"That's bad!" he said; "but it might be worse. I've lots of tin, and we
always went shares."
"I must look out for something to do to-morrow," I remarked.
"Ay, yes!" he answered, dryly; "you might go as assistant to a parish
doctor, or get a berth on board an emigrant-ship. There are lots of
chances for a young fellow."
He sat smoking his cigar--a dusky outline of a human figure, with a
bright speck of red about the centre of the face. For a few minutes he
was lost in thought.
"I tell you what," he said, "I've a good mind to marry Julia myself.
I've always liked her, and we want a woman in the house. That would put
things straighter, wouldn't it?"
"She would never consent to leave Guernsey," I answered, laughing. "That
was one reason why she was so glad to marry me."
"Well, then," he said, "would you mind me having Olivia?"
"Don't jest about such a thing," I replied; "it is too serious a
question with me."
"You are really in love!" he answered. "I will not jest at it. But I am
ready to do any thing to help you, old boy."
So it proved, for he and Dr. Senior did their best during the next few
weeks to find a suitable opening for me. I made their house my home, and
was treated as a most welcome guest in it. Still the time was
irksome--more irksome than I ever could have imagined. They were busy
while I was unoccupied.
Occasionally I went out to obey some urgent summons, when either of them
was absent; but that was a rare circumstance. The hours hung heavily
upon me; and the close, sultry air of London, so different from the
fresh sea-breezes of my native place, made me feel languid and
irritable.
My mother's letters did not tend to raise my spirits. The tone of them
was uniformly sad. She told me the flood of sympathy for Julia had risen
very high indeed: from which I concluded that the public indignation
against myself must have risen to the same tide-mark, though my poor
mother said nothing about it. Julia had resumed her old occupations, but
her spirit was quite broken. Johanna Carey had offered to go abroad with
her, but she had declined it, because it would too painfully remind her
of our projected trip to Switzerland.
A friend of Julia's, said my mother in another letter, had come to stay
with her, and to try to rouse her.
It was evident she did not like this Kate Daltrey, herself, for the
dislike crept out unawares through all the gentleness of her phrases.
"She says she is the same age as Julia," she wrote, "but she is probably
some years older; for, as she does not belong to Guernsey, we have no
opportunity of knowing." I laughed when I read that. "Your father
admires her very much," she added.
No, my mother felt no affection for her new guest.
There was not a word about Olivia. Sark itself was never mentioned, and
it might have sunk into the sea. My eye ran over every letter first,
with the hope of catching that name, but I could not find it. This
persistent silence on my mother's part was very trying.
I had been away from Guernsey two months, and Jack was making
arrangements for a long absence from London as soon as the season was
over, leaving me in charge, when I received the following letter from
Johanna Carey:
"DEAR MARTIN: Your father and Julia have been here this
afternoon, and have confided to me a very sad and very painful
secret, which they ask me to break gently to you. I am afraid
no shadow of a suspicion of it has ever fallen upon your mind,
and, I warn you, you will need all your courage and strength
as a man to bear it. I was myself so overwhelmed that I could
not write to you until now, in the dead of the night, having
prayed with all my heart to our merciful God to sustain and
comfort you, who will feel this sorrow more than any of us. My
dearest Martin, my poor boy, how can I tell it to you? You
must come home again for a season. Even Julia wishes it,
though she cannot stay in the same house with you, and will go
to her own with her friend Kate Daltrey. Your father cried
like a child. He takes it more to heart than I should have
expected. Yet there is no immediate danger; she may live for
some months yet. My poor Martin, you will have a mother only a
few months longer. Three weeks ago she and I went to Sark, at
her own urgent wish, to see your Olivia. I did not then know
why. She had a great longing to see the unfortunate girl who
had been the cause of so much sorrow to us all, but especially
to her, for she has pined sorely after you. We did not find
her in Tardif's house, but Suzanne directed us to the little
graveyard half a mile away. We followed her there, and
recognized her, of course, at the first glance. She is a
charming creature, that I allow, though I wish none of us had
ever seen her. Your mother told her who she was, and the
sweetest flush and smile came across her face! They sat down
side by side on one of the graves, and I strolled away, so I
do not know what they said to one another. Olivia walked down
with us to the Havre Gosselin, and your mother held her in her
arms and kissed her tenderly. Even I could not help kissing
her.
"Now I understand why your mother longed to see Olivia. She
knew then--she has known for months--that her days are
numbered. When she was in London last November, she saw the
most skilful physicians, and they all agreed that her disease
was incurable and fatal. Why did she conceal it from you? Ah,
Martin, you must know a woman's heart, a mother's heart,
before you can comprehend that. Your father knew, but no one
else. What a martyrdom of silent agony she has passed through!
She has a clear calculation, based upon the opinion of the
medical men, as to how long she might have lived had her mind
been kept calm and happy. How far that has not been the case
we all know too well.
"If your marriage with Julia had taken place, you would now
have been on your way home, not to be parted from her again
till the final separation. We all ask you to return to
Guernsey, and devote a few more weeks to one who has loved you
so passionately and fondly. Even Julia asks it. Her resentment
gives way before this terrible sorrow. We have not told your
mother what we are about to do, lest any thing should prevent
your return. She is as patient and gentle as a lamb, and is
ready with a quiet smile for every one. O Martin, what a loss
she will be to us all! My heart is bleeding for you.
"Do not come before you have answered this letter, that we
may prepare her for your return. Write by the next boat, and
come by the one after. Julia will have to move down to the new
house, and that will be excitement enough for one day.
"Good-by, my dearest Martin. I have forgiven every thing; so
will all our friends as soon as they know this dreadful
secret.
"Your faithful, loving cousin, JOHANNA CAREY."
I read this letter twice, with a singing in my ears and a whirling of my
brain, before I could realize the meaning. Then I refused to believe it.
No one knows better than a doctor how the most skilful head among us may
be at fault.
My mother dying of an incurable disease! Impossible! I would go over at
once and save her. She ought to have told me first. Who could have
attended her so skilfully and devotedly as her only son?
Yet the numbing, deadly chill of dread rested upon my heart. I felt
keenly how slight my power was, as I had done once before when I thought
Olivia would die. But then I had no resources, no appliances. Now I
would take home with me every remedy the experience and researches of
man had discovered.