Llewellyn.
‘I’ve a friend in the florist way up by Pontypool,’ he answered, ‘and I
thought Nell might like them to make her room gay.’
‘To be sure she will, and give you many thanks in return. Come in and
give them her yourself.’
‘Oh, may I?’ said Hugh, as he walked gladly over the threshold and saw
Nell lying on the couch and holding out an attenuated hand to him.
She looked thinner even than when she had been confined to bed. People
do, as a rule, when they first come downstairs. Her cheeks were sunken
and white as death itself, and her eyes seemed preternaturally large
and staring. But it was Nell, and Hugh Owen’s face grew scarlet at the
mere sight of her.
‘Oh, Nell!’ he exclaimed, as he advanced quickly to grasp her
outstretched hand, ‘this _is_ a joyful surprise to see you downstairs
again. Your mother had not prepared me for it. Are you sure you feel
none the worse for the exertion--that it will not do you any harm?’
Nell was about to reply, but Mrs Llewellyn anticipated her.
‘Now, my lad!’ she exclaimed, rather tartly, ‘don’t you make a fool of
yourself. You don’t suppose, do you, that I would let my lass injure
her health after all the trouble and anxiety we’ve had on her account,
by letting her do anything rash? Don’t you make any mistake about it,
Hugh. What Nell’s mother don’t foresee for her, no one else will, let
alone a stripling like yourself.’
‘Oh, Mrs Llewellyn!’ exclaimed the young man, turning all kinds of
colours, ‘I am sure you must know--you cannot think that I would
presume--who knows better than I, how you have nursed and watched over
her? Only I--I--the natural anxiety, you know--’
‘Oh, yes, my lad, I know all about it. You needn’t stammer in that
fashion, nor take the trouble to explain, and I’ve no call to find
fault with you either, for you’ve been the kindest friend poor Nell has
had in her sickness, and the most thoughtful, not excepting her own
sister. But don’t fear but what she’s well looked after, though I hope
the day’s not far distant now when she’ll look after herself.’
‘And so do I,’ said young Owen. ‘You’re looking bravely, Nell,
considering what you’ve gone through. It’s been a sore time with you.
Please God it may be the last.’
‘Mother tells me you’ve been very good to me through it all, Hugh,’
replied Nell, in a low voice, ‘and prayed for my recovery scores of
times. You meant it kindly, I know, though perhaps whilst you were
about it, it would have been better to have asked the Lord to let me
go.’
Mrs Llewellyn, seeing Nell was in good hands, had wandered away after
some of her household arrangements, and left them by themselves.
‘No, Nell, no; not whilst He has work for you to do here, and permits
you to remain. Besides, think what a grief it would have been to your
father and mother and sister--and to me, if you had died. We could not
have easily filled your place, Nell. You mustn’t be sorry because you
have been spared to make us happy. And why should you want to go so
soon? You are young and beautiful--you don’t mind an old friend like
me telling you that, do you?--and have all your life before you. It is
unnatural that you should be loath to live. It can only be your extreme
weakness that makes you say so.’
‘If you knew me better, Hugh, you would not talk like that. My life
is past--not to come--and there seems nothing (that I can see) for me
to do. I don’t want to look back, and the future is a blank--a dark,
horrible uncertainty, in which I can discern no good in living. I shall
help mother in the farmhouse work, of course, now I have come home,
but it will not be any pleasure to me. It is so different from what I
have been accustomed to, and when all’s said and done a dairymaid would
do it far better than I. I have grown beyond it, in fact (though you
mustn’t tell mother I said so for all the world), and so--and so--I
think you are my friend, Hugh, and I tell you the truth--I would have
much rather died.’
The young man looked distressed. He guessed there was more behind
this statement than Nell would confess. But he replied to her appeal
energetically.
‘Your friend, Nell. You may do more than _think_ it. You may regard
it as an undoubted fact. I only wish I could, or I dared make you
understand how much I am your friend. And as for there being no work
for you to do, except household drudgery, oh! if you will listen to me,
I can tell you of glorious work that lies close to your hand--work that
would bring you both peace and happiness. Will you let me show it you,
dear Nell? Will you listen to me whilst I point it out to you?’
‘Another time, Hugh. Not just now, thank you, for my brain is still too
weak to understand half I hear. When I am stronger, and able to take an
interest in things again, you shall talk to me as much as you like,
for I am very grateful to you for all your goodness to me, and shall be
glad to return it in any way I can.’
So Hugh left her with a heart brimming over with content, and a great
hope springing up in it for the future.