"Mother," I said, "you forget that I have been on the sea all night, and
have not had my breakfast yet."
"The old cry, Martin," she answered, smiling. "Well, you shall have your
breakfast here, and I will wait upon you once more."
I watched her furtively as she moved about, not with her usual quick and
light movements, but with a slow and cautious tread. It was part of my
anguish to know, as only a medical man can know, how every step was a
fresh pang to her. She sat down with me at the table, though I would not
suffer her to pour out my coffee, as she wished to do. There was a
divine smile upon her face; yet beneath it there was an indication of
constant and terrible pain, in the sunken eyes and drawn lips. It was
useless to attempt to eat with that smiling face opposite me. I drank
thirstily, but I could not swallow a crumb. She knew what it meant, and
her eyes were fastened upon me with a heart-breaking expression.
That mockery of a meal over, she permitted me to lay her down on the
sofa, almost as submissively as a tired child, and to cover her with an
eider-down quilt; for her malady made her shiver with its deadly
coldness, while she could not bear any weight upon her. My father was
gone out, and would not be back before evening. The whole day lay before
us; I should have my mother entirely to myself.
We had very much to say to one another; but it could only be said at
intervals, when her strength allowed of it. We talked together, more
calmly than I could have believed possible, of her approaching death;
and, in a stupor of despair, I owned to myself and her that there was
not a hope of her being spared to me much longer.
"I have longed so," she murmured, "to see my boy in a home of his own
before I died. Perhaps I was wrong, but that was why I urged on your
marriage with Julia. You will have no real home after I am gone, Martin;
and I feel as if I could die so much more quietly if I had some
knowledge of your future life. Now I shall know nothing. I think that is
the sting of death to me."
"I wish it had been as you wanted it to be," I said, never feeling so
bitterly the disappointment I had caused her, and almost grieved that I
had ever seen Olivia.
"I suppose it is all for the best," she answered, feebly. "O Martin! I
have seen your Olivia."
"Well?" I said.
"I did so want to see her," she continued--"though she has brought us
all into such trouble. I loved her because you love her. Johanna went
with me, because she is such a good judge, you know, and I did not like
to rely upon my own feelings. Appearances are very much against her; but
she is very engaging, and I believe she is a good girl. I am sure she is
good."
"I know she is," I said.
"We talked of you," she went on--"how good you were to her that week in
the spring. She had never been quite unconscious, she thought; but she
had seen and heard you all the time, and knew you were doing your utmost
to save her. I believe we talked more of you than of any thing else."
That was very likely, I knew, as far as my mother was concerned. But I
was anxious to hear whether Olivia had not confided to her more of her
secret than I had yet been able to learn from other sources. To a woman
like my mother she might have intrusted all her history.
"Did you find any thing out about her friends and family?" I asked.
"Not much," she answered. "She told me her own mother had died when she
was quite a child; and she had a step-mother living, who has been the
ruin of her life. That was her expression. 'She has been the ruin of my
life!' she said; and she cried a little, Martin, with her head upon my
lap. If I could only have offered her a home here, and promised to be a
mother to her!"
"God bless you, my darling mother!" I said.
"She intends to stay where she is as long as it is possible," she
continued; "but she told me she wanted work to do--any kind of work by
which she could earn a little money. She has a diamond ring, and a watch
and chain, worth a hundred pounds; so she must have been used to
affluence. Yet she spoke as if she might have to live in Sark for years.
It is a very strange position for a young girl."
"Mother," I said, "you do not know how all this weighs upon me. I
promised Julia to give her up, and never to see her again; but it is
almost more than I can bear, especially now. I shall be as friendless
and homeless as Olivia by-and-by."
I had knelt down beside her, and she pressed my face to hers, murmuring
those soft, fondling words, which a man only hears from his mother's
lips. I knew that the anguish of her soul was even greater than my own.
The agitation was growing too much for her, and would end in an access
of her disease. I must put an end to it at once.
"I suppose Julia is gone to the new house now," I said, in a calm voice.
"Yes," she answered, but she could say no more.
"And Miss Daltrey with her?" I pursued.
The mention of that name certainly roused my mother more effectually
than any thing else I could have said. She released me from her clinging
hands, and looked up with a decided expression of dislike on her face.
"Yes," she replied. "Julia is just wrapped up in her, though why I
cannot imagine. So is your father. But I don't think you will like her,
Martin. I don't want you to be taken with her."
"I won't, mother," I said. "I am ready to hate her, if that is any
satisfaction to you."
"Oh, you must not say that," she answered, in a tone of alarm. "I do not
wish to set you against her, not in the least, my boy. Only she has so
much influence over Julia and your father; and I do not want you to go
over to her side. I know I am very silly; but she always makes my flesh
creep when she is in the room."
"Then she shall not come into the room," I said.
"Martin," she went on, "why does it rouse one up more to speak evil of
people than to speak good of them? Speaking of Kate Daltrey makes me
feel stronger than talking of Olivia."
I laughed a little. It had been an observation of mine, made some years
ago, that the surest method of consolation in cases of excessive grief,
was the introduction of some family or neighborly gossip, seasoned
slightly with scandal. The most vehement mourning had been turned into
another current of thought by the lifting of this sluice.
"It restores the balance of the emotions," I answered. "Anything soft,
and tender, and touching, makes you more sensitive. A person like Miss
Daltrey acts as a tonic; bitter, perhaps, but invigorating."
The morning passed without any interruption; but in the afternoon Grace
came in, with a face full of grave importance, to announce that Miss
Dobrée had called, and desired to see Mrs. Dobrée alone. "Quite alone,"
repeated Grace, emphatically.
"I'll go up-stairs to my own room," I said to my mother.
"I am afraid you cannot, Martin," she answered, hesitatingly. "Miss
Daltrey has taken possession of it, and she has not removed all her
things yet. She and Julia did not leave till late last night. You must
go to the spare room."
"I thought you would have kept my room for me, mother," I said,
reproachfully.
"So I would," she replied, her lips quivering, "but Miss Daltrey took a
fancy to it, and your father and Julia made a point of indulging her. I
really think Julia would have had every thing belonging to you swept
into the streets. It was very hard for me, Martin. I was ten times more
vexed than you are to give up your room to Miss Daltrey. It was my only
comfort to go and sit there, and think of my dear boy." "Never mind,
never mind," I answered. "I am at home now, and you will never be left
alone with them again--nevermore, mother."
I retreated to the spare room, fully satisfied that I should dislike
Miss Daltrey quite as much as my mother could wish. Finding that Julia
prolonged her visit downstairs, I went out after a while for a stroll in
the old garden, where the trees and shrubs had grown with my growth, and
were as familiar as human friends to me. I visited Madam in her stall,
and had a talk with old Pellet; and generally established my footing
once more as the only son of the house; not at all either as if I were a
prodigal son, come home repentant. I was resolved not to play that
_rôle_, for had I not been more sinned against than sinning?
My father came in to dinner; but, like a true man of the world, he
received me back on civil and equal terms, not alluding beyond a word or
two to my long absence. We began again as friends; and our mutual
knowledge of my mother's fatal malady softened our hearts and manners
toward one another. Whenever he was in-doors he waited upon her with
sedulous attention. But, for the certainty that death was lurking very
near to us, I should have been happier in my home than I had ever been
since that momentous week in Sark. But I was also nearer to Olivia, and
every throb of my pulse was quickened by the mere thought of that.