XXIX
AUTUMN LEAVES
Miss Sibson paused to listen, but heard nothing. And disappointed, andwith a sigh, she spread a clean handkerchief over the lap of her gownand helped herself to part of a round of buttered toast.
"She'll not come," she muttered. "I was a fool to think it! An oldfool to think it!" And she bit viciously into the toast.
It was long past her usual tea-time, yet she paused a second time tolisten, before she raised her first cup of tea to her lips. A covereddish which stood on a brass trivet before the bright coal fire gaveforth a savoury smell, and the lamplight which twinkled on sparklingsilver and old Nantgarw, discovered more than the tea-equipage. Thered moreen curtains were drawn before the windows, a tabby cat purredsleepily on the hearth; in all Bristol was no more cosy or morecheerful scene. Yet Miss Sibson left the savoury dish untouched, andate the toast with less than her customary appetite.
"I shall set," she murmured, "'The Deceitfulness of Riches' for thefirst copy when the children return. And for the second 'Fine FeathersMake Fine Birds!' And"--she continued with determination, though therewas no one to be intimidated--"for the third, 'There's No Fool Like anOld Fool!'"
She had barely uttered the words when she set down her cup. The rollof distant wheels had fallen on her ears. She listened for a fewseconds, then she rose in haste and rang the bell. "Martha," she saidwhen the maid appeared, "are the two warming-pans in the bed?"
"To be sure, Ma'am."
"And well filled?" Miss Sibson spoke suspiciously.
"The sheets are as nigh singeing as you'd like, Ma'am," the maidanswered. "You can smell 'em here! I only hope," she continued, with aquaver in her voice, "as we mayn't smell fire before long!"
"Smell fiddlesticks!" Miss Sibson retorted. Then "That will do," shecontinued. "I will open the door myself."
When she did so the lights of the hackney-coach which had stoppedbefore the house disclosed first Mary Vermuyden in her furs, standingon the step; secondly, Mr. Flixton, who had placed himself as near heras he dared; and thirdly and fourthly, flanking them at a distance ofa pace or two, a tall footman and a maid.
"Good gracious!" Miss Sibson exclaimed, dismay in her tone.
"Yes," Mary answered, almost crying. "They would come! I said I wishedto come alone. Good-night, Mr. Flixton!"
"Oh, but I--I couldn't think of leaving you like this!" the HonourableBob answered. He had derived a minimum of satisfaction from his rideon the coach, for Mary had shown herself of the coldest. And if he wasto part from her here he might as well have travelled with Brereton.Besides, what the deuce was afoot? What was she doing here?
"And Baxter is as bad," Mary said plaintively. "As for Thomas----"
"Beg pardon, Ma'am," the man said, touching his hat, "but it is asmuch as my place is worth."
The maid, a woman of mature years, said nothing, but held her ground,the image of stolid disapproval. She knew Miss Sibson. But Bristol wasstrange to her; and the dark windy square, with its flickering lights,its glimpses of gleaming water and skeleton masts, and its unseen butcreaking windlasses, seemed to her, fresh from Lady Worcester's, amost unfitting place for her young lady.
Miss Sibson cut the knot after her own fashion. "Well, I can't takeyou in," she said bluffly. "This gentleman," pointing to Mr. Flixton,"will find quarters for you at the White Lion or the Bush. And yourmistress will see you to-morrow. Thomas, bring in your young lady'strunk. Good-night, sir," she added, addressing the Honourable Bob."Miss Vermuyden will be quite safe with me."
"Oh, but I say, Miss Sibson!" he remonstrated. "You can't mean to takethe moon out of the sky like this, and leave us in the dark? MissVermuyden----"
"Good-night," Mary said, not a whit placated by the compliment. Andshe slipped past Miss Sibson into the passage.
"Oh, but it's not safe, you know!" he cried. "You're not a hundredyards from the Mansion House here. And if those beggars make troubleto-morrow--positively there's no knowing what will happen!"
"We can take care of ourselves, sir," Miss Sibson replied curtly."Good-night, sir!" And she shut the door in his face.
The Honourable Bob glared at it for a time, but it remained closed anddark. There was nothing to be done save to go. "D----n the woman!" hecried. And he turned about.
It was something of a shock to him to find the two servants still athis elbow, patiently regarding him. "Where are we to go, sir?" themaid asked, as stolid as before.
"Go?" cried he, staring. "Go? Eh? What? What do you mean?"
"Where are we to go, sir, for the night? If you'll please to show us,sir. I'm a stranger here."
"Oh! This is too much!" the Honourable Bob cried, finding himselfon a sudden a family man. "Go? I don't care if you go to----" Butthere he paused. He put the temptation to tell them to go to blazesfrom him. After all, they were Mary's servants. "Oh, very well! Verywell!" he resumed, fuming. "There, get in! Get in!" indicating thehackney-coach. "And do you," he continued, turning to Thomas, "tellhim to drive to the White Lion. Was there ever? That old woman's aneat artist, if ever I saw one!"
And a moment later Flixton trundled off, boxed in with the maturemaid, and vowing to himself that in all his life he had never been sodiddled before.
Meanwhile, within doors--for farce and tragedy are never farapart--Mary, with her furs loosened, but not removed, was resistingall Miss Sibson's efforts to restrain her. "I must go to her!" shesaid with painful persistence. "I must go to her at once, if youplease, Miss Sibson. Where is she?"
"She is not here," Miss Sibson said, plump and plain.
"Not here!" Mary cried, springing from the chair into which MissSibson had compelled her. "Not here!"
"No. Not in this house."
"Then why--why did she tell me to come here?" Mary cried dumbfounded.
"Her ladyship is next door. No, my dear!" And Miss Sibson interposedher ample form between Mary and the door. "You cannot go to her untilyou have eaten and drunk. She does not expect you, and there is noneed of such haste. She may live a fortnight, three weeks, a montheven! And she must not, my dear, see you with that sad face."
Mary gave way at that. She sat down and burst into tears.
The schoolmistress knew nothing of the encounter in Parliament Street,nothing of the meeting on the coach. But she was a sagacious woman,and she discerned something more than the fatigue of the journey,something more than grief for her mother, in the girl's depression.She said nothing, however, contenting herself with patting her gueston the shoulder and gently removing her wraps and shoes. Then she seta footstool for her in front of the fire and poured out her tea, andplaced hot sweetbread before her, and toast, and Sally Lunn. And whenMary, touched by her kindness, flung her arms round her neck andkissed her, she said only, "That's better, my dear, drink your tea,and then I will tell you all I know."
"I cannot eat anything."
"Oh, yes, you can! After that you are going to see your mother, andthen you will come back and take a good night's rest. To-morrow youwill do as you like. Her ladyship is with an old servant next door,through whom she first heard of me."
"Why did she not remain in Bath?" Mary asked.
"I cannot tell you," Miss Sibson answered. "She has whims. If you askme, I should say that she thought Sir Robert would not find her here,and so could not take you from her."
"But the servants?" Mary said in dismay. "They will tell my father.And indeed----"
"Indeed what, my dear?"
"I do not wish to hide from him."
"Quite right!" Miss Sibson said. "Quite right, my dear. But I fancythat that was her ladyship's reason. Perhaps she thought also thatwhen she--that afterwards I should be at hand to take care of you. Asa fact," Miss Sibson continued, rubbing her cheek with the handle of ateaspoon, a sure sign that she was troubled, "I wish that your motherhad chosen another place. You don't ask, my dear, where the childrenare."
Mary looked at her hostess. "Oh, Miss Sibson!" she exclaim
ed,conscience-stricken. "You cannot have sent them away for my sake?"
"No, my dear," Miss Sibson answered, noting with satisfaction thatMary was making a meal. "No, their parents have removed them. TheRecorder is coming to-morrow, and he is so unpopular on account ofthis nasty Bill--which is setting everyone on horseback whether theycan ride or not--and there is so much talk of trouble when he enters,that all the foolish people have taken fright and removed theirchildren for the week. It's pure nonsense, my dear," Miss Sibsoncontinued comfortably. "I've seen the windows of the Mansion Housebroken a score of times at elections, and not another house in theSquare a penny the worse! Just an old custom. And so it will beto-morrow. But the noise may disturb her ladyship, and that's why Iwish her elsewhere."
Mary did not answer, and the schoolmistress, noting her spiritlessattitude and the dark shadows under her eyes, was confirmed in hernotion that here was something beyond grief for the mother whom thegirl had scarcely known. And Miss Sibson felt a tug at her ownheartstrings. She was well-to-do and well considered in Bristol, andshe was not conscious that her life was monotonous. But the gay scrapof romance which Mary's coming had wrought into the dull patchwork ofdays, long toned to the note of Mrs. Chapone, was welcome to her. Herlittle relaxations, her cosy whist-parties, her hot suppers to follow,these she had: but here was something brighter and higher. It stirreda long-forgotten youth, old memories, the ashes of romance. She lovedMary for it.
To rouse the girl, she rose from her chair. "Now, my dear," she said,"you can go to your room, if you will. And in ten minutes we will stepnext door."
Mary looked at her with grateful eyes. "I am glad now," she said, "Iam glad that she came here."
"Ah!" the schoolmistress answered, pursing up her lips. And she lookedat the girl uncertainly. "It's odd," she said, "I sometimes think thatyou are just--Mary Smith."
"I am!" the other answered warmly. "Always Mary Smith to you!" And theold woman took the young one to her arms.
A quarter of an hour later Mary came down, and she was Mary Smith intruth. For she had put on the grey Quaker-like dress in which she hadfollowed her trunk from the coach-office six months before. "Ithought," she said, "that I could nurse her better in this than in mynew clothes!" But she blushed deeply as she spoke: for if she had thisthought she had others also in her mind. She might not often wear thatdress, but she would never part with it. Arthur Vaughan's eyes hadworshipped it; his hands had touched it. And in the days to come itwould lie, until she died, in some locked coffer, perfumed withlavender, and sweet with the dried rose-leaves of her dead romance.And on one day in the year she would visit it, and bury her face inits soft faded folds, and dream the old dreams.
It was but a step to the door of the neighbouring house. But thedistance, though short, steadied the girl's mind and enabled her totaste that infinity of the night, that immensity of nature, which,like a fathomless ocean, islands the littleness of our lighted homes.The groaning of strained cordage, the creaking of timbers, the far-offrattle of a boom came off the dark water that lipped the wharveswhich still fringe three sides of the Square. Here and there a raregas-lamp, lately set up, disclosed the half-bare arms of trees, orsome vague opening leading to the Welsh Back. But for all the twocould see, as they glided from the one door to the other, the busycity about them, seething with so many passions, pregnant with so muchdanger, hiding in its entrails the love, the fear, the secrets of amyriad lives, might have been in another planet.
Mary owned the calming influence of the night and the stars, andbefore the door opened to Miss Sibson's knock, the blush had fadedfrom her cheek. It was with solemn thoughts that she went up the wideoaken staircase, still handsome, though dusty and fallen from its highestate. The task before her, the scene on the threshold of which shetrod, brought the purest instincts of her nature into play. But herguide knocked, someone within the room bade them enter, and Maryadvanced. She saw lights and a bed--a four-poster, heavily curtained.And half blinded by her tears, she glided towards the bed--or wasgliding, when a querulous voice arrested her midway.
"So you are come!" it said. And Lady Sybil, who, robed in a silkendressing-gown, was lying on a small couch in a different part of theroom, tossed a book, not too gently, to the floor. "What stuff! Whatstuff!" she ejaculated wearily. "A schoolgirl might write as good!Well, you are come," she continued. "There," as Mary, flung back onherself, bent timidly and kissed her, "that will do! That will do! Ican't bear anyone near me! Don't come too near me! Sit on that chair,where I can see you!"
Mary beat back her tears and obeyed with a quivering lip. "I hope youare better," she said.
"Better!" her mother retorted in the same peevish tone. "No, and shallnot be!" Then, with a shrill scream, "Heavens, child, what have yougot on?" she continued. "What have you done to yourself? You look likea _s[oe]ur de Charite!_"
"I thought that I could nurse you better in this," Mary faltered.
"Nurse me!"
"Yes, I----"
"Rubbish!" Lady Sybil exclaimed with petulant impatience. "You nurse?Don't be silly! Who wants you to nurse me? I want you to amuse me. Andyou won't do that by dressing yourself like a dingy death's-head moth!There, for Heaven's sake," with a catch in her voice which went toMary's heart, "don't cry! I'm not strong enough to bear it. Tell mesomething! Tell me anything to make me laugh. How did you trick SirRobert, child? How did you escape? That will amuse me," with amirthless laugh. "I wish I could see his solemn face when he hearsthat you are gone!"
Mary explained that the summons had found her in London; that herfather was not there, but that still she had had to beat down LadyWorcester's resistance before she could have her way and leave.
"I don't know her," Lady Sybil said shortly.
"She was very kind to me," Mary answered.
"I dare say," in the same tone.
"But she would not let me go until I gave her my address."
Lady Sybil sat up sharply. "And you did that?" she shrieked. "You gaveit her?"
"I was obliged to give it," Mary stammered, "or I could not have leftLondon."
"Obliged? Obliged?" Lady Sybil retorted, in the same passionate tone."Why, you fool, you might have given her fifty addresses! Any address!Any address but this! There!" Lady Sybil continued sullenly, as shesank back and pressed her handkerchief to her lips. "You've done itnow. You've excited me. Give me those drops! There! Are you blind?Those! Those! And--and sit farther from me! I can't breathe with youclose to me!"
After which, when Mary, almost heartbroken, had given her themedicine, and seated herself in the appointed place, she turned herface to the wall and lay silent and morose, uttering no sound but anoccasional sigh of pain.
Meantime, to eyes that could read, the room told her story, and toldit eloquently. The table beside the couch was strewn with rose-boundAnnuals and Keepsakes, and a dozen volumes bearing the labels of morethan one library; books opened only to be cast aside. Costly toys andembroidered nothings, vinaigrettes and scent-bottles, lay scatteredeverywhere; and on other tables, on the mantelpiece, on the floor, alitter of similar trifles elbowed and jostled the gloomy tokens ofillness. Near the invalid's hand lay a miniature in a jewelled frame,while a packet of letters tied with a fragment of gold lace, and abuhl desk half-closed upon a broken fan told the same tale of ennui,and of a vanity which survived the charms on which it had rested. Thelesson was not lost on the daughter's heart. It moved her to purestpity; and presently, wrung by a sigh more painful than usual, shecrept to the couch, sank on her knees, and pressed her cool lips tothe wasted hand which hung from it. Even then for a time her motherdid not move or take notice. But slowly the weary sighs grew morefrequent, grew to sobs--how much less poignant!--and her weak arm drewMary's head to her bosom.
And by-and-by the arm tightened its hold and gripped her convulsively,the sobs grew deeper and shook the worn form at each respiration; andpresently, "Ah, God, what will become of me?" burst from the depths ofthe poor quaking heart, too proud hitherto to make its fear known."What will
become of me?"
That cry pierced Mary like a knife, but its confession of weaknessmade mother and daughter one. Her feeble arms could not avert theapproach of the dark shadow, whose coming terrified though itcould not change. But what human love could do, what patientself-forgetfulness might teach, she vowed that she would do and teach;and what clinging hands might compass to delay the end, her handsshould compass. When Miss Sibson's message, informing her that it wastime to return, was brought to her, she shook her head, smiling, andlocked the door. "I shall be your nurse, after all!" she said. "Ishall not leave you." And before midnight, with a brave contentment,for which Lady Sybil's following eyes were warrant, she had takenpossession of the room and all its contents; she had tidied as much asit was good to tidy, she had knelt to heat the milk or brush thehearth, she had smoothed the pillow, and sworn a score of times thatnothing, no Sir Robert, no father, no force should tear her from thisher duty, this her joy--until the end.
No memory of her dull childhood, or of the days of labour andservitude which she owed to the dying woman, no thought of the joys ofwealth and youth which she had lost through her, rose to mar thesincerity of her love. Much less did such reflections trouble her onwhose flighty mind they should have rested so heavily. So far indeedwas this from being the case, that when Mary stooped to some officewhich the mother's fastidiousness deemed beneath her, "How can you dothat?" Lady Sybil cried peevishly. "I'll not have you do it! Do youhear me, girl? Let some servant see to it! What else are they for!"
"But I used to do it every day at Clapham," Mary answered cheerfully.She had not spoken before, aware of the reproach which her wordsconveyed, she could have bitten her tongue.
But Lady Sybil did not wince. "Then why did you do it?" she retorted,"Why did you do it? Why were you so foolish as to stoop to suchthings? I'm sure you didn't get your poor spirit from me! AndVermuyden was as stiff as a poker! But there! I remember the princesaying once that ladies went out of fashion with hoops, and gentlemenwith snuffboxes. You make me think he was right. Oh, clumsy!" shecontinued, raising her voice, "now you are turning the light on myface! Do you wish to see me hideous?"
Mary moved it. "Is that better, mother?" she asked.
Lady Sybil cast a resentful glance at her. "There, there, let it be!"she said. "You can't help it. You're like your father. He could neverdo anything right! I suppose I am doomed to have none but helplesspeople about me."
And so on, and so on. Like many invalids, she was most lively atnight, and she continued to complain through long restless hours, withthe candles burning lower and lower, and the snuffers coming into morefrequent request. Until with the chill before the dawn she fell atlast into a fitful sleep; and Mary, creeping to the close-curtainedwindows to cool her weary eyes, peeped out and saw the grey of themorning. Outside, the Square was beginning to discover its half-baretrees and long straight rows of houses. Through openings, here andthere, the water glimmered mistily; and on the height facing her, thetall tower of St. Mary Redcliffe rose above the roofs and pointedskywards. Little did Mary think what the day would bring forth in thatgrey deserted place on which she looked; or in what changedconditions, under what stress of mind and heart, she would, before thesun set twice, view that Square.
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