Esther longed to go to Acacia Villas during the week. She often felt on
the point of asking Mrs. Wyndham to give her leave, but then again she
felt afraid to raise suspicions; and besides her mistress was ill, and
clung to her. Although Esther listened with a kind of terror on the
following evening, the sound of the violin was not again heard.
Sunday came at last, and she could claim her privilege of going home.
She arrived at Acacia Villas with her heart in a tumult. How much she
would have to tell Wyndham! It was in her power to make him happy, to
relieve his heart of its worst load.
Cherry alone was in the kitchen when she arrived, and Cherry was in a
very snappish humor.
"No, Esther, I don't know where uncle is. He's not often at home now. I
hear say that Mr. Paget is very bad--gone in the head you know. They'll
have to put him into an asylum, and that'll be a good thing for poor
uncle. Take off your bonnet and cloak, Esther, and have a cup of tea
cosy-like. I'm learning one of Macaulay's Lays now for a recitation.
Maybe you'd hear me a few of the stanzas when you're drinking your
tea."
"Yes, Cherry, dear, but I want to go up to Brother Jerome first. I can
see him while you're getting the kettle to boil. I've a little parcel
here which I want him to take down to Sister Josephine to the Mission
House to-morrow."
Cherry laughed in a half-startled way.
"Don't you know?" she said.
"Don't I know what?"
"Why Brother Jerome ain't here; he went out on Tuesday evening and
never came home. I thought, for sure, uncle would have gone and told
you."
"Never came home since Tuesday? No, I didn't hear."
Esther sat down and put her hand to her heart. Her face was ghastly.
"I knew it," murmured Cherry under her breath. "She have gone and
fallen in love with a chap from one of them slums."
Aloud she said in a brisk tone:--
"Yes, he's gone. I don't suppose there's much in it. He were tired of
the attic, that's all. I sleep easy of nights now. No more pacing the
boards overhead, nor hack, hack, hack coughing fit to wake the seven
sleepers. What's the matter, Esther?"
"You are the most heartless girl I ever met," said Esther. "No, I don't
want your tea."
She tied her bonnet strings and left the house without glancing at her
crestfallen cousin.
* * * * *
That very same afternoon, as Mrs. Wyndham was sitting in her bedroom,
trying to amuse baby, who was in a slightly refractory humor, there
came a sudden message for her. One of the maids came into the room with
the information that Helps was downstairs and wanted to speak to her
directly.
Mrs. Wyndham had not left her room since Tuesday evening. There was
nothing apparently the matter with her, and yet all through the week
her pulse had beat too quickly, and a hectic color came and went on her
cheeks. She ate very little, she slept badly, and the watchful
expression in her eyes took from their beauty and gave them a strained
appearance. She did not know herself why she was watchful, or what she
was waiting for, but she was consciously nervous and ill at ease.
When the maid brought the information that Helps was downstairs, her
mistress instantly started to her feet, almost pushing the astonished
and indignant baby aside.
"Take care of Master Gerry," she said to the girl. "I will go and speak
to Mr. Helps; where is he?"
"I showed him into the study, ma'am."
Valentine ran downstairs; her eagerness and impatience and growing
presentiment that something was at hand increased with each step she
took. She entered the study, and said in a brusque voice, and with a
bright color in her cheeks:--
"Well?"
"Mr. Paget has sent me to you, Mrs. Wyndham," said Helps, in his
uniformly weak tones. "Mr. Paget is ill, and he wants to see you at
once."
Valentine stepped back a pace.
"My father!" she said. "But he knows I do not care to go to the house."
"He knows that fact very well, Mrs. Wyndham."
"Still he sent for me?"
"He did, madam."
"Is my father worse than usual?"
"In some ways he is worse--in some better," replied Helps in a dubious
sort of voice. "If I were you I'd come. Miss Valentine--Mrs. Wyndham, I
mean."
"Yes, Helps, I'll come; I'll come instantly. Will you fetch a cab for
me?"
"There's one waiting at the door, ma'am."
"Very well. I won't even go upstairs. Fetch me my cloak from the stand
in the hall, will you? Now I am ready."
The two got into the cab and drove away. No one in the house even knew
that they had gone.
When they arrived at Queen's Gate, Helps still took the lead.
"Is my father in the library?" asked the daughter.
"No, Mrs. Wyndham. Mr. Paget has been in his room for the last day or
two. I'll take you to him, if you please, at once."
"Thank you, Helps."
Valentine left her cloak in the hall, and followed the old servant
upstairs.
"Here's Mrs. Wyndham," said Helps, opening the door of the sick man's
room, and then shutting it and going away himself.
"Here's Valentine," said Mrs. Wyndham, coming forward. "I did not know
you were so ill, father."
He was dressed, and sitting in a chair. She went up to him and laid her
hand gravely on his arm.
"You have come, Valentine, you have come. Kneel down by me. Let me look
at you. Valentine, you have come."
"I have come."
Never did hungrier eyes look into hers.
"Kiss me."
She bent forward at once, and pressed a light kiss on his cheek.
"Don't do it again," he said.
He put up his hand and rubbed the place that her lips had touched.
"There's no love in a kiss like that. Don't give me such another."
"You are ill, father; I did not know you were so very ill," replied his
daughter in the quiet voice in which she would soothe a little child.
"I am ill in mind, Valentine, and sometimes my mind affects my body. It
did for the last few days. This afternoon I'm better--I mean I am
better in mind, and I sent for you that I might get the thing over."
"What thing, father?"
"Never mind for a moment or two. You used to be so fond of me, little
Val."
"I used--truly I used!"
The tears filled her eyes.
"I thought you'd give me one of the old kisses."
"I can't. Don't ask it."
"Is your love dead, child, quite dead?"
"Don't ask."
"My God," said the sick man; "her love is dead before she knows--even
before she knows. What a punishment is here?"
A queer light filled his eyes; Valentine remembered that whispers had
reached her with regard to her father's sanity. She tried again to
soothe him.
"Let us talk common-places; it does not do every moment to gauge one's
feelings. Shall I tell you about baby?"
"No, no; don't drag the child's name into the conversation of this
hour. Valentine, one of two things is about to happen to me. I am
either going to die or to become quite hopelessly mad. Before either
thing happens I have a confession to make."
"Confession? Father!"
Her face grew very white.
"Yes. I want to confess to you. It won't pain me so much as it would
have done had any of your love for me survived. It is right you should
know. I have not the least doubt when you do know you will see justice
done. Of late you have not troubled yourself much about my affairs.
Perhaps you do not know that I have practically retired from my
business, and that I have taken steps to vest the whole concern
absolutely in your hands. When you know all you will probably sell it;
but that is your affair. I shall either be in my grave or a madhouse,
so it won't concern me. If any fragment of money survives
afterwards--I mean after you have done what you absolutely consider
just--you must hold it in trust for your son. Now I am ready to begin.
What is the matter, Valentine?"
"Only that you frighten me very much. I have not been quite--quite well
lately. Do you mind my fetching a chair?"
"I did not know you were ill, child. Yes, take that chair. Oh,
Valentine, for you my love was true."
"Father, don't let us go back to that subject. Now I am ready. I will
listen. What have you got to say?"
"In the first place, I am perfectly sane at this moment."
"I am sure of that."
"Now listen. Look away from me, Valentine, while I speak. That is all I
ask."
Valentine slightly turned her chair; her trembling and excitement had
grown and grown.
"I am ready. Don't make the story longer than you can help," she said
in a choked voice.
"Years and years ago, child, before you were born, I was a happy man. I
was honorable then and good; I was the sort of man I pretended to be
afterwards. I married your mother, who died at your birth. I had loved
your mother very dearly. After her death you filled her place. Soon you
did more than fill it; you were everything to me; you gave early
promise of being a more spirited and brilliant woman than your mother.
I lived for you; you were my whole and entire world.
"Before your birth, Valentine, a friend, a great friend of mine, left
me a large sum of money. He was dying at the time he made his will; his
wife was in New Zealand; he thought it possible that she might soon
give birth to a child. If the child lived, the money was to be kept in
trust for it until its majority. If it died it was to be mine
absolutely. I may as well tell you that my friend's wife was a very
worthless woman, and he was determined she should have nothing to say
to the money. He died--I took possession--a son was born. I knew this
fact, but I was hard pressed at the time, and I stole the money.
"My belief was that neither the child nor the mother could ever trace
the money. Soon I was disappointed. I received a letter from the boy's
mother which showed me that she knew all, and although not a farthing
could be claimed until the lad came of age, then I must deliver to him
the entire sum with interest.
"From that moment my punishment began. The trust fund, with interest,
would amount to eighty thousand pounds. Even if I made myself a beggar
I could not restore the whole of this great sum. If I did not restore
it at the coming of age of this young man, I should be doomed to a
felon's cell, and penal servitude. I looked into your face; you loved
me then; you worshipped me. I idolized you. I resolved that disgrace
and ruin should not touch you.
"Helps and I between us concocted a diabolical plot. Helps was like wax
in my hands; he had helped me to appropriate the money; he knew my
secrets right through. We made the plot, and waited for results. I took
you into society, I wanted you to marry. My object was that you should
marry a man whom you did not love. Wyndham came on the scene; he seemed
a weak sort of fellow--weak, pliable--passionately in love with
you--cursedly poor. Did you speak, Valentine?"
"No; you must make this story brief, if you please."
"It can be told in a few more words. I thought I could make Wyndham my
tool. I saw that his passion for you blinded him to almost everything.
Otherwise, he was the most selfless person I ever met. I saw that his
unselfishness would make him strong to endure. His overpowering love
for you would induce him to sacrifice everything for present bliss.
Such a combination of strength and weakness was what I had been
looking for. I told Helps that I had found my man. Helps did not like
it; he had taken an insane fancy for the fellow. What is the matter,
Valentine? How you fidget."
"You had better be brief. My patience is nearly exhausted."
"I am very brief. I spoke to Wyndham. I made my bargain; he was to
marry you. Before marriage, with the plausible excuse that the
insurance was to be effected by way of settlement, I paid premiums for
insurances on the young man's life for eighty thousand pounds. I
insured his life in four offices. You were married. He knew what he had
undertaken, and everything went well, except for one cursed fact--you
learned to love the fellow. I nearly went mad when I saw the love for
him growing into your eyes. He was to sail on board the _Esperance_. He
knew, and I knew that he was never coming back. He was to feign death.
Our plans were made carefully. I was to receive a proper certificate,
and with that in my hand I could claim the insurance money. Thus he was
to save you and me from dishonor, which is worse than death.
"All our plans were laid. I waited for news. Valentine, you make me
strangely nervous. What is the matter with you, child? Are you going to
faint?"
"No--no--no! Go on--go on! Don't speak to me--don't address me again by
my name. Just go on, or I----Oh, God, I am a desperate woman! Go on, I
must hear the end."yourefforts
As Valentine grew excited her father became cool and quiet: he waited
until she had done speaking, then dropping his head he continued his
narrative in a dreary monotone.
"I waited for news--it was long in coming. At last it arrived on the
day my grandson was born. Wyndham had outwitted me. He could not bear
the load of a living death. Shame on him. He could take his bliss, but
not his punishment. He leaped overboard the _Esperance_--he committed
suicide."
"What? No, never. Don't dare to say such words."
"I must say them, although they are cruel. He committed suicide, and
then he came to haunt me; he knew that his blood would rest on my soul;
he knew how best to torture me for what I had done to him."
"One question. Was the insurance money paid?"
"Was it? Yes. I believe so. That part seemed all of minor importance
afterwards. But I believe it was paid. I think Helps saw to it."
"You believe that my husband committed suicide, and yet you allowed the
insurance offices to pay."
"What of that? No one else knew my thoughts."
"As you say, what of that? Is your story finished?"
"Nearly. I lost your love, and for the last three years I have been
haunted by Wyndham. I see his shadow everywhere. Once I met him in the
street. A few nights ago he came into the library and confronted me; he
spoke to me and tried to touch me; he pretended he was not dead."
"What night was that?"
Valentine's voice had changed; there was a new ring in it. Her father
roused himself from his lethargic attitude to look into her face. "What
night did my husband come to you?"
"I forget--no, I remember. It was Tuesday night."
"Did he carry a violin? Speak--did he?"
"He carried something. It may have been a violin. Do they use such
instruments in the other world? He was a spirit, you know, child. How
queer, how very queer you look!"
"I feel queer."
"He wanted me to touch him, child, but I wouldn't. I was too knowing
for that. If you touch a spirit you must go with him. No, no, I knew a
thing worth two of that. He went on telling me he was alive. But I knew
better, he couldn't take me in. Valentine, everything seems so far
away. Valentine, I am faint, faint. Ah, there he is again by the door.
Look! No, he must not touch me--he must not!"
Valentine glanced round. There was no one present. Then she rang the
bell. It was answered by the old housekeeper.
"Mrs. Marsh, my father is ill. Will you give him some restorative at
once? And send for the doctor, if necessary. I must go, but I'll come
back if possible to-night."
She left the room without glancing at the sick man, who followed her to
the door with his dim eyes. She went downstairs, put on her cloak and
left the house.
She had to walk a little distance before she met a hansom, and one or
two people stared at the tall, slim figure, which was still young and
girlish, but which bore on its proud face such a hard expression, such
a burning defiant light in the eyes. Valentine soon reached home.
Everything was in a whirl in her brain. Esther Helps was standing on
the steps. She flew to Esther, clasped her hands in a grasp of iron,
and said in a husky choked voice:--
"Esther, my husband is alive!"
"He is, dear madam, he is, and I have come to take you to him!"
"Oh, Esther, thank God!"
"Come indoors, madam, you have not a moment to lose. We will keep that
cab, if you please. I have only just come back. I was going to seek
you. Stay one moment, Mrs. Wyndham. You are in black; will you put on
your white dress--the one you wore on Tuesday night."
"Oh, what does it matter? Let me go to him."
"Little things sometimes matter a great deal; he saw you last in your
white dress."
"He was really there on Tuesday night?"
"He was there. Come, I will fly for the dress and put it on you."
She did so. Valentine put her cloak over it, and the two drove away in
the hansom. Valentine had no ears for the direction given to the
cabman.
"I am in heaven," she said once, under her breath. "He lives. Now I can
forgive my father!"
"Madam, your husband is very ill."
Valentine turned her great shining eyes towards Esther.
"All the better. I can nurse him," she said, with a smile, and then she
pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and did not speak another
word.
The cab drew up at one of the entrances to St. Thomas' Hospital.