A PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP.
I SLEPT, and towards morning I dreamed. In my dream, I was again
amongst mountains; but not now in snow covered regions. I was treading
an Alpine glade of emerald green, gemmed with flowers. The sun was
shining brightly, birds were chirping and singing in the bushes, little
silvery rills flashed in the sunlight, and the sky was blue overhead. I
felt no fear, only joy, when I saw Edmund descending the green slope of
a mountain side.
He came with fleet steps, and I saw that he carried in his arms a
little child. Hurrying to meet him, I found that he held little Percy.
Ah, how the child's golden curls shone in the sunlight, how the blue
eyes smiled, how angelic was the look of the sweet, innocent face!
Edmund put him in my arms saying only,—
"Take him back to Mabel. He will be a blessing to her; he will lead her
upward."
And in my dream, I seemed to know that the child had been lost and
was found. Pressing him close to me, I turned to seek Mabel with the
feeling that I was bringing her joy after great sorrow, when a voice
close beside me said—
"We must thank God."
With that, mountains, green vale, flowers, the child—all vanished.
I opened my eyes to find the sun shining brightly in at my window,
swallows twittering from beneath the turret, and a light soft breeze
fluttering the white curtains. And full in the sunlight stood Grace,
pale and worn from her night's watching, but with a glad light in her
eyes; her whole countenance expressing a heartfelt thankfulness.
"Percy!" I exclaimed, starting up.
"Is better," said Grace. "There has been a change in the night, and now
the doctors think that he may recover."
"Oh, thank God!" I cried.
And then we embraced each other and wept together.
It was the first real spring day, and all nature seemed to echo our
hearts' deep thanksgiving. Easter, a cold, wintery Easter, had come
and gone whilst I lay in the unconsciousness of fever. Spring had long
delayed her coming; but now, when the month was all but over, came this
true April day, with warm sunshine and soft showers, making the birds
sing melodiously, and the shy flowers unfold their buds without fear.
During the day, Howard sent me a little knot of sweet violets, the
first to be found in our dear old garden at the tannery. I was
delighted with them; but I wondered greatly that he should have thought
of showing me such a kind attention. Surely the joy of relief from
sore dread must have opened his heart and enlarged his sympathies to a
wonderful extent.
But my weary days of confinement were drawing to a close. Spring having
come, the doctor advised my speedy removal to the seaside. A little
house was taken for us at Southend, this place being fixed on because
it was conveniently near to Burford, and we could drive there direct
from The Towers without risking the fatigue to myself and possible
peril to others that a long journey by rail would involve. Salome and
Grace, who by this time needed a change as much as I did, were to
accompany me for the first week, at the end of which Mabel hoped to be
able to join us with little Percy.
Southend in those days was a quaint, almost rural little place,
unspoiled by the visits of London holiday-makers. Our house was on the
high cliff, open to the strong sea breezes and commanding a fine view
of the tossing waves when the tide was high. It was delightful to see
the sea again and to breathe the fresh air with the feeling that each
breath gave me strength. Those who have experienced such a period of
convalescence will know the new joy in life that comes with returning
health.
But for me that joy was shadowed. Little Percy's danger had shaken me
out of myself for a time, and I had ceased to trouble about the future
that lay before me. But now, with returning strength, the whole crowd
of doubts, fears, and regrets assailed me afresh.
I think Grace saw that there was a cloud on my mind that marred my
enjoyment of the lovely spring days. Doubtless she understood its
nature; but she asked no questions and did not attempt to force my
confidence. Only her gentle, never failing kindness told me of her
sympathy.
One bright, breezy afternoon, we were returning from a stroll upon the
beach, and ascending the somewhat steep path to the cliff, when I saw a
gentleman looking down on us from a point almost opposite the house in
which we were dwelling.
Grace saw him at the same moment and exclaimed, "Why, it is Ralph!"
I needed not to be told that. My heart had sunk at the sight of him, my
limbs were trembling, my breath growing short; it was all I could do to
keep on walking.
He had seen us and was making his way to us by a steep rugged zig-zag
that cut into our path.
We paused at the junction, and in a few minutes he was beside us.
"How are you, Dorothy?" he asked, in the kindest manner, holding my
hand in his as he studied my looks with affectionate, anxious interest.
"I am much better; almost well indeed," I said, falteringly.
"Is she really gaining strength, Grace? She looks very frail. Has she
never more colour than this?"
"She is tired now," said Grace, evading the question; "we have,
perhaps, been a little too far."
She knew as well as I knew that it was his sudden, unexpected
appearance which had driven the colour from my cheeks, and for the time
robbed me of strength.
With that, he made me lean upon his arm as we slowly continued the
ascent, and, tremulous and breathless as I was, the support of his
strong arm was most acceptable.
Sparing me, he talked to Grace, telling her all the home news she was
eager to hear. Bright and ready were his words, and yet there was a
change in him, a change not easy to define, though I had been aware of
it at the first glance. A look it was that told of past suffering and
present sorrow, held in check by a strong will.
When we reached the house, Grace led me into the sitting-room, put me
into an easy chair by the fire, removed my hat and jacket, and insisted
on my resting for awhile. Then she went away, leaving me alone with
Ralph.
He had taken a chair near me; but, for what seemed to me a terribly
long time, he said not a word. I suppose he thought that I should
rest better in silence; but the stillness was to me slow torture. In
desperation, I broke it at last.
"You came to see me when I was ill," I said; "you should not have done
so; it was running a risk."
"A very slight one," he replied; "but I should have done the same
however great the risk. Nothing could have held me from you when your
life was in danger; unless, indeed, the fear of making you worse. But
as you were unconscious, that was impossible. And now I am thankful
that I watched at your bedside when you were so ill," he added, in a
tone of peculiar meaning; "as thankful as I am, dear Dorothy, to see
you well again."
His words, and even more, his tone, frightened me. What could he mean?
I turned hot and cold, and looking down began twisting my fingers
in nervous, school-girl fashion. Then, prompted by the sight of my
ringless fingers, I rushed, as I was wont in moments of embarrassment,
into impulsive speech.
"Grace tells me that you have my ring," I said, holding up to view the
hand that lacked it. "I missed it almost as soon as my senses returned
to me. Will you not give it to me now?"
"Do you really wish to wear that ring again, Dorothy?" he asked, very
gravely.
And I could not answer him. His searching eyes, his grave tones,
arrested me, and made it impossible to utter anything save the very
truth. Then he stretched out his hand and took mine. It was cold, and
it trembled in his clasp.
"My poor child," he said, tenderly, his voice vibrating with strong
emotion, "do I frighten you so much? Oh, what a mistake I have made!
I thought I could make you happy, Dorothy. I meant to guard your
happiness with jealous care; and see! My very presence alarms you,
makes you turn cold and white."
"No, no," I faltered; "it is not so. I am not afraid of you."
"Then why does your hand flutter in mine like a frightened bird?
Dorothy, let us be frank with each other. Believe me, it is best. I
know now what a mistake we have made—a mistake that would have been
fatal to your happiness and mine. We must thank God that we have found
it out in time. Dear, when I stood by your bed you uttered words in
your delirium that revealed to me your heart's secret. Nay, do not
shrink so. You said nothing you need blush for—nothing that was not
honourable to you. Only I wish you had better understood my love; I
wash you had trusted me fully."
He spoke gently, calmly; but the effort it cost him so to speak was
apparent with every word. My heart was wrung with pain as I listened. I
wanted to speak, but words would not come to me.
"If I had known that there was another," he added, after a pause,
speaking not bitterly, but with somewhat of reproach in his tone.
"Indeed, indeed, I did not mean to deceive you," the words stung me
into saying; "I thought that was all over and done with; I thought I
could put an end to it, or I would not have promised to be your wife.
Pray believe that."
"I do believe it," he replied, gently. "I know you meant to be true to
me. I do not blame you, dear; it has all been a sad mistake."
"I meant it for the best," I sobbed. "I thought I could make you happy,
and I knew it was what dear Edmund had wished."
"Yes, because he thought that you could love me; he was so sure that
there was no one else you cared for. He would not have wished it
otherwise."
"Oh, I might have known—I might have known!" I cried bitterly. "I can
never forgive myself for what I have done, for the pain I have caused
you. And yet—oh, I did want to make you happy!"
"Do not grieve, child," he said, tenderly. "You shall make me happy
yet. Do you remember telling me that you should find your happiness in
mine? Now I say the same to you; if you are happy, I shall be happy."
"I shall never be happy," I sighed; "for I can never forget. My life
will be one long regret."
"No, dear, that must not be. For my sake, you must embrace happiness
when it comes to you. You must be happy, for I want to be happy, and I
cannot be unless you are. Remember that when you are inclined to make
yourself miserable on my account."
How bravely, almost cheerfully, he spoke, and yet every word told me of
the pain I had caused him! I responded only by tears. He drew from his
pocket a tiny leather case, which he placed in my hand.
"There, dear, is your ring. You will keep it for my sake? Don't put it
on now; but at some future time, wear it for the sake of your friend.
For, Dorothy, I cannot renounce our friendship. I shall ever be your
friend and the friend of all whom you love, not for your sake alone,
but for your brother's sake—that friend of mine that lives in God."
So saying he held out his hand. It still bore traces of the burns he
had received when he heroically rescued me from the fire. The sight of
those scars reproached me keenly. I owed to this man my life, and in
return, I had thus pained and wronged him. I gave him my hand and he
pressed it to his lips.
Then, still holding it, he said, "And now good-bye, Dorothy; I am going
away for awhile. In another month I sail for Jamaica to transact some
business for my father there. When we meet again, this painful episode
in our lives will have ceased to trouble us, and you will welcome me as
your friend, will you not?"
"Yes, yes, my best friend," I murmured.
It was all I could say under the pressure of overwhelming emotion. And
yet how much more I should have said!
I longed to thank him for his noble forgiveness, to assure him of my
undying gratitude, to tell him that henceforth he stood apart and
sacred in my life, as a friend, honoured and prized above all friends,
a brother, worthy of the best love and reverence a sister's heart can
know. But I had no power to speak, and the next moment he was gone.
I heard him leave the house; he would not stay even for a word with
Grace, and I knew that he had gone forth to sorrow, heart-hunger,
loneliness. Well might I weep, who had brought such suffering to this
true and noble man.
Grace came in ere my sobs were stilled. She was amazed to find her
brother gone, but in a moment, she understood.
"I have sent him away!" I cried, wildly. "Grace, you ought to hate me;
I have made your brother wretched; I have spoiled his life."
But she did not hate me. She put her arms about me and kissed me.
"He will suffer," she said, speaking with deep emotion; "but you have
not spoiled his life. It is sin, not sorrow, that ruins human lives.
And you suffer, too, my poor Dorothy."
And so she could bear the burden of each, feeling keenly for us both.
For many days the thought of Ralph weighed on my heart and retarded my
advance to health. At the end of a week, Grace returned to Beechwood,
where, by this time, her presence was earnestly desired. Mabel came
down to Southend, bringing Percy, his nurse, and a younger maid.
The child had already made rapid progress towards recovery, but he
needed great care, and Mabel watched over him with anxious, jealous
solicitude, trusting little to servants, and guarding him herself
by night and by day. I think she was glad to have her child all to
herself, and to live a simple, quiet life for a little time. She was
looking very worn and ill when she came to Southend, but soon, as Percy
grew rosy and strong, her looks also began to improve.
It was amusing to watch the child's wonder and delight when first he
saw the sea. He loved to see the waves rippling on the sandy beach, and
never tired of playing there. Mabel and I spent many an hour with him
by the shore. The nurse's duties were light indeed, for we generally
took Percy out and had him with us for the greater part of the day.
Our common love for the little darling, our delight in marking his
development, planning new pleasures for him, and laughing over his
precocious ways, formed a strong bond between me and Mabel. We were
very happy together. Our old sisterly affection renewed itself; Mabel
was softened by her recent experience; she had lost her dictatorial
manner, and was more gentle and loving than I had ever seen her.
Only once was the harmony of our intercourse broken. It was when I
told Mabel that my engagement to Ralph Dugdale had come to an end.
This was a sore blow to her pride, since she had plumed herself on
the good marriage I was about to make. She thought I had done very
wrong, guided by foolishly romantic notions, and that I should live to
repent my folly. It was not strange that she should think so, for I
could not tell her all that had led to my parting with Ralph. I shrank
from mentioning Leonard Glynne. I had never named him to Mabel; it had
been an astonishment to her to learn in the vicarage drawing-roots at
Dunsted that I had some acquaintance with Mrs. Gower's relatives.
Not for the world would I have had Mabel even suspect my heart's
secret; for I still looked upon it as a weakness to be overcome, a
thing to be buried and forgotten. I had no hope in connection with it;
I should have held it base to cherish such a hope whilst that painful
parting with Ralph was still so recent, his suffering so vividly before
my mind. No; I said to myself that I should never see Leonard Glynne
again. Much as I loved Mrs. Lyell, dear as Grace was to me, nothing
should induce me to go to Weylea or Beechwood till many years had
passed.
Mabel was somewhat mollified when I told her that Grace approved of
what had taken place. She had felt the influence of Grace's pure,
unselfish character. A gentle, almost sad expression came to my
sister's face with the memories her name recalled.
"She is a good woman," she said with a sigh, "a good and noble woman.
I believe that I owe my child's life to her devotion and skill. I wish
there were more such women in the world."
Mabel had intended to stay but a few weeks at Southend; but in the
end, we spent nearly the whole summer there. Sea air and sea water
were considered so desirable for little Percy that Mabel determined he
should enjoy them as long as possible. She went back to The Towers once
or twice for a short visit, but she seemed glad to return to the quiet,
simple life at the seaside.
Howard Steinthorpe used to ride over every Saturday, and stay with us
till Monday or Tuesday. How much he made of his boy on these occasions!
How glad he was to see the child who had been given up to death growing
ruddy and strong in the summer sunshine!
And his manner towards Mabel was marked by a grace and tenderness which
it had lacked before that season of sore suspense and dread which they
had endured together. They had loved each other when they married, and
their love had not died, though the strain of a commonplace, worldly
life had worn it very thin. It was blooming into new beauty and
strength in the light and joy which had succeeded the gloom cast by the
dread shadow of death.
The first time Howard came to us at Southend, he surprised his wife and
me by producing from his coat pocket two little packets, exactly alike,
one of which he tossed to each of us.
"A little keepsake from me," he said.
And the keepsake proved to be a memorial locket, beautifully wrought
in gold, black enamel, and pearls. Opening mine, I saw on one side a
miniature photograph of my brother, and on the other a lock of his
hair. The likeness was excellent; it was one Edmund had sat for a short
time before his health began to fail. It was a lovely gift, and must
have cost a considerable sum; but I cared less for its intrinsic worth
than for the unexpected kindness and thoughtfulness Howard evinced in
giving it to me.
Mabel was delighted with her locket, and exclaimed at its beauty; but I
was so touched by the sight of mine that I hardly could speak.
"I don't know how to thank you," I said, looking at Howard through
tears.
"I don't want thanks," he said, rather brusquely; "I am glad if it
pleases you. I always meant to be a friend to you and your brother,
Dorothy, if you would have let me."
And doubtless his words were true. He had meant to befriend us, but,
like many persons in similar circumstances, he wished to do so in
his own way, and had no desire that we should be unconscious of our
obligations to him.
"I believe you," I said, putting out my hand to grasp his. And then,
thank God, the old rancour died out of my heart, and I could forgive
Howard Steinthorpe all that had seemed hard in his dealings with me and
mine in the past.
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