Come Back
And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?--J. THOMPSON
Eleonora Vivian was striving to write her sorrowful announcements in
the deepening dusk of that autumn evening, while her father had shut
himself up after his vigil to sleep under Victor's care, when a
message came that Lady Rosamond Charnock earnestly begged to see
her. She stood with a face white and set, looking like a galvanized
corpse, as her lips framed the words, "He is dead!"
"No!" almost screamed Rosamond, snatching her hand. "No! But no
one can save him but you. Come!"
Without a word, Eleonora stepped into her own room, and came back in
cloak, hat, and veil.
"Right," said Rosamond, seizing her arm, and taking her to the pony-
carriage at the door, then explaining while driving rapidly: "He
has left off raving ever since his mother has been with him, but he
lies--not still but weak, not speaking, only moaning now and then.
His throat is so dreadful that it is hard to give him anything, and
he takes no notice of what one says, only if his mother takes the
spoon. He gets weaker, and Dr. Worth says it is only because there
is no impulse to revive him--he is just sinking because he can't be
roused. When I heard that, I thought I knew who could."
Eleonora's lips once moved, but no sound came from them, and
Rosamond urged her little pony to its best speed through the two
parks from one veiled house to another, fastened it to the garden-
door without calling any one, and led her silent companion up the
stairs.
Mrs. Poynsett felt a hand on her shoulder, and Rosamond said, "I
have brought our only hope," and Eleonora stood, looking at the
ghastly face. The yellow skin, the inflamed purple lips, the
cavernous look of cheeks and eyes, were a fearful sight, and only
the feeble incessant groping of the skeleton fingers showed life or
action.
"Put this into his hand," said Rosamond, and Lenore found the pebble
token given to her, and obeyed. At the touch, a quivering trembled
over face and form, the eyelids lifted, the eyes met hers, there was
a catching of the breath, a shudder and convulsive movement. "He is
going," cried his mother, but Anne started forward with drops of
strong stimulant, Rosamond rubbed spirit into his forehead, the
struggle lessened, the light flickered back into his brown eyes, his
fingers closed on hers. "Speak to him," said Mrs. Poynsett. "Do
you see her, Frankie dear?"
"Frank! dear Frank, here I am."
The eyes gazed with more meaning, the lips moved, but no sound came
till Anne had given another drop of the stimulant, and the terrible
pain of the swallowing was lessened. Then he looked up, and the
words were heard.
"Is it true?"
"It is, my dear boy. It is Lena."
"Here, Frank," as still the wistful gaze was unsatisfied; she laid
her hands on his, and then he almost smiled and tried to raise it to
his cheeks, but he was too weak; and she obeyed the feeble gesture,
and stroked the wasted face, while a look of content came over it,
the eyes closed, and he slept with his face against her hand, his
mother watching beside with ineffable gratitude and dawning hope.
Lenore was forgetting everything in this watching, but in another
quarter of an hour Anne was forced again to torture him with her
spoon; but life was evidently gaining ground, for though he put it
from him at first, he submitted at Lena's gesture and word. She
felt the increased warmth and power in his grasp, as he whispered,
"Lena, you are come back," then felt for the token.
Alas! that she must leave him. They knew she must not stay away
from her father; indeed, Rosamond had told no one of her attempt,
her forlorn hope. Lena tried to give assurances that she only went
because it could not be helped, and the others told him she would
return, but still he held her, and murmured, "Stay." She could not
tear herself away, she let him keep her hand, and again he dozed and
his fingers relaxed. "Go now, my dear," said Mrs. Poynsett, "you
have saved him. This stone will show him that you have been here.
You will come back to-morrow, I may promise him?"
"Yes, yes. In the morning, or whenever I can be spared," whispered
Lena, who was held for a moment to Mrs. Poynsett's breast, ere
Rosamond took her away again, and brought her once more down-stairs
and to the pony-carriage. There she leant back, weeping quietly but
bitterly over the shock of Frank's terribly reduced state, which
seemed to take from her all the joy of his revival, weeping too at
the cruel need that was taking her away.
"He will do now! I know he will," said Rosamond, happy in her bold
venture.
"Oh! if I could stay!"
"Most likely you would be turned out for fear of excitement. The
stone will be safer for him."
"Where did that come from?" asked Lenore, struck suddenly with
wonder.
"I wrote to Miss Strangeways, when I saw how he was always feeling,
feeling, feeling for it, like the Bride of Lammermoor. I told her
there was more than she knew connected with that bit of stone, and
life or death might hang on it. Then when I'd got it, I hardly knew
what to do with it, for if it had soothed the poor boy delirious,
the coming to his right mind might have been all the worse."
Rosamond kissed her effusively, and she dreamily muttered, "He must
be saved." There was a sort of strange mist round her, as though
she knew not what she was doing, and she longed to be alone. She
would not let Rosamond drive her beyond the Sirenwood gate, but
insisted on walking through the park alone in the darkness, by that
very path where Frank had ten months ago exchanged vows with her.
Rosamond turned back to the Hall. It was poor Cecil's pony-carriage
that she was driving, and she took it to the stable-yard, where her
entreaty had obtained it from the coachman, whom she rewarded by
saying, "I was right, Brown, I fetched his best doctor," and the old
servant understood, and came as near a smile as any one at Compton
could do on such a day.
"Is the carriage gone for Mr. Charnock?"
"Yes, my lady, I sent Alfred with it; I did not seem as if I could
go driving into Wil'sbro' on such a day."
Rosamond bade a kind farewell to the poor old coachman, and was
walking homewards, when she saw a figure advancing towards her,
strangely familiar, and yet hat and coat forbade her to believe it
her husband, even in the dusk. She could not help exclaiming,
"Miles!"
"Yes!" he said, coming to a standstill. "Are you Rosamond?"
"I am;--Anne is quite well and Frank better. Oh! this will do them
good! You know--"
"Yes--yes, I know," he said hastily, as if he could not bear to let
himself out to one as yet a stranger. "My mother?"
"Absorbed in Frank too much to feel it yet fully; Anne watches them
both. Oh! Miles, what she has been!" and she clasped his hand
again. "Let me call her."
And Rosamond opened the hall door just as some instinct, for it
could hardly have been sense of hearing, had brought Anne upon the
stairs, where, as Miles would have hurried up to her, she seemed, in
the light gray dress she still wore, to hover like some spirit
eluding his grasp like the fabled shades.
"Oh no! you ought not. Infection--I am steeped in it."
"Nonsense," and she was gathered into the strong grasp that was home
and rest to her, while Miles was weeping uncontrollably as he held
her in his arms. "O, Nannie, Nannie! I did not think it would be
like this. Why did they keep me till he was gone? No, I did not
get the telegram, I only heard at the station. They let me go this
morning, and I did think I should have been in time." He loosed
himself from her, and hung over the balustrade, struggling with a
strong man's anguish, then said in a low voice, "Did he want me?"
"He knew it was your duty," said Anne. "We all were thankful you
were kept from infection, and he said many little things, but the
chief was that he trusted you too much to leave any special
messages. Hark! that must be Mr. Charnock, Cecil's father! I must
go and receive him. Stay back, Miles, you can't now--you know my
room--"
He signed acquiescence, but lingered in the dark to look down and
see how, though Rosamond had waited to spare them this reception,
his wife's tall graceful figure came forward, and her kindly
comforting gestures, as the two sisters-in-law took the newcomer
into the drawing-room, and in another minute Anne flitted up to him
again. "That good Rosamond is seeing to Mr. Charnock," she said;
"will you come, Miles? I think it will do your mother good; only
quietly, for Frank knows nothing."
Mrs. Poynsett still sat by Frank. To Miles's eyes he was a fearful
spectacle, but to Anne there was hourly progress; the sunken
dejected look was gone, and though there was exhaustion, there was
rest; but he was neither sleeping nor waking, and showed no heed
when his brother dropped on one knee by his mother's side, put an
arm round her waist, and after one fervent kiss laid his black head
on her lap, hiding his face there while she fondled his hair, and
said, "Frank, Frankie dear, here's Miles come home." He did not
seem to hear, only his lips murmured something like 'Anne,' and the
tender hand and ready touch of his unwearied nurse at once fulfilled
his need, while his mother whispered, "Miles, she is our blessing!"
Poor Miles! Never had sailor a stranger, though some may have had
an even sadder, return. He had indeed found his wife, but hers was
the only hand that could make Frank swallow the sustenance that he
needed every half-hour, or who knew how to relieve him. Indeed,
even the being together in the sick-room was not long possible, for
Anne was called to the door. Mr. Charnock was asking to see Mrs.
Poynsett. Would Mrs. Miles come and speak to him?
Mr. Charnock was a small and restless man with white hair, little
black eyes, looking keener than they were, and a face which had
evidently been the mould of Cecil's. He was very kind, with a full
persuasion that the consolations of his august self must be
infallible; but this was coupled with an inclination to reprove
everybody for the fate that had left his cherished darling a
childless widow at two-and-twenty. To take him to Frank's room was
impossible, and he had to be roundly told so. Neither had he seen
his daughter. She was very weak, but recovering, and Grindstone,
whom he had seen and talked with, was as strenuous in deprecating
any excitement as he was nervous about it. So he could only be
disposed of in his room till dinner-time, when he came down prepared
to comfort the family, but fulfilled his mission rather by doing
such good as a blister, which lessens the force of the malady by
counter-irritation.
Julius came up to be with Miles, and to help them through the
dinner, the first which had been laid for many a long day. His
enquiry for Cecil was answered: "She is progressing as favourably
as there can be reason to expect, but I have not seen her. I follow
the judgment of her faithful Grindstone."
"Then she still knows nothing--"
"Of her bereavement? No. Her state does not yet warrant it. In
fact, I almost wish I had obeyed my original impulse, and brought
down Venn to make the melancholy communication."
To every one's surprise Anne bristled up, saying, "Why, here is
Julius, Mr. Charnock!"
Mr. Charnock bowed: "I understand that my Cousin Julius has been
engrossed by his wife's family and by the adjoining parish, the care
of which he has assumed."
Anne fairly coloured up, and exclaimed, "Julius has been our main-
stay and help in everything--I can't think how he has done it. He
has been here whenever we needed him, as well as at Wil'sbro', where
people have been dying everywhere, the poor Vicar and all--"
"Far be it from me to discourage philanthropy," said Mr. Charnock,
"only I would have it within due bounds. I am an old-fashioned
squire, of a school, it may be, antiquated, an advocate of the
parochial system; and I cannot help thinking that if this had been
closely adhered to by hot-headed young clergymen, my poor child
might not have been a childless widow at two-and-twenty."
Julius was too much tired and too sad-hearted to heed greatly what
Mr. Charnock said. It was so strange to have Miles in sight, yet to
feel so unable to be glad, that he scarcely heard anything. But
Anne again took up the cudgels: "Mr. Charnock, you don't suppose
that it was anything Julius did that brought this fever here. It
was going to the town-hall among the drains."
"My dear Mrs. Miles Charnock, I am sure your husband will agree with
me that sanitary arrangements and all connected with them are beyond
the range of ladies, who are happily exempted from all knowledge of
the subject."
Anne could not say aloud that she wished Cecil had held this
opinion, but she subsided, while Mr. Charnock prosed on, asking
questions about the arrangements, and seeming shocked to hear that
the funeral must be early the next day, this being one of the prime
injunctions of the doctors, and that the one had been asked to
attend it. It made him sigh again for his poor daughter, as he
handed Anne in to dinner. She did not stay half through it, for it
was again the time for feeding Frank. Miles went half way up-stairs
with her and returned, looking very wistful. Julius smiled at him,
"Your wife is too valuable, Miles; she is every one's property."
"It must be very gratifying to you," added Mr. Charnock, "to find
how example and superior society have developed the native qualities
your discernment detected in the charming young lady who has just
quitted us. It was a most commendable arrangement to send her to
enjoy the advantages of this place."
"I sent her to be a comfort to my mother," said Miles, bluntly.
"And so she has been," said Julius, fervently, but sotto voce.
"I understand," said Mr. Charnock; "and as I was saying, my dear
Cecil expressed from the first her desire to assist in forming her
stranger sister-in-law, and I am happy to see the excellent effect.
I should scarcely have guessed that she came from a colony."
"Indeed," Miles answered dryly.
Mr. Charnock might have it his own way, if he liked to think Anne
had been a Hottentot till Cecil reclaimed her.
The two brothers did feel something like joy when a message at last
informed Mr. Charnock that his daughter was awake and he might see
her. They drew nearer together, and leant against one another, with
absolute joy in the contact. They were singularly alike in outline,
voice, and manner, in everything but colouring, and had always been
one in spirit, except for the strong passion for adventure which had
taken Miles to sea, to find he had chosen his profession too young
to count the cost, and he held to it rather by duty than taste.
Slight as had been his seniority, poor Raymond had always been on a
sort of paternal pinnacle, sharing the administration with his
mother, while Miles and Julius had paired on an equality.
"Poor mother!" sighed Miles. "How is she to live without him?
Julius, did he leave any word for me with you?"
"Above all, that Anne is the daughter for my mother, and so she is."
"What, when this poor wife of Raymond's was said to be the superior
creature?"
"You see her adoring father," said Julius. "My Rose has necessarily
her own cares, but Anne has been my mother's silent aid and stay for
months, and what she has been in the present need no words can say.
My mother has had no power to take the direction of anything, her
whole being has been absorbed, first in Raymond, now in Frank; and
not only has Anne been Frank's constant nurse through these five
weeks of the most frightful fever and delirium I have seen at all
here, but she has had thought for all, and managed all the house and
servants. We could do comparatively little, with Rose's brother ill
at home, and the baby so young; besides, there have been eleven
cases in the parish; and there was Wil'sbro'--but Anne has been the
angel in the house."
"I knew--I knew she would be everything when once the first
strangeness was over; but, poor girl, her heart is in Africa, and it
has been all exile here; I could see it in every letter, though she
tried to make the best of it. If there had but been a child here!"
"I think you will find sufficient attachment to mother to weigh a
good deal with her. Poor Anne, she did think us all very wicked at
first, and perhaps she does still, but at least this has drawn us
all nearer together."
And then the brothers lowered their voices, and Miles heard the full
history of Raymond's last illness, with all the details that Julius
could have spoken of to none else, while the sailor's tears slowly
dropped through the hands that veiled his face. It was a great
deprivation to him that he might not look on Raymond's face again,
but the medical edict had been decisive, and he had come home to be
of use and not a burthen. As Julius told Rosamond, he only
thoroughly felt the blessing of Miles's return when he bade good
night and left the Hall, in peace and security that it had a
sufficient aid and stay, and that he was not deserting it.
Miles had proposed to send his wife to bed and take the night watch,
and he so far prevailed that she lay down in the adjoining room in
her dressing gown while he sat by Frank's side. She lay where she
could feast her eyes upon him, as the lamplight fell on his ruddy
brown cheek, black hair, and steady dark eye, so sad indeed, but so
full of quiet strength and of heedful alacrity even in stillness--a
look that poor Raymond, with all his grave dignity, had never worn.
That sight was all Anne wanted. She did not speak, she did not
sleep; it was enough, more than enough, to have him there. She was
too much tired, body and mind, after five weeks of strain, for more
than the sense that God had given her back what she loved, and this
was 'more than peace and more than rest.'