CHAPTER XXXI.
DOWN BY THE RIVER.
"Only upon some cross of pain and woe, God's Son may lie. Each soul redeemed from self and sin, must have Its Calvary."
ANON.
"The Porch House Thursdays," as they were called, had become red letterdays in Thorold Chaytor's life. Ever since that wet Christmas Eve whenhe had partaken of "cakes and ale" in the hall at the Red House, he hadlooked forward to them with an intensity that had surprised himself.Little had he thought, when he had generously given a few hours of hisscanty leisure to help Althea in her good work, that such deep enjoymentwould be the result, and that he would actually count the hours until hecould see a certain curly head bending over the book. If only any onehad guessed how his heart always leaped at the sight!
Thorold's life until now had been laborious and joyless. His home wasutterly uncongenial to him. He loved his sister, but there was no realsympathy between them, and, as he would often say bitterly to himself,"Joa cares more for Trist's little finger than for me;" and he wasright. Joanna was one of those women whose short-sighted tendernessmakes them lavish their best affection on some prodigal, or black sheep.
Perhaps the fault might lie a little with Thorold. His calm,self-controlled nature was somewhat repressive; few people understoodhim, or guessed that underneath the quiet, undemonstrative surface,there was a warm, passionate heart. Perhaps only Althea knew it; andeven she was in error about him, for she thought that his intellectdominated his heart; but in this she was wrong.
Thorold Chaytor was a keenly ambitious man; he loved his work for itsown sake; but he was also desirous of success.
As he knew well, his feet were on the first rung of the ladder. Hisliterary work was already meeting with appreciation, and now he heldhis first brief. The first cold breakers had been passed, and the boldswimmer had his head well above water. Poverty would soon be a thing ofthe past. But even as he grasped this fact gratefully, he was aware thatfresh responsibilities fettered him.
Tristram and Betty were on his hands. It would be long, probably years,before Tristram would be able to provide a comfortable home for hischild, and when they quitted his roof he clearly foresaw that Joannawould go with them. Nothing would part her from Betty.
But, for years to come, how was he to marry? Would any girl care toenter that incongruous household? Would he wish to bring her? He was aman who would want his wife to himself, who must have all or none. Noone must interfere with his monopoly. And then, with a pang of proudsensitiveness, he told himself that the thing was impossible.Nevertheless, the Porch House Thursdays were his high days andfestivals.
As he walked up the hill, in the darkness, some new, strange feeling wasthrobbing at his heart; a sudden yearning to know his fate. It was nouse to delude himself with sophistries, or to cheat himself any longer.The first moment he had looked into the depth of those wonderful eyes heknew that he loved Waveney, as such men only love once in their lives;and he knew now, too well, that he must win her for his wife, or forever live solitary.
His mind was in a chaotic state this evening. A subtle form oftemptation was assailing him. Why should it be hopeless? True, he couldnot marry for years; but what if he were to tell her that he loved her,and ask her to wait for him, as other women had waited?
He dallied with this thought a moment. "Give me a little hope," he wouldsay to her; "it will strengthen my hands, and I shall fight the battleof life more bravely. Let me feel that I am no longer lonely." But evenas the words crossed his lips, he chid himself for his selfishness. Whyshould he bind down that bright young life, and condemn her to years ofwearisome waiting? Why should his burdens be laid on her youngshoulders? How could he know what the years would bring? His healthmight fail. And then, in a mood of dogged hopelessness, he let himselfinto the little gate that led to the tennis-ground and the Porch House.Little did he guess, as he passed the lighted window of the library,that the objects of his thoughts lay there sleeping for sorrow.
But his first glance, as he entered the Recreation Hall, showed him thatthe chair by Nora Greenwell was empty, and his face was graver and moreimpassive than ever as he took up his book. But more than once thatevening, as he heard the latch lifted in the adjoining room, he liftedhis head, and his wistful look was fixed on the opening door. But nolittle figure in sapphire blue came lightly into the room.
As soon as his duties were over Thorold crossed the room to Althea.
"Where is Miss Ward?" he asked, quietly. And Althea, who knew he hadpersonal interest in all his pupils, took the question as a matter ofcourse.
"I thought you would have heard," she said, a little sadly. "The poorchild is in great trouble." And then she gave him a brief account of thelast two days.
Thorold's face paled a little. He was extremely shocked.
"Her twin sister--that beautiful girl I saw in Old Ranelagh gardens?"
"Yes," returned Althea, sorrowfully. "I really think Mollie Ward has thesweetest face I have ever seen. Oh, I do not wonder that Waveney lovesher so. She is suffering cruelly, poor child; but her father will notallow her to go home."
"No, of course not," he returned, so quickly that Althea glanced at him."He is right, quite right. Diphtheria is terribly infectious. She mightbe ill, too. Good heavens! No one in their sense would expose a girl tosuch a risk." And Thorold spoke in a low, vehement tone of suppressedfeeling; but Althea was too much engrossed with her own painful train ofthoughts to notice his unusual emotion.
"No; you are right," she replied. "They must be kept apart. But,Thorold, it makes my heart ache to see her, poor child! It is impossiblefor any one to comfort her. I can do nothing with her."
Then Thorold's firm lips twitched a little.
"I am sorry," he said, in a quick undertone; "more sorry than I can say.Will you tell her so, please? Good-night. I must go home and work." Andthen he went off hastily, forgetting that it was his usual custom tohelp Althea extinguish the lights, and to walk down the dark gardenwith her; but Althea, sad and pre-occupied, hardly noticed thisdesertion on Thorold's part.
The evening had seemed a long one to her; her thoughts were in poorMollie's sick room. Down below a lonely, anxious man sat by his solitaryfire. "God comfort him," she said to herself, softly, as she rose fromher seat.
The next few days dragged heavily on--days so dim with fear and anguishthat for many long years Waveney never willingly alluded to that time,when the mere mention of it drove the colour from her face. Even Mollie,suffering tortures patiently, hardly suffered more than Waveney.
Sir Hindley Richmond had paid his visit, but had spoken very guardedlyabout the case. There were complications. It was impossible to say. Agreat deal depended upon nursing. He would come again--yes, certainly,if Mr. Ingram wished it; and then the great doctor drove off.
Everard took the news to the Red House. Perhaps he needed comforthimself, and pined for a sight of his darling. But Waveney's changedlooks and languid step filled him with dismay.
She came to him silently, and as he took her in his arms a sob burstfrom his lips. "Waveney, you will break my heart. Have pity on your poorfather. I have but two daughters, and Mollie----" And here he could sayno more. Waveney put her hands on his shoulders; they were cold as ice,and her eyes had the fixed, heavy look of one who walks in her sleep.
"Father, is Mollie dying?" Her voice was quite toneless. Everard startedin horror.
"My darling child, no--God forbid that such sorrow should be ours; butshe is very ill, and I am afraid Sir Hindley Richmond thinks verygravely of the case. There are complications; but he will come again.Ingram insists on it. They are nursing her splendidly. Everythingdepends on that." But it may be doubted if Waveney heard this.
"Father," she said, in the same dull voice, "I want you to make me apromise. If there is no hope, if Sir Hindley says so, promise me that Ishall see her--before--before--you know what I mean."
"Oh, Waveney, my little Waveney, for God's sake do not
ask me that!" andEverard shook with emotion.
"But I do ask it." And then her arms went round his neck in a suddenpassion of pleading. "Father, I will be good--I will not go near orkiss her; but her dear eyes must see me--she must know that I am there.Father, if you love me, you will not refuse." And then, with a chokingsob, poor Everard gave reluctant consent.
Very little more passed between them, when Everard said he must go;Waveney made no attempt to keep him. For the first time in her life herfather's presence failed to comfort her, and instinctively he realisedthis.
"Take care of yourself for my sake," he said, as he kissed and blessedher; but she made no answer when he left her. She paced up and down theroom restlessly. Movement--that was her sole relief; and bodilyfatigue--that would make her sleep. Once she pressed her face againstthe window and looked out at the darkness. "Mollie is dying," she saidto herself, "and perhaps the dear Lord will let me die, too;" and thenshe smiled at the thought, and resumed her pacing to and fro in thefirelight.
As Everard stumbled out of the room, Althea opened the door of thelibrary and beckoned to him. She had no need to ask him any question;one glance at his face was enough. "Mr. Ward," she said, in her softvoice, "I cannot let you go like this. Sit down by the fire, and I willgive you a nice hot cup of coffee. You always liked coffee better thantea, I remember."
"You are very good," he returned, in a hesitating voice. "But I amanxious to get back to my poor child. Dr. Duncan will be coming at six,and Ingram will be round for news."
"Oh, I would not keep you for worlds," replied Althea, gently. "But youmust drink this first; and there is no need to drink it standing." Andthen, with a half-smile, Everard yielded. The beautiful room, the softlamplight, the quiet face and kindly ministering hands of his oldfriend, gave him a sudden feeling of warmth and repose. He felt like atired child brought out of the cold and darkness. As he drank hiscoffee, the numb, strained feeling gave way.
"Miss Harford," he said, suddenly, "it makes me miserable to seeWaveney."
"Ah!" she returned, quickly, "I was afraid you would say that. But thepoor child is not herself. She is stunned with trouble. When we talk toher, she does not seem to hear what we say. Doreen spoke to her a littlesharply, to-day," she went on. "She did it to rouse her; but, of course,I told her that it would be useless. When she had finished, Waveneymerely looked at her, and then went out of the room. And Doreen was soafraid she had hurt her that she followed her to say something kind.Waveney seemed quite astonished. 'You have not hurt me, oh, no!' shesaid. 'It is I who am rude, for I did not hear half you said. When I tryto listen, my head pains me, and I get confused. But I think nothinghurts me.'"
Everard sighed. "What are we to do with her?" he asked, in a despairingvoice.
"Dear Mr. Ward," returned Althea, in her flute-like voice, "we can donothing but love her, and pray for her. She and her dear Mollie, too,are in God's hands--not ours. Try to trust them both to Him." And thenEverard looked gratefully in her face.
"She is a sweet woman," he said to himself, as he walked towards thestation. "I wonder why she has never married?" But no suspicion of thetruth entered his mind.
Moritz used to send Noel up to the Red House nearly every day. But henever came himself. He spent most of his time at Number Ten, ClevelandTerrace.
Everard took very kindly to his visits. Moritz turned up at all hours,with all sorts of excuses. He would send up messages to the nurses, andvery often would waylay Nurse Helena in the road outside. Nurse Helena,who had a kindly, womanly nature, would smile a little sadly, as shewalked on. "He does not know, poor man, that he has a rival," she saidto herself. "There is a Monsieur Blackie. I have heard the name often.But, poor child, what does it matter?" And here Nurse Helena shook hercomely head. For that day, dear, sweet Mollie was at her worst. AndMoritz was like a man distracted.
That afternoon Thorold Chaytor came home unusually early. He wasbringing his work with him. Joanna and Betty were spending the day witha friend at Richmond, and Tristram had promised to join them in theevening, so he would have the house to himself.
It was nearly four o'clock, but down by the river there was still light.The water had a cold, steely gleam on it, and the black hulls of theboats drawn up on shore, looked hard and forbidding. There was a touchof frost in the air, and as Thorold lingered for a moment on the bridge,he was surprised to see a solitary figure on the towing-path. The nextmoment he uttered an exclamation, and then walked rapidly in the samedirection; his keen, far-sighted eyes had recognised the pedestrian.
Waveney's restlessness had amounted almost to disease that day; shesimply could not sit still. All the morning she had been wandering overthe common with the little dogs running beside her, and the momentluncheon was over she started off on an errand to the ModelLodging-house.
Her limbs ached with fatigue, but a streak of red sunset, casting a glowon the river, attracted her irresistibly, and though the light had longfaded, and the air was chill and damp, she still paced up and down; butshe started, and a sudden giddiness came over her, as a deep voiceaccosted her.
"Miss Ward, is this wise or right? Have you no regard for your health?"and Thorold's voice was unusually stern; but even in that dim light, thedrawn pallor of her face frightened him. Could sickness and sorrow ofheart have wrought this change in these few days?
"Perhaps I have walked too much," she returned, faintly. "I am so fondof walking, and the river is so beautiful, and there is nothing else todo." And then a sudden impulse of self-preservation made her catch athis arm. "I am so giddy," she said, in a tired little voice. "If I onlycould sit down a moment!"
"There is a seat near," he returned, quietly; "let me help you." Andthen his strong arm almost lifted her off the ground. The next momentshe was on the bench; but his arm was still around her. She was notfaint; her eyes were wide open and fixed on the water, but her strengthhad gone, and, as far as he could judge, she seemed scarcely consciousof her surroundings. She even submitted like a child when he drew herhead against his shoulder.
"Do not try to speak. It will pass, and you will be better soon." Andthen he felt her pulse. The feeble beats spoke of utter exhaustion. Verylikely she had eaten nothing all day. There was only one thing to bedone. She must be warmed and fed, and then he must take her home.
"Do you think you could walk a little now?" he asked, when a few minuteshad passed, and the cold breeze from the river seemed to pierce throughhim. "It is not safe to sit any longer. There is a frost to-night, andwe have only such a little way to go. Will you try?--and I will helpyou."
"Oh, yes, why not?" returned Waveney, dreamily. "But it is not a littleway to the Red House, is it?" And then she rose stiffly, and if Thoroldhad not held her she would have fallen. "Why am I like this?" shepanted. "I have never been weary before."
"You have walked too far," was his sole answer, "and you are numb withcold." And then, half-supporting, half-carrying her in his man'sstrength, they reached the bridge.
Under the gaslight he saw she had revived a little, and then he made hertake his arm. The town was lighted, and there were plenty of passers-by;but, happily, there was not far to go. More than once, even in thatshort distance, he was obliged to let her pause for a minute.
As he opened the little gate, she pressed his arm feebly.
"Oh, not here," she said. "I must go home. Please do not make me go in;please--please, Mr. Chaytor."
"My dear child, can you not trust me?" was all his answer. "Do not fear.I mean to take you home." And, somehow, his calm, authoritative voiceseemed to control her at once.
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