On the following night, as Esther was preparing to go to bed, the
nursery door was suddenly opened and Mrs. Wyndham entered.
"Esther," she said, "I want baby."
"He is sound asleep, madam. You would not wake him?"
"He can be moved without disturbing him. I want him to sleep in my bed.
I want his company. My little child?"
She was trembling. She caught hold of the rails of the baby's cot.
"Little children are sacred innocent things, aren't they, nurse? I want
my little child to-night."
"Strange," thought Esther. "I listened with all my might, and I could
not hear anything except the usual barrel organs and German bands in
the street. But she has heard something, there isn't a doubt. How queer
and shaken she looks. Poor young thing, I do pity her; she can't help
thinking she is a widow when she is a wife."
Aloud Esther complied with Mrs. Wyndham's request cheerfully.
"Certainly, madam. The child will never know that we are moving him. If
you will go on to your room, ma'am, I'll follow with master baby."
Mrs. Wyndham turned away at once.
When the nurse entered her mistress' room with the child, there was a
soft nest made in the big bed to receive him, and the fire in the grate
cast a cheerful glow over everything.
"Let me kiss him," said the mother. "My darling, my beloved. I'll take
him into my arms presently, nurse, and then all fears will fly away."
"Fears, Mrs. Wyndham? No one ought to fear in this cheerful room."
"Perhaps not, nurse; but sometimes I am superstitious--painfully so.
Yes, put baby there. Is he not a handsome boy? Although I could wish he
were more like his father."
"He seems to feature your sister-in-law, Miss Lilias Wyndham, madam."
"How queer that you should find that out! He is not like what Lilias is
now, but they all say she was just such another little child. Nurse, I
hate high winds--there is going to be a storm to-night."
"Would you like me to sleep on the sofa in your room, madam?"
"Yes, no--yes, oh, yes."
"I will bring a shawl, and wrap it round me and lie down."
"No, don't, nurse, don't. I must not yield to this nameless thing. I
must--I will be brave. And the child, my own little child, will comfort
me."
"What is the nameless thing, dear madam?"
"I cannot--I won't speak of it. Esther, are you--are you _going_?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Wyndham. I mean, not yet."
"That is right. Take this chair; warm yourself. Esther. I don't look on
you as an ordinary nurse. Long ago I used to be so much interested in
you."
"It was very kind of you, madam; young ladies, as a rule, have no time
to interest themselves in poor girls."
"But I had plenty of time, and did interest myself. My father was
always so much attached to yours. I was an only child and you were an
only child. I used to wonder if you and your father cared for each
other as passionately, as loyally, as I and my father cared."
"I don't know that, madam; we did love each other. Our love remains
unchanged. True love ought never to change, ought it?"
"It ought never to change," repeated Mrs. Wyndham. Her face grew white,
her lips trembled. "Sometimes true love is killed by a blow," she said
suddenly. Then her expression changed again, she tried to look
cheerful. "I won't talk any more. I am sleepy, and that nest near baby
looks inviting. Good-night, dear nurse."
"Let me undress you, ma'am. Let me see you in your nest beside the
child."
"No. Go now. Or rather--rather--_stay a moment or two longer_. Esther,
had you ever the heartache?"
"There are a few women, madam, who don't know what the heartache
means."
"I suppose that is true. Once I knew nothing about it. Esther, you are
lucky never to have married."
Esther Helps made no response.
"To marry--to love--and then to lose," dreamily murmured Mrs. Wyndham.
"To love, and then to lose. Esther, it is a dreadful thing to be a
widow, when you are young."
"But the widow can become a wife again," suddenly replied Esther.
The words seemed forced from her lips; she was sorry the moment she had
uttered them.
Mrs. Wyndham opened her big eyes wide.
"I suppose the widows who can become wives again have not lost much,"
she responded in a cold voice.
Then she moved over to the bedside and began to undress.
A few moments later Esther left her. She felt puzzled, perplexed,
unhappy. She had no key to the thoughts which were passing in her
mistress' mind. Her impression was that Valentine loved Carr, but felt
a certain shame at the fact.
The next evening the vicar of St. Jude's called again. He came
hurriedly to the door, ran up the stairs without being shown the way,
and entered Valentine's presence with a brisk step. Esther leant over
the banisters to watch him as he entered the drawing-room. It was
half-past nine when he arrived; he had been conducting a prayer meeting
and was later than usual.
The drawing-room door was shut on the two, and Esther, who had been
sitting with the child, now crept softly downstairs and entered a small
bedroom at the back of the drawing-room. This bedroom also looked on
the street. It was the room occupied by Lilias when she visited her
sister-in-law. Esther closed the door softly behind her. The room was
dark. She went up to the window and looked eagerly up and down the
gaily-lighted street.
She could distinguish no words, but the soft murmur of voices came to
her through the drawing-room wall.
"You are better to-night?" said Carr, in a cheery, confident tone;
"although you took it upon yourself to disobey me."
"I could not go to the prayer-meeting. I could not."
"Well, well, you must act as you think best; only I don't think staying
at home is the best thing for you."
"Oh, I shan't get over-nervous; and Lilias is coming to me next week."
Carr's eyes brightened.
"That is good," he said. "Well, I must not stay. I just looked in for a
moment. I knew you would not let these superstitious fears get the
better of you. Good-night."
He held out his hand. Valentine put hers behind her.
"No," she said; "you always stay until past ten. It was at ten o'clock
last night----" She trembled--more words would not come.
"And I will stay until past ten to-night," responded Carr resuming his
seat. "Now, don't look at the clock. Turn your thoughts to me and my
affairs. So Miss Wyndham comes here next week?"
"She does."
"Shall I put everything to the test, then?"
Valentine's face grew bright.
"Oh how earnestly I wish you would," she cried, clasping her hands.
"Do you, indeed? Then you must think there is some chance for me. The
fact is, Mrs. Wyndham, I am the veriest coward that ever breathed. If I
win, I win for ever. I mean that I am made, body, soul, and spirit. If
I lose, I think morally I shall go under. A main spring will be broken
which has kept me right, kept my eyes looking upwards ever since I knew
your sister Lilias."
"But even if she refuses you, you will live on," said Valentine, in a
dreamy voice. "We often have to live on when the main spring is broken.
We creep instead of running, that is all."
"Now you are getting gloomy again. As your spiritual adviser I cannot
permit it. You have put a daring thought into my head, and you are
bound to think of me, not yourself, at present. Will you sing something
to me before I go? You know Lilias' song of triumph; you taught it to
her. Sing it to me to-night, it will be a good omen."
Valentine hesitated for a moment. Then she went over to the piano and
opened it. Her fingers touched one or two chords tremblingly. Suddenly
she stopped, her face worked. She looked at Carr with a piteous
expression.
"I cannot sing the triumph song," she said, "it is not in me. I should
do it no justice. This must take its place. But it is not for you,
remember. Oh, no, I pray God never for you. Listen, don't scold me
afterwards. Listen."
Her fingers ran over the keys, her voice swelled and filled the room:--
"The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine.
Oh, Keith of Ravelston.
The sorrows of thy line!
Ravelston, Ravelston.
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill.
And through the silver meads.
Ravelston, Ravelston.
The stile beneath the tree.
The maid that kept her mother's kine.
The song that sang she.
She sang her song, she kept her kine.
She sat beneath the thorn.
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring.
His belted jewels shine--
O, Keith of Ravelston.
The sorrows of thy line!"
"Now, good-night," said Valentine, springing to her feet. "Don't
question me about the song. I sang it, but I cannot speak of it. The
clock is about to strike. It is your hour for farewell. Oh, yes, I wish
you all luck--all luck. The clock is striking----! Oh, what a noise
there is in the street!"
"What a silence you mean," said Carr, as he took her hand.
It was true. The thunderous rattle of a heavy waggon, the discordant
notes of a brass band, the din of a hurdy-gurdy frightfully out of
tune, suddenly stopped. It was as if a wave of sound had been arrested,
and in the quiet floated up the passionate wail of a soul. There are
no other words to describe what the sound meant. It had a voice and an
interpretation. It was beautiful, but its beauty was torture. Trembling
in every limb, Valentine sprang away from Carr, flew to one of the
French windows, wrested it open, and stepped on to the balcony. She was
in white, and the people in the street could see her. She pressed to
the front of the balcony and looked eagerly up and down.
The wailing of the lost soul grew more feeble--more faint. It stopped.
There was a pause of half a minute, and then the waggon lumbered on,
and the hurdy-gurdy crashed out its discordant notes.
"I saw nothing," said Carr, who had followed Mrs. Wyndham on to the
balcony and now led her back to the drawing-room. "I saw nothing," he
repeated. "I mean, I did not see the man who played."
"But you heard?"
"Oh, yes, I heard."
"You could not see. That was spirit music. My husband played. Don't
speak to me; don't touch me; you tried to argue me out of my belief
last night, but even _you_ heard to-night. My husband has come back in
the spirit, and he has played for me. Only _he_ knows that air--only he
in all the world. That was 'Waves.' Once I told you the story of 'Music
waves.'"
She did not faint, she crouched down by the fire; but no face to be
alive could be whiter than hers.
"What is the matter, Mr. Carr?" she said suddenly. "Why cannot my
husband's spirit rest? They say that those spirits that are hurried out
of life before their time cannot rest. O, tell me what you think. O,
tell me what it means. You heard the music yourself to-night."
"I did. I certainly heard it."
"And at the same hour. When the clock struck."
"That is a mere coincidence, not worth considering."
"I don't believe in its being a coincidence."
She beat her hands passionately together.
"The thing was planned--he planned it. He will come again to-morrow
night when the clock strikes ten."
Again she beat her hands together; then she covered her face with them.
Carr looked at her anxiously. The weird soft wailing music had affected
even his nerves. Of course he did not believe in the supernatural
element, but he was touched by the distress of the woman who was
crouching at his feet. This mental unrest, this superstitious terror,
might have a disastrous effect. He must do his utmost to check it. If
necessary he must even be cruel to be kind.
"Mrs. Wyndham," he said, "you must go away to-morrow; you must go into
the country for a few days."
"I will not. I won't stir a step."
"You ought, your nerves are shaken. There is nothing for shaken nerves
like change of air. Go to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and talk to Lilias.
She, too, loved your husband; she will sympathize, but she will not
lose sight of common-sense."
"I will not stir from here."
"I think for your child's sake you ought. The child belongs to your
husband as well as you, to your dead husband. The child is fatherless
as far as this world is concerned. You have no right--it is very, very
wicked of you to do anything to make him motherless."
"What do you mean? Why do you speak to me in that tone? I don't deserve
it."
"You do."
"I think you are cruel."
Valentine's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"What do you mean by saying that I will leave baby motherless?"
"I mean that if you encourage the fancy which has now taken possession
of you you are extremely likely to lose your senses--to become, in
short, insane. How can you train your child if you are insane?"
Valentine shuddered.
"But I did hear the music," she said. "The old story music that he only
played. How can I doubt the evidence of my senses? Last night at ten
o'clock I heard 'Waves' played on the violin, my husband's favorite
instrument--the melody which he made, the harmony and melody with all
the passion and its story, which he made about himself and me. No one
else could produce those sounds. I heard them last night at ten
o'clock, you were here, but you heard nothing. To-night there was
silence in the street, and we both heard--we both heard."
"I certainly heard some very melancholy music."
"Played on the violin?"
"Yes, played on the violin."
"In short, you heard 'Waves.'"
"I heard something which I never heard before. I cannot tell the name."
"No. What you heard was 'Waves,' in other words the cry of a soul."
"Mrs. Wyndham, get up. Give me your hand. Look me in the face. Now,
that is better. I am going to talk common-sense to you. You have been
from the first impressed with the idea that foul play was done to your
husband. For a time I own I shared your apprehension. I discovered one
or two things in connection with his death which far more than your
words inclined me to this belief. Since I came to London I have thought
a great deal over the matter. Last week a lucky chance brought me in
communication with Captain Jellyby of the _Esperance_. Ah, you start. I
saw him. I think you would like me to bring him here some night. He
entered into minute particulars of Wyndham's last days. He would like
to tell you the story himself. I can only say that a fairer story could
not be recorded of any man. He was beloved by every one on board the
ship. 'We all loved him,' said Captain Jellyby. 'Emigrants, passengers,
sailors, all alike. Sir,' he said, 'when Mr. Wyndham was washed over,
there wasn't a dry eye on board. But if ever a man humbly and
cheerfully went forth to meet his Creator, he was the man, sir. He met
his death trying to help the man at the wheel. Bless his heart, he
spent all his life trying to help other people.'"
Valentine was silently crying.
"You comfort me," she said; "you comfort me much. Go on."
"That is all, my dear friend, that is all. It set my mind at rest with
regard to your husband. It ought to set yours at rest also. He is a
glorious, and happy spirit in heaven now. Is it likely that he would
come back from there to frighten you for no object or purpose? No, you
must dismiss the idea from your mind."
"But the music--the unearthly music."
"Played by a strolling musician with a talent for the thing. That was
all."
"His air and mine--'Waves.' The air that no one else knew, that was
never written down."
"You imagined the likeness to the air you mention. Our imaginations
play strange tricks with us. The air played to-night was of a very
minor character, and had notes in common with the one your husband
composed. Hence a fleeting resemblance. It is more natural and in
accordance with sense to believe this than to suppose that your husband
came back from heaven to torture you. Now, good-night. You are good.
You will try and be brave. I ask you to be brave for the sake of your
noble husband's child."