PERVERSITY.
In the bed of a large and luxurious chamber, her delicate face
pressing the pillow, her eyes closed to the shaded light, lay Lady
Adela Grubb. The baby she so wished for had come at last. Not that it
was the baby itself she wanted, but that she might be at liberty
through renewed health to mingle with the great world again. To be
deprived of its gaiety and obliged to keep herself very much at home
had been to her a species of intolerable thraldom.
The baby was born on Friday night: a few hours subsequent to Robert
Dalrymple's interview with Mr. Grubb and Mary Lynn. Mary, only in
Grosvenor Square for the afternoon, returned to Blackheath unconscious
of the close approach of the event. The illness had been a favourable
one; and Adela, on this Sunday morning, was going on well towards
recovery. She had taken her breakfast, and was ready to see her
husband. The doctor had only now gone out.
A wee cry from the cradle caused her to open her eyes. An elderly
woman, with soft step, bent over the cradle, and would have hushed the
baby to sleep again.
"Put him here, nurse. I want to look at him."
The nurse took up the white bundle, and laid it in the great bed,
beside Lady Adela. The little pale face was turned to her; for it was
a pale face, not a red one; and she lay looking at it. The child
opened its eyes: and, young though it was, one could see it had the
beautiful grey-blue eyes of its father. Her own brilliant yet soft
brown eyes grew fond as she gazed on the still face.
"Is he quite healthy, nurse?" she suddenly asked.
For the space of half a moment the nurse hesitated. "He was born quite
healthy, my lady; but I think he might get on better if you nursed
him. Some infants require their mother more than others do. I suspect
this one does."
She made no reply; except by an all but imperceptible toss of the
head: one can't toss effectively lying down. There had been some
trouble with Lady Adela on the score of nursing the child. Nothing
would induce her to do it. It would be well for her and well for the
little one, Dr. Dove had said. Adela would not listen. Her mother,
Lady Acorn, had treated her to a sharp scolding the day before,
Saturday, and told her she was "unnatural." All the same: Adela
indignantly demanded whether they thought she should give up the
season for any infant in the world. She was also obstinate on another
score--she would not allow, would not hear of, a nurse being sought to
supply her place. And there she lay this morning: her own head on one
pillow, the child's on another. One of the windows was open behind the
drawn blind, admitting a breath of the warm June air. On a stand at
Lady Adela's elbow lay a bouquet of sweet-scented, lovely hot-house
flowers.
"Little wee thing!" she fondly cried, stretching out her fingers to
stroke the baby's soft face, and its fragile hand that lay so still.
A tap at the door. The nurse answered it and admitted Mr. Grubb; she
herself then retiring to the next room, which opened from this one. He
came to the bed, bent over his wife and gently kissed her.
"Oh, don't!" she cried, turning her cheek ungraciously from him, just
as she had for the most part done ever since their wedding-day. It had
grown into a habit now.
"Adela," he whispered, biting his trembling lips to keep down the
pain, "should not this little treasure, our child, teach you to be
more of a loving wife to me?"
"I am very sorry it has come," she answered in fretful tones. "I'm
sure I shall be if they are going to worry me over it. You should hear
mamma go on:--and Grace, too!--with their old-fashioned notions."
"No one shall worry you," he fondly said. "Tell me, Adela, what you
would like his name to be?"
"His name!" she repeated, looking up in quick surprise. "Time enough
for that."
"Dr. Dove thinks it may be as well to have him baptized. He came into
the library just now, as he went out; and, in talking of one thing and
another, he chanced to mention this." _Chanced_ to mention this! Mr.
Grubb was cautious not to alarm his wife.
"The baby is not ill! Is it?"
"No, no, I trust not, Adela. It is a delicate little thing; all babies
are, perhaps: and--and it is as well, you know, to be on the safe
side."
"But I should like a christening. A grand, proper christening; to be
held when I get well."
"Of course. His being baptized now will make no difference to that. I
think it must be done, my dear."
"In this room, then; by my bedside. I should like to see it."
"You shall. And now, what name?"
Adela lay back on the pillow, her cheeks slightly flushed with their
delicate pink, fresh and pure as the hue of a seashell, her eyes cast
upwards in thought.
"I should like it to have papa's name--George."
"George Frederick?"
"Not Frederick: I don't care about the name. George--would you like
also your own name--Francis?" she broke off to ask. "George Francis?"
"Would you care to have it Francis?" he returned, his tone one of
emotion, bending over her until his face nearly touched hers.
She heard the tone, she saw the wet eyelashes shading the wonderful
grey eyes, with their yearning, earnest expression. It flashed into
her mind to remember how few men were his equals, in looks, in worth,
in loving indulgence to a rebellious wife. Adela was not quite proof
against her better nature. She was not always hard.
"Yes, I should; and he has your eyes," she whispered softly, in answer
to the question, her own sweet eyes lifted to her husband's.
"Adela," he breathed, his voice low with its agitation, "you do love
me a little! You surely do!"
"Just a very little--sometimes," she whispered in a half-saucy,
half-loving tone. And, when he let his face fall on hers, she for once
held it there, and welcomed the kisses from his lips.
It was all the work of the baby, his child and hers, thought he in his
glad heart. But no. Now and again, at rare intervals, Adela did feel a
spark of tenderness for him: though instead of letting it come to
fruit, of allowing him to see it, she forced it back to the coldness
she had taken up, and resolutely steeled her heart against him.
Illness had just now somewhat softened her spirit.
He went round the bed to the side where the baby lay, and looked at it
long and earnestly. The doctor had just told him that he did not feel
altogether easy on the score of the child; could not be sure that it
was likely to live.
"It is a pale little blossom, Adela. I thought babies were generally
red."
"Frightfully red. I have seen them."
"Well, we will get it baptized; and then----"
"What?" she cried--for he had stopped.
"And then, I was going to say, whether it lives or dies, it will be
safe in its Saviour's arms."
"But you do not _think_ it will die?" she cried, taking up some alarm.
"Oh, Francis, I should not like him to die, now he has come!"
He went round to soothe her, the word "Francis" causing his heart to
leap. For in a general way she persistently called him "Mr. Grubb,"
and not graciously either.
"My darling, I assure you there is no cause for alarm. So far as I
know, the child is not ill; it will, I hope, do well. Dr. Dove does
not think him particularly strong--but what can be expected of a
two-day-old baby?"
"True," answered Adela, feeling reassured again. "Francis, I do
believe there's mamma coming up! Yes, it is her voice. Mind you don't
tell her----"
Lady Acorn came swiftly in; and, what he was not to tell her, Mr.
Grubb never knew. She had dressed early for church, and came round to
see Adela on her way to it. Grace was with her. One of the daughters
had married during the past year, but it was not Grace. It was
Harriet; she had espoused a little Scotch laird, Sir Sandy MacIvor.
Peppery and red, in came the countess, for she had just heard
something that vexed her; Lady Grace, so calm and still, presented a
contrast to her vivacious mother.
"Well, and now what's this I hear about things not going on well?"
began Lady Acorn, subduing her voice with difficulty to the
requisition of a sick-room.
"I am going on very well, mamma--how do you mean?" returned Adela,
assuming the doubt must apply to herself. "I have made a famous
breakfast. They let me have an egg and some buttered toast."
"You are all right, Dove says--we have just met him," returned Lady
Acorn. "But he does not think the baby is. And you have yourself to
thank for it, Adela."
The pink tinge on Lady Adela's cheeks increased to rose colour, as she
armed herself to do battle with her mother.
"Dove says the baby wants its proper food; not that gruel stuff, or
milk-and-water, or whatever rubbish it is, that it is being dosed
with. And it is not too late for you to reform, Adela, and do what you
ought."
"It is too late," retorted Adela, with flaming cheeks. "And
if you begin about it again, mamma, you will make me ill.
Francis"--stretching out her arm for her husband--"don't let me be
worried. You promised me, you know."
With a loving word to his wife, a reassuring pressure of her hand,
which he kept in his, he turned to Lady Acorn, and spoke to her in a
low tone.
"Talk to her when she's better and more able to bear it!" repeated the
countess, taking up his words aloud. "Why, my good man, it would be
too late. And--you do not want to lose your child, I suppose!"
"Indeed, I do not. But, better lose my child than my wife."
"_She_ is well enough, and safe enough," spoke the mother, secure in
her superior knowledge. "Adela has been an indulged girl all her life,
and you, her husband, continue the indulgence. It is not good for her;
mark you that. With regard to this caprice of hers, the not
undertaking the poor sickly baby, you ought to hold her to her duty,
Mr. Grubb, and insist upon her fulfilling it."
He turned to his wife, his eyes unconsciously wearing a pleading look.
"If you would only suffer yourself to be persuaded, Adela! For the
child's sake."
Adela looked at them separately; at her husband, at her mother, at
Grace, standing with a cold and impassive countenance that did not
betoken approbation; and she took up an idea that they were in league
with one another to "hold her to her duty," and enforce obedience. Had
not the doctor talked to her that very morning: had not the nurse
subsequently presumed to hint at an opinion? Yes, they were all in
league together. Lady Adela turned rebellious, and flung her husband's
hand away with passionate anger.
"Why do you come into my room at all?" she exclaimed to him. "You know
I do not want you."
At that moment the nurse looked in from the adjoining apartment and
made a sign to Mr. Grubb. He obeyed it at once, taking no notice of
his wife or her cruel words.
"There! you have driven him away now!" cried Lady Acorn, on the eve of
an explosion: for she had not seen the summons of the nurse. "You will
never go to heaven, Adela, for your wickedness to your husband."
Adela did not make any answer: perhaps she was feeling a little sorry
in her heart: and there ensued a silence. The sweet-toned bells,
calling people to service, rang out on the air.
Mr. Grubb came in again. Feeling more alarmed in his heart at the
doctor's words than he allowed to appear, and anxious for the child,
he had written a note as the medical man left him, and sent it to a
young assistant clergyman whose lodgings were close by. He had now
called, on his way to church, ready to perform the ceremony at once if
it were wished for, and a servant had come up to inform the nurse.
"Mr. Wilkinson has called, and is asking after you," began Mr. Grubb
to his wife, voice and demeanour a model of quietness, not to say
indifference. "It struck me, Adela, that he might as well baptize the
child--as he is here. He has time to do it before service."
"What a hurry you are in!" she returned, ungraciously.
"As well take
the opportunity of his being here, Adela. And then it will be over."
"Oh, well, yes--if it has to be done," conceded she. "I'm sure there's
no necessity for it. Let Wilkinson come up."
Lady Acorn's sharp red nose turned purple. She had listened in
surprise. Saying nothing to Adela, she trotted into the dressing-room,
and shut the door.
"What's this, nurse--about the child being baptized?"
"I believe it is going to be done, my lady. Mr. Grubb has just said a
word to me."
"Is it so ill as that?"
"Well, no, I did not think it was," acknowledged the woman. "Dr. Dove
did not much like its look this morning; I saw that. I suppose he
spoke to Mr. Grubb more fully than to me."
"Do _you_ think it is in any danger?"
The nurse paused before replying. "One can never be quite sure of
these very young infants. When it was born, I thought it a nice
healthy little thing; yesterday it seemed quiet and peeky, and wailed
a bit; this morning it seems anything but well, and does not take its
food. Still, my lady, I can't say that it is in danger."
Lady Acorn nodded her head and her bonnet two or three times, as if
not satisfied with affairs in general, and went back to her daughter's
room.
The young clergyman came up; things were made ready; and they gathered
round in a group at the bedside, kneeling down for the short
preparatory prayers used in private baptism. When they arose, the
clergyman took the child in his arms from Grace, who had held it.
"Name this child."
"George," promptly spoke the mother from the bed, her tone giving
emphasis to the word. And Francis Grubb's face flushed as he heard it.
Ah, what pain was often his!
The short service was soon over. Mr. Wilkinson departed for his
church; Lady Acorn and Grace followed him. The nurse had gone back to
the dressing-room. Mr. Grubb stood by the bed in which the quiet child
had again been laid.
"I thought you were going to church?" said Lady Adela.
"Yes; directly." He wanted especially to go to church that day; to
return thanks to God for the mercy vouchsafed him in the preservation
of his wife. Though, indeed, he had not waited to be in church to do
that.
"How quiet the baby was all through it!" cried Adela.
"Very quiet. Too quiet, your mother says."
"Mamma says all sorts of things when she is in a temper, as you have
learnt by this time, and she is in one this morning," was Adela's
light, and not over-dutiful remark. Not but that it was true.
Mr. Grubb had taken the child in his arms, and stood looking down upon
it. Save that its eyes were open and that it breathed, it seemed still
enough for death. He did not understand babies, but he did think this
one was unnaturally quiet.
"Why are you looking at him so attentively?" asked Adela, by-and-by.
"I don't think he can be well."
"But--you don't think he is ill, do you?" returned she after a pause,
and speaking quickly.
"Adela, I do not know. He seems to me to have changed a little in the
last half-hour, since I first came in. Of course I may be mistaken."
"Suppose you send for Dr. Dove?"
"I can send if you like: he has only just gone, you know. The nurse
does not seem to be"--alarmed, he was about to say, but changed the
word--"anxious; so all may be well."
He put the baby in its place, and Lady Adela raised her head to look
at it. "He gets paler, I think," she observed; "and, as you say, he is
very, very quiet. Poor little thing! he has no strength yet."
"He cannot have much of that," remarked Mr. Grubb. "The nurse says she
cannot get him to take his food. If he does not, he must sink, Adela."
Their eyes met. There was certainly no reproach in his, only a settled
look of pain. Adela did not want her baby to die, and the fear of it
was beginning to trouble her; she was aware that, looking at matters
from _their_ point of view, her enemies', she might not be altogether
unconscious of meriting some reproach. Back she lay on the pillow
again, and burst into tears.
Mr. Grubb went round, bent down, and sheltered her head on his breast.
"I don't want him to die," she sobbed.
"Won't you try to save him?" he whispered in his tenderly persuasive
tones, as he held her face close to his own.
"But the trouble!--and the sacrifice. Oh, how cross and contrary the
world sometimes is!"
"Your own child and mine, Adela! It would be only a little sacrifice,
a little trouble. When he gets older, he will repay you love for
love."
A pause. "I suppose you will be very cross with me if I don't,
Francis."
"Am I ever cross with you! I should grieve for the child, if he died;
I should grieve for your grief, for I know you would feel it. Oh, my
darling, won't you try to save him? To do so must be right in God's
sight."
She cried silently for a minute longer, her wet cheek lying
contentedly against his. "Perhaps I will," she whispered in his ear.
"For _his_ sake, you know."
"For all our sakes, Adela."
"Put him nearer to me, please. I will look at him again--whether he
does seem ill. And how late you will be at church!"
"Not very: the bell is going yet," said Mr. Grubb. He placed the
infant where she could look at it closely; gave her a farewell kiss,
and departed. Adela rang for the nurse.
"You may throw away all the stupid gruel, nurse. I shall not let the
baby have any more of it."