“The flowers were lovely, and it was so mindful of you to send them,
just like my husband. Bertie and I amused ourselves arranging and
rearranging them in glasses, till we had made our tea-table lovely. But
I was just one little bit disappointed not to get a letter--you see
how exacting I am, sir. I waited for every post, and Bertie said, 'Has
father's letter come yet?' When one is on holiday, writing letters is
an awful bore; but please just a line to Bertie and me. We have a map of
the Riviera, and found out all the places you have visited in the yacht;
and we tried to imagine you sailing on that azure sea, and landing among
those silver olives. I am so grateful to every one for being kind to
you, and I hope you will enjoy yourself to the full. Bertie is a little
stronger, I'm sure; his cheeks were quite rosy to-day for him. It was
his birthday on Wednesday, and I gave him a little treat The sun was
shining brightly in the forenoon, and we had a walk in the Gardens,
and made believe that it was Italy! Then we went to Oxford Street, and
Bertie chose a regiment of soldiers for his birthday present He wished
some guns so much that I allowed him to have them as a present from you.
They only cost one-and-sixpence, and I thought you would like him to
have something. Jane and he had a splendid game of hide-and-seek in the
evening, and my couch was the den, so you see we have our own gaiety in
Bloomsbury.
“Don't look sulky at this long scribble and say, 'What nonsense women
write!' for it is almost the same as speaking to you, and I shall
imagine the letter all the way till you open it in the sunshine.
“So smile and kiss my name, for this comes with my heart's love from
“Your devoted wife,
“Maud Trevor.
“P.S.--Don't be alarmed because I have to rest; the doctor does not
think that there is any danger, and I'll take great care.”
“A telegram.” It was the shattering of a dream. “How wicked of some
horrid person. Business ought not to be allowed to enter Paradise. Let's
hope it's pleasure; perhaps some one has won a lot of money at Monte
Carlo, and wishes us to celebrate the affair.
“Whom is it for? Oh! Mr. Edward Trevor; then it's a brief by telegraph,
I suppose. Some millionaire's will case, and the Attorney-General can't
manage it alone. What a man he is, to have briefs in holiday time.
“There it is, but remember, before you open it, that you are bound
to remain here over Christmas at any rate, and help us with our
theatricals. My husband declares that a successful barrister must be a
born actor.”...
An hour later Trevor was in the Paris express, and for thirty hours he
prayed one petition, that she might live till he arrived. He used to
have a berth in the Wagon Lit as a matter of course, and had begun
to complain about the champagne in the dining-car, but the thought
of comfort made him wince on this journey, and he twice changed his
carriage, once when an English party would not cease from badinage
that mocked his ears, and again because a woman had brown eyes with her
expression of dog-like faithfulness. The darkness of the night after
that sunlit garden, and the monotonous roar of the train, and the
face of smiling France covered with snow, and the yeasty waters of the
Channel, and the moaning of the wind, filled his heart with dread.
Will that procession of luggage at Dover never come to an end? A French
seaman--a fellow with earrings and a merry face--appears and reappears
with maddening regularity, each time with a larger trunk. One had X. Y.
on it in big white letters. Why not Z. also? Who could have such a name?
That is a lady's box, black and brown, plastered with hotel labels. Some
bride, perhaps... they are carrying the luggage over his heart. Have
they no mercy?
The last piece is in, and the sailors make a merry group at the top
of the gangway. They look like Bretons, and that fellow is laughing
again--some story about a little child; he can just hear _Ma petite._...
“Guard, is this train never to start? We're half-an-hour late already.”
“Italian mail very heavy, sir; still bringing up bags; so many people at
Riviera in winter, writing home to their friends.”...
How cruel every one is! He had not written for ten days. Something
always happened, an engagement of pleasure. There was a half-finished
letter; he had left it to join a Monte Carlo party.
“Writing letters--home, of course, to that idolised wife. It's
beautiful, and you are an example to us all; but Mrs. Trevor will excuse
descriptions of scenery; she knows you are enjoying yourself.”
Had she been expecting that letter from post to post, calculating the
hour of each delivery, identifying the postman's feet in that quiet
street, holding her breath when he rang, stretching her hand for a
letter, to let it drop unopened, and bury her face in the pillow? Had
she died waiting for a letter that never came? Those letters that he
wrote from the Northern Circuit in that first sweet year, a letter
a day, and one day two--it had given him a day's advantage over her.
Careful letters, too, though written between cases, with bits of
description and amusing scenes.
Some little sameness towards the end, but she never complained of that,
and even said those words were the best And that trick he played--the
thought of the postman must have brought it up--how pleasant it was,
and what a success! He would be his own letter one day, and take her
by surprise. “A letter, ma'am,” the girl said--quite a homely girl, who
shared their little joys and anxieties--and then he showed his face with
apologies for intrusion. The flush of love in her face, will it be
like that to-night, or... What can be keeping the train now? Is this a
conspiracy to torment a miserable man?
He thrusts his head out of the window in despair, and sees the guard
trying to find a compartment for a family that had mistaken their train.
The husband is explaining, with English garrulity, all the station
hearing, what an inconvenience it would have been had they gone in the
Holbom Viaduct carriages.
“Half an hour's longer drive, you know, and it's very important we
should get home in time; we are expected....”
For what? Dinner, most likely. What did it matter when they got home,
to-day or next year? Yet he used to be angry if he were made late for
dinner. They come into his compartment, and explain the situation at
great length, while he pretends to listen.
A husband and wife returning from a month in Italy, full of their
experiences: the Corniche Road, the palaces of Genoa, the pictures
in the Pitti, St Peter's at Rome. Her first visit to the Continent,
evidently; it reminded them of a certain tour round the Lakes in '80,
and she withdrew her hand from her husband's as the train came out
from the tunnel. They were not smart people--very pronounced
middle-class--but they were lovers, after fifteen years.
They forgot him, who was staring on the bleak landscape with white,
pinched face.
“How kind to take me this trip. I know how much you denied yourself,
but it has made me young again,” and she said “Edward.” Were all these
coincidences arranged? had his purgatorio begun already?
“Have you seen the _Globe_, sir? Bosworth, M.P. for Pedlington, has been
made a judge, and there's to be a keen contest.
“Trevor, I see, is named as the Tory candidate--a clever fellow, I've
heard. Do you know about him? he's got on quicker than any man of his
years.
“Some say that it's his manner; he's such a good sort, the juries cannot
resist him, a man told me--a kind heart goes for something even in a
lawyer. Would you like to look....
“Very sorry; would you take a drop of brandy? No? The passage was a
little rough, and you don't look quite up to the mark.”
Then they left him in peace, and he drank his cup to the dregs.
It was for Pedlington he had been working and saving, for a seat meant
society and the bench, perhaps.... What did it matter now?
She was to come and sit within the cage when he made his first speech,
and hear all the remarks.
“Of course it will be a success, for you do everything well, and your
wifie will be the proudest woman in London.
“Sir Edward Trevor, M.P. I know it's foolish, but it's the foolishness
of love, dear, so don't look cross; you are everything to me, and no one
loves you as I do.”
What are they slowing for now? There's no station. Did ever train drag
like this one?
Off again, thank God... if she only were conscious, and he could ask her
to forgive his selfishness.
At last, and the train glides into Victoria. No, he had nothing
to declare; would they let him go, or they might keep his luggage
altogether.
Some vision was ever coming up, and now he saw her kneeling on the floor
and packing that portmanteau, the droop of her figure, her thin white
hands.
He was so busy that she did these offices for him--tried to buckle the
straps even; but he insisted on doing that It gave him half an hour
longer at the Club. What a brute he had been....
“Do anything you like with my things. 'I'll come to-morrow... as fast as
you can drive.”
Huddled in a corner of the hansom so that you might have thought he
slept, this man was calculating every foot of the way, gloating over
a long stretch of open, glistening asphalt, hating unto murder the
immovable drivers whose huge vans blocked his passage. If they had
known, there was no living man but would have made room for him... but
he had not known himself.... Only one word to tell her he knew now.
As the hansom turned into the street he bent forward, straining his
eyes to catch the first glimpse of home. Had it been day-time the blinds
would have told their tale; now it was the light he watched.
Dark on the upper floors; no sick light burning... have mercy...
then the blood came back to his heart with a rush. How could he have
forgotten?
Their room was at the back for quietness, and it might still be well.
Some one had been watching, for the door was instantly opened, but he
could not see the servant's face.
A doctor came forward and beckoned him to go into the study....
It seemed as if his whole nature had been smitten with insensibility,
for he knew everything without words, and yet he heard the driver
demanding his fare, and noticed that the doctor had been reading the
evening paper while he waited; he saw the paragraph about that seat What
work those doctors have to do....
“It was an hour ago... we were amazed that she lived so long; with any
other woman it would have been this morning; but she was determined to
live till you came home.
“It was not exactly will-power, for she was the gentlest patient I ever
had; it was”--the doctor hesitated--a peremptory Scotchman hiding a
heart of fire beneath a coating of ice--“it was simply love.”
When the doctor had folded up the evening paper, and laid it on a side
table, which took some time, he sat down opposite that fixed, haggard
face, which had not yet been softened by a tear.
“Yes, I'll tell you everything if you desire me; perhaps it will relieve
your mind; and Mrs. Trevor said you would wish to know, and
I must be here to receive you. Her patience and thoughtfulness were
marvellous.
“I attend many very clever and charming women, but I tell you, Mr.
Trevor, not one has so impressed me as your wife. Her self-forgetfulness
passed words; she thought of every one except herself; why, one of the
last things she did was to give directions about your room; she was
afraid you might feel the change from the Riviera. But that is by the
way, and these things are not my business.
“From the beginning I was alarmed, and urged that you should be sent
for; but she pledged me not to write; you needed your holiday, she said,
and it must not be darkened with anxiety.
“She spoke every day about your devotion and unselfishness; how you
wished her to go with you, but she had to stay with the boy....
“The turn for the worse? it was yesterday morning, and I had Sir
Reginald at once. We agreed that recovery was hopeless, and I
telegraphed to you without delay.
“We also consulted whether she ought to be told, and Sir Reginald said,
'Certainly; that woman has no fear, for she never thinks of herself, and
she will want to leave messages.'
“'If we can only keep her alive till to-morrow afternoon,' he said,
and you will like to remember that everything known to the best man in
London was done. Sir Reginald came back himself unasked to-day, because
he remembered a restorative that might sustain the failing strength. She
thanked him so sweetly that he was quite shaken; the fact is, that both
of us would soon have played the fool. But I ought not to trouble you
with these trifles at this time, only as you wanted to know all....
“Yes, she understood what we thought before I spoke, and only asked when
you would arrive. 'I want to say “Good-bye,” and then I will be ready,'
but perhaps....
“'Tell you everything?' That is what I am trying to do, and I was here
nearly all day, for I had hoped we might manage to fulfil her wish.
“No, she did not speak much, for we enjoined silence and rest as the
only chance; but she had your photograph on her pillow, and some flowers
you had sent.
“They were withered, and the nurse removed them when she was sleeping;
but she missed them, and we had to put them in her hands. 'My husband
was so thoughtful.'
“This is too much for you, I see; it is simply torture. Wait till
to-morrow....
“Well, if you insist Expecting a letter... yes... let me recollect...
No, I am not hiding anything, but you must not let this get upon your
mind.
“We would have deceived her, but she knew the hour of the Continental
mails, and could detect the postman's ring. Once a letter came, and
she insisted upon seeing it in case of any mistake. But it was only an
invitation for you, I think, to some country house.
“It can't be helped now, and you ought not to vex yourself; but I
believe a letter would have done more for her than... What am I saying
now?
“As she grew weaker she counted the hours, and I left her at four full
of hope. 'Two hours more and he'll be here,' and by that time she had
your telegram in her hand.
“When I came back the change had come, and she said, 'It's not God's
will; bring Bertie.'
“So she kissed him, and said something to him, but we did not listen.
After the nurse had carried him out--for he was weeping bitterly, poor
little chap--she whispered to me to get a sheet of paper and sit down by
her bedside.... I think it would be better... very well, I will tell you
all.
“I wrote what she dictated with her last breath, and I promised you
would receive it from her own hand, and so you will. She turned her face
to the door and lay quite still till about six, when I heard her say
your name very softly, and a minute afterwards she was gone, without
pain or struggle.”...
She lay as she had died, waiting for his coming, and the smile with
which she had said his name was still on her face. It was the first time
she did not colour with joy at his coming, that her hand was cold to his
touch. He kissed her, but his heart was numbed, and he could not weep.
Then he took her letter and read it beside that silence.
“Dearest,--
“They tell me now that I shall not live to see you come in and to cast
my arms once more round your neck before we part Be kind to Bertie, and
remember that he is delicate and shy. He will miss me, and you will
be patient with him for my sake. Give him my watch, and do not let him
forget me. My locket with your likeness I would like left on my heart.
You will never know how much I have loved you, for I could never
speak. You have been very good to me, and I want you to know that I am
grateful; but it is better perhaps that I should die, for I might hinder
you in your future life. Forgive me because I came short of what your
wife should have been. None can ever love you better. You will take
these poor words from a dead hand, but I shall see you, and I shall
never cease to love you, to follow your life, to pray for you--my first,
my only love.”
The fountains within him were broken, and he flung himself down by the
bedside in an agony of repentance.
“Oh, if I had known before; but now it is too late, too late!”
For we sin against our dearest not because we do not love, but because
we do not imagine.