THE news of Amy’s death was telegraphed to Frank at Dublin. Thither,
following some imaginary clue, he had gone, and eager and hopeful at
heart, the sudden tidings nearly proved his death-blow. Before the day
closed which brought the news, Frank was lying helpless and unconscious
on a bed of fever.
Mrs. Varley trembled for her son’s life; fortunately her address was
known to the proprietor of the hotel where Frank was staying, and
he had immediately telegraphed to her her son’s danger.
“Mary,” she said, addressing Miss Burton, “have you courage to cross
the Channel with me to try to save my poor boy? The rector will follow
next week if there’s any need, but he cannot leave his parish at an
hour’s notice.”
And Mary had expressed her willingness to start there and then for
Dublin. What would she not do for one who had always been as a brother
to her? So the two ladies took passage in a packet crossing the next
day, and arrived at Dublin to find Frank raving and tossing in the
delirium of brain fever.
Then followed days and nights of weary watching and nursing.
“He may pull through yet, madam,” said the good old doctor, addressing
Mrs. Varley, but peering wonderingly at Mary through his spectacles. He
had been told that the sudden death of a young lady was the cause of
the illness. Who, then, was this other young lady so devoted in her
attentions to the sufferer? “He may pull through yet, madam; he has a
constitution of iron and the frame of a giant, not to speak of the two
angels who watch over him day and night!” This in a rich Irish brogue,
with a gallant bow right and left to the two ladies.
And Frank did pull through. Gradually the fever in his brain subsided,
and though weak and helpless as a child, the doctor pronounced him out
of danger.
But with returning consciousness came back the sense of sorrow and
loss, and Mrs. Varley’s heart ached for her son as she saw the look of
utter blank misery and despair settle down upon his once bright, happy
face. “Get him to talk of his sorrow” had been the doctor’s advice, and
gently and gradually his mother had led him on to speak freely of poor
Amy and her terrible ending.
“We all suffer with and for you, my son,” said Mrs. Varley, sitting by
Frank’s easy chair in the early twilight, the glow from the fire alone
lighting the room, “but my feeling for you does not prevent me feeling
for someone else very near and very dear to me, and who is just now
suffering as much as, or, perhaps, more than you.”
Frank’s eyes expressed his wonder. Of whom could his mother be
speaking? Wrapped up in his own misery, he had had no thought for the
sorrows of others.
“Don’t try to talk to me, Frank, dear,” continued his mother. “You must
forgive me if I say that sorrow is apt to make one selfish and
unobservant. Otherwise you would have noticed not only the grief and
anxiety in my face, which has made an old woman of me the last few
weeks, but also the grief in a sweet young face which has been watching
yours very sadly for many a day and night.”
“Mother, mother,” exclaimed Frank, passionately, for now his mother’s
meaning was unmistakable. “Why did you bring the girl here? You knew it
was useless. Why didn’t you leave me here to die? God knows I have
nothing left to live for now!”
“Miss Burton did not come for you alone, Frank, she came for my sake
also. She has been to me as a daughter in my trouble, and as a daughter
she came with me here. Your father could not leave his parish, and was
it right that I should travel all these miles alone to face such an
illness as yours? The difficulty, however, will soon be ended, as Mary
tells me she must leave us to-morrow; she has friends here in Dublin.
Your danger is past, she says, and she is no longer needed. Believe me,
Frank, it is not your return to health which is driving her away, but
your coldness and indifference, and (forgive me, dear) your
ingratitude.”
“What is it you want me to do, mother?” asks poor Frank, piteously.
“Not marry her! I have no love to offer any woman now. My heart is
crushed and broken, and a dozen Mary Burtons couldn’t mend it.”
“I know that, Frank, dear,” replied his mother, very sweetly, “but if
you have a broken heart to carry about with you, it should teach you to
be very tender to the broken hearts of others, especially to so good
and true a heart as Mary’s. A few kind words to her just now would make
her, if not happy, at any rate a little less miserable than she is now.”
“Tell me what to say, then,” said Frank, wearily, “and let me say it at
once. You don’t want me to ask her to marry me? The words would choke
me, I think.”
“No, my son, not that. I only want you to thank her for her kindness
and care through your illness (for, indeed, she has nearly worn herself
out in saving your life), and I want you just to say four little words
to her. ‘Don’t leave us, Mary.’ This for your mother’s sake, for
what could I do without her? May I send her to you, Frank?” she added,
after a pause.
Then Frank, wearied with the discussion, gave a feeble assent, and Mrs.
Varley left the room immediately, thankful for her partial success, and
hoping much from the coming interview between her son and Mary.
Very softly Mary entered the room, and went straight up to Frank. Then,
for the first time, he noticed how pale and sad the girl had grown.
“How white you are looking, Mary,” he said, kindly. “Are you feeling
ill? Will you take my chair a moment?” at the same time attempting to
rise.
“No, no,” said Mary in an instant, flushing scarlet, “you are still an
invalid, and must not think of politeness. Mrs. Varley said you wanted
to see me. What is it, Frank?”
“Mary,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “I want to ask you to
forgive my abominable rudeness and ingratitude to you. I want to thank
you for all you have done for me. I am so ashamed I have not done this
before, but I have been so miserable, so broken-hearted.” Then the poor
fellow broke down utterly, and weakened by his long illness and unable
to control himself, covered his face with his hands, and wept and
sobbed like a child.
“Frank, Frank,” pleaded Mary. “For all our sakes restrain yourself; you
will kill me if you give way like this. What can I do for you? I would
lay down my life to give you an hour’s happiness.”
Still Frank sobbed on, and Mary, bending over him as a mother would
over a sick child, drew his head on to her shoulder, and soothed and
comforted him.
Gradually the passion of his grief subsided, and he lay back, with his
head on her shoulder, worn out and exhausted.
Then Mrs. Varley gently turned the handle of the door, and entered the
room.
“Thank God for this,” she exclaimed. “Mary, don’t move. Frank, dear,
she is the one wife out of all the world you should have chosen, and
you may well be thankful to have won such an one. God bless you both. I
will write to your father to-night.”
Frank was on the point of asking his mother what he had said or done
that she should congratulate and bless him in this way, but Mary’s
white face and trembling hands checked the words on his lips, so he
merely said, with a weary sigh, “Mother, I must go to bed at once, I am
utterly worn out,” and tottered rather than walked to the door. Mrs.
Varley followed him. “I may tell your father it is all settled, may I
not?” she said, in a low voice, as she held open the door for him.
Frank glanced back at Mary leaning still over the back of the armchair,
and her drooping figure and tearful face pleaded her own cause. “Tell
him what you like, mother,” he replied, wearily, “only let me rest
to-night.” Besides, after all, what did it matter? The best of his life
was gone, any one who would might have the broken remnants.
Very angry indeed was the rector when he received his wife’s letter
containing the news of his son’s engagement. “It is absolutely
indecent,” he wrote back, “it is gross disrespect to the living and the
dead. Every one knows the hopes my son cherished with regard to Miss
Warden, and now, within a fortnight after her death, he is engaged to
some one else. I will have nothing whatever to do with such an
arrangement. Mr. Warden is an old and valued friend of mine, and how
could I look him in the face if I countenanced such conduct on the part
of my son? Is he a child or a lunatic that he cannot learn to control
his own feelings and bear up against a bereavement? Let him make up his
mind to bear his sorrows as a man should and as other people have had
to before him.”
In reply to this, Mrs. Varley wrote a long letter pleading, not so much
the wisdom of her own conduct, as the necessity of the case.
“Frank is neither a child nor a lunatic,” so ran the letter, “but he
has strong passions and an impetuous temper which would very rapidly
carry him down hill if once he turned that way. Add to this his broken
health and spirits, and you will see I have had no light task to
perform in endeavouring to restore him to what he once was. The
physician here tells me his only chance of recovering health and
strength is to start at once on a long foreign tour—under any
circumstances he must not think of returning to Harleyford for another
year. What then, do you advise? Can you leave your parish for so long a
time to travel with your son through Europe (she knew the rector hated
travelling, or indeed any kind of bodily exertion) or do you consider
that I should be a suitable companion for him under the circumstances?
Is there any one of his own friends fit for such a task, or who could
do for him all that a tender loving wife will do? What would it matter
to Mr. Warden, or to any one else likely to criticise his conduct, if
Frank fell into a course of reckless dissipation, or ended his life by
his own hand—and this, let me tell you, is another terror I have had
always before me. No, no, my dear husband, see things in their right
light I beseech you; you must give way in this matter, and believe me
it is as much for your own happiness as your son’s that you should do
so.”
And the rector did give way as might have been expected, and not only
consented to his son’s wedding, but went over to Dublin and performed
the ceremony himself, and also sketched out the wedding tour for the
young people—a trip through the American continent first, and a final
run through the chief cities of Europe.
“Hardcastle has the best of it now,” said poor Frank, sadly, to
himself, as he stood waiting for his bride in the vestry of the little
Irish church where the ceremony was to take place. “He has no mother to
talk him into a marriage he has no heart for. Not but that I shall do
my best to make her happy, for she is sweet and good, but I cannot tear
the other memory out of my heart.”
Thus it was that Frank and Mary became man and wife within a month of
poor Amy’s death, and the rector and Mrs. Varley returned to
Harleyford to sustain, as best they might, the inquisitiveness and
criticism of their neighbours.