This interview did not calm the nerves of the agitated girl or bring her
soothing or sleep. It was almost morning before the calm of exhaustion
came, hushing the thoughts in her troubled brain and the pulses in her
tired body. She slept without comfort, almost without unconsciousness,
carrying her cares along with her, and when she awoke suddenly to an
unusual sound by her bedside, could scarcely make up her mind that she
had been asleep at all, and believed at first that the little babbling
voice close to her ear was part of a feverish dream. She started up in
her bed, and saw on the carpet close to her the little three-year-old
boy, a small, square figure with very large wide-open blue eyes, who was
altogether new to her experiences, and whom she only identified after a
moment’s astonished consideration as little George, her brother’s child.
The first clear idea that flashed across her mind was that, as Tom said,
he was “the image of his mother,” not a Chester at all, or like any of
her family, but the picture, in little, of the very overblown beauty of
George’s wife. This sensation checked in Winifred’s mind, mechanically,
without any will of hers, the natural impulse of tenderness towards the
child, who, staring at her with his round eyes, had been making
ineffectual pulls at the counterpane, and calling at intervals, “Auntie
Winnie!” in a frightened and reluctant tone. Little George had “got on”
very well with his newly-found relative on the night of his arrival, but
to see an unknown lady in bed, with long hair framing her pale face,
and that look of sleep which simulates death, had much disturbed the
little boy. He fulfilled his _consigne_ with much faltering bravery, but
he did not like it; and when the white lady with the brown hair started
up suddenly, he recoiled with a cry which was very nearly a wail. She
recovered and came to herself sooner than he did, and, smiling, held out
a hand to him.
“Little George, is it you? Come, then, and tell me what it is,” she
said.
Here the baby recoiled a step farther, and stared with still larger
eyes, his mouth open ready to cry again, the tears rising, his little
person drawn together with that instinctive dread of some attack which
seems natural to the helpless. Winnie stretched out her arm to him with
a smile of invitation.
“Come to me, little man, come to me,” she cried. Tears came to her eyes
too, and a softening to her heart. The little creature belonged to her
after a fashion; he was her own flesh and blood; he was innocent, not
struggling for gain. She did not ask how he came there, nor notice the
straying of his eyes to something behind, which inspired yet terrified
him. She was too glad to feel the unaccustomed sensation of pleasure
loosen her bonds. “It is true I am your Aunt Winnie. Come, Georgie,
don’t be afraid of me. Come, for I love you,” she said.
Half attracted, half forced by the influence behind, which was to Winnie
invisible, the child made a shy step towards the bed. “Oo send Georgie
away,” he stammered. “Oo send Georgie back to big ship. Mamma ky.
Georgie no like big ship.”
“Come and tell me, Georgie.” She leant towards him, holding out arms in
which the child saw a refuge from the imperative signs which were being
addressed to him from behind the bed. He came forward slowly with his
little tottering steps, his big eyes full of inquiry, wonder, and
suspicion.
“Oo take care of Georgie?” he said, with a little whimper that went to
Winifred’s heart; then suffered himself to be drawn into her arms. The
touch of the infant was like balm to her.
“Yes, dear,” she cried, with tears in her eyes; “as far as I can, and
with all my heart I will take care of Georgie.” It was a vow made, not
to the infant, who had no comprehension, but to Heaven and her own
heart.
But there was some one else who heard and understood after her fashion.
As Winifred said these words with a fervour beyond description, a sudden
running fire of sobs broke forth behind the head of her bed. Then with a
rush and sweep something heavy and soft fell down by her side, almost
crushing Georgie, who began to cry with fright and wonder.
“Oh, Miss Winnie! God bless you! I knew that was what you would say,”
cried Mrs. George, clasping Winifred’s arm with both her hands, and
laying down her wet, soft cheek upon it. “_He_ thought not; he said we
should have to go back again in that dreadful ship; but oh, bless you! I
knew you weren’t one of that kind!”
“Is it you, Mrs. George?” said Winifred faintly. The sudden apparition
of the mother gave her a shock; and she began to perceive that the
little scene was melodramatic, got up to excite her feelings. She drew
back a little coldly; but the baby gazing at her between his bursts of
crying, and pressing closer and closer to her shoulder, frightened by
his mother’s onslaught, was no actor. She began to feel after a moment
that the mother herself, crying volubly like a schoolgirl, and
clutching her arm as if it were that of a giant, was, if an actor so
very simple an actor, with devices so transparent and an object so
little concealed, that moral indignation was completely misplaced
against her artless wiles, and that nature was far stronger in her than
guile. In the first revulsion she spoke coldly; but after a moment, with
a truer insight, “Stand up,” she said. “Don’t cry so. Get a chair and
come and sit by me. You must not go on your knees to me.”
“Oh, but that I will,” cried Mrs. George, “as if you were the Queen,
Miss Winnie; for you have got our lives in your hands. Look at that poor
little fellow, who is your own flesh and blood. Oh, will you listen to
what worldly folks say, and send him away to be brought up as if he was
nobody, and him your own nephew and just heir?--oh, I don’t mean that!
It appears he’s got no rights, though I always thought--the eldest son’s
eldest son! But no; I don’t say that. George pleased himself marrying
me, and if he lost his place for that, ain’t it more than ever my duty
to do what I can for him? And I don’t make no claim. I don’t talk about
rights. You’ve got the right, Miss Winnie, and there’s an end of it.
Whoever opposes, it will never be George and me. But oh,” cried the
young woman, rising from her knees, and addressing to Winifred all the
simple eloquence of her soft face, her blue eyes blurred with tears,
which flowed in half a dozen channels over the rosy undefined outline of
her cheeks,--“oh, if you only knew what life was in foreign parts! It
don’t suit George. He was brought up a gentleman, and he can’t abear
common ways. And the children!--oh, Miss Winnie, the little boys! Would
you stand by and see them brought up to hold horses and to run
errands--them that are your own flesh and blood?”
Little Georgie had ceased to whimper. The sight of his mother’s crying
overawed the baby. He was too safe and secure in Winifred’s arms to move
at once--but, reflecting in his infant soul, with his big eyes turned to
his mother all the while she spoke, was at last touched beyond his
childish capacity of endurance, forsook the haven in which he had found
shelter, and, flinging his arms about her knees, cried out, “Mamma,
don’t ky, mamma, me love you!” burying his face in the folds of her
dress. Mrs. George stooped down and gathered him up in her arms with a
sleight of hand natural to mothers, and then, child and all,
precipitated herself once more on the carpet at the bedside.
Winifred, too, was carried out of herself by this little scene. She
dried the fast-flowing tears from the soft face so near to her as if
the young mother had been no more serious an agent than Georgie. “You
shall not go back. You shall want nothing that I can do for you,” she
cried, soothing them. It was some time before the tumult calmed; but
when at last the fit of crying was over, Mrs. George began at once to
smile again, with an easy turn from despair to satisfaction. She held
her child for Winifred to kiss, her own lips trembling between joy and
trouble.
“I don’t ask you to kiss me, for I’m not good enough for you to kiss;
but Georgie--he is your own flesh and blood.”
“Do not say so,” said Winifred, kissing mother and child. “And now sit
beside me and talk to me, and do not call me miss, for I am your sister.
I am sure you have been a good wife to George.”
“I should be that and more: since he lost his fortune, and his ’ome, and
all, for me,” she cried.
The scene which ensued was the most unexpected of all. Mrs. George
placed the child upon Winifred’s bed and began, without further ado, a
baby game of peeps and transparent hidings, her excitement turning to
laughter, as it had turned to tears. Winifred, too, though her heart was
heavy enough, found herself drawn into that sudden revulsion. They
played with little Georgie for half an hour in the middle of all the
care and pain that surrounded them, the one woman with her heart
breaking, the other feeling, as far as she could feel anything, that the
very life of her family hung in the balance--moving the child to peals
of laughter, in which they shared after their fashion, as women only
can, interposing this episode of play into the gravest crisis. It was
only when Georgie’s laughter began to show signs of that over-excitement
that leads to tears, that Winifred suddenly said, almost to herself,
“But how am I to do it? how am I to do it?” with an accent of weary
effort which almost reached the length of despair.
“Oh dear! you that are so good and kind,” cried Mrs. George, changing
also in a moment, “just let us stay with you, dear Winnie--it’s a
liberty to call you Winnie; but oh dear, dear! why can’t we just live
all together? That would do nobody any harm. That would go against no
one’s will. It wasn’t said you were not to give me and George and the
children an ’ome. Oh, only think! it’s such a big, big house! If you
didn’t like the noise of the children,--but you aren’t one of that sort,
not to like the noise of the children, and so I told George,--they could
have their nursery where you would never hear a sound. And George would
be a deal of use to you in managing the estate, and I would do the
housekeeping, and welcome, and save you any trouble. And why, why--oh,
why shouldn’t we just settle down all together, and be, oh, so
comfortable, Miss Winnie, dear?”
This suggestion, it need scarcely be said, struck Winifred with dismay.
The face, no longer weeping, no longer elevated by the passionate
earnestness of the first appeal, dropping to calculations which,
perhaps, were more congenial to its nature, gave her a chill of
repulsion while still her heart was soft. She seemed to see, with a
curious second sight, the scene of family life, of family tragedy, which
might ensue were this impossible plan attempted. It was with difficulty
that she stopped Mrs. George, who, in the heat of success, would have
settled all the details at once, and it was only the entrance of Miss
Farrell, tenderly anxious about her pupil’s health, and astounded to
find Mrs. George and her child established in her room, that finally
delivered poor Winnie.
“You would have no need of strangers eating you up if you had us,” her
sister-in-law said, as she stooped to kiss her ostentatiously, and held
the child up to repeat the salute ere she went away.
Winifred had kissed the young mother almost with emotion in the midst of
her pleading; but somehow this return of the embrace gave a slight shock
both to her delicacy and pride. She laughed a little and coloured when
Miss Farrell, after the door closed, looked at her astonished. “You
think I have grown into wonderful intimacy with Mrs. George?” she said.
“I do indeed, Winnie. My dear, I would not interfere, but you must not
let your kind heart carry you too far.”
“Oh, my kind heart!” cried the girl, feeling a desperate irony in the
words. “She suggests that they should live with me,” she added, turning
her head away.
“Live with you? Winnie! my dear!” Miss Farrell gasped, with a sharp
break between each word.
“She thinks it will arrange itself so, quite simply--oh, it is quite
simple! Dear Miss Farrell, don’t say anything. I have been pushing it
off. I have been pretending to be ill because I was miserable. Let me
get up now--and don’t say anything,” she added after a moment, with lips
that trembled in spite of herself. “There are no--letters; no one--has
been here?”
“Nothing, Winnie.” Her friend did not look at her; she dared not betray
her too profound sympathy, her personal anguish, even by a kiss.
When Winifred came downstairs she found Mr. Babington waiting for her.
He was a very old acquaintance, whom she had not been used to think of
as a friend; but trouble makes strange changes in the aspect of things
around us, turning sometimes those whom we have loved most into
strangers, and lighting up faces that have been indifferent to us with
new lights of compassion and sympathy. Mr. Babington’s formal manner,
his well-known features, so composed and commonplace, his grey, keen
eyes under their bushy eyebrows, suddenly took a new appearance to
Winifred. They seemed to shine upon her with the warmth of ancient
friendship. She had known him all her life, yet, it seemed, had never
known him till to-day. He came to meet her, holding out his hand, with
some kind, ordinary questions about her health, but all the while a
light put out, as it were, at the windows of his soul, to help her,
another poor soul stumbling along in the darkness. It was not anything
that he said, nor that she said. She did not ask for any help, nor he
offer it; and yet in a moment Winifred felt herself, in her mind,
clinging to him with the sense that here was an old, old friend,
somebody, above all doubt and uncertainty, in whom she could trust.
“Miss Winifred,” he said, “I am afraid, though you don’t seem much like
it, that we must talk of business.”
“Yes; I wish it, Mr. Babington. I am only foolish and troubled--not ill
at all.”
“I am not so sure about that; but still-- Your brother Tom has been
warning me, Miss Winifred-- I hope to save you from a false step; that
you are thinking of--going against your father’s will”--
“Did Tom tell you so, Mr. Babington?”
“He did. I confess that I was not surprised. I have expected you to do
so all along; but so fine a fortune as you have got is not to be lightly
parted with, my dear young lady. Think of all the power it gives you,
power to do good, to increase the happiness, or at least the comfort,
perhaps of hundreds of people. If it was in your brothers’ hands, do you
think it would be used as well? We must think of that, Miss Winifred, we
must think of that.”
“If it was in my power,” she said, looking at him wistfully, “I should
think rather of what is just. Can anything be good that is founded upon
injustice? Oh, Mr. Babington, put yourself in my place! Could you bear
to take away from your brother, from any one, what was his by nature--to
put yourself in his seat, to take it from him, to rob him?”
“Hush, hush, my dear girl! I am afraid I have not a conscience so
delicate as yours. I could bear a great deal which does not seem
bearable to you. And you must remember it is no doing of yours. Your
father thought, and I agree with him, that you would make a better use
of his money, and do more credit to his name, than either of your
brothers. It throws a fearful responsibility upon you, we may allow;
but still, my dear Miss Winifred”--
“Mr. Babington,” she cried, interrupting him, “you are my oldest
friend--oh yes, my oldest friend! You know, if I am forced to do this,
it will only be deceiving from beginning to end. I will only pretend to
obey. I will be trying all the time, as I am now, to find out ways of
defeating all his purposes, and doing--what he said I was not to do!”
Her eyes shone almost wildly through the tears that stood in them. She
changed colour from pale to red, from red to pale; her weakness gave her
the guise of impassioned strength.
“Miss Winifred,” said the lawyer very gravely, “do you know that you are
guilty of the last imprudence in saying this, of all people in the
world, to me?”
“Oh,” she cried, “you are my friend, my old friend! I never remember the
time when I did not know you. It is not imprudent, it is my only hope.
Think a little of me first, whom you knew long before this will was
made. Tell me how I can get out of the bondage of it. Teach me, teach me
how to cheat everybody, for that is all that is left to me! how to keep
it from them so as best to give it to them. Teach me! for there is no
one I can ask but you.”
The lawyer looked at her with a very serious face. Her great emotion,
her trembling earnestness, the very force of her appeal, as of one
consulting her only oracle, hurt the good man with a sympathetic pain.
“My dear,” he said, “God forbid I should refuse you my advice, or
misunderstand you, you who are far too good for any of them. But, Miss
Winifred, think again, my dear. Are you altogether a free agent? Is
there not some one else who has a right to be consulted before you take
a step--which may change the whole course of your life?”
Winifred grew so pale that he thought she was going to faint, and got up
hurriedly to ring the bell. She stopped him with a movement of her hand.
Then she said firmly, “There is no one; no one can come between me and
my duty. I will consult nobody--but you.”
“My dear young lady, excuse me if I speak too plainly; but want of
confidence between two people that are in the position of”--
“You mean,” she said faintly yet steadily, “Dr. Langton? Mr. Babington,
he has no duty towards George and Tom. I love them--how can I help it?
they are my brothers; but he--why should he love them? I don’t expect
it--I can’t expect it. I must settle this by myself.”
“And yet he will be the one to suffer,” said the lawyer reflectively in
a parenthesis. “My dear Miss Winifred, take a little time to think it
over, there is no cause for hurry; take a week, take another day. Think
a little”--
“I have done nothing but think,” she said, “since you told me first.
Thinking kills me, I cannot go on with it; and you can’t tell--oh, you
can’t tell how it harms _them_, what it makes them do and say!
Tom”--(here her voice was stifled by the rising sob in her throat) “and
all of them,” she cried hastily. “Oh, tell me how to be done with it, to
settle it so that there shall be no more thinking, no more struggling!”
She clasped her hands with a pathetic entreaty, and looked imploringly
at him. And she bore in her face the signs of the struggle which she
pleaded to be freed from. Her face had the parched and feverish look of
anxiety, its young, soft outline had grown pinched and hollow, and all
the cheerful glow of health had faded. The lawyer looked at her with
genuine tenderness and pity.
“My poor child,” he said, “one can very well see that this great
fortune, which your poor father believed was to make you happy, has
brought anything but happiness to you.”
She gave him a little pathetic smile, and shook her head; but she was
not able to speak.
“Then, Miss Winifred,” he said cheerfully, “since you are certain that
you don’t want it, and won’t have it, and have made up your mind to do
nothing but scheme and plot to frustrate the will, even when you are
seeming to obey it,--I think I know a better way. Write down what you
mean to do with the property, and leave the rest to me.”
She looked at him, roused by his words, with an awakening thrill of
wonder. “Write down--what I mean to do? But that will make me helpless
to do it; that will risk everything; or so you said.”
“I said true. Nevertheless, if you are sure you wish, at the bottom of
your heart, to sacrifice yourself to your brothers”--
She shook her head half angrily, with a gesture of impatience. “To give
them back their rights.”
“That means the same thing in your phraseology. If that is what you
really wish, do what I say, and leave the rest to me.”
She looked at him for a moment, bewildered, then rose up hastily and
flew to the writing-table. How easy it was to do it! how blessed if only
it were possible to throw this weight once for all off her shoulders,
and be free!