A PARTING INTERVIEW
Mrs. Woodward remained with her eldest daughter for two days after the
trial, and then she was forced to return to Hampton. She had earnestly
entreated Gertrude to accompany her, with her child; but Mrs. Tudor was
inflexible. She had, she said, very much to do; so much, that she could
not possibly leave London; the house and furniture were on her hands,
and must be disposed of; their future plans must be arranged; and
then nothing, she said, should induce her to sleep out of sight of her
husband's prison, or to omit any opportunity of seeing him which the
prison rules would allow her.
Mrs. Woodward would not have left one child in such extremity, had
not the state of another child made her presence at the Cottage
indispensable. Katie's anxiety about the trial had of course been
intense, so intense as to give her a false strength, and somewhat to
deceive Linda as to her real state. Tidings of course passed daily
between London and the Cottage, but for three days they told nothing. On
the morning of the fourth day, however, Norman brought the heavy news,
and Katie sank completely under it. When she first heard the result
of the trial she swooned away, and remained for some time nearly
unconscious. But returning consciousness brought with it no relief, and
she lay sobbing on her pillow, till she became so weak, that Linda in
her fright wrote up to her mother begging her to return at once. Then,
wretched as it made her to leave Gertrude in her trouble, Mrs. Woodward
did return.
For a fortnight after this there was an unhappy household at Surbiton
Cottage. Linda's marriage was put off till the period of Alaric's
sentence should be over, and till something should be settled as to his
and Gertrude's future career. It was now August, and they spoke of the
event as one which perhaps might occur in the course of the following
spring. At this time, also, they were deprived for a while of the
comfort of Norman's visits by his enforced absence at Normansgrove.
Harry's eldest brother was again ill, and at last the news of his death
was received at Hampton. Under other circumstances such tidings as those
might, to a certain extent, have brought their own consolation with
them. Harry would now be Mr. Norman of Normansgrove, and Linda would
become Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove; Harry's mother had long been dead,
and his father was an infirm old man, who would be too glad to give up
to his son the full management of the estate, now that the eldest son
was a man to whom that estate could be trusted. All those circumstances
had, of course, been talked over between Harry and Linda, and it was
understood that Harry was now to resign his situation at the Weights
and Measures. But Alaric's condition, Gertrude's misery, and Katie's
illness, threw all such matters into the background. Katie became no
better; but then the doctors said that she did not become any worse, and
gave it as their opinion that she ought to recover. She had youth, they
said, on her side; and then her lungs were not affected. This was the
great question which they were all asking of each other continually. The
poor girl lived beneath a stethoscope, and bore all their pokings and
tappings with exquisite patience. She herself believed that she was
dying, and so she repeatedly told her mother. Mrs. Woodward could
only say that all was in God's hands, but that the physicians still
encouraged them to hope the best.
One day Mrs. Woodward was sitting with a book in her usual place at the
side of Katie's bed; she looked every now and again at her patient, and
thought that she was slumbering; and at last she rose from her chair to
creep away, so sure was she that she might be spared for a moment. But
just as she was silently rising, a thin, slight, pale hand crept out
from beneath the clothes, and laid itself on her arm.
'I thought you were asleep, love,' said she.
'No, mamma, I was not asleep. I was thinking of something. Don't go
away, mamma, just now. I want to ask you something.'
Mrs. Woodward again sat down, and taking her daughter's hand in her own,
caressed it.
'I want to ask a favour of you, mamma,' said Katie.
'A favour, my darling! what is it? you know I will do anything in my
power that you ask me.'
'Ah, mamma, I do not know whether you will do this.'
'What is it, Katie? I will do anything that is for your good. I am sure
you know that, Katie.'
'Mamma, I know I am going to die. Oh, mamma, don't say anything now,
don't cry now--dear, dear mamma; I don't say it to make you unhappy;
but you know when I am so ill I ought to think about it, ought I not,
mamma?'
'But, Katie, the doctor says that he thinks you are not so dangerously
ill; you should not, therefore, despond; it will increase your illness,
and hinder your chance of getting well. That would be wrong, wouldn't
it, love?'
'Mamma, I feel that I shall never again be well, and therefore--' It was
useless telling Mrs. Woodward not to cry; what else could she do? 'Dear
mamma, I am so sorry to make you unhappy, but you are my own mamma, and
therefore I must tell you. I can be happy still, mamma, if you will let
me talk to you about it.'
'You shall talk, dearest; I will hear what you say; but oh, Katie, I
cannot bear to hear you talk of dying. I do not think you are dying. If
I did think so, my child, my trust in your goodness is so strong that I
should tell you.'
'You know, mamma, it might have been much worse; suppose I had been
drowned, when he, when Charley, you know, saved me;' and as she
mentioned his name a tear for the first time ran down each cheek; 'how
much worse that would have been! think, mamma, what it would be to be
drowned without a moment for one's prayers.'
'It is quite right we should prepare ourselves for death. Whether we
live, or whether we die, we shall be better for doing that.'
Katie still held her mother's hand in hers, and lay back against the
pillows which had been placed behind her back. 'And now, mamma,' she
said at last, 'I am going to ask you this favour--I want to see Charley
once more.'
Mrs. Woodward was so much astonished at the request that at first she
knew not what answer to make. 'To see Charley!' she said at last.
'Yes, mamma; I want to see Charley once more; there need be no secrets
between us now, mamma.'
'There have never been any secrets between us,' said Mrs. Woodward,
embracing her. 'You have never had any secrets from me?'
'Not intentionally, mamma; I have never meant to keep anything secret
from you. And I know you have known what I felt about Charley.'
'I know that you have behaved like an angel, my child; I know your want
of selfishness, your devotion to others, has been such as to shame me; I
know your conduct has been perfect: oh, my Katie, I have understood it,
and I have so loved you, so admired you.'
Katie smiled through her tears as she returned her mother's embrace.
'Well, mamma,' she said, 'at any rate you know that I love him. Oh,
mamma, I do love him so dearly. It is not now like Gertrude's love, or
Linda's. I know that I can never be his wife. I did know before, that
for many reasons I ought not to wish to be so; but now I know I never,
never can be.'
Mrs. Woodward was past the power of speaking, and so Katie went on.
'But I do not love him the less for that reason; I think I love him the
more. I never, never, could have loved anyone else, mamma; never, never;
and that is one reason why I do not so much mind being ill now.'
Mrs. Woodward bowed forward, and hid her face in the counterpane, but
she still kept hold of her daughter's hand.
'And, mamma,' she continued, 'as I do love him so dearly, I feel that
I should try to do something for him. I ought to do so; and, mamma, I
could not be happy without seeing him. He is not just like a brother
or a brother-in-law, such as Harry and Alaric; we are not bound to each
other as relations are; but yet I feel that something does bind me to
him. I know he doesn't love me as I love him; but yet I think he loves
me dearly; and if I speak to him now, mamma, now that I am--that I am so
ill, perhaps he will mind me. Mamma, it will be as though one came unto
him from the dead.'
Mrs. Woodward did not know how to refuse any request that Katie might
now make to her, and felt herself altogether unequal to the task of
refusing this request. For many reasons she would have done so, had
she been able; in the first place she did not think that all chance of
Katie's recovery was gone; and then at the present moment she felt no
inclination to draw closer to her any of the Tudor family. She could not
but feel that Alaric had been the means of disgracing and degrading one
child; and truly, deeply, warmly, as she sympathized with the other, she
could not bring herself to feel the same sympathy for the object of her
love. It was a sore day for her and hers, that on which the Tudors had
first entered her house.
Nevertheless she assented to Katie's proposal, and undertook the task of
asking Charley down to Hampton.
Since Alaric's conviction Charley led a busy life; and as men who have
really something to do have seldom time to get into much mischief, he
had been peculiarly moral and respectable. It is not surprising that at
such a moment Gertrude found that Alaric's newer friends fell off
from him. Of course they did; nor is it a sign of ingratitude or
heartlessness in the world that at such a period of great distress new
friends should fall off. New friends, like one's best coat and polished
patent-leather dress boots, are only intended for holiday wear. At other
times they are neither serviceable nor comfortable; they do not answer
the required purposes, and are ill adapted to give us the ease we seek.
A new coat, however, has this advantage, that it will in time become old
and comfortable; so much can by no means be predicted with certainty of
a new friend. Woe to those men who go through the world with none but
new coats on their backs, with no boots but those of polished leather,
with none but new friends to comfort them in adversity.
But not the less, when misfortune does come, are we inclined to grumble
at finding ourselves deserted. Gertrude, though she certainly wished to
see no Mrs. Val and no Miss Neverbends, did feel lonely enough when
her mother left her, and wretched enough. But she was not altogether
deserted. At this time Charley was true to her, and did for her all
those thousand nameless things which a woman cannot do for herself.
He came to her everyday after leaving his office, and on one excuse or
another remained with her till late every evening.
He was not a little surprised one morning on receiving Mrs. Woodward's
invitation to Hampton. Mrs. Woodward in writing had had some difficulty
in wording her request. She hardly liked asking Charley to come because
Katie was ill; nor did she like to ask him without mentioning Katie's
illness. 'I need not explain to you,' she said in her note, 'that we are
all in great distress; poor Katie is very ill, and you will understand
what we must feel about Alaric and Gertrude. Harry is still at
Normansgrove. We shall all be glad to see you, and Katie, who never
forgets what you did for her, insists on my asking you at once. I am
sure you will not refuse her, so I shall expect you to-morrow.' Charley
would not have refused her anything, and it need hardly be said that he
accepted the invitation.
Mrs. Woodward was at a loss how to receive him, or what to say to him.
Though Katie was so positive that her own illness would be fatal--a
symptom which might have confirmed those who watched her in their
opinion that her disease was not consumption--her mother was by no means
so desponding. She still thought it not impossible that her child might
recover, and so thinking could not but be adverse to any declaration on
Katie's part of her own feelings. She had endeavoured to explain this
to her daughter; but Katie was so carried away by her enthusiasm, was
at the present moment so devoted, and, as it were, exalted above her
present life, that all that her mother said was thrown away upon her.
Mrs. Woodward might have refused her daughter's request, and have run
the risk of breaking her heart by the refusal; but now that the petition
had been granted, it was useless to endeavour to teach her to repress
her feelings.
'Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward, when he had been some little time in the
house, 'our dear Katie wants to see you; she is very ill, you know.'
Charley said he knew she was ill.
'You remember our walk together, Charley.'
'Yes,' said Charley, 'I remember it well. I made you a promise then, and
I have kept it. I have now come here only because you have sent for me.'
This he said in the tone which a man uses when he feels himself to have
been injured.
'I know it, Charley; you have kept your promise; I knew you would, and
I know you will. I have the fullest trust in you; and now you shall come
and see her.'
Charley was to return to town that night, and they had not therefore
much time to lose; they went upstairs at once, and found Linda and
Uncle Bat in the patient's room. It was a lovely August evening, and the
bedroom window opening upon the river was unclosed. Katie, as she sat
propped up against the pillows, could look out upon the water and see
the reedy island, on which in happy former days she had so delighted to
let her imagination revel.
'It is very good of you to come and see me, Charley,' said she, as he
made his way up to her bedside.
He took her wasted hand in his own and pressed it, and, as he did so, a
tear forced itself into each corner of his eyes. She smiled as though to
cheer him, and said that now she saw him she could be quite happy, only
for poor Alaric and Gertrude. She hoped she might live to see Alaric
again; but if not, Charley was to give him her best-best love.
'Live to see him! of course you will,' said Uncle Bat.
'What's to hinder you?' Uncle Bat, like the rest of them, tried to cheer
her, and make her think that she might yet live.
After a while Uncle Bat went out of the room, and Linda followed him.
Mrs. Woodward would fain have remained, but she perfectly understood
that it was part of the intended arrangement with Katie, that Charley
should be alone with her. 'I will come back in a quarter of an hour,'
she said, rising to follow the others. 'You must not let her talk too
much, Charley: you see how weak she is.'
'Mamma, when you come, knock at the door, will you?' said Katie. Mrs.
Woodward, who found herself obliged to act in complete obedience to her
daughter, promised that she would; and then they were left alone.
'Sit down, Charley,' said she; he was still standing by her bedside,
and now at her bidding he sat in the chair which Captain Cuttwater
had occupied. 'Come here nearer to me,' said she; 'this is where mamma
always sits, and Linda when mamma is not here.' Charley did as he was
bid, and, changing his seat, came and sat down close to her bed-head.
'Charley, do you remember how you went into the water for me?' said she,
again smiling, and pulling her hand out and resting it on his arm which
lay on the bed beside her.
'Indeed I do, Katie--I remember the day very well.'
'That was a very happy day in spite of the tumble, was it not, Charley?
And do you remember the flower-show, and the dance at Mrs. Val's?'
Charley did remember them all well. Ah me! how often had he thought of
them!
'I think of those days so often--too often,' continued Katie. 'But, dear
Charley, I cannot remember too often that you saved my life.'
Charley once more tried to explain to her that there was nothing worthy
of notice in his exploit of that day.
'Well, Charley, I may think as I like, you know,' she said, with
something of the obstinacy of old days. 'I think you did save my life,
and all the people in the world won't make me think anything else; but,
Charley, I have something now to tell you.'
He sat and listened. It seemed to him as though he were only there
to listen; as though, were he to make his own voice audible, he would
violate the sanctity of the place. His thoughts were serious enough,
but he could not pitch his voice so as to suit the tone in which she
addressed him.
'We were always friends, were we not?' said she; 'we were always good
friends, Charley. Do you remember how you were to build a palace for me
in the dear old island out there? You were always so kind, so good to
me.'
Charley said he remembered it all--they were happy days; the happiest
days, he said, that he had ever known.
'And you used to love me, Charley?'
'Used!' said he, 'do you think I do not love you now?'
'I am sure you do. And, Charley, I love you also. That it is that I want
to tell you. I love you so well that I cannot go away from this world
in peace without wishing you farewell. Charley, if you love me, you will
think of me when I am gone; and then for my sake you will be steady.'
Here were all her old words over again--'You will be steady, won't you,
Charley? I know you will be steady, now.' How much must she have thought
of him! How often must his career have caused her misery and pain! How
laden must that innocent bosom have been with anxiety on his account!
He had promised her then that he would reform; but he had broken his
promise. He now promised her again, but how could he hope that she would
believe him?
'You know how ill I am, don't you? You know that I am dying, Charley?'
Charley of course declared that he still hoped that she would recover.
'If I thought so,' said she, 'I should not say what I am now saying; but
I feel that I may tell the truth. Dear Charley, dearest Charley, I love
you with all my heart--I do not know how it came so; I believe I have
always loved you since I first knew you; I used to think it was because
you saved my life; but I know it was not that. I was so glad it was you
that came to me in the water, and not Harry; so that I know I loved you
before that.'
'Dear Katie, you have not loved me, or thought of me, more than I have
loved and thought of you.'
'Ah, Charley,' she said, smiling in her sad sweet way--'I don't think
you know how a girl can love; you have so many things to think of, so
much to amuse you up in London; you don't know what it is to think of
one person for days and days, and nights and nights together. That is
the way I have thought of you, I don't think there can be any harm,' she
continued, 'in loving a person as I have loved you. Indeed, how could I
help it? I did not love you on purpose. But I think I should be wrong
to die without telling you. When I am dead, Charley, will you think of
this, and try--try to give up your bad ways? When I tell you that I love
you so dearly, and ask you on my deathbed, I think you will do this.'
Charley went down on his knees, and bowing his head before her and
before his God, he made the promise. He made it, and we may so far
anticipate the approaching end of our story as to declare that the
promise he then made was faithfully kept.
'Katie, Katie, my own Katie, my own, own, own Katie--oh, Katie, you must
not die, you must not leave me! Oh, Katie, I have so dearly loved you!
Oh, Katie, I do so dearly love you! If you knew all, if you could know
all, you would believe me.'
At this moment Mrs. Woodward knocked at the door, and Charley rose from
his knees. 'Not quite yet, mamma,' said Katie, as Mrs. Woodward opened
the door. 'Not quite yet; in five minutes, mamma, you may come.' Mrs.
Woodward, not knowing how to refuse, again went away.
'Charley, I never gave you anything but once, and you returned it to me,
did you not?'
'Yes,' said he, 'the purse--I put it in your box, because----'
And then he remembered that he could not say why he had returned it
without breaking in a manner that confidence which Mrs. Woodward had put
in him.
'I understand it all. You must not think I am angry with you. I know how
good you were about it. But Charley, you may have it back now; here it
is;' and putting her hand under the pillow, she took it out, carefully
folded up in new tissue paper. 'There, Charley, you must never part with
it again as long as there are two threads of it together; but I know
you never will; and Charley, you must never talk of it to anybody but to
your wife; and you must tell her all about it.'
He took the purse, and put it to his lips, and then pressed it to his
heart. 'No,' said he, 'I will never part with it again. I think I can
promise that.' 'And now, dearest, good-bye,' said she; 'dearest, dearest
Charley, good-bye; perhaps we shall know each other in heaven. Kiss me,
Charley, before you go,' So he stooped down over her, and pressed his
lips to hers.
Charley, leaving the room, found Mrs. Woodward at the other end of the
passage, standing at the door of her own dressing-room. 'You are to go
to her now,' he said. 'Good-bye,' and without further speech to any of
them he hurried out of the house.
None but Mrs. Woodward had seen him; but she saw that the tears were
streaming down his cheeks as he passed her, and she expressed no
surprise that he had left the Cottage without going through the
formality of making his adieux.
And then he walked up to town, as Norman once had done after a parting
interview with her whom he had loved. It might be difficult to say which
at the moment suffered the bitterest grief.