Five o'clock! The chimes had played the hour, the church clock had
struck; the laborers were going to the fields, the dairy-maids were
beginning their work; the sky had grown clear and blue, the long night
of agony was over. The Angel of Death had spread his wings over the
doctor's house, and awaited only the moment when his sword should fall.
Inside, the scene had hardly changed. The light of the lamp seemed to
have grown so ghostly that the nurse had turned it out, and, drawing the
blinds, let the faint morning light come in. It fell on the beautiful
face that had grown even whiter in the presence of death. Lady
Charlewood was dying; yet the feeble arms held the little child tightly.
She looked up as her husband entered the room. He had combated by a
strong effort all outward manifestations of despair.
"Hubert," whispered the sweet, faint voice, "see, this is our little
daughter."
He bent down, but he could not see the child for the tears that filled
his eyes.
"Our little daughter," she repeated; "and they say, Hubert, that I have
given my life for hers. Is it true?"
He looked at the two doctors; he looked at the white face bearing the
solemn, serene impress of death. It would be cruel to deceive her now,
when the hands that caressed the little child were already growing
colder.
"Is it true, Hubert?" she repeated, a clear light shining in her dying
eyes.
"Yes, my darling, it is true," he said, in a low voice.
"I am dying--really dying--when I have my baby and you?" she questioned.
"Oh, Hubert, is it really true?"
Nothing but his sobs answered her; dying as she was, all sweet, womanly
compassion awoke in her heart.
"Hubert," she whispered--"oh, my darling, if you could come with me!--I
want to see you kiss the baby while it lies here in my arms."
He bent down and kissed the tiny face, she watching him all the time.
"You will be very kind to her, darling, for my sake, because you have
loved me so much, and call her by my name--Madaline. Tell her about me
when she grows up--how young I was to die, how dearly I loved you, and
how I held her in my arms. You will not forget?"
"No," he said, gently; "I shall not forget."
The hapless young mother kissed the tiny rosebud face, all the passion
and anguish of her love shining in her dying eyes; and then the nurse
carried the babe away.
"Hubert," said Lady Charlewood, in a low, soft, whisper, "may I die in
your arms, darling?"
She laid her head on his breast, and looked at him with the sweet
content of a little child.
"I am so young," she said, gently, "to die--to leave you Hubert. I have
been so happy with you--I love you so much."
"Oh, my wife, my wife!" he groaned, "how am I to bear it?"
The white hands softly clasped his own.
"You will bear it in time," she said. "I know how you will miss me; but
you have the baby and your father--you will find enough to fill your
life. But you will always love me best--I know that, Hubert. My heart
feels so strange; it seems to stop, and then to beat slowly. Lay your
face on mine, darling."
He did just as she requested, whispering sweet, solemn words of comfort;
and then, beneath his own he felt her lips grow cold and still.
Presently he heard one long, deep-drawn sigh. Some one raised the sweet
head from his breast, and laid it back upon the pillow. He knew she was
dead.
He tried to bear it; he said to himself that he must be a man, that he
had to live for his child's sake. He tried to rise, but the strength of
his manhood failed him. With a cry never forgotten by those who heard
it, Lord Charlewood fell with his face on the ground.
Seven o'clock. The full light of day was shining in the solemn chamber;
the faint golden sunbeams touched the beautiful white face, so still and
solemn in death; the white hands were folded, and lay motionless on the
quiet heart. Kindly hands had brushed back the golden-brown hair; some
one had gathered purple chrysanthemums and laid them round the dead
woman, so that she looked like a marble bride on a bed of flowers. Death
wore no stern aspect there; the agony and the torture, the dread and
fear, were all forgotten; there was nothing but the sweet smile of one
at perfect rest.
They had not darkened the room, after the usual ghostly fashion--Stephen
Letsom would not have it so--but they had let in the fresh air and the
sunshine, and had placed autumn flowers in the vases. The baby had been
carried away--the kind-hearted nurse had charge of it. Dr. Evans had
gone home, haunted by the memory of the beautiful dead face. The birds
were singing in the morning sun; and Lord Charlewood, still crushed by
his great grief, lay on the couch in the little sitting-room where he
had spent so weary a night.
"I cannot believe it," he said, "or, believing, cannot realize it. Do
you mean to tell me, doctor, that she who only yesterday sat smiling by
my side, life of my life, soul of my soul, dearer to me than all the
world, has gone from me, and that I shall see her no more? I cannot, I
will not believe it! I shall hear her crying for me directly, or she
will come smiling into the room. Oh, Madaline, my wife, my wife!"
Stephen Letsom was too clever a man and too wise a doctor to make any
endeavor to stem such a torrent of grief. He knew that it must have its
way. He sat patiently listening, speaking when he thought a word would
be useful; and Lord Charlewood never knew how much he owed to his kind,
unwearied patience.
Presently he went up to look at his wife, and, kneeling by her side,
nature's great comforter came to him. He wept as though his heart would
break--tears that eased the burning brain, and lightened the heavy
heart. Dr. Letsom was a skillful, kindly man; he let the tears flow, and
made no effort to stop them. Then, after a time, disguised in a glass of
wine, he administered a sleeping potion, which soon took effect. He
looked with infinite pity on the tired face. What a storm, a tempest of
grief had this man passed through!
"It will be kinder and better to let him sleep the day and night
through, if he can," said Stephen to himself. "He would be too ill to
attend to any business even if he were awake."
So through the silent hours of the day Lord Charlewood slept, and the
story spread from house to house, until the little town rang with
it--the story of the travelers, the young husband and wife, who, finding
no room at the hotel, had gone to the doctors, where the poor lady had
died. Deep sympathy and pity were felt and expressed; kind-hearted
mothers wept over the babe; some few were allowed to enter the solemn
death chamber; and these went away haunted, as Dr. Evans was, by the
memory of the lovely dead face. Through it all Lord Charlewood slept the
heavy sleep of exhaustion and fatigue, and it was the greatest mercy
that could have befallen him.
The hour of wakening was to come--Stephen Letsom never forgot it. The
bereaved man was frantic in his grief, mad with the sense of his loss.
Then the doctor, knowing how one great sorrow counteracts another, spoke
of his father, reminding him that if he wished to see him alive he must
take some little care of himself.
"I shall not leave her!" cried Lord Charlewood. "Living or dead, she is
dearer than all the world to me--I shall not leave her!"
"Nor do I wish you to do so," said the doctor. "I know you are a strong
man--I believe you to be a brave one; in grief of this kind the first
great thing is to regain self-control. Try to regain yours, and then you
will see for yourself what had better be done."
Lord Charlewood discerned the truth.
"Have patience with me," he said, "a little longer; the blow is so
sudden, so terrible, I cannot yet realize what the world is without
Madaline."
A few hours passed, and the self-control he had struggled for was his.
He sent for Dr. Letsom.
"I have been thinking over what is best," he said, "and have decided on
all my plans. Have you leisure to discuss them with me?"
The question seemed almost ironical to the doctor, who had so much more
time to spare than he cared to have. He sat down by Lord Charlewood's
side, and they held together the conversation that led to such strange
results.
"I should not like a cold, stone grave for my beautiful wife," said Lord
Charlewood. "She was so fair, so _spirituelle_, she loved all nature so
dearly; she loved the flowers, trees, and the free fresh air of heaven.
Let her be where she can have them all now."
The doctor looked up with mild reproach in his eyes.
"She has something far better than the flowers of this world," he said.
"If ever a dead face told of rest and peace, hers does; I have never
seen such a smile on any other."
"I should like to find her a grave where the sun shines and the dew
falls," observed Lord Charlewood--"where grass and flowers grow and
birds sing in the trees overhead. She would not seem so far away from me
then."
"You can find many such graves in the pretty church-yard here in
Castledene," said the doctor.
"In time to come," continued Lord Charlewood, "she shall have the
grandest marble monument that can be raised, but now a plain white cross
will be sufficient, with her name, Madaline Charlewood; and, doctor,
while I am away you will have the grave attended to--kept bright with
flowers--tended as for some one that you loved."
Then they went out together to the green church-yard at the foot of the
hill, so quiet, so peaceful, so calm, and serene, that death seemed
robbed of half its terrors; white daisies and golden buttercups studded
it, the dense foliage of tall lime-trees rippled above it. The graves
were covered with richly-hued autumn flowers; all was sweet, calm,
restful. There was none of earth's fever here. The tall gray spire of
the church rose toward, the clear blue sky.
Lord Charlewood stood looking around him in silence.
"I have seen such a scene in pictures," he said. "I have read of such in
poems, but it is the first I have really beheld. If my darling could
have chosen for herself, she would have preferred to rest here."
On the western slope, where the warmest and brightest sun beams lay,
under the shade of the rippling lime-trees, they laid Lady Charlewood to
rest. For long years afterward the young husband was to carry with him
the memory of that green grassy grave. A plain white cross bore for the
present her name; it said simply:
In Loving Memory of
MADALINE CHARLEWOOD,
who died in her 20th year.
ERECTED BY HER SORROWING HUSBAND.
"When I give her the monument she deserves," he said. "I can add no
more."
They speak of that funeral to this day in Castledene--of the sad, tragic
story, the fair young mother's death, the husband's wild despair. They
tell how the beautiful stranger was buried when the sun shone and the
birds sang--how solemnly the church-bell tolled, each knell seeming to
cleave the clear sunlit air--how the sorrowing young husband, so
suddenly and so terribly bereft, walked first, the chief mourner in the
sad procession; they tell how white his face was, and how at each toll
of the solemn bell he winced as though some one had struck him a
terrible blow--how he tried hard to control himself, but how at the
grave, when she was hidden forever from his sight, he stretched out his
hands, crying, "Madaline, Madaline!" and how for the remainder of that
day he shut himself up alone, refusing to hear the sound of a voice, to
look at a human face--refusing food, comfort, grieving like one who has
no hope for the love he had lost. All Castledene grieved with him; it
seemed as though death and sorrow had entered every house.
Then came the morrow, when he had to look his life in the face
again--life that he found so bitter without Madaline. He began to
remember his father, who, lying sick unto death, craved for his
presence. He could do no more for Madaline; all his grief, his tears,
his bitter sorrow, were useless; he could not bring her back; he was
powerless where she was concerned. But with regard to his father matters
were different--to him he could take comfort, healing, and consolation.
So it was decided that he should at once continue his broken journey.
What of little Madaline, the child who had her dead mother's large blue
eyes and golden hair? Again Lord Charlewood and the doctor sat in solemn
conclave; this time the fate of the little one hung in the balance.
Lord Charlewood said that if he found his father still weak and ill, he
should keep the secret of his marriage. Of course, if Madaline had
lived, all would have been different--he would have proudly owned it
then. But she was dead. The child was so young and so feeble, it seemed
doubtful whether it would live. What need then to grieve the old earl by
the story of his folly and his disobedience? Let the secret remain.
Stephen Letsom quite agreed with him in this; no one knew better than
himself how dangerous was the telling of bad or disagreeable news to a
sick man. And then Lord Charlewood added:
"You have indeed been a friend in need to me, Dr. Letsom. Money can no
more repay such help as yours than can thanks; all my life I shall be
grateful to you. I am going now to Italy, and most probably shall remain
there until the earl, my father, grows better, or the end comes. When I
return to England, my first care shall be to forward your views and
prospects in life; until then I want you to take charge of my child."
Stephen Letsom looked up, with something like a smile.
"I shall be a rough nurse," he observed.
"You understand me," said Lord Charlewood. "You have lived here so long
that you know the place and every one in it, I have been thinking so
much of my little one. It would be absurd for me to take her to Italy;
and as, for my father's sake, I intend to keep my marriage a secret for
some time longer, I cannot send her to any of my own relatives or
friends. I think the best plan will be for you to find some healthy,
sensible woman, who would be nurse and foster-mother to her."
"That can easily be managed," remarked Stephen Letsom.
"Then you will have both child and nurse entirely under your own
control. You can superintend all arrangements made for the little one's
benefit. I have thought of offering to send you five hundred per annum,
from which you can pay what you think proper for the child. You can
purchase what is needful for her, and you will have an income for
yourself. That I beg you accept in return for the services you have
rendered me."
Dr. Letsom expressed his gratitude. He thanked Lord Charlewood and began
at once to look around for some one who would be a fitting person to
take care of little Madaline. Lord Charlewood had expressed a desire to
see all settled before leaving for Italy.
Among the doctor's patients was one who had interested him very
much--Margaret Dornham. She had been a lady's-maid. She was a pretty,
graceful woman, gentle and intelligent--worthy of a far better lot than
had fallen to her share. She ought to have married a well-to-do
tradesman, for whom she would have made a most suitable wife; but she
had given her love to a handsome ne'er do well, with whom she had never
had one moment of peace or happiness. Henry Dornham had never borne a
good character; he had a dark, handsome face--a certain kind of rich,
gypsy-like beauty--but no other qualifications. He was neither
industrious, nor honest, nor sober. His handsome face, his dark eyes,
and rich curling hair had won the heart of the pretty, graceful, gentle
lady's-maid, and she had married him--only to rue the day and hour in
which she had first seen him.
They lived in a picturesque little cottage called Ashwood, and there
Margaret Dornham passed through the greatest joy and greatest sorrow of
her life. Her little child, the one gleam of sunshine that her darkened
life had ever known, was born in the little cottage, and there it had
died.
Dr. Letsom, who was too abrupt for the ladies of Castledene, had watched
with the greatest and most untiring care over the fragile life of that
little child. He had exerted his utmost skill in order to save it. But
all was in vain; and on the very day that Lord Charlewood arrived at
Castledene the child died.
When a tender nurse and foster-mother was needed for little Madaline,
the doctor thought of Margaret Dornham. He felt that all difficulty was
at an end. He sent for her. Even Lord Charlewood looked with interest at
the graceful, timid woman, whose fair young face was so deeply marked
with lines of care.
"Will I take charge of a little child?" she replied to the doctor's
question. "Indeed I will, and thank Heaven for sending me something to
keep my heart from breaking."
"You feel the loss of your own little one very keenly?" said Lord
Charlewood.
"Feel it, sir? All the heart I have lies in my baby's grave."
"You must give a little of it to mine, since Heaven has taken its own
mother," he said, gently. "I am not going to try flu bribe you with
money--money does not buy the love and care of good women like you--but
I ask you, for the love you bore to your own child, to be kind to mine.
Try to think, if you can, that it is your own child brought back to
you."
"I will," she promised, and she kept her word.
"You will spare neither expense nor trouble," he continued, "and when I
return you shall be most richly recompensed. If all goes well, and the
little one prospers with you, I shall leave her with you for two or
three years at least. You have been a lady's-maid, the doctor tells me.
In what families have you lived?"
"Principally with Lady L'Estrange, of Verdun Royal, sir," she replied.
"I left because Miss L'Estrange was growing up, and my lady wished to
have a French maid."
In after years he thought how strange it was that he should have asked
the question.
"I want you," said Lord Charlewood, "to devote yourself entirely to the
little one; you will be so liberally paid as not to need work of any
other kind. I am going abroad, but I leave Dr. Letsom as the guardian of
the child; apply to him for everything you want, as you will not be able
to communicate with me."
He watched her as she took the child in her arms. He was satisfied when
he saw the light that came into her face: he knew that little Madaline
would be well cared for. He placed a bank note for fifty pounds in the
woman's hands.
"Buy all that is needful for the little one," he said.
In all things Margaret Dornham promised obedience. One would have
thought she had found a great treasure. To her kindly, womanly heart,
the fact that she once more held a little child in her arms was a source
of the purest happiness The only drawback was when she reached home, and
her husband laughed coarsely at the sad little story.
"You have done a good day's work, Maggie," he said; "now I shall expect
you to keep me, and I shall take it easy."
He kept his word, and from that day made no further effort to earn any
money.
"Maggie had enough for both," he said--"for both of them and that bit of
a child."
Faithful, patient Margaret never complained, and not even Dr. Letsom
knew how the suffering of her daily life had increased even though she
was comforted by the love of the little child.