CHAPTER XI.
'The studio door is open, mamma,' said little Norah dancing in beforeher mother, through the lilac bushes. The words seemed to take a weightoff Helen's heart.
'Then papa must have come in,' she said, and ran up the steps to thedoor, which was opened before she could knock by an anxious,half-frightened maid. 'Mr Drummond has come in?' she said, in heranxiety, hasting to pass Jane, who held fast by the door.
'No, ma'am, please, ma'am; but Rebecca and me see a man about not fiveminutes ago, and I can't find master's topcoat as was a-hanging in thehall--Rebecca says, ma'am, as she thought she see--'
'Papa has not been home after all,' Helen said to her little daughter;'perhaps Mr Drummond wore his great-coat last night, Jane. Never mindjust now; he will tell us when he comes in.'
'But I see the man, and George was out, as he always is when he'swanted. Me and Rebecca--' said Jane.
'Never mind just now,' said Helen languidly. She went into thedrawing-room with the load heavier than ever on her heart. What couldhave kept him so long? What could be making him so miserable? Oh, howcruel, cruel it was not to know! She sat down with a heart like lead onthat chair which poor Robert had kissed--not fifteen minutes since, andhe was scarcely out of reach now.
'Oh, mamma,' cried Norah, moving about with a child's curiosity; 'hereis a letter for you on the little red table. It is so funny, andblurred, and uneven. I can write better than that--look! isn't it frompapa?'
Helen had not paid much attention to what the child said, but now shestarted up and stretched out her hand. The name on the outside wasscarcely legible, it was blurred and uneven, as Norah said; and it wasvery clear to see, could only be a message of woe. But her worst fears,miserable as she felt, had not approached the very skirts of the miserythat now awaited her. She tore the envelope open, with her heartbeating loud in her ears, and her whole body tingling with agitation.And this was what she read:--
'MY HELEN, MY OWN HELEN,--I have nothing in the world to do now but to bid you good-bye. I have ruined you, and more than you. If I lived I should only be a disgrace and a burden, and your little money that you have will support you by yourself. Oh, my love, to think I should leave you like this! I who have loved you so. But I have never been good enough for you. When you are an angel in heaven, if you see me among the lost, oh, bestow a little pity upon me, my Helen! I shall never see you again, but as Dives saw Lazarus. Oh, my wife, my baby, my own, you will be mine no longer; but have a little pity upon me! Give me one look, Helen, out of heaven.
'I am not mad, dear. I am doing it knowing it will be for the best. God forgive me if I take it upon me to know better than Him. It is not presumption, and perhaps He may know what I mean, though even you don't know. Oh my own, my darlings, my only ones--good-bye, good-bye!'
There was no name signed, no stops to make the sense plain. It waswritten as wildly as it had been conceived; and Helen, in her terribleexcitement, did not make out at first what it could mean. What could itmean? where was he going? The words about Dives and Lazarus threw nolight upon it at first. He had gone away. She gave a cry, and droppedher hands upon her lap, with the letter in them, and looked roundher--looked at her child, to make sure to herself that she was notdreaming. Gone away! But where, where, and why this parting? 'I don'tunderstand it--he has gone and left us,' she said feebly, when Norah, inher curiosity, came rushing to her to know what it was. 'I don't knowwhat it means. O God, help us!' she said, with an outburst of miserabletears. She was confused to the very centre of her being. Where had hegone?'
'May I read it, mamma?' little Norah asked, with her arms round hermother's neck.
But Helen had the feeling that it was not fit for the child. 'Run andask who brought it,' she said, glad to be alone; and then read overagain, with a mind slowly awakening to its reality, that outburst oflove and despair. The letter shook in her hands, salt tears fell upon itas she read. 'If I lived:--_I am doing it, knowing._' God, God, whatwas it he had gone to do? Just then she heard a noise in the studio, andstarting to her feet rushed to the conservatory door, crying, 'Robert!Robert!' She was met by Jane and Norah, coming from it; the child wascarrying her father's hat in her arms, with a strange look of wonder anddismay on her face.
'Mamma, no one brought the letter,' she said in a subdued, horror-strucktone; 'and here is papa's hat--and the picture is lying dashed down onthe floor with its face against the carpet. It is all spoiled, mamma,'sobbed little Norah--'papa's picture! and here is his hat. Oh, mamma,mamma!'
Norah was frightened at her mother's face. She had grown ghastly pale.'Get me a cab,' she said to the maid, whose curiosity was profoundlyexcited. Then she sat down and took her child in her arms. 'Norah, mydarling,' she said, making a pause between every two words, 'somethingdreadful has happened. I don't know what. I must go--and see. I mustgo--and find him--O my God, where am I to go?'
'And me, too,' said the child, clinging to her fast; 'me, too--let us goto the City, mamma!'
'Not you, Norah. It will soon be your bedtime. Oh, my pet, go and kneeldown and pray--pray for poor papa.'
'I can pray just as well in the cab,' said Norah; 'God hears all thesame. I am nearly twelve--I am almost grown up. You shall not, shall notgo without me. I will never move nor say a word. I will run up and getyour cloak and mine. We'll easily find him. He never would have theheart to go far away from you and me.'
'He never would have the heart,' Helen murmured the words over afterher. Surely not. Surely, surely, he would not have the heart! Hisresolution would fail. How could he go and leave the two whom he lovedbest--the two whom alone he loved in this world. 'Run, then, dear, andget your cloak,' she said faintly. The child seemed a kind of anchor toher, holding her to something, to some grasp of solid earth. They droveoff in a few minutes, Norah holding fast her mother's hand. Theyovertook, if they had but known it, and passed in the crowd, thedespairing man they sought; and he with his dim eyes saw the cab drivingpast, and wondered even who was in it--some other sufferer, in themadness of excitement or despair. How was he to know it was his wife andchild? They drove to the City, but found no one there. They went to hisclub, to one friend's house after another, to the picture-dealers, tothe railway stations. There, two or three bystanders had seen such aman, and he had gone to Brighton, to Scotland, to Paris, they said.Coming home, they drove over the very bridge where he had been standingwaiting for the dark. It was dark by that time, and Helen's eye caughtthe line of light on the water, with that intuitive wish so common to apainter's wife, that Robert had seen it. Ah, good Lord! he had seen andmore than seen. The summer night was quite dark when they got home.Those gleams of starlight were lost in clouds, and all was gloom aboutthe pretty house. Instead of the usual kindly gleam from the windows,nothing was visible as they drew up to the door but the light of asingle candle which showed its solitary flame through the bare window ofthe dining-room. No blind was drawn, or curtain closed, and like thetaper of a watcher shone this little miserable light. It chilled Helenin her profound discouragement and fatigue, and yet it gave her aforlorn hope that perhaps he had come. Norah had fallen fast asleepleaning against her. It was all she could do to wake the child as theyapproached the door; and Jane came out to open the gate with a scaredface. 'No, ma'am, master's never been back,' she answered to Helen'seager question; but Dr Maurice, he's here.'
Mrs Drummond put Norah into the woman's arms, and rushed into the house.Dr Maurice met her with a face almost as white as her own, and took herhands compassionately. 'You have heard from him? What have you heard?where is he?' said poor Helen.
'Hush, hush!' he said, 'perhaps it is not so bad as it appears. I don'tunderstand it. Rest a little, and I will show you what he has written tome.'
'I cannot rest,' she said; 'how can I rest when Robert----Let me see it.Let me see it. I am sure to understand what he means. He never had anysecrets before. Oh, show it me--show it me!--am not I his wife?'
'Poor wife, poor wife!' said the
compassionate doctor, and then he puther into an easy-chair and went and asked for some wine. 'I will show ityou only when you have drank this,' he said; 'only when you have heardwhat I have to say. Drummond is very impulsive you know. He might not doreally as he said. A hundred things would come in to stop him when hehad time to think. His heart has been broken by this bank business; butwhen he felt that it was understood he was not to blame----'
'Give me your letter,' she said, holding out her hand to him. She wascapable of no more.
'He would soon find that out,' said the doctor. 'Who could possiblyblame _him_? My dear Mrs Drummond, you must take this into account. Youmust not give him up at once. I have set on foot all sorts ofinquiries----'
'The letter, the letter!' she said hoarsely, holding out her hand.
He was obliged to yield to her at last, but not without theconsciousness which comforted him that she had heard a great deal ofwhat he had to say. She had not listened voluntarily; but still she hadnot been able to keep herself from hearing. This was not much comfort topoor Helen, but it was to him. He had made her swallow the wine too; hehad done his best for her; and now he could but stand by mournfullywhile she read her sentence, the words which might be death.
* * * * *
'Maurice, I want you to go to my wife. Before you get this, or at leastbefore you have got to her, I shall be dead. It's a curious thing tosay, but it's true. There has been a great crash at the bank, and I amruined and all I care for. If I lived I could do no good, only harm;but they will be sorry for her if I die. I have written to her, poordarling, to tell her; but I want you to go and stand by her. She'll wantsome one; and kiss the child for me. If they find me, bury me anywhere.I hope they will never find me, though, for Helen's sake. And poorHaldane. Tell him I knew nothing of it; nothing, nothing! I would havedied sooner than let them risk his money. God help us, and God forgiveme! Maurice, you are a good fellow; be kind to my poor wife.'
* * * * *
There was a postscript which nobody read or paid any attention to: thatis to say, they read it and it died from their minds for the moment asif it meant nothing. It was this, written obliquely like anafter-thought--
'_The bank was ruined from the first; there was never a chance for us. Ifound this out only to-day. Burton and Golden have done it all._'
These were the words that Helen read, with Dr Maurice standingmournfully behind watching her every movement. She kept staring at theletter for a long time, and then fell back with a hysterical sob, butwithout any relief of tears. Dr Maurice stood by her as his friend hadasked him. He soothed her, adding every possible reason he could thinkof (none of which he himself believed in the smallest degree) to showthat 'poor Drummond' might change his mind. This was written in thefirst impulse of despair, but when he came to think----Helen did notlisten; but she heard what Dr Maurice said vaguely, and she heard hisaccount of what he had done; he had given information at once to thepolice; he had engaged people everywhere to search and watch. News wouldbe heard of him to-morrow certainly, if not to-night. Helen rose whilehe was speaking. She collected herself and restrained herself, exertingall the strength she possessed. 'Will you come with me?' she said.
'Where? where? Mrs Drummond, I entreat you to believe I have doneeverything----'
'Oh, I am sure of it!' she said faintly; 'but I must go. Icannot--cannot rest. I must go somewhere--anywhere--where he may havegone----'
'But, Mrs Drummond----'
'You are going to say I have been everywhere. So we have, Norah andI--she fell asleep at last, poor child--she does not need me--I mustgo----'
'It is getting late,' he said; 'it is just ten; if news were to come youwould not like to be out of the way. Stay here and rest, and I will goto-morrow; you will want all your strength.'
'I want it all now,' she said, with a strange smile. 'Who thinks ofto-morrow? it may never, never come. It may----You are very kind--but Icannot rest.'
She was in the cab again before he could say another word. Butfortunately at that moment one of his messengers came in hot haste tosay that they thought they had found some trace of 'the gentleman.' Hehad come off to bring the news, and probably by this time the otherswere on their way bringing him home. This intelligence furnished Mauricewith a weapon against Helen. She allowed herself to be led into thehouse again, not believing it, feeling in her heart that her husbandwould never be brought back, yet unable to resist the reasonableconclusion that she must stay to receive him. The short summer darknesspassed over her thus; the awful dawn came and looked her in the face.One of the maids sat up, or rather dozed in her chair in the kitchen,keeping a fire alight in case anything might be wanted. And Helen satand listened to every sound; sat at the window gazing out, hearingcarriage wheels and footsteps miles off, as it seemed to her, and nowand then almost deceived into hope by the sound of some one returningfrom a dance or late party. How strange it seemed to her that lifeshould be going on in its ordinary routine, and people enjoyingthemselves, while she sat thus frozen into desperation, listening forhim who would never come again! Her mind was wandering after him throughevery kind of dreadful scene; and yet it was so difficult, so impossibleto associate him with anything terrible. He, always so reasonable, sotender of others, so free from selfish folly. The waking of the new daystole upon the watcher before she was aware; those sounds which are soawful in their power, which show how long it is since last night, howlife has gone on, casting aside old burdens, taking on new ones. It wasjust about ten o'clock, when the morning was at its busiest outside, andHelen, refusing to acknowledge the needs of the new day, still sat atthe window watching, with eyes that were dry and hot and bloodshot, withthe room all in mournful disorder round her, when Dr Maurice's broughamdrew up to the door. He sprang out of it, carrying a coat on his arm; arough fellow in a blue Jersey and sailor's hat followed him. Mauricecame in with that look so different from the look of anxiety, thatfatal air, subdued and still and certain, which comes only fromknowledge. Whatever might have happened he was in doubt no more.
Helen's long vigil had worn her into that extremity of emotion which canno longer avail itself of ordinary signs. She had not even risen to meetthe news. She held out her hand feebly, and gave him a piteous look ofinquiry, which her dry lips refused to sound. She looked as if it werepossible that she had grown into an idiot as she sat there. He cameforward to her, and took her hand in his.
'Dear Mrs Drummond,' he said, 'you will need all your courage; you mustnot give way; you must think of your child.'
'I know,' she said; her hand dropped out of his as if by its mereweight. She bowed her head as if to let this great salt bitter wave goover her--bowed it down till it sank upon her lap hidden in her claspedhands. There was nothing to be said further, not a word was necessary.She knew.
And yet there was a story to tell. It was told to her very gently, andshe had to listen to it, with her face hidden in her hands. Sheshuddered now and then as she listened. Sometimes a long convulsive sobescaped her, and shook her whole frame; but she was far beyond theordinary relief of weeping. It was poor Robert's coat which Dr Mauricehad brought with him, making all further doubt impossible. The gentlemanhad thrown it off when he took that boat at Chelsea. It was too warm, hesaid; 'and sure enough it was mortal warm,' the man added who had cometo verify the mournful story. The gentleman had taken a skiff for a row.It was a clear, beautiful night, and he had been warned to keep out ofthe way of steamers and barges. If any harm came to him, the boatmansaid, it was not for want of knowing how to manage a boat. The littleskiff had drifted in bottom up, and had been found that morning a miledown stream. That was all. Jane, who was the housemaid, went awaycrying, and drew down all the blinds except that of the room in whichher mistress was. 'Surely missis will have the thought to do that,' shesaid. But poor Helen had not the thought.
And thus it all came to an end--their love, their prosperity, and thatmitigated human happiness which they had enjoyed together--happine
ss nottoo perfect, and yet how sweet! Norah still slept through the brightmorning, neglected by her usual attendant, and tired out by her unusualexertions on the previous night. 'She ought to know,' the maids said toeach other, with that eagerness to make evil tidings known which is sostrangely common; but the old nurse, who loved the child, would not haveher disturbed. It was only when Helen rejected all their entreaties tolie down and rest that Martin consented to rouse the little girl. Shecame down, with her bright hair all about her shoulders, wrapped in alittle white dressing-gown, flying with noiseless bare feet down thestaircase, and, without a word of warning, threw herself upon hermother. It was not to console her mother, but to seek her own naturalrefuge in this uncomprehended calamity. 'Oh, mamma!' said Norah; 'oh,mamma, mamma!' She could find no other words of consolation. Torrents ofyouthful tears gushed from the child's eyes. She wept for both, whileHelen sat tearless. And the blinds were not down nor the shutters closedin that room, as the servants recollected with horror, and the greatgolden light of morn shone in.
Thus they were left undisturbed in the full day, in the sweet sunshine;scarcely knowing, in the first stupor of misery, how it was thatdarkness had gathered in the midst of all their world of light.
At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3) Page 11