“Between the dawning and the day,
The wind fell and the thunder ceased,
The rod light came up from the east,
As my dear love a-dying lay
Between the dawning and the day.”
BALLAD.
THE night after the baby’s birth Marion Baldwin had a somewhat
remarkable dream. Remarkable in more ways than one. In the first place
it was unusually coherent and clear; in the second, it was the first and
only time in which Ralph Severn, the being who had exerted the greatest
influence on herself and her life, ever appeared to her in “a vision of
the night;” in the third place, after events satisfied her at least that
to some extent the dream was prophetic as well as retrospective.
She dreamt that she was again a little child. A girl with flying curls
and nimble feet, playing with her brother Harry in the garden of the
little cottage at Brackley. All that had happened to her since then—her
eventful girlhood, her sufferings and joys, her wifehood had hardly as
yet realized motherhood—her whole life in short, was for the time
being, swept out of her mind. She was again little May Vere, chasing
butterflies and running races on the grass with still smaller Harry.
Suddenly, in the midst of their play there was wafted towards her a
strong, sweet scent. It was that of honeysuckle; the scent which, ever
since the meeting in the old garden at the Peacock, she had not been
able to endure. Any day she would gladly have walked some miles rather
than encounter it.
In her dream it acted upon her in a peculiar, bewildering way. For
a short time there came over her the painful sensation of partial
suffocation; it seemed to her that she stopped in her running, and lay
down on the soft, velvety grass. At this point Harry disappeared; nor
did the remembrance of him return to her again throughout the dream.
Gradually the oppression cleared away, and her breathing became easy.
She was still conscious of the honeysuckle scent; but no longer to
a painful of disagreeable extent. Then some one called her by name,
clearly and distinctly. She knew the voice to be Ralph’s; but, looking
up eagerly to see him, to her amazement she recognized the person
approaching her as Geoffrey. As he drew nearer she saw that he looked
pale and tired and walked very slowly. Something too he was carrying in
his arms, the form of which she could not at first distinguish. Then she
saw that it was a little child, lying across his breast as if asleep. It
was not a baby, for a shower of thick, dark hair fell over and concealed
the face: and as Geoffrey came close to her, and stood half fainting
beside her, with one hand he gently put aside the hair, and she saw that
the child was Sybil. Then he spoke.
“Help me to carry her, Marion,” he said. “I promised to take care of her
and see her safe home, but she was too tired to walk any further; and I
am nearly worn out myself.”
Marion stretched out her arm to take the child, but suddenly, as she did
so, Sybil seemed to awake, slid from her grasp, and stood before her.
Without speaking, the child for a moment gazed at the husband and wife
with yearning love in her face; then, kissing her little hands she
turned from them and hastened rapidly away, seeming rather to fly than
run; but ever as she went, turning to kiss her hands with a sort of
beckoning gesture. Marion did not feel the least surprise; but looking
at Geoffrey was amazed to see him in violent distress.
“I must go,” he cried, “I must go.” As these words reached her ears she
was seized with that fearful, indescribable sensation of dream horror,
combining in itself every shade of human agony. Throwing up her arms in
her extremity, she heard again Ralph’s voice calling her by name; and
immediately she felt her hands grasped in his. Looking up, she met his
tender, loving gaze fixed on her.
“Marion, Marion,” he cried, as if in reproach, “why did you not tell me
before? Why did you leave it for Sybil to tell? See only how Geoffrey
is suffering. Could you not have trusted my great love, not even for his
sake?”
Then blinding tears fell from her eyes. In a mist as it were, she saw
Ralph dart forward, in time, barely, to prevent Geoffrey’s falling to
the ground; the sense of suffocation again oppressed her, and making a
strong effort to overcome it, she woke, with a slight scream — to
find Geoffrey bending over her in some anxiety; for her sleep had been
disturbed and he had obtained the nurse’s permission to watch beside
her, while that good lady was occupied in performing Miss Baldwin’s
toilette for the day.
It was early morning. There were birds, a few at least, even in Brewer
Street; and their sweet spring chirping sounded fresh and bright to
Marion’s waking ears.
“I have had such a queer dream,” she said to her husband, and she looked
at him anxiously. “You are quite well this morning, dear Geoffrey, are
you not?” she asked. “You have not been sitting up all night beside me?”
“Oh, dear, no,” he answered cheerfully, “I have had an excellent night’s
rest. But now I must be off; for the old dragon in the next room made me
promise I shouldn’t let you talk first thing in the morning, before you
have had anything to eat. I shall get my breakfast and start for town.
I’ll be back for an hour in the middle of the day to see how you’re
getting on. Be a good girl, and get well as fast as you can, and don’t
dream queer dreams that make you scream in your sleep.”
“It wasn’t a disagreeable dream exactly,” said Marion, “but I don’t
quite understand it.”
Geoffrey smiled at the grave consideration she bestowed on the subject.
Then he kissed her tenderly, and was gone.
It might have been only the faint light in the room, but somehow, Marion
could not rid herself of the idea that Geoffrey did not look well that
morning. Certainly he had had plenty to try him of late; his anxiety
about her had of itself been enough to knock him up. She must not be
morbid or fanciful, she said to herself. The best thing she could do for
her husband, was to get well herself as quickly as possible; so as to
be able to take care of him and see he played no tricks with himself; in
the way of not changing his wet clothes, going too long without food, or
any nonsense of that kind!
She did her best to keep to her resolution, and her recovery progressed
satisfactorily. The baby was certainly very delightful, its fingers
and toes especially. It really cried very little indeed, hardly at all
“compared with a many,” said the nurse, and Marion thought it a round
ball of perfection. The nicest time was the evening, when Geoffrey came
and sat beside her, his day’s work over; and she made him hold the baby
in his arms and laughed at his wonderful clumsiness till the tears ran
down her cheeks.
When she was well enough to be carried downstairs, and established on
the regulation sofa, which, by the help of a few pillows, Geoffrey had
succeeded in rendering somewhat more comfortable, some few visitors
dropped in to enquire after her. Kind Mrs. Allen, of course, who indeed
had allowed few days to pass since baby Mary’s arrival, without calling
herself, or sending a servant, with far more fruit than Mrs. Baldwin
could possibly have consumed, and flowers in sufficient abundance to
have decked the greater part of the front parlours in Brewer Street—not
to speak of more substantial proofs of friendliness in the shape
of jellies and blancmanges, and a dozen of old port surreptitiously
confided to Mrs. Appleby’s care, for the use of the young mother “when
she begins to get about again.” It was all done so simply, with such
homely, matter-of-fact kindliness, that even Geoffrey could not feel
offended, or otherwise than grateful for the motherly goodness which his
young wife’s gentleness and sweetness had thus drawn forth.
The Baxter chariot made its appearance in Brewer Street one day, and the
descended therefrom in person, to inspect the new thing in babies which
had made its appearance at No. 32. She condescended to approve of
small Mary, handled her in a wonderfully knowing manner, and altogether
over-whelmed her mamma by the astonishing amount of monthly nurse talk
she managed to get through in a quarter of an hour. In this domain
evidently she felt herself at home, and thorough mistress of all she
touched upon.
Two or three weeks soon passed, and Marion began to resume her regular
habits. Her anxiety about Geoffrey, though it had to some extent
subsided, had by no means altogether left her. At times he looked almost
like his old self; then again any extra fatigue or unusual anxiety would
tell on him fearfully. One day when he left for town he told her not to
expect him home for an hour later than usual, as he thought it probable
he would be detained till that time. It was a fine, mild evening. Marion
opened the window of her room upstairs, from whence she could see some
way down the street, and sat there watching for his return. He came at
last, walking slowly and looking very wearied. A slight shiver crept
through her as suddenly the remembrance of her strange dream flashed
across her mind. She darted downstairs and met him at the door, then
drawing him gently into the little sitting-room—
“Geoffrey,” she said, “are you not well? I have been watching you coming
along the street, and I fancied you looked so pale and tired.”
He did not answer her immediately. He sank down on a chair and covered
his face with his hand. She grew frightened.
“Geoffrey,” she said, with the slight petulance of nervous anxiety,
“speak to me, do! Are you not well, or is anything the matter?”
He roused himself and looked up in a bewildered manner.
“Don’t be vexed with me, dear,” he said. “I know I am very stupid. No,
there is nothing the matter. I am quite well, only a slight feeling of
giddiness came over me just now. I have had rather an extra long walk,
and it is getting very close and oppressive in the warehouse now the
summer is coming on. I shall be all right after tea. Let us have it now,
for I have a lot of things to talk to you about.”
She saw he was very tired, and therefore said no more, till, refreshed
by the meal, he settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair by the
window.
“How delightful it must be in the country just now,” said Geoffrey.
“Brentshire will be looking its very best.”
“Yes,” said Marion, a little sadly. “I am not happy when I think of your
being cooped up in this place all through the summer, Geoffrey. I can
see it does not suit you.”
“It is not so bad for me as for you,” he replied. Then with a sudden
change of tone: “Where do you think I went to-day after leaving the
office? I set off to call on your friend, Mrs. Allen.”
“To thank her for all her kindness?” exclaimed Marion. “I am very glad.
It is just what I have been wishing you would do, but I didn’t like to
propose it, for you have seemed so tired lately in the evenings.”
“Well, to tell the truth it was not merely to thank her,” said Geoffrey.
“I wanted to consult her about you. I am not quite satisfied that you
are getting as thoroughly strong again as you should. And one day the
doctor said something about sea-air being always desirable after this
sort of thing. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so at last I went to
consult with Mrs. Allen as to how it should be managed. She has made the
most capital arrangement, if only you will be a good girl and agree to
it. What a good creature Mrs. Allen is!”
“Awfully good!” answered Marion, warmly. “What is this plan of hers?”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you. I shall be so horribly disappointed if
you don’t agree to it,” said Geoffrey. “They, the Allens, are going to
the sea-side on Friday, for a month and she has asked you and the baby,
and nurse of course, to go with them for a fortnight.”
“And leave you?” exclaimed Marion in dismay.
“Only for a fortnight, dear,” he replied; “I shall get on very well.
Possibly I may get away on Saturday-week and stay with you till the
Monday. Don’t refuse to go, my darling. You don’t know what a relief it
will be to my mind to know you are having a breath of fresh air.”
“But you want it more than I do, my poor Geoffrey!” remonstrated
Marion, her voice faltering. “How can I leave you here alone for a whole
fortnight? And you are not well. I see you are not well, though you
won’t own to it.”
“But surely it would not mend matters for you not to try to get
stronger, now you have really a chance of doing so,” he urged. “Think of
all depending on you—that little monkey, too. Supposing I were to fall
ill, which Heaven forbid, so long as I am any good to you, my dearest,
all the more reason for you to keep strong.”
There was reason in this, Marion could not deny.
Geoffrey saw she was beginning to yield and resolved wisely to strike
while the iron was hot.
“I promised to send Mrs. Allen a line by to-night’s post,” he said
briskly. “Give me my portfolio, and I’ll write it now and get Sarah Ann,
or whatever her name is, to post it. I am so glad to have it settled.
You are a very good girl, Marion;” and he kissed her fondly.
“Promise me you won’t get ill while I am away,” she said wistfully.
“Of course I won’t. Don’t talk nonsense,” he replied. The words were
rough, but the tone of the tenderest. “Seriously,” he went on, “I don’t
think I am a bit worse than I was last year when we first came here. It
is only the close weather that tries me.” And his satisfaction at the
successful result of his little scheme, made him look so bright and
cheerful that Marion’s spirits rose again, and she began to think her
fears had been exaggerated.
“Be sure you write every day,” were her last words on the Friday
morning, when, for the first time since their coming to Millington, the
husband and wife separated. He nodded a cheerful assent, and in another
minute the train puffed out of the station, and poor Geoffrey, standing
solitary on the platform, straining his eyes to catch the last glimpse
of his wife, was lost to sight.
Notwithstanding her misgivings on his account, Marion could not but feel
that the change of air and scene was very acceptable and pleasant. The
Allens were the kindest and most considerate of hosts; the fresh sea air
seemed to give her new life and strength with every breath; little
Mary throve as a Sunday child should, and everything but the thought of
Geoffrey’s loneliness conspired to refresh and inspirit her.
For the first week every morning brought a few words from Brewer Street.
He was “getting on all right,” wrote Geoffrey; delighted to hear she was
so well and happy, and looking forward, if all were well, to a Saturday
and Sunday together by the sea before her return.
One day he forwarded to her a letter in an unfamiliar hand. She opened
it with some curiosity, and hastily glanced at the signature. It was
that of “Maria Jane Baxter.”
“How kind of her to write,” thought Marion, and the CONTENTS OF the
letter pleased her very much.
“I have not been able to write before,” wrote Maria, “for at school we
are not allowed to send letters to any one not a relation. The holidays
have just begun, and I want very much to tell you that I gave your
message to Lotty Severn immediately I saw her. She was so very glad to
hear about you. She asked me a good many questions, and I hope it was
not wrong of me to tell her what I know. That you were married, I
mean, to Mr. Baldwin, and how handsome and kind he was, and also that I
thought you had lost a great deal of money. I hope it was not wrong of
me to tell that? I heard them speaking of you at my uncle’s, the next
day after you dined there, and I was not sure that I caught your name
rightly, for I think Uncle Baxter said your name used to be Vere, and I
understood you to say Freer. But Lotty says I am quite right, and that
before you were married, and at the time they knew you, you were Miss
Freer. She asked me to give you her love if ever I saw you, and to tell
you she would always remember you, and she hoped Mr. Baldwin would make
a great deal of money at Millington. She said she would not talk about
you to any one but her uncle—not to her grandmother, for Sybil always
thought Lady Severn was unkind to you, Lotty says—but her uncle loved
you very much for being so good to Sybil; and Lotty says she is sure he
will like to hear about you. I think that was all Lotty said. I should
like to see you again very much. I heard you had a little baby, and I
told Lotty so. She wished you would call it ‘Sybil.’ I am afraid I shall
not see you again, for my Aunt Baxter offended my mamma the last time we
were there, and mamma says she will never go there again,” &c., &c.
And so the simple, girlish epistle ended. But it please Marion even
while it recalled painful associations. She was glad to have been able
to send a message to poor Lotty, and to receive this assurance of the
little girl’s affection. Pleased, too, that, even in this indirect
roundabout way, some tidings of her should penetrate to Ralph. She was
glad that he should know that her strong interest in his little nieces
had in no wise faded, that sweet Sybil had not been unmourned by her.
That the incident should lead to any other result in no wise occurred to
her.
It was on the Thursday morning of the second week of her stay with the
Allens that she received this letter. The day but one following—the
Saturday—was to bring Geoffrey. Friday passed without any tidings of
him; the first day he had missed writing. She felt a little uneasy.
Still more so when Saturday morning brought no letter. But Mrs. Allen
persuaded her that as he was coming that day he would not have thought
it necessary to write; might, not improbably, have been detained late at
business the previous evening in preparation for the Saturday’s holiday.
Marion felt but half satisfied, but tried to think it was all right. To
kill time till the hour at which Mr. Allen promised to escort her to the
station to meet her husband, she went a long walk with the two boys.
She did her best to be cheerful; they hunted for shells, they built sand
fortresses for the waves to undermine, they ran races on the shore; but
for all that her heart was heavy with unacknowledged misgiving. At last
they turned towards home. A few paces from their own door they met Mr.
Allen hastening towards them.
“You must have been quite a long walk,” he said, speaking, it seemed
to Marion, rather faster than usual. “I have been some distance in the
other direction looking for you. What a lovely day it is!” he went
on, hurriedly. “Just the day for the sea-side. Mr. Baldwin would have
enjoyed it so much. Such a pity he can’t come.”
“Can’t come,” repeated Marion in astonishment. “He is coming, Mr. Allen.
I had no letter this morning, and he would have been sure to write had
anything prevented his coming.”
She glanced at Mr. Allen’s face; he did not speak, but she read
something in his expression which caused her heart for an instant to
stand still, and then again to beat with almost suffocating rapidity.
“Mr. Allen,” she exclaimed, wildly, “you are playing with me. It is
nonsense. I see it all in your face. You have had some dreadful news
while I was out. You have had a letter saying that——. Good God, tell me
the worst. Give me the letter, if you won’t speak.”
“Not a letter,” stammered Mr. Allen, his rosy face suffused with
perspiration drawn forth by his very unsuccessful attempt at “breaking
it gently to the poor thing.” “Not a letter. A telegram from Mr. Baxter,
and, and—— yes, you shall see it,” he went on, fumbling in his pocket
for the large thin envelope, with the fatal “immediate” in the corner;
“for I Heaven’s sake, don’t excite your-self so, my dear young lady.
Think of the poor baby.” (He was a family man, you see, and none of the
little Allens had been brought up “by hand.”) “After all, it may not be
so bad as you think.”
She seized the envelope, tore out the paper it enclosed, and devoured
the words with hungry eyes.
From Robert Baxter, Esq., Millington, to “Henry Allen, Esq., Sandbeach.”
(Thus ran the telegram.)
“Not seen Baldwin two days. Sent to enquire. Find him very ill. Better
send his wife at once.”
That was all. All that could be learnt for the next dreadful three
hours, which must elapse before the poor wife could be by the bedside of
her suffering, perhaps dying, husband.
For “send,” good Mr. Allen read “bring”; and after a waking nightmare
of hurry and confusion, Marion found herself but half conscious of where
she was or what she was doing, in the railway, hastening back to the
home she had quitted so unwillingly but a few days before.
Baby Mary was with her, of course, torn from her cot, poor child, to be
hastily enveloped in hood and cloak, and hurried away on this unexpected
journey. But it was all one to her. She was really a wonderful baby
for taking things coolly, and reposed, poor little soul, in calm
unconsciousness of her father’s danger, or her mother’s agonising
anxiety.
“ ‘Never so bad but it might have been worse,’ ” quoted Mr. Allen to
himself. “It would really have been dreadful if the poor baby, as they
generally do, had seen fit to scream all the way!”
Millington, dirty, smoky, unlovely Millington at last. A wretched,
jolting drive, in a wretched, jolting cab, with a stupid driver who
could not, or would not, read the names of the streets or the numbers
of the houses; (in consequence of which the greater part of the transit
from the station to Brewer Street was performed by Mr. Allen with
the upper half of his stout little person—ensconced in the regulation
pater-familias sea-side costume of Scotch tweed, which he had not had
time to change—extended out of the cab window as far as it could reach
in the direction of the driver) ending at last in a sudden halt at Mrs.
Appleby’s door.
Careless of cab fare, all but forgetful of baby, Marion dashed open the
little garden gate and flew to the door. It was opened before she had
time to ring; Mrs. Appleby had heard them stop.
“How is he?” was all she could say.
“Very poorly, I’m afraid,” replied the land-lady. But even that was
better than the worst.
Then hastened up Mr. Allen; and, leading the way into the front parlour,
Mrs. Appleby related to the two new-comers the particulars of Mr.
Baldwin’s seizure.
“He had not been ‘not to say well,’ since Mrs. Baldwin left,” said Mrs.
Appleby. Up to Thursday, however, he had been able to go to business as
usual. On that morning he had not got up, told Mrs. Appleby his head was
so bad, he thought he must stay in bed. He seemed to sleep most of that
day, and the landlady was in hopes by Friday morning he would be all
right again. But it was not so. She felt at a loss what to do, and
proposed to him to send for the doctor, or Mrs. Baldwin both of which
propositions he most decidedly negatived. This morning, however,
Saturday, he was so evidently worse, light-headed Mrs. Appleby fancied,
that she grew frightened: and when a young man from Baxter Brothers
called to ask if Mr. Baldwin were ill, she sent by him a note to the
same medical man who had attended Mrs. Baldwin, and a request to some of
the gentlemen at the office to telegraph to Mr. Allen at Sandbeach.
“Had the doctor been?”
“Oh yes,” and was to call again in the afternoon.
“I will wait till he has been,” said Mr. Allen decidedly. And when
Marion began to make some piteous apology for so trespassing on his
kindness: “My dear,” said the little man, drawing himself up to his
full height of five feet five and a half. “My dear, do you take me for a
monster---a monster,” he repeated, “in human form? No, no, as sure as
my name is ’Enery Hallen, I. feel towards you, my dear, as a daughter in
this time of trouble. Now run away to your ’usband, poor fellow, and
do your best to be calm. I shall do very well here till I have seen Dr.
’Amley. This good lady, I have no doubt,” with a gallant inclination
towards Mrs. Appleby, which forthwith gained the worthy landlady’s
heart. “This good lady will get me a chop, and shall still have time to
catch the last train to Sandbeach. Now don’t think any more about me.
Run away to your ’usband.”
She needed no second bidding. But, alas! when she stood by Geoffrey’s
bedside, laid her cool hand on his forehead, called him by every
endearing name, he no longer knew her! He lay in a sort of stupor,
perfectly quiet, not apparently suffering. His eyes were open, but
for her, sightless. He stared at her, evidently without the slightest
recognition. It was fearful! She had never before come in contact with
this sort of illness, rarely indeed with serious illness of any kind:
and she crouched down by the bedside and sobbed her very heart out.
Suddenly she fancied she heard him speak. He was only muttering to
himself. “The letter,” he said, “I must put it where she will be sure to
see it—at once, as soon as ever it is all over. Veronica will be good to
her at first.”
He spoke so rationally, though the words made her shudder, that she
fancied he must be recovering his consciousness.
“Yes, dear Geoffrey,” she said, “I am here. Shall I fetch the letter?”
But he only stared at her vacantly, and repeated, “She will be to see
it—yes, sure to see it, when all is over.”
Then he dozed off again, and for an hour or more she crouched beside him
in her desolation of misery.
At the end of that time came Mrs. Appleby, to tell her that Dr. Hamley
was below, and to entreat her to take some nourishment.
“For the dear baby’s sake, ma’am;” which reminder had the desired
effect.
Marion could not succeed in obtaining much satisfaction from the doctor.
At that early stage in an illness of the kind, he said to her, it was
impossible to give an opinion. No doubt it was likely to be serious; but
Mr. Baldwin was young, had an excellent and unimpaired constitution, and
with care and patience they had every reason to hope the best. She must
take great care of herself, he added, as a parting injunction—for every
sake, baby’s of course in particular.
“Oh yes,” replied Marion, “you shall see how reasonable and sensible I
shall be, Dr. Hamley, if only you will let me nurse him myself.”
“Not unassisted? Indeed, my dear young lady, it would be quite out of
the question,” said the doctor. “For a short time you really must have a
nurse. It is a case in which everything depends on constant, unflagging
care and watchfulness. I shall look out a nice nurse myself and send her
this evening.
“Thank you very much,” faltered Poor Marion, as he left her, promising
to call again early the next morning.
To Mr. Allen, whom he saw alone on his way out, Dr. Hamley was much more
out-spoken and explicit. “He is terribly ill, poor fellow,” he said.
“It will be at best a touch-and-go case. You see it has been coming on
evidently for some time. A sort of break up it is in fact; resulting
from all he has undergone, and the complete change in his life and
habits since coming here. If he recovers, a return to a country life
will be his only chance. But it will be some weeks before we can venture
to talk of him and recovery in the same breath! I only hope that poor
girl’s strength may keep up.”
“Poor thing, poor thing,” said Mr. Allen, sympathisingly. Then he added
with some little embarrassment, button-holing Dr. Hamley as he spoke:
“They are very poor, Doctor, and illness is expensive. You will know
where to apply to if there is any difficulty of this kind? I must hasten
to catch the next train, but with you I feel that I leave them in good
hands. You will see that they want for nothing that a little ready money
can supply?”
“All right, my dear Sir,” replied the doctor cordially, and added as he
shook hands with Mr. Allen, “They are fortunate in having such friends
as, I know of old, your worthy lady and yourself are sure to prove in
time need.”
The nurse arrived before night and was installed in her place.
Then began the weary monotony of a long and dangerous illness; to those
who have not come directly in contact with it, so indescribable; to
those who have themselves watched for weeks in a sick room, so painfully
familiar.
It proved indeed, as Dr. Hamley had prophesied, a close race between me
and death. For many days none could have said which was the more likely
to win.
Of acute suffering there was little; for the occasional paroxysms of
fever and delirium alternated with long fits of death-like stupor,
during which for hours together, Geoffrey Baldwin neither moved nor
spoke. When delirious, his thoughts appeared chiefly to run on the
letter to which he had alluded in the beginning of his illness. Marion
got accustomed to his speaking of it, and came to think it must be
merely a dream, for though she looked in every direction, in likely and
unlikely places, she found no letter to which his broken sentences could
refer. She soothed, or tried to soothe, his anxiety on the subject (for
she was never sure if she understood what she said) by assuring him she
had read the letter and would attend to all its injunctions. “When all
is over?” he asked her once, wistfully gazing in her face. But not
even to satisfy him could she bring herself to repeat the dreadful
words—“Yes, when all is over.”
All through the weary weeks she watched him, as if with the concentrated
devotion of mother, sister and wife. She did not allow herself to think:
had she done so her strength must assuredly have failed; as it was, it
stood the test in a way that astonished all about her.
“You do not know how wiry I am,” she said one day to Dr. Hamley, and she
judged herself correctly.
At last, at last—when June had grown into July, and the leaves on the
few trees in Brewer Street were already, poor stunted things, brown
and shrivelled by Millington dust and smoke, and seemingly inclined in
disgust and disappointment to drop off in premature decay—at last, after
the long waiting, the heart sickness of hope deferred till it had all
but become despair, Marion had her reward.
“He has got the turn, my dear,” said Dr. Hamley. “He has got the turn,
and if we can now keep up his strength and spirits, we shall, by God’s
blessing, pull him through.”