WHAT A DAY BROUGHT FORTH.
A THOUGHTFUL writer has said, "We are never happy; we can only remember
that we were so once." There is truth in those words. We do not know
when we are most happy. Girls seldom realise how happy they are in
their sheltered, peaceful home life till the shock of some calamity
upheaves its foundation, and they see with sorrow that their future
cannot "copy fair their past."
It seems to me now that I was very happy in the clear, bright autumn
days that fell that year, though no doubt I sometimes complained of
their dulness, or vexed myself about trifles, or pitied myself on
account of imaginary troubles. But how I enjoyed the long rambles
across fields and through lanes which I took, with no companion save
our dog Rough! What beautiful spoil of bright leaves and crimson
berries I brought from the hedges, with which to decorate our rooms!
Somehow I liked these wayside beauties better than the exquisite
hothouse blooms Mabel would send me from the conservatories at The
Towers.
There were times when I asked myself whether I were not indeed happier
than my sister, fortunate young woman as most people esteemed her.
True, Mabel generally appeared serene and satisfied; but one day,
bursting unexpectedly into her boudoir, I found her crying as if her
heart would break. How indignant she was with me for surprising her
thus! How annoyed that I would not at once accept a nervous headache as
the sole explanation of her tears! If I were not always in such rude
health myself, I should know that others must occasionally feel weak
and dispirited, she said.
But I was not satisfied. That incident set me wondering whether Mabel
found her married life quite so blissful as she had expected it would
prove. Already I had observed that Howard Steinthorpe's demeanour as a
husband differed considerably from his bearing as a lover. I had heard
him address Mabel in a dry, sarcastic fashion that I felt would have
pained me sorely had I been in her place; and his omission of little
acts of courtesy towards her, which he would not have failed to bestow
on other ladies, made me question his right to be considered a true
gentleman.
My heart grew tender to my sister as I reflected that there were
perhaps many hours when in solitude she endured a heartache, for which
her handsome rooms, beautiful pictures, and costly dresses could afford
her no solace. But whatever were Mabel's trials in her new position,
true to her nature she kept them to herself.
As autumn deepened into winter, business appeared brisk in the tannery
once more. I saw new machinery arrive, and learned—not from my father,
for he rarely spoke to me about his business—but from the foreman, that
certain improved methods of tanning were to be introduced into the
yard. Fresh workmen were engaged, strangers from London, who were not
very well received by the older hands, I fancied, judging by hints that
Martha and Salome let fall.
And every day, Howard Steinthorpe rode into the yard on his fine black
horse, and passed to and fro inspecting everything with a far more
master-like air than father displayed. I watched and wondered greatly,
but something withheld me from asking questions.
The deep depression father continued to manifest was inconsistent with
the returning prosperity these changes seemed to indicate. Whatever
others thought, I could see that he was far from well, and my anxiety
was quickened when I discovered that he had had one or two slight
returns of the dizziness and faintness which had overpowered him on the
morning when I found him lying senseless in the office.
I remember that one day I was deluded enough to impart my fears to
Howard Steinthorpe, with the hope of getting sympathy and help from
him. I happened to meet him as I came out of Salome's cottage. He was
coming apparently from our place, walking, as his habit was, with his
head bent and his eyes on the ground. He was smiling to himself with
his sardonic smile, and his meditations were so pleasant that he was
not aware of my appearance till I spoke.
"Ah, Dorothy!" he said, then, in the cool, careless manner he had
adopted towards me since his marriage. "How are you?—All right?"
"Oh, I am well enough," I replied; "but have you noticed how ill father
is looking to-day? You have seen him, I suppose?"
"Ill?" repeated Howard, lifting his eyebrows as he spoke. "I have
seen Mr. Carmichael, certainly, but I cannot say that he struck me as
looking ill. He seemed as usual."
"He is ill, I fear. He tells me he cannot sleep as he should. Sometimes
I think that the worry of business is making him ill."
A change passed over Howard's face as I said this. I do not know how
to describe the change; but it conveyed to me the idea that my words
had a deeper meaning for him than for me, and prompted by this notion I
exclaimed impulsively—
"Oh, Howard! You know more about father's affairs than I. Do tell me
what it is that is going wrong in his business?"
He smiled a cold, it seemed to me a cruel, smile.
"That is more than I can say," he returned carelessly. "I have business
worries enough of my own without concerning myself with your father's."
"But you must know about them," I said, "You are in father's counsel;
you come to the office almost every day; you must know what it is that
worries him."
Howard's manner changed. His cold, blue eye rested on me with an air of
quiet contemplation fora few moments, ere he said, in measured tones—
"And if I do—if your father does like to consult me—do you suppose that
I shall repeat to you what passes between us in private? I wonder you
can ask me to do anything so dishonourable. If you wish to understand
Mr. Carmichael's business affairs, why not ask him to explain them to
you? He would do so, doubtless, if he thought it well."
"I beg your pardon; I did not mean—" I faltered, shrinking from him in
hot confusion.
Howard Steinthorpe lifted his hat with ironical politeness, and passed
on without another word.
I walked home with burning cheeks and a bitter sense of shame. I felt
almost ready to tear my tongue out in my mortification at the folly it
had committed.
Very slowly did the weeks pass before Christmas; but the happy season
came at last, and our home was brightened by a brief visit from Edmund.
Ah, how brief it seemed, and how heavy the gloom that succeeded it!
I did not see very much of Mabel as the New Year advanced. She had
little leisure to bestow on me. She and Howard gave many dinner-parties
and went to many, for there was some talk of Howard Steinthorpe's
standing for one of the Essex boroughs in the next election, and his
acquaintance was being sedulously cultivated by those interested in
politics.
As a rule, I was not invited to dine at the Towers when Mabel had
company. My gowns were not sufficiently elegant to grace her rooms on
those occasions.
The winter was long, the spring cold and wet that year. At the time
when we were wont to look for spring flowers and blossoms, keen winds
and drenching rains prevailed. I have not known a drearier spring. Day
after day the skies were dark and the rain lashed down with pitiless
severity. Everyone was complaining. The farmers were in despair, for in
many places whole meadows were flooded, and the prospect for the corn
was deplorable.
There was much sickness, too, abroad; ague and rheumatism, fevers and
colds, beset both old and young. Dr. Perrow was in his element as he
went about, shaking his head and darkly hinting at coming evils.
"Dorothy," father said to me one day as we sat at dinner together, he,
as was so often the case, making but a sorry pretence of eating, "I
must drive to Halstead this afternoon; I suppose you do not care to go
with me?"
As I glanced out of the window, I shivered at the very thought. It
was not raining, but the sky was overcast, a chill mist darkened the
atmosphere, the trees were dripping, the ground sodden.
"No, thank you, father," I said. "Why, I should be splashed from head
to foot. Do you think you had better drive all that way? The roads will
be hardly passable. We heard yesterday that the water was over the
bridge at New Burford."
"It will have subsided by this time," he replied; "there has been no
rain for some hours."
"But there will be before many more have passed," I returned; "it will
pour before night. Do, father, be persuaded to go by train!"
"I cannot, dear; the train would not serve me," he said.
So I let the matter drop. But when I saw him driving out of the yard
alone, I was seized with regret that I had refused to go with him. It
was always so with me. I became aware what was the right thing to do
when it was too late to do it.
But as an hour or two later, the rain began to pour down again in the
steady, determined way which had become so familiar to us, I soon
ceased to regret my decision. It was grievous to think of my father
being exposed to such weather.
Ah, how well I remember every incident of the dreary hours during which
I waited for him! For once my favourite books failed to interest me.
I could not settle to steady reading. I grew nervous as I sat by the
window in father's room, listening to the plash, plash of the drops
falling from the eaves overhead. I went out to the kitchen, disturbing
Martha in the midst of a gossip with Luke, who had no right to be
idling there at that hour.
She naturally resented my intrusion, but I stayed with her, preferring
her company to my own thoughts, till I had talked her into a good
temper.
Remembering that father had taken hardly any dinner, I planned to have
a savoury dish for the late tea he was to have when he came in. I
helped to lay the table, and arranged everything almost as daintily as
Mabel would have done it.
Then I waited. How slowly the time passed! But now, at any moment
father might return.
Yet he did not come. What could be keeping him? But of course the roads
were heavy. How foolish of me not to know that he would be late.
I would not own to myself that I was nervous, but I stationed myself at
the window and listened eagerly for the return of the dog-cart. One or
two vehicles passed, but I knew at once that their lumbering wheels did
not belong to the dog-cart. It grew dark early that evening, and whilst
I waited, the rain seemed to increase in violence, and the wind, which
had been slowly rising, beat against the casement and moaned drearily
in the chimney.
"Miss Dorothy," cried Martha, bursting unsummoned into the room, "do
you think master would come home by the road? Luke have been up to the
Swan, and they do say up there that the water be right over the bridge
at Burford, and it wouldn't be very safe to drive that way at dusk. Not
so be that I would frighten you, miss."
Alas! I was frightened enough already. But the resolution I took
astonished Martha.
"Something must be done," I said. "I shall run up to The Towers, it is
on the way to Burford, and tell Mr. Steinthorpe. He will know what to
do; he will send someone perhaps to Burford."
"You, Miss Dorothy! You must not go out in such weather! And to The
Towers! What would Mrs. Steinthorpe say? Indeed, miss, you must not
think of it; Luke will go."
"I shall go more quickly than Luke," I said. For I felt as if fear
would give me wings, and Luke was not remarkable for celerity, either
of thought or movement.
So without listening to my maid's remonstrances, I proceeded to equip
myself for a struggle with wind and water. It took me but a few minutes
to don a thick pair of boots, tuck up my skirt, and wrap myself in an
ample waterproof cloak, to which was attached a hood which I drew over
my head. Then, without an umbrella, which it would have been difficult
to carry in such a wind, I dashed out into the rough weather.
Oh, what rain it was, with what passionate gusts it beat on me, and how
the wind buffeted me, driving me into the deepest puddles, as vainly I
tried to avoid them! How long appeared the way to The Towers! I could
see the great house as soon as I got beyond the village street, the
windows all brightly lit shining out in the gloom, but I felt as if I
should never get to it, for the speed I longed for was impossible when
the road was half water and the wind and rain blew straight in my face.
But I splashed on with desperate courage. And at last, the great iron
gates were gained; I passed through them and hurried up the gravelled
path to the house.
My appearance on that stormy evening, and in such a plight as I was
from the combined effects of mud, wind, and rain, might well create
consternation in Mabel's well-ordered household. But the servants
hardly seemed so astonished as I expected, though they exclaimed at my
condition as they relieved me of my dripping cloak.
"Where is Mr. Steinthorpe?" I asked, as soon as I could get my breath.
But before they could answer, he appeared, coming out of the
dining-room with a flushed, elated air.
"Dorothy, this is good of you!" he exclaimed, ere I could explain what
had brought me. "You are brave to venture out in such weather. But how
did you hear the news? I was just going to send a messenger to you."
"What news?" I asked, in amazement.
Then he told me that Mabel was the mother of a little boy. The news
drove all else from my mind for a while, but presently I bethought me
of what had brought me out in the wild rainy weather.
Howard made light of my fears when I imparted them to him.
"Your father knows how to take care of himself, Dorothy," he said. "I
daresay he will stay the night at Halstead if he hears that the roads
are under water. Or perhaps he will leave the gig there and come back
himself by the last train. You have no cause to feel uneasy yet."
His words cheered me greatly. I began to think that my fears were
groundless. Perhaps my father would stay the night at Halstead, though
to be sure I had hardly ever known him spend a night away from home.
More than most men, he loved the shelter of his own roof. It seemed to
me more likely that he would return by the last train, and I said so.
"Well, perhaps you are right," replied Howard, "but if I were in his
place, I should certainly put up at Halstead. If you like, I will send
a man into New Burford to inquire if anything has been seen of him;
but you have really no cause for fear. I am just having my dinner; you
had better come and have some with me," and, taking my arm in kindly
fashion, he led me into the large dining-room.
Paternity had a wonderfully softening influence upon Howard
Steinthorpe, it seemed to me. I had never known him so kind, so
brotherly in his manner. Evidently his heart was kindled to unusual
warmth by the thought of the young mother and infant upstairs. It no
longer appeared impossible that I should come to feel towards him
as a sister should. I took myself to task for the hard thoughts and
suspicions I had cherished concerning him.
The dinner could not tempt me, so Howard ordered coffee and cake for
me, and drawing a deep, low chair close to the glowing hearth, he made
me rest there whilst he took his meal; and to such an extent had my
anxiety been allayed, that I enjoyed sitting comfortably by the fire
for half an hour whilst we chatted pleasantly.
But when Howard rose from the table, I, too, rose and said that I must
be going home.
"Oh, you need not go yet," he said. "Wait whilst I have a cigar. I know
you do not object to smoking."
So I waited; but I was no longer easy in doing so. When at last I
insisted upon going, Howard went to the front door to judge of the
weather.
"Whush! How it does rain!" he exclaimed. "Dorothy, you cannot go out in
such weather. You would be drowned. You had better stay here for the
night."
"Oh, no! I cannot do that," I said, earnestly; "father would be alarmed
if he found me missing when he came back. Whatever the weather is, I
must get home."
"Then I shall send you in the carriage," he said, with unusual good
nature, for it must have involved some sacrifice of feeling to send
horse and carriage out on such a night.
But he would not listen to my remonstrances. The order was given, and
after some delay—for doubtless the coachman was not disposed to hurry
himself in preparing for such an unpleasant drive—the carriage drove up
to the door, and Howard carefully put me into it.
"You must come in a day or two to see your nephew," were his last
words. "Percival Howard Steinthorpe, his name is to be, Mabel says.
Now, mind, you are not to alarm yourself if Mr. Carmichael is not at
home. Good-bye."
Earnestly I hoped that I should find my father had returned during my
absence. But my anxiety was less than when I left home. My mind no
longer dwelt exclusively on the fears that had suggested themselves.
Master Percival Howard Steinthorpe shared my thoughts. I was not a
little proud of my new dignity of aunthood. My heart had a loving
welcome for my infant nephew. I was passionately fond of children,
and I thought what happy hours Mabel and I would spend together in
worshipping and petting this wonderful baby. The Towers would be a
different place to me now that the home could boast a child. So I mused
whilst the brougham plodded on along the muddy road, and with every
gust of wind the rain lashed the glass.
It was past nine o'clock when I reached home, but my father had not
come back. In spite of Howard's words, my heart sank within me as I
entered the empty house. How dismal now looked the preparations I had
made some hours earlier!
Martha met me with so long a face that I was forced to rally my courage
as I met her questioning glance.
"Mr. Steinthorpe says that we need not be anxious, Martha. He thinks
that father would probably put up at Halstead as it is such a stormy
night."
"Does he think so?" said Martha, her tone expressive of a contrary
opinion. "It would be something new for master to do so, that is all I
can say."
"Why, of course," I returned, almost impatiently, "but the weather is
unusually rough, and exceptional weather demands exceptional action."
Martha did not appear satisfied. I hastened to tell her of the baby's
birth, and the news gave as pleasant a diversion to her thoughts as it
had to mine, and inclined her to take a more cheerful view of things.
We discussed the event at some length.
"It will be a fine piece of news for master when he comes in," Martha
said. "He will be mighty proud and pleased to learn that he has a
grandson."
Her words reawakened my anxiety. Would he come that night? Somehow
I could not bring myself to believe that he would stay the night at
Halstead. It was impossible to contemplate the idea of locking up the
house and retiring to rest, satisfied with that bare supposition.
I went into father's room and made up the fire, that there might be
a warm hearth to welcome him should he come in. Then I sat down and
waited.
I tried to persuade myself that I was not nervous; I tried to fix my
thoughts on Mabel and the baby, but the fear haunted my mind like a
grim shadow dimming the brightness of every other idea.
Suddenly I started up with a cry of joy. My ear had caught the roll
of wheels. Yes, it was the dog-cart; I could not mistake it, and my
consciousness was quick to approve itself, saying, "I knew he would
come home."
But how rapidly and heedlessly father was driving! I heard the wheel
jar against the gate-post as the horse and cart dashed into the yard.
I sprang to the window which commanded the tan-yard, but I peered
vainly into the darkness. I could see nothing, only hear the clash of
hoofs and wheels as the cart went by. No matter; father had come home.
I ran out to the back door, opened it, and stood, fearless of the
beating wind and rain, to welcome father. I could hear Luke checking
and soothing the horse, which apparently was restless and excited,
but I caught no tone of my father's voice. He must be very tired and
exhausted. But why did he not come in? In my impatience, I caught hold
of a shawl which hung in the passage, folded it over my head, and ran
round to the yard.
In the darkness, I could at first see nothing save the gleam of the
lantern Luke carried. But presently I discerned the outline of the
vehicle, on which Luke was throwing the light as he tried to examine
its condition.
"Luke," I cried, "where is father?"
"Eh, gude sakes, Miss Dorothy; how can I tell? And what 'll be the
meaning of this, do you suppose?"
"Oh, Luke, what is it?" I cried, hastening to his side, for the man's
bewildered, frightened manner warned me of some catastrophe.
Then he held the lantern so that I could see that the poor, panting,
frightened horse was streaming wet, that the reins were broken and
draggled, the cushions gone, and the whole vehicle wet and muddy, and
knocked about to an indescribable extent. I saw, but my mind refused to
take in what it meant.
"And where is father?" I said, stupidly.
"Eh, who can say?" the man returned. "The poor beast came blundering
alone into the yard, and he's come some way without being driven, I
reckon, by the look of things."
I knew the truth then. From that moment, I had no hope of seeing my
father come home alive. They told me to have courage, and to hope for
the best; but I knew that there could be no best in this case, and that
courage was only needed for endurance.
I have no distinct recollection of what followed. I think Martha must
have sent for Salome, for I know that my dear old nurse came to me
and sat silently by my side during the long, awful watches of that
night. She tried to get me to bed, but I would not seek rest whilst my
father's fate was yet unknown.
All night long in the wind and rain, men were out making search along
the country road. Towards morning, the wind sank and the rain ceased. I
observed that it was so, for something prompted me to go to the window,
and I stood there for awhile, with my burning forehead pressed against
the pane as I blankly watched the growing light. I began to shiver at
last, and I went back to the hearthrug and stretched myself there with
my head resting on Salome's lap.
In that attitude, I must have slept for a while, for when I opened my
eyes again it was broad daylight, and Martha stood in the room with
a cup of tea in her hand which she had brought for me. I was very
thirsty, and I was drinking the tea eagerly when I heard again the
sound of wheels on the road which passed the house.
With a shiver, I set down the cup and went to the window. Dr. Perrow's
chaise came in sight. It was early for the old man to be abroad, and I
felt sure that he had come on a special mission to me. Without surprise
I saw the horse drawn in at our gate, and the old man descend and
approach the house. I went forward to meet him as he entered.
"You bring me bad news," I said, as he took my hand.
"It is true," he said, gravely; "this long, sad night has prepared you
for bad news, has it not?"
I waited for him to tell me more, questioning him only with my eyes.
"Your poor father has been found beneath the bridge at New Burford," he
began, falteringly; "he must have fallen—"
"Then he is drowned?" I said, in a low, quick whisper.
And he made a sign of assent.
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