WHERE THE BURDEN IS HEAVIEST.
The deep-toned organ pealed through the empty manor-house in the gloom
of a rainy summer afternoon. Not once in the long dull day had the sun
looked through the low, dull sky; and Mrs. Wornock, always peculiarly
sensible of every change in the atmosphere, felt that life was just a
little sadder and emptier than it had been for her in all the long slow
years of a lonely widowhood.
What had she to live for? The brief romance of her girlhood was all
she had ever known of the love which for most women means a life
history. For her it had been only the beginning of a chapter--ending in
self-sacrifice, as blind and piteously faithful to duty as Abraham's
obedience to the Divine command. And after all those years of fond
fidelity to a memory, she had seen her lover again--once for a few
minutes--by stealth, through an open window, undreamt of by him.
What had she to live for? A son whose restless spirit would not allow
him to be her companion and friend--in whose feverish life she was of
so little value that he could leave her for a pilgrimage to Central
Africa, with a brief good-bye; as if it were a small thing for mother
and son to live with half the world between them. It seemed to her
sometimes, brooding upon the past year, that Allan Carew had cared for
her more, was more in sympathy with her, than that very son--as if some
hereditary sentiment, some mystic link with the father who had loved
her, brought the son nearer to her heart.
And now they were both so distant that she thought of them almost as
mournfully as if they were dead. Dark clouds of trouble hung over their
forms, as she tried to see them in that far-off world, ever impending
dangers which haunted her in her dreams, until the words of St. Paul
burnt themselves into her brain, and she would awake from some dream of
horror, hearing her own voice, with that awful sound of the dreamer's
voice, repeating--
"In journeyings ... in perils of waters, in perils of robbers ... in
perils by the heathen ... in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the
sea ... in weariness and painfulness ... in hunger and thirst."
* * * * *
Suzette had been absent for nearly a year, and Suzette's absence had
increased the sense of loss and deepened the gloom of the rambling old
house, and those picturesque gardens, where the girl's bright face and
graceful figure flitting in and out from arch to arch, between the
walls of ilex or yew, had been a living gladness that seemed only a
natural accompaniment to spring flowers, sulphur butterflies, and the
deepening purple of the beeches, in the joyous awakening of the year.
But Suzette had returned from her travels nearly a year since, and
had taken up the thread of life again, and with it her old friendship
for Mrs. Wornock, feeling herself secure from the risk of all violent
emotions in her friend's house, now that Geoffrey was a good many
thousand miles away.
Suzette had brought comfort to the lonely life. Together she and Mrs.
Wornock had read books of African travel, explored maps, and followed
the route of the travellers. General Vincent was a fellow of the
Geographical Society, and the monthly report issued by that society
kept his daughter informed of the latest progress in the history of
exploration, while the Society's library was at her disposal for
books of travel. It seemed to Suzette in that quiet year after her
home-coming that she read nothing but African books, and began almost
to think in the Swahili language--picking up words in every chapter,
till they became as familiar as French phrases in a society novel.
She was quieter than of old, people said: less interested in golf:
caring nothing for a church bazaar which was the one absorbing topic
in that particular summer; wrapped up in her musical studies, and
practising a great deal too much, as officious friends informed General
Vincent.
"Suzette must do what she likes," he said; "she has always been my
master."
But egged on by the same officious friends, he bought his daughter a
horse, and insisted on her riding with him, and they went for long
rides over the downs, and sometimes were lucky enough to fall in with
the hawks, and see a few innocent rooks slaughtered high up in the blue
of an April sky.
He shrank from questioning his daughter about the young men who
were gone. She had been very ill--languid, and white, and wan, and
spiritless--when he carried her off to Germany, and had required a
good deal of patching up before she became anything like the happy,
active, high-spirited Suzette of the Indian hills--who had charmed
everybody, old and young, by her bright prettiness and joy in life.
German waters, German woods and hills, followed by a winter on the
Riviera, and a long holiday by the Italian lakes, had set her up again;
and General Vincent was content to wait till time should unravel the
mystery of a maiden's heart.
"Those young men will come back," he told his sister; "and then I
shouldn't wonder if Geoffrey were to renew his offer--and to be
accepted; for since she gave Allan the sack without any provocation, I
conclude it's Geoffrey she cares for."
"I wash my hands of her and her love affairs," Mrs. Mornington retorted
waspishly. "She might have married Allan--a young man who adored
her--and a very good match. _Very_ good now his father's gone. She
jilted Allan--one would suppose solely because she was in love with
Geoffrey. Oh dear no! She refuses Geoffrey, and sends two excellent
young men--each an only son, with a stake in the country--to bake
themselves black in a wilderness where they will very likely be eaten
after they are baked. I have no patience with her."
"Don't be cross, Molly. There's no use worrying about her lovers. Thank
God she has recovered her health, and is my own sweet little girl
still."
"Sweet little fiddlestick, coquette, weathercock, jilt! That's what she
is."
"Take my word for it. Wornock will come back again when he's tired of
Africa--and propose again."
"Not if he has a grain of sense. Young men don't come back to girls who
treat them badly."
The General took things easily. He had his daughter, and his daughter
would be comfortably provided for when his day was done. He was more
than content with the present arrangement of things; and he felt that
Providence had been very good to him.
* * * * *
Suzette came in upon Mrs. Wornock's loneliness that rainy afternoon
like a sudden burst of sunlight; so fresh, after her walk through the
rain, so daintily neat in the pretty blue-and-white pongee frock which
her waterproof cloak had preserved from all harm.
"I did not think you would come to-day, dear!"
"Did you think the rain would frighten me? The walk was lovely in spite
of a persistent drizzle, the woods are so fresh and sweet, and every
little insignificant wild-flower sparkles like a jewel. I have a tiny
bit of news for you."
"Not bad news?"
"No, I hope not. Lady Emily is at Beechhurst. She came late last night.
The cook at the Vicarage saw her arrive, and Bessie Edgefield told me
this morning. Do you think it means that Allan is expected home?"
"And Geoffrey with him? Would to God it meant that! I am getting very
weak Suzette, weary to death. My anxiety is like a wearing, physical
pain. It is so long since we have heard anything of them."
"Yes, it seems very long!" Suzette murmured, soothingly.
"It _is_ very long--quite four months since I had Geoffrey's last
letter!"
"Do you think it is really as much as that?"
"I know it is--and there is the post-mark to convince you," glancing at
the secretaire where she kept those treasured letters. "Geoffrey seldom
dates a letter. I have read this last one again and again and again.
They were at Ujiji--the place seemed almost civilized, as he described
it; but they were to cross the lake later on--the great lake, like an
inland sea--to cross in an open boat. How do I know that they were not
drowned in that crossing? He told me the natives were afraid of going
on the lake in a storm. And he is so foolhardy, so careless of himself!
He may have over-persuaded them----"
"Hark!" cried Suzette, "a visitor! What a day for callers to choose!
They must really wish to find you at home."
There was the usual delay caused by the leisurely stroll of a footman
from the servants' quarters to the hall-door, and then the door of the
music-room was opened, and the leisurely butler announced Lady Emily
Carew.
Lady Emily shook hands with Mrs. Wornock, with a clinging, almost
affectionate air, and allowed herself to be led to an easy-chair
near the hearth where some logs were burning, to give a semblance of
cheerfulness amidst the prevailing grey of the outside world. There
was a marked contrast in the lady's greeting of Suzette, to whom she
vouchsafed no handshake, only the most formal salutation. The mother of
an only son, whom she deems perfection, cannot easily forgive the girl
who goes near to breaking his heart.
"I was so surprised to hear you were at Beechhurst," said Mrs. Wornock.
"I hope you bring good news--that the travellers are nearing home."
Lady Emily could hardly answer for her tears.
"Indeed, no," she said piteously. "My news is very bad; I could
not rest at home. I thought you might have heard lately from Mr.
Wornock----"
"My latest letter is four months old."
"Ah, then you can tell me nothing. Allan has written later. He wrote
the night before they left Ujiji----"
"But the news--the bad news? What was it?"
"Very, very bad. They are alone now--our sons--alone among savages--in
an unknown country--friendless, helpless. What is to become of them?"
"But Mr. Patrington--surely he has not deserted them?"
"No, no, poor fellow; he would never have deserted them. He is dead.
He died of fever. The news of his death was cabled to his brother by
Allan. The message came from Zanzibar; but he died on his way from
the Lake to Kassongo. That was Allan's message. Died of fever on the
journey to Kassongo. Allan's last letter was from Ujiji. They were
all well when he wrote, and in good spirits, looking forward to the
journey down the Congo; and now their leader is dead, the man who knew
the country; and they are alone, helpless, and ignorant."
"They are men," Suzette flashed out indignantly, her eyes sparkling
with tears. "They will fight their way through difficulties like men
of courage and resource. I don't think you need be frightened, Mrs.
Wornock; nor you, Lady Emily."
"It is very good of you to console me, Miss Vincent," replied Allan's
mother; "but if you had known your mind a little better, my son need
never have gone to Africa."
"I am sorry you should think me so much to blame; but what would you
have thought of me if I had not told Allan the truth?"
"Well, you have sent him away--and he is dead, perhaps--dead in the
wilderness--of fever, like poor Cecil Patrington."
Suzette bowed her head, and was silent under this reproof. She could
feel for the mother, and was content to bear unmerited blame. She went
to the organ, and occupied herself in putting away the scattered
sheets of music, with that deft neatness which, in her case, was an
instinct.
The two mothers sat side by side, and talked, and wept together. They
could but speculate upon the condition and the whereabouts of the
wanderers. Those few words from Zanzibar told them so little. Cecil
Patrington's elder brother had written to Lady Emily enclosing a copy
of the message, with a polite hope that her son would find his way
safely home. There was no passionate grief among his relations at home
for the wanderer who lay in his final halting-place under the great
sycamore. Long years of absence had weakened family ties; and the
head of the house of Patrington was a busy country squire, with an
increasing family and a diminishing rent-roll.
Suzette put on her hat and wished Mrs. Wornock good-bye. She would have
left with only a little bend of the head to Lady Emily; but that kindly
matron had repented herself of her harshness, and held out her hand
with a pathetic look which went straight to the girl's heart.
"Forgive me for what I said just now," she pleaded. "I am almost beside
myself with anxiety. You were not to blame. Truth is always the best.
But my poor Allan was so fond of you, and you and he might have been so
happy--if you had only loved him."
"I did love him--once," faltered Suzette. "But later it seemed as if my
love were not enough--not enough for a lifetime."
"Ah, but there was some one else--we know, Mrs. Wornock--some one who
is like my poor son, but cleverer, handsomer, more fascinating. It was
Mr. Wornock's return that changed you----"
"No, no, no!" Suzette protested eagerly. "If it had been, I might have
acted differently. Please don't talk about me and my folly--not to know
myself or my own heart. They are both away. God grant they are well and
happy, and enjoying the beauty and the strangeness of that wonderful
country. Why should they not be safe and happy there? Think how many
years Mr. Patrington had spent in Africa before the end came. Why
should they not be as safe as Cameron, Stanley, Trivier?"
Her heart sank even as she argued in this consoling strain, remembering
how with Stanley, with Cameron, with Trivier there was one left behind.
But here, perhaps, the Fates were already appeased. One had fallen by
the way. The sacrifice had been made to the cruel goddess of the dark
land.
"Will you come to Beechhurst with me, Suzette?" pleaded Allan's mother.
"It would be so kind if you would come and stay with me till to-morrow
morning. I shall leave by the first train to-morrow. I want to be at
home again, to be there when Allan's letter comes. There must be a
letter soon. It is so lonely at Beechhurst. I think General Vincent
could spare you for just one night?"
Suzette proposed that Lady Emily should dine at Marsh House; but she
seemed to take a morbid pleasure in her son's house in spite of its
loneliness, so Suzette drove back to Matcham with her, took her to tea
with the General, and obtained his permission to dine and sleep at
Beechhurst, and did all that could be done by unobtrusive kindness and
attention to console and cheer Allan's mother.