The maid came back and asked him to "step" into the dining-room.
Mr. and Mrs. Gresley had risen from their chairs. Their eyes were fixed anxiously upon him. Fräulein gave a little shriek and rushed at him.
"She is viz you?" she gasped, shaking him by the arm.
"She is with me," said the Bishop, looking only at Fräulein, and taking her shaking hands in his.
"Thank God," said Mr. Gresley, and Mrs. Gresley sat down and began to cry.
Some of the sternness melted out of the Bishop's face as he looked at the young couple.
"I came as soon as I could," he said. "I started soon after seven, but the roads are heavy."
"This is a great relief," said Mr. Gresley. He began on his deepest organ note, but it quavered quite away on the word relief for want of wind.
"How is Regie?" said the Bishop. It was his turn to be anxious.
"Regie is verr vell," said Fräulein, with decision. "Tell her he is so vell as he vas."
"He is very much shaken," said Mrs. Gresley, indignant mother-love flashing in her wet eyes. "He is a delicate child, and she, Hester—may God forgive her!—struck him in one of her passions. She might have killed him. And the poor child fell and bruised his arm and shoulder. And he was bringing her a little present when she did it. The child had done nothing whatever to annoy her, had he, James?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Gresley, and his conscience pricking him, he added, "I must own Hester had always seemed fond of Regie till last night."
He felt that it would not be entirely fair to allow the Bishop to think that Hester was in the habit of maltreating the children.
"I have told him that his own mother will take care of him," said Mrs. Gresley, "and that he need not be afraid, his aunt shall never come back again. When I saw his little arm I felt I could never trust Hester in the house again." As Mrs. Gresley spoke she felt she was making certainty doubly sure that the woman of whom she was jealous would return no more.
"Regie cry till his 'ead ache because you say Miss Gresley no come back," said Fräulein, looking at Mrs. Gresley, as if she would have bitten a piece out of her.
"I think, Fräulein, it is the children's lesson-time," said Mr. Gresley, majestically.
Who could have imagined that unobtrusive, submissive Fräulein, gentlest and shyest of women, would put herself forward in this aggressive manner. The truth is, it is all very well to talk, you never can tell what people will do. They suddenly turn round and act exactly opposite to their whole previous character. Look at Fräulein!
That poor lady, recalled thus to a sense of duty, hurried from the room, and the Bishop, who had opened the door for her, closed it gently behind her.
"You must excuse her, my lord," said Mr. Gresley; "the truth is, we are all somewhat upset this morning. Hester would have saved us much uneasiness, I may say anxiety, if she had mentioned to us yesterday evening that she was going back to you. No doubt she overtook your carriage, which put up at the inn for half an hour."
"No," said the Bishop, "she came on foot. She—walked all the way."
Mr. Gresley smiled. "I am afraid, my lord, Hester has given you an inaccurate account. I assure you, she is incapable of walking five miles, much less ten."
"She took about five hours to do it," said the Bishop, who had hesitated an instant, as if swallowing something unpalatable. "In moments of great excitement nervous persons like your sister are capable of almost anything. The question is, whether she will survive the shock that drove her out of your house last night. Her hands are severely burned. Dr. Brown, whom I left with her, fears brain fever."
The Bishop paused, giving his words time to sink in. Then he went on slowly in a level voice, looking into the fire.
"She still thinks that she has killed Regie. She won't believe the doctor and me when we assure her she has not. She turns against us for deceiving her."
Mr. Gresley wrestled with a very bitter feeling towards his sister, overcame it, and said, hoarsely:
"Tell her from me that Regie is not much the worse, and tell her that I—that his mother and I—forgive her."
"Not me, James," sobbed Mrs. Gresley. "It is too soon. I don't. I can't. If I said I did I should not feel it."
"Hester is not in a condition to receive messages," said the Bishop. "She would not believe them. Dr. Brown says the only thing we can do for her is to show Regie to her. If she sees him she may believe her own eyes, and this frightful excitement may be got under. I came to take him back with me now in the carriage."
"I will not let him go," said Mrs. Gresley, the mother in her overriding her awe of the Bishop. "I am sorry if Hester is ill. I will"—and Mrs. Gresley made a superhuman effort—"I will come and nurse her myself, but I won't have Regie frightened a second time."
"He shall not be frightened a second time. But it is very urgent. While we are wasting time talking, Hester's life is ebbing away as surely as if she were bleeding to death. If she were actually bleeding in this room how quickly you two would run to her and bind up the wound. There would be nothing you would not do to relieve her suffering."
"If I would let Regie go," said Mrs. Gresley, "he would not be willing, and we could not have him taken away by force, could we, James?"
The door opened, and Regie appeared, gently pushed from behind by Fräulein's thin hand. Boulou followed. The door was closed again immediately, almost on Boulou's tail.
The Bishop and Regie looked hard at each other.
"I send my love to Auntie Hester," said Regie, in his catechism voice, "and I am quite well."
"I should like to have some conversation with Regie alone," said the Bishop.
Mrs. Gresley wavered, but the Bishop's eye remained fixed on Mr. Gresley, and the latter led his wife away. The door was left ajar, but the Bishop closed it. Then he sat down by the fire and held out his hand.
Regie went up to him fearlessly, and stood between his knees. The two faces were exactly on the same level. Boulou sat down before the fire, his tail uncurling in the heat.
"Auntie Hester is very sorry," said the Bishop. "She is so sorry that she can't even cry."
"Tell her not to mind," said Regie.
"It's no good telling her. Does your arm hurt much?"
"I don't know. Mother says it does, and Fräulein says it doesn't. But it isn't that."
"What is it, then?"
"It isn't that, or the 'tato being lost, it was only crumbs afterwards; but, Mr. Bishop, I hadn't done nothing."
Regie looked into the kind keen eyes, and his own little red ones filled again with tears.
"I had not done nothing," he repeated. "And I'd kept my 'tato for her. It's that—that—I don't mind about my arm. I'm Christian soldiers about my arm; but it's that—that—"
"That hurts you in your heart," said the Bishop, putting his arm round him.
"Yes," said Regie, producing a tight little ball that had once been a handkerchief. "Auntie Hester and I were such friends. I told her all my secrets, and she told me hers. I knew long before, when she gave father the silver cream-jug, and about Fräulein's muff. If it was a mistake, like father treading on my foot at the school-feast, I should not mind, but she did it on purpose."
The Bishop's brow contracted. Time was ebbing away, ebbing away like a life. Yet Dr. Brown's warning remained in his ears. "If the child is frightened of her, and screams when he sees her, I won't answer for the consequences."
"Is that your little dog?" he said, after a moment's thought.
"Yes, that is Boulou."
"Was he ever in a trap?" asked the Bishop, with a vague recollection of the ways of clergymen's dogs, those "little rifts within the lute," which so often break the harmony between a sporting squire and his clergyman.
"He was once. Mr. Pratt says he hunts, but father says not, that he could not catch anything if he tried."
"I had a dog once," said the Bishop, "called Jock. And he got in a trap like Boulou did. Now, Jock loved me. He cared for me more than anybody in the wor
ld. Yet, as I was letting him out of the trap, he bit me. Do you know why he did that?"
"Why?"
"Because the trap hurt him so dreadfully that he could not help biting something. He did not really mean it. He licked me afterwards. Now, Auntie Hester was like Jock. She was in dreadful, dreadful pain like a trap, and she hit you like Jock bit me. But Jock loved me best in the world all the time. And Auntie Hester loves you, and is your friend she tells secrets to, all the time."
"Mother says she does not love me really. It was only pretence." Regie's voice shook. "Mother says she must never come back, because it might be baby next. She said so to father."
"Mother has made a mistake. I'm so old that I know better even than mother. Auntie Hester loves you, and can't eat any breakfast till you tell her you don't mind. Will you come with me and kiss her, and tell her so? And we'll make up a new secret on the way."
"Yes," said Regie, eagerly, his wan little face turning pink. "But mother?" he said, stopping short.
"Run and get your coat on. I will speak to mother. Quick, Regie."
Regie rushed curveting out of the room. The Bishop followed more slowly, and went into the drawing-room where Mr. and Mrs. Gresley were sitting by the fireless hearth. The drawing-room fire was never lit till two o'clock.
"Regie goes with me of his own free will," he said; "so that is settled. He will be quite safe with me, Mrs. Gresley."
"My wife demurs at sending him," said Mr. Gresley.
"No, no, she does not," said the Bishop, gently. "Hester saved Regie's life, and it is only right that Regie should save hers. You will come over this afternoon to take him back," he continued to Mr. Gresley. "I wish to have some conversation with you."
Fräulein appeared breathless, dragging Regie with her.
"He has not got on his new overcoat," said Mrs. Gresley. "Regie, run up and change at once."
Fräulein actually said, "Bozzer ze new coat," and she swept Regie into the carriage, the Bishop following, stumbling over the ruins of the porch.
"Have they had their hot mash?" he said to the coachman, who was tearing off the horses' clothing.
"Yes, my lord."
"Then drive all you know. Put them at the hills at a gallop."
Fräulein pressed a packet of biscuits into the Bishop's hand. "He eat no breakfast," she said.
"Uncle Dick said the porch would sit down, and it has," said Regie, in an awe-struck voice, as the carriage swayed from side to side of the road. "Father knows a great deal, but sometimes I think Uncle Dick knows most of all. First gates and flying half-pennies, and now porches."
"Uncle Dick is staying in Southminster. Perhaps we shall see him."
"I should like to ask him about his finger, if it isn't a secret."
"I don't think it is. Now, what secret shall we make up on the way?" The Bishop put his head out of the window. "Drive faster," he said.
It was decided that the secret should be a Christmas-present for "Auntie Hester," to be bought in Southminster. The Bishop found that Regie's entire capital was sixpence. But Regie explained that he could spend a shilling, because he was always given sixpence by his father when he pulled a tooth out. "And I've one loose now," he said. "When I suck it it moves. It will be ready by Christmas."
There was a short silence. The horses' hoofs beat the muffled ground all together.
"Don't you find, Mr. Bishop," said Regie, tentatively, "that this riding so quick in carriages and talking secrets does make people very hungry?"
The Bishop blushed. "It is quite true, my boy. I ought to have thought of that before. I am uncommonly hungry myself," he said, looking in every pocket for the biscuits Fräulein had forced into his hand. When they were at last discovered, in a somewhat dilapidated condition in the rug, the Bishop found they were a kind of biscuit that always made him cough, so he begged Regie, who was dividing them equally, as a personal favor, to eat them all.
It was a crumb be-sprinkled Bishop who, half an hour later, hurried up the stairs of the Palace.
"What an age you have been," snapped Dr. Brown, from the landing.
"How is she?"
"The same, but weaker. Have you got Regie?"
"Yes, but it took time."
"Is he frightened?"
"Not a bit."
"Then bring him up."
The doctor went back into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
A small shrunken figure with bandaged head and hands was sitting in an arm-chair. The eyes of the rigid, discolored face were fixed.
Dr. Brown took the bandage off Hester's head, and smoothed her hair.
"He is coming up-stairs now," he said, shaking her gently by the shoulders. "Regie is coming up-stairs now to see you. Regie is quite well, and he is coming in now to see you."
"Regie is dead, you old gray wolf," said Hester, in a monotonous voice. "I killed him in the back-yard. The place is quite black, and it smokes."
"Look at the door," repeated Dr. Brown, over and over again. "He is coming in at the door now."
Hester trembled, and looked at the door. The doctor noticed, with a frown, that she could hardly move her eyes.
Regie stood in the doorway, holding the Bishop's hand. The cold snow light fell upon the gallant little figure and white face.
The doctor moved between Hester and the window. His shadow was upon her.
The hearts of the two men beat like hammers.
A change came over Hester's face.
"My little Reg," she said, holding out her bandaged hands.
Regie ran to her, and put his arms round her neck. They clasped each other tightly. The doctor winced to watch her hands.
"It's all right, Auntie Hester," said Regie. "I love you just the same, and you must not cry any more."
For Hester's tears were falling at last, quenching the wild fire in her eyes.
"My little treasure, my little mouse," she said, over and over again, kissing his face and hands and little brown overcoat.
Then all in a moment her face altered. Her agonized eyes turned to the doctor.
In an instant Dr. Brown's hand was over Regie's eyes, and he hurried him out of the room.
"Take him out of hearing," he whispered to the Bishop, and darted back.
Hester was tearing the bandages off her hands.
"I don't know what has happened," she wailed, "but my hands hurt me so that I can't bear it."
"Thank God!" said the old doctor, blowing his nose.
Chapter XLIII
*
The Devil has no stancher ally than want of perception.—PHILIP H. WICKSTEED.
It takes two to speak truth—one to speak and another to hear.—THOREAU.
Mrs. Gresley had passed an uncomfortable day. In the afternoon all the Pratts had called, and Mr. Gresley, who departed early in the afternoon for Southminster, had left his wife no directions as to how to act in this unforseen occurrence, or how to parry the questions with which she was overwhelmed.
After long hesitation she at last owned that Hester had returned to Southminster in the Bishop's carriage not more than half an hour after it had brought her back.
"I can't explain Hester's actions," she would only repeat over and over again. "I don't pretend to understand clever people. I'm not clever myself. I can only say Hester went back to Southminster directly she arrived here."
Hardly had the Pratts taken their departure when Doll Loftus was ushered in. His wife had sent him to ask where Hester was, as Fräulein had alarmed her earlier in the day. Doll at least asked no questions. He had never asked but one in his life, and that had been of his wife, five seconds before he had become engaged to her.
He accepted with equanimity the information that Hester had returned to Southminster, and departed to impart the same to his exasperated wife.
"But why did she go back? She had only that moment arrived," inquired Sybell. How should Doll know. She, Sybell, had said she could not rest till she knew where Hester was, and he, Doll, had walked to Warpington
through the snow-drifts to find out for her. And he had found out, and now she wanted to know something else. There was no satisfying some women. And the injured husband retired to unlace his boots.
Yes, Mrs. Gresley had passed an uncomfortable day. She had ventured out for a few minutes, and had found Abel, with his arms akimbo; contemplating the little gate which led to the stables. It was lying on the ground. He had swept the snow off it.
"I locked it up the same as usual last night," he said to Mrs. Gresley. "There's been somebody about as has tampered it off its hinges. Yet nothing hasn't been touched, the coal nor the stack. It doesn't seem natural, twisting the gate off for nothing."
Mrs. Gresley did not answer. She did not associate Hester with the gate. But she was too much perturbed to care about such small matters at the moment.
"His lordship's coachman tell me as Miss Gresley was at the Palace," continued Abel, "while I was a hotting up his mash for him, for William had gone in with a note, and onst he's in the kitchen the hanimals might be stocks and stones for what he cares. He said his nevvy, the footman, heard the front door-bell ring just as he was getting into bed last night, and Miss Gresley come in without her hat, with the snow upon her. The coachman said as she must ha' run afoot all the way."
Abel looked anxiously at Mrs. Gresley.
"I was just thinking," he said, "as perhaps the little lady wasn't quite right in her 'ead. They do say as too much learning flies to the 'ead, the same as spirits to them as ain't manured to 'em. And the little lady does work desperate hard."
"Not as hard as Mr. Gresley," said Mrs. Gresley.
"Maybe not, mem, maybe not. But when I come up when red cow was sick at four in the morning, or maybe earlier, there was always a light in her winder, and the shadder of her face agin the blind. Yes, she do work precious hard."
Mrs. Gresley retreated into the house, picking her way over the debris of the porch. At any other time its demise would have occupied the minds of the Vicarage household for days. But, until this moment, it had hardly claimed the tribute of a sigh. Mrs. Gresley did sigh as she crossed the threshold. That prostrate porch meant expense. She had understood from her husband that Dick had wantonly torn out the clamp that supported it, and that the whole thing had in consequence given way under the first snowfall. "He meant no harm," Mr. Gresley had added, "but I suppose in the Colonies they mistake horse-play for wit."
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