"That must be now, then," said Robert, who had followed her in, "for the leaves are falling thick enough and fast enough in the wood."
"Darker and darker as the leaves fall thicker," she replied, "and darkest of all when they are on the ground, and the trees bare."
"What will happen then?"
"Ask your own heart: hasn't it anger, hatred, and despair in it? Did I not hear you call aloud for vengeance?"
"And what good can come of it?" continued she, seeing he made no reply; "like you, I've had all that in my heart, until curses loud and bitter have followed one after another, heaped on those who injured me, and yet I'm as far off from happiness as ever. I began to seek it when I was a young woman, and look! my hair is grey, and yet I have not found it; while the fierce anger, the strong will to return evil for evil, have faded from my spirit like the slow whitening of these grey hairs. There's only despair now, and hatred for those, for her who did me wrong."
"Do we all hate as mercilessly as this? I feel that a look, a word of love would turn my heart from bitterness."
"Then the injury has not been deep. I've lived here a lonely woman twenty years, and a look, a word, will sometimes call the fierce blood to my heart. When the injury is eternal and irremediable then the hate must be lasting too."
"The injured heart may forgive," said Vavasour.
"It may forgive. But forget its hate! its wrongs! its despair! Never, never," said she, fiercely.
"It may be so," said Robert, half aloud.
"May be so? It is so. Hate is a deadly enemy; don't let it creep into your heart; tear it out! cast it from you! for once you have it, it is yours for ever; even death cannot part it from you."
"I doubt that. We know that even a dying sinner's heart may repent and be softened; the thought that he is perishing from the earth nursing a deadly sin at his heart would do much; he would never dare die so."
"Prayers, the pleadings of an agonised, breaking heart may be vain—in vain—was vain, young man, for I tried it," replied Goody Grey, her voice suddenly changing from fierceness to mournful sadness.
"Surely there could not be a heart so hard, if you pleaded rightly."
"Don't tell me that!" she exclaimed, raising her voice, "don't tell me there was anything I might have done. Did I not kneel and pray? Did I not take back my curses and give blessings? Did I not plead my broken heart and withered youth? But death came, even as I knelt; the hate was too strong, and the words I panted to hear were unspoken. What have you to say to that?"
"Hope," replied Robert; "what you have done at a death bed, I have done during life, and been refused; death has come since, and I am seemingly as far off as ever; and yet I hope on."
"Hope on, hope ever," said she, sadly, "yes, that's all that's left me now, but it doesn't satisfy the cravings of my heart; never will!"
"Have you no relations? You must live but a lonely life here," said Robert.
"That is the only living thing that loves me," she replied, pointing to the parrot, sitting pluming his feathers. "He's been with me in joy and sorrow. Don't touch him; he is savage with strangers."
"Not with me," said Robert, smoothing his feathers gently.
"Then he knows friends from foes, or his heart's taken kindly to you like mine did, when I saw you with the bad passions written in your face."
"I once had a bird like this," he replied, thoughtfully, "but it must be years ago, for I cannot recall to my recollection at this moment when it was."
He passed from the cottage, while Goody Grey again rocked herself to and fro' and began her old song.
The rest of the words were lost to his ear, but the sound of her voice was borne along by the breeze, and sounded mournfully and sadly as it swept through the leafless trees.
Robert thought much of Goody Grey as he walked homewards. Here was a woman whose very life had wasted away in the vain search for what for twenty years,—perhaps more,—had eluded her grasp. Would it be the same with him? Would years,—his life slip by, and the mystery of his birth be a mystery still? Would hope fade away, and he, like her, grow despairing in the end? He felt a strange interest in that lone, unloved woman, with nothing in the world to love but a bird. Then his thoughts reverted to his wife, and his love for her. Why had she married him if her heart was another's? Why had she done him this wrong? Why make not only herself, but him miserable for life? But could deceit dwell in so lovely a form as his wife's? only a month ago he would have staked his life; nay, his very love upon her truth. And now—now—
"Where are you going so fast, Robert? Are you walking for a wager? I have been vainly trying to come up with you for the last five minutes," said Amy, taking his arm.
"Have you been out walking without Bertie?" he said.
"Yes, I meant to have gone with you; and ran upstairs for my hat, when I saw you preparing to go out."
"I was too late; when I came back you had disappeared, Miss Strickland said down the long avenue: so I followed, and went through the village, and home by the lane, but somehow I missed you."
"Miss Strickland was wrong. I went across the fields into the wood, as far as Mrs. Grey's cottage. What a singular being she is!"
"Have you never seen her until to-day?"
"Yes, several times, but never to speak to. She must have been very handsome in her youth."
"What, with that dark frown on her brow?"
"That has been caused from sorrow," replied Robert, "she has had some heavy, bitter trial to bear; besides that frown is not always there, once I noticed quite a softened expression steal over her face. I feel an interest in the old lady; she tells me she is alone in the world,—like myself. I feel alone sometimes."
"You, Robert!" said Amy, in a tone of sadness and reproach.
"I feel so sometimes, Amy."
"What, with your wife's love?"
"You have the boy to care for. You love him so much, Amy."
"Yes," said she in a tone of disappointment.
"See! there he comes up the walk."
"Yes," she said again, but never turned her head or heeded Bertie's "Mamma!" "Mamma!"
"I love you better than Bertie, Robert," she whispered softly a moment after.
He did not reply; but she felt his arm tighten on her hand and press it slightly to his side. She did not return the pressure, she was only half satisfied as she left him and went up the terrace steps, while Robert's eyes followed her wistfully, until even the skirt of her dress swept through the door out of sight.
Ah! had she only remained with him a little longer.
Robert passed on down the terrace, and stood at the further end. Just then a window was flung open, and Frances Strickland called to his boy. They talked for a few moments, then Hannah passed on with her charge, while Robert still leant against the abutment of the window. Presently it closed gently, a voice saying at the same instant, "Poor Charley! Mrs. Vavasour will break her heart."
Robert sprung to his feet and strode past the window at which Frances still stood, his shadow falling upon her darkly as he went on into the house,—into the room.
Alone! and ready for a walk? That was well, he would not question her there; no, it must be away, far away, and safe from interruption.
"I would speak with you, Miss Strickland," he said sternly, vainly striving to appear calm, and stay the fierce hot blood rushing to his heart and mounting to his brow.
Frances followed him at once without a question; away into the Park, along the very road he had so lately traversed with his wife; she could scarcely keep up with his stride, or heavy iron-sounding step, that seemed as though it would crush every stone and pebble in his path to powder: still he went on; on through the trees and walks, startling the birds from the branches, but striking no dismay into Frances' breast; on, even down to the lake slumbering so peacefully and quietly. Here he stopped, and pointing to the clump of a tree, bade her be seated. Then he stood sternly before her.
"Can you wonder I wish to speak with you?" he asked in a thick, harsh, almost agitated voice, which grew steadier as he went on.
"No," she replied.
"Nor why I have brought you thus far?"
"No," she said again.
"Then speak!" he cried, "and if you speak falsely I will hold you up as a scorn and shame amongst women."
"I am not afraid," she said, "and can excuse your harsh words; but—"
"I will have no buts," he said sternly, "you have slandered my wife, her I love more than my life; you shall either say you have lied falsely, or you shall make good your words."
"Shall I begin at the beginning? Do you want to know all?"
"Begin, and make an end quickly."
And she did begin, even from the time when Amy had fainted, that memorable night, unto where Charles Linchmore had told her he had met Amy on her wedding day; and as she went on he buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook and trembled like an aspen.
"Girl, have some mercy!" he cried.
But she had none; no pity. Was not this woman his wife; and had she shown pity. So she never stayed her words, never softened them, she gave him what appeared the hard, stern, agonising truth, and he groaned with very anguish as she spoke.
"Is that all?" he asked at last.
"All."
"And you will swear it. Swear it!" he cried hoarsely.
"I will. But you need not believe me. Ask your wife? See what she says."
He moved his hands from his face. It looked as though years had swept over it. "You have broken my heart," he said, in a quivering voice. And then he left her.
Amy had gone to her room, sad and thoughtful, with the feeling, at last, that her husband doubted her love; and yet, she did love him better than she ever thought she should.
As she turned his words over in her mind, she determined on delaying no longer; but now, at once, tell him all. She dreaded his anger and sorrowful look; but that, anything was better than the loss of his love. So she sat and listened, and awaited his coming. But he came not.
The luncheon bell rang, and she went downstairs wondering at his absence.
"I am sorry to say Mr. Linchmore has heard some bad news, Mrs. Vavasour," said Mrs. Linchmore.
"My husband! Where is he?"—exclaimed Amy, panic stricken.
"It has nothing to do with him," replied Mr. Linchmore, "my brother has, unfortunately, been wounded." And he looked somewhat surprised at her sudden fright.
Then Amy was glad Robert was absent. "I am sorry," she faltered. "I hope it is not serious;" and her pale face paled whiter than before.
"No, I trust not. He has been out with General Chamberlain's force."
"He was very foolish to go to India at all," said Mr. Linchmore. "I dare say he would have had plenty of opportunities of winning laurels elsewhere; but he always was so impetuous,—here to-day and gone to-morrow."
Then the conversation turned upon other subjects, and still Robert came not. Just as they rose from the table Frances came in.
"Have you seen Mr. Vavasour?" asked Amy.
"No. Has he not been in to luncheon? I thought I was late."
Amy passed on up to her room again, and for a short time sat quietly by the fire, as she had done before; then, as the hours crept on, she rose and went to the window.
The sun sank slowly, twilight came on, and the shadows of evening grew darker still; Amy could scarcely see the long avenue now, or the tall dark trees overshadowing it; and still she was alone. Then the door opened; but it was not her husband—it was Hannah, who stood looking at her with grave face.
"If you please, Ma'am, I don't think Master Bertie is well. There is nothing to be frightened about; but he has been hot and feverish ever since he came home from his walk."
CHAPTER XI.
REPENTANCE.
Robert came back at last, and years seemed to have swept over his head and gathered round his heart, since only a few hours before he had stood in his wife's room. But he looked for her in vain, she was not there, but away in the nursery, hushing, with tearful eyes and frightened heart, poor sick Bertie in her arms to sleep. Robert longed, yet dreaded to see her. Through all his misery his heart clung to his wife, and hoped, even when his lips murmured there was no hope. He took up the work on the table, a handkerchief Amy had been hemming, marked with his name, and sighed as he laid it down, and thought duty, not love, had induced her to work for him.
So he waited on—waited patiently. At length she came.
"Oh, Robert! I am so glad you are here. I have been longing for you, and quite frightened when you stayed away such a time."
The mother's fears were roused, and she clung at once to her husband for help and support. Her trembling heart had forgotten for the moment all she had been braving her heart, and nerving her mind to tell him. The great fear supplanted for the time the lesser and more distant one.
She had seated herself at Robert's feet, leaning her head on his knee. He let her remain so—did not even withdraw the hand she had taken, for the fierceness of his anger had passed away, and a great sorrow filled his heart. Did he not pity her as much as himself? she so fair and young. Had not she made them both miserable? Both he and her.
But Amy saw nothing of all this—nothing of the grave, sorrowing face—her heart was thinking of poor Bertie's heavy eyes and hot hands, and how best she could break it to her husband, so as not to grieve him too much, for did he not love the boy as much as she did? and would he not fear and dread the worst? But even while she hesitated, her husband spoke—
"Amy! Have you ever deceived me? I, who have loved you so faithfully."
The cold, changed tone—the harsh voice struck her at once. She looked up quickly. There was that in his face which sent dismay into her heart, while her fears for Bertie fled as she gazed. Was she too late? Had her husband found out what she had been striving so hard for months to tell him? Yes, she felt, she knew she was too late; that he knew all, and waited for her words to confirm what he knew.
"Never as your wife, Robert," she replied, tremblingly.
"And when, then!"
"Oh, Robert! don't look so sternly at me—don't speak so strangely. I meant to tell you, I did indeed. I have been striving all these months to tell you."
Alas! there was something to tell, then; every word she uttered drove away hope more and more from his heart.
"Months and years?" he said, mournfully.
"No, no; to-day, this very day have I been watching and waiting. Oh! why did you not come back? Why did you not come back, Robert, so that I might have told you?"
"You dared not," he said, sternly.
"Oh, yes! I dared. I have done no sin, only deceived you, Robert, at—at first."
"Only at first. Only for ever."
"No, no; not for ever. I always meant to tell you, I did, indeed, Robert." She began to fear he distrusted her words already—she, whose very "yes" had been implicitly believed and reverenced. Alas! this first sin, perhaps the only one, into what meshes it leads us, often bringing terrible retribution.
"Did you not fear living on in—in deceit?" he said. "Did you not feel how near you were to my heart—did you not know that my love for you was—was madness? that, lonely and unloved, I loved you with all the passion of my nature? If not, you knew that all my devotion was thrown away—utterly wasted—that your heart was another's, and could never be mine."
He stopped; and the silence was unbroken, save by Amy's sobs.
"Had you told me this," he said again, "do you think I would have brought this great sorrow upon you? put trouble and fear into your heart instead of love and happiness, and made your young life desolate—desolate and unbearable, but for the boy. He is the one green leaf in your path, I the withered one,—withered at heart and soul."
"Robert! Robert! don't be so hard, so—so—" she could not bring to her lips to say cruel, "but forgive me!"
He heeded her not, but went on.
"And the day of your marriage," he said, "that day which should have been, and I fondly hoped was, the happiest day of your life; upon that day, of all others, you saw him."
"Not wilfully, Robert, not—not wilfully," sobbed Amy.
"That day, your marriage day, was the one on which you first learnt of his love for you, and passed in one short half hour a whole lifetime of agony. Poor Amy! poor wife! Forgive you? yes; my heart is pitying enough and weak enough to forgive you your share in my misery for the sake of the anguish of your own."
Amy only wept on. She could not answer. But he, her husband, needed no reply; her very silence, her utter grief and tears confirmed all he said.
"Amy, did you never think the knowledge of all this—the tale would break my heart?"
"Never! I feared your anger, your sorrowing looks, but—but that?—Never, never!"
"And yet it will be so. It must be so."
"Oh, no, no! Neither now nor ever, because—because I love you, Robert."
"Amy! wife!" he said, sternly, "there must never be a question of love between us, now. That—that is at an end, and must never be named again. I forgive you, but forget I never can," and then he left her, before she could say one word. Left her to her young heart's anguish and bitter despair, tenfold greater than the anguish he had depicted being hers long ago, because hopeless—hopeless of ever now winning back his love again. And what a love it had been! She began to see, to feel it all now, now that it had gone, left her for ever.
"God help me!" she cried, "I never, never thought it would have come to this. God help me! I have no other help now, and forgive me if I have broken his heart."
Then by-and-by she rose, and with wan, stricken face, went back to her boy.
Mr. Blane was bending over Bertie, who was crying in feeble, childish accents, "Give me some water to drink. Please give me some water."
"Presently, my little man; all in good time."
"But I want it now—I must have it now."
"My mistress, Mrs. Vavasour, sir," said Hannah, as Amy entered, and stood silently by his side, and looked anxiously into his face, as she returned his greeting.
"Dr. Bernard usually attends at the Hall," she said; "but he lives so far away, and I was so anxious about my boy. Is there much the matter with him?"
"Ahem," said Mr. Blane, clearing his throat, as most medical men do when disliking to tell an unpleasant truth, or considering how best to shape an answer least terrifying to the mother's heart. "No—no," he said hesitatingly. "The child is very hot and feverish."
"I hope he isn't going to sicken for a fever, sir," said Hannah.
"I fear he has sickened for it," he replied.
"Not the scarlet fever?" said Amy, in a frightened voice.
"No. There has been a nasty kind of fever going about, which I fear your boy has somehow taken. I have had two cases lately, and in both instances the symptoms were similar to this."
"Is it a dangerous fever?" asked Amy.
"The old lady, my first patient, is quite well again, in fact better than she has been for the last six months, as the fever cured the rheumatics, and from being almost a cripple, she now walks nearly as well as ever. And," he said, rising to leave, "I should advise no one's entering this room but those who are obliged to—the fewer the better—and by all means keep the other children away, as the sore throat is decidedly infectious. Good-bye, Sir; take your medicine like a little man, and then we'll soon have you well again," said he to Bertie.
"My boy, my poor Bertie," said Amy, as she sat by his side, and held the cool, refreshing drink to his parched lips. Did she need this fresh trial coming upon her already stricken heart?
"Don't let the boy see you crying, Ma'am," said Hannah, "or perhaps he'll be getting frightened, and I'm sure that'll be bad for him."
"No," said Amy. But though no tears were in her eyes, the traces of them were weighing down the heavy swollen eyelids; but tears she had none to shed, she had wept so much.
So she sat by the side of her sick child's little cot with aching heart, all alone and lonely, with no one but old faithful Hannah to sympathize and watch with her; he, her husband, she dared not think of, or if she thought at all, it was to almost wish he would not come; so stern and grave a face might frighten her boy.
"Are you not going down to dinner, Ma'am?" said Nurse at last, in a whisper, for Bertie had dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
"Dinner? Ah! yes. I forgot. No, I shall not go down to dinner to-day. I shall not leave my boy."
"I can take care of him, Ma'am, and then shouldn't you tell the Master? Haven't you forgotten him? There's no use keeping the bad news from him."
Forgotten him? How could she forget? Were not his words still fresh at her heart?
But Nurse was right, he ought to be told; there was Mrs. Linchmore, too, she—all, ought to know about Bertie.
So Amy rose and went away in search of her husband. Where was he? Should she find him in his room? She hesitated ere she knocked, but his heavy tread a moment after assured her he was there. She did not look up as the door opened, but said simply, "Bertie is ill, Robert, very ill. Mr. Blane has been to see him, and says he has caught some fever, but not a dangerous one."
All traces of sternness and anger fled from his brow, as he listened and caught the expression of his wife's face. He wondered at the calmness with which she spoke. His boy ill, little Bertie, in whose life her very soul had seemed wrapt? and she could stand and speak of it so coldly, so calmly as this? He wondered, and saw nothing of the anguish within, or how the one terrible blow he had dealt her had for the time broken and crushed her spirit. Only a few hours ago, and she would have wept and clung round his neck for help, in this her one great hour of need. But that was past, could not be; he would not have it so, her love had been forbidden.
"I will go and see the boy," he said, gently.
She turned and went on her way downstairs to the drawing-room.
"Good gracious, Mrs. Vavasour! what is the matter?" cried Frances, her heart beating savagely, as she looked at the poor face, so wan and still, telling its own tale of woe long before the lips did.
Amy took no notice of Frances, but passed on to where Mrs. Linchmore sat with the children. It was Alice's birthday, and Bertie was to have come down too, and as Amy remembered it, her heart for the first time felt full; but she drove back the tears, and said—
"My child is ill. He has caught some fever; but not a dangerous one."
How fond she was of repeating this latter phrase, as if the very fact of saying that it was not a dangerous fever would ease and convince her frightened, timid heart.
The words startled everyone.
"I am extremely sorry," said Mrs. Linchmore, drawing Alice away. "I trust, I hope it is not infectious?"
"I very much fear it is, at least, Mr. Blane thinks the sore throat is, and advises the children, by all means, being kept apart."
"They must go away, shall go away the very first thing to-morrow morning. It is as well to be on the safe side. Don't you think so, Robert?" said Mrs. Linchmore.
"Decidedly. They can go into the village for the time or to Grant's cottage."
"There are cases of the same fever in the village," said Amy.
"Then they must go away altogether," said Mrs. Linchmore, hurriedly. "We must send them to Standale."
"I am so sorry for Bertie, he'll have such lots of nasty medicine," said Fanny; "but won't it be nice to be without Miss Barker?"
"Be silent, child!" said her mother, "Miss Barker will of course go with you."
"Oh! how horrid!" returned Fanny. Even Mrs. Linchmore's frown could not prevent her from saying that.
Amy passed out again even as she had come, almost brushing Frances' dress, but without looking at her, although, had she raised her eyes, she must have been struck with the whiteness of her face, which equalled, if not exceeded, her own.
"Master has been here, Ma'am," said Hannah, as Amy returned, "and bid me tell you he had gone to fetch Dr. Bernard."
Again Amy sat by her boy watching and waiting. What else was there to be done? He still slept—slept uneasily, troubled with that short, dry cough.
Later on in the evening, when Dr. Bernard—whose mild hopeful face and kind cheering voice inspiring her poor heart with courage,—had been, and when the hours were creeping on into night a knock sounded at the door.
"Miss Strickland is outside, Ma'am, and wants to come in. Shall I let her?" asked Hannah.
Amy went out and closed the door behind her, and looked with unmoved eyes on Frances' flushed and anxious face.
"How is he? May I go in?" she asked, eagerly.
"Never, with my permission," was the chilling reply.
"Only for five minutes; I am not afraid of the fever, and my looking at him can do him no harm. I will promise not to stay longer than that."
"No. You shall not go in for half a minute, even."
"You cannot be so cruel," said Frances; "you cannot tell how frightened and anxious I am. Oh! do let me see him."
"I will not," said Amy, angrily.
"Cruel, hard-hearted mother," cried Frances. "I know he has asked for me. I know he has called for me!"
"I thank God he has not," replied Amy, "for that would break my heart."
"Then he will ask for me; and if he does, you will send for me, won't you?"
"Never!" said Amy, as she turned away.
"Oh! Mrs. Vavasour, I love the boy; don't you see that my heart is breaking while you stand there so pitilessly."
"Had you loved the boy," said Amy, "you would not have crushed the mother's heart. What had I done to you, Frances Strickland, that you should pursue me so cruelly, first as a girl, when I never injured you, and then—now you have taken my husband's love from me, and would take my boy's also? But I will stand between him and you, cruel girl, as long as I live."
"Don't say so. Think—think—what if he should die?" said Frances, fearfully.
"Ah! God help me!" said Amy; she could say no more. But Frances clung to her dress.
"It is I who should say, God help me!" she cried; "don't you know I took Bertie to the cottage where he caught the fever? Oh! Mrs. Vavasour, you don't know half my agony and remorse, or what I suffered when I found out what I had done."
"My boy's illness, my husband's scorn, broken hopes, and grieving heart, my crushed spirit, all—all I owe to you. May God forgive you, Miss Strickland."
"Yes, yes; God forgive me. I deny nothing. But, oh! will not you forgive me, Mrs. Vavasour? I will try, I will, indeed, to make amends."
This abject appeal from the proud Frances? But Amy scarcely heeded it.
"You cannot make amends," she said, despairingly. "It is past atonement—this great wrong you have done."
"Oh! do not be so harsh and cruel to me; your heart was soft enough once."
"It was. You have changed it, and are the first to feel its hardness. I am no longer what I was; but for my boy I should turn into a stone, or die."
"And I? What am I to do? If—if anything should happen to Bertie. Oh! I shall go mad," she cried. "Think of my grief then. I, who unwittingly gave him this fever; think what my heart would feel, what it even feels now; and be not so merciless."
"No, not half so merciless as your bad heart has been. I can give you no greater punishment than your own guilty remorse, and frightened heart. I will remain no longer, Miss Strickland. You shall not see my boy!"
And Amy left Frances weeping, perhaps the first genuine repentant tears she had ever shed.
Robert sat at his boy's bed-side all that night, cooling his burning forehead and heated head with the cold wet cloth dipped in vinegar and water, or holding him up in his arms while his poor parched lips feebly yet eagerly drank from the cup his mother held so tremblingly before him, while Frances alternately walked her room despairingly, or crouched away in the dark on the stairs near, her ear vainly trying to catch the words of those mournful watchers and nurses who stepped about so softly in the sick chamber beyond.
CHAPTER XII.
A FADING FLOWER.
The long hours of night wore away, and the morning broke, bright, fresh, and frosty. Then the long corridor and passages echoed with the sound of hasty footsteps hurrying through them, while the quick, sudden opening and shutting of doors betokened an unusual stir in the Hall. The children were preparing for their journey.
Half an hour later all was silent and still, more so than it had been for days. The children were gone.
Again we enter the sick room. Bertie is no better, but, if anything, worse; his little face more flushed and heated, his burning hands wandering restlessly about, to and fro, as he tosses and turns upon his little cot, his anxious eyes no longer looking mournfully, and as it were imploringly in his mother's face for help from his pain, for Bertie is delirious, and does not even recognise her; his thoughts ramble, and he talks incoherently and strangely.
Mrs. Hopkins often came to see him, bringing, as was her wont, in cases of illness, broths and cooling drinks she had prepared with her own hand; but Bertie was too ill to heed them, and Amy could but look her thanks—words she had none.
It was on returning from one of these visits, with cup and saucer in hand, that she met Frances Strickland.
"Have you been to see Master Bertie?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss," replied Mrs. Hopkins, with a sigh.
"And how is he? Do you think he is any better this morning?"
"No, Miss, I don't. It's my belief he couldn't well be worse; but the doctor'll know better than me. I suppose he'll be here presently."
"What makes you think him so ill?"
"I've been the mother of four, Miss, and lost them all, and none of them looked a bit worse than Master Bertie, poor, innocent lamb."
"But you had not two doctors," returned Frances.
"No, nor half the nurses to wait on mine; but I'd the same loving, craving mother's heart and the same God to look up to and hope in," and the housekeeper passed on, as the rebuke fell from her lips.
"Oh! I wish I could hope, I wish I could pray," cried Frances, as she went once more into the solitude of her own room; not only did she grieve for Bertie, but the terror lest through her means he should die had at last brought repentance to her unfeeling heart; she had been so wicked, so relentlessly cruel to his mother, that perhaps the boy's death was to be her punishment; and she could think of, scarcely look forward to, anything else.
Dr. Bernard stayed at the Park all that night; he whispered no decided hope to Amy's heart. There was only a very grave look on his face as after bending over Bertie and feeling the quick, sharp pulse beating so fiercely against his finger, he said, "While there is life there is hope," and Amy was obliged to content her poor heart with this, and repeat it over and over again to herself all through that long sad night; the second of Bertie's illness, and of her own and her husband's watch, for Robert scarcely ever left his boy, but remained through the weary hours of night patiently by his side; only old Hannah snatching every now and then a moment's sleep.
Towards the morning Bertie grew more composed, the hands tossed about less restlessly, and the weary, anxious eyes closed in sleep: so calm and still he looked that Amy bent down her head to catch the faint breath.
"It is not death?" she said to Dr. Bernard, who had been hastily aroused.
"No. The crisis is past I hope. The fever has left him. It is weakness, excessive weakness," but he did not add that that was as much to be dreaded as the fever; while Amy only prayed that when he awoke he would recognise her, so long it seemed since his little lips had said "Mamma."
Just before luncheon, Anne with her husband drove up to the Hall. She was rushing into the morning-room with her usual haste and merry laugh, when she was checked by Mrs. Linchmore's grave face.
"Has anything happened, Isabella? How grave you look."
Yes a great deal had happened; she had a great deal to hear, and Anne sat herself down to listen to it all patiently—or as patiently as she could to the end. As soon as it was told, she was rushing impetuously from the room.
"Is the boy in the small red room?" she asked.
"Yes. But Anne, the fever is infectious; you had better stay away. Mrs. Vavasour can come and see you here."
"As if she would leave him?" she cried, "not a bit of it, I know her better, besides I am not afraid of anything. I shall go." Anne was right, there was very little indeed she was afraid of.
"But Anne, think of your husband; he might not like it."
"Ah! true; how tiresome it is sometimes to have a husband! I suppose I shall have to wait a whole hour before he thinks of coming back."
"Did he drive in with you?"
"Yes, and has gone on in the pony carriage to call at the Rectory. Isn't it provoking. I have a great mind not to wait for him."
"It might have been a great deal worse; suppose he had not driven in with you?"
"Then I should have braved his anger and been at the boy's bed-side long ago," and she walked to the window, and strained her eyes impatiently down the drive.
"Have you seen the child today?" she asked presently.
"No, not since his illness; but Dr. Bernard tells me the fever left him early this morning."
"It did? Oh! then he'll soon get better."
"But he is so excessively weak, that he holds out small hopes of his recovery."
"Poor dear Amy, how sad for her. Ah! there's the carriage at last; how delightful! Mr. Russell could not have been at home." And away she flew down the stairs, and stood impatiently on the terrace.
"My dear Thomas," she exclaimed, "how slowly you drive. I always tell you you indulge the pony fearfully when I am not with you."
Mr. Hall looked in surprise at his wife's anxious face. "Why, Anne," he said, "I had no idea you were in such a desperate hurry to return home, or I might have driven a little quicker."
"Return," she cried, "I am not thinking of such a thing. I want to stay for a week, if you will only let me, and Isabella does not object; you can go and arrange it with her presently," said she, in her impetuous way.
"But I have yet to hear why I am to do all this," returned her husband.
"Ah, I forgot! It's because poor Amy Vavasour's child, that little boy we saw when we were last here, is dying of some fever. They say it's infectious, but you will not mind that, will you? I am not a bit afraid, and I do so want to comfort Amy."
Mr. Hall looked very grave.
"Oh, don't consider about it," she said, "you can stay, too, you know; there is no reason why you should go home before Saturday."
"It is not that," he replied, "but this fever is infectious, Anne, and you will be running a great risk."
"Do not think about it, Tom. I shall fret myself into a worse fever at home, and besides, think of poor Amy. I do not believe you can be so hard-hearted as to refuse me."
So in the end, much against his wish, Mr. Hall yielded, and while he went to propose the plan to Mrs. Linchmore Anne went off on her mission of mercy, and was repaid by the sad smile, and almost glad light in Amy's eyes as she greeted her.
Anne was shocked at the change in the boy; shocked too, with the mother's wan, haggard look.
"My Mistress hasn't been in bed for these two nights past, Miss," said Nurse, interpreting Anne's thoughts.
Not for two nights? It was absolutely necessary she should have some repose; so Anne set herself to work to accomplish it.
"Why not lie down, Amy, while your boy is asleep?"
"Impossible!" was the firm reply, "I could not."
"But you will wear yourself out, you cannot possibly be of any use while he sleeps. I will sit by him for you, and call you the moment he wakes."
"No, I must be by him when he wakes, I could not bear to think he looked at anyone else first; he has not known me for so long, that my heart is craving for some sign to show that he recognises me."
This was conclusive, and Anne urged no more, but Robert said, "I think Mrs. Hall is right, Amy, in advising you to rest."
"But I cannot leave the room, indeed I cannot."
"There is no occasion for your doing so, you can lie on Hannah's bed."
Anne expected a fresh expostulation, but no, Amy moved away at once, and did as her husband wished.
"Where can I find a shawl for Amy, Mr. Vavasour?" said Anne, presently, "she will be frozen over there, without some wrap."
He went away, and returned a moment after with one, which he spread over Amy as she lay, but without, to Anne's astonishment, one loving word or even look.
"Try and sleep," he said, gently, "I will call you in an hour."
She thanked him, and closed her eyes.
But long before the hour had passed away, she was at Bertie's bed-side, with the little head nestled in her bosom, and the soft, thin hand clasped in hers; he was too weak to say much, but he had named her, had recognised her; that was enough, he would not die now, without giving her one loving look. Die? Yes, she felt he would die, so thin and wasted, so hollow his cheeks, so weak, so utterly weak; and then the sorrowing faces of those around, the still graver one, and pitying words of the old doctor. Ah! there was no need to tell her; her boy, her beautiful boy, must die. Oh! the anguish of her heart, surely if a fervent prayer could save him, he would be saved yet.
Anne stole away by and by to her husband, and found him busy unpacking a carpet bag.
"I have been home and back again, Anne," he said, "and made Mary put together the few things she thought you might require. I hope you will find them all right."
"Oh! Tom, I do believe you are the only devoted, kind husband in the whole world; how fortunate it was I married you when I did."
"Why so?" he asked.
"Because I see so many bad specimens of married life, that if I had waited until now, I would not have had you at any price."
"Oh, yes, you would," he said.
"Don't be so conceited," she replied, "remember you have never been drilled yet."
"I have my wife to be conceited of," he said, fondly; "and now Anne, tell me what news of the child?" She was grave in a moment.
"There is no hope. None whatever. Dr. Bernard gives none."
"And the mother?"
"She is very quiet, very submissive under it all."
"She knows the worst, then?"
"She guesses it, and bears up wonderfully. How it will be by-and-by, when the worst is over, I don't like, cannot bear to think of; you must come and talk to her then?"
"I?" he said, "no, that will never do; she has her husband."
"He's a wretch! I have no patience with him. As cold as an icicle."
"My dear Anne," he said, reprovingly.
"Oh! my dear Tom, I am so glad you are not like him," and then she burst out crying, a most unusual thing for her, "and I am so glad now I have no children: it must be dreadful to lose them. After this I will be the most contented little mortal going."
And she went back again to Amy, leaving her husband somewhat surprised, and regretful that he should have consented to have allowed her to remain in a scene evidently too much for her.
Bertie had roused again. "Where's Missy? I want Missy?" he said, feebly.
The cry went like a sharp knife through the mother's heart. She brought him toys and pictures, telling him the history of each, and quieting him as well as she could. At first he was amused and interested, but he soon wearied, and said again, "I want Missy."
"Is it Alice he is crying for?" whispered Anne, as Amy moved away, and sent Hannah to take her place by the bed.
"No, not Alice. Oh! Anne, he will break my heart. I had so hoped he had forgotten her."
Again the little fretful cry sounded. "Tell Missy to come."
"I must go," said Amy, "there is no help for it."
Frances had thrown herself despairingly on the bed, shutting out Jane, her maid, who had tried to comfort her, and even Mrs. Linchmore. At one moment she would not believe there was no hope—would not,—the next she wept and moaned with the certainty that there could be none; as she saw Amy enter, she covered her face with her hands, and groaned aloud; thinking there was but one reason the mother could have in coming to see her, and that was to upbraid her for having caused the death of her boy.
"Miss Strickland I said you should not see my boy, but I cannot refuse his,—" Amy faltered,—"perhaps last request. He is asking for you. Will you come?"
"Come!" exclaimed Frances, springing from the bed, and tossing back the hair from off her throbbing temples, "do you think I could refuse him—you, anything? and oh! forgive me, Mrs. Vavasour, for having caused you all this utter misery."
"It is a fearful punishment," said Amy, looking at the ravages grief and remorse had made in her beautiful face.
"Fearful!" she replied, "it will haunt me through life. Think of that, and say one word of forgiveness, only one."
"I cannot forgive you, Miss Strickland. For my poor Bertie's illness I do; that was an unintentional injury, but his mother's misery—broken heart, no; that you might have prevented, and—and, God help me, but I cannot forgive that."
"How could I hope you would," said Frances despairingly, as she prepared to follow Amy.
"You must control your grief, Miss Strickland; be calm and passionless as of old. My boy must see no tears."
"I wonder I have any to shed," she replied, "and God knows how I shall bear to see him."
Anne looked bewildered as the door opened and Amy returned with Frances, and still more so when she saw the child's face light up with pleasure, and he tried in his feeble way to clasp her neck.
"I cannot bear to look at it," said Amy, as she softly left the room.
"Naughty! naughty Missy," he said as he kissed her.
Frances felt as if she could have died then, without one sigh of regret. For a moment after he released her she did not raise her head.
"My dear,—dear Bertie," she said, struggling with her tears. Then presently she sat down and fondled and stroked his thin small hand, soothing and coaxing him as well as she was able. If her heart could have broken, surely it would have broken then.
"Ah! he's thin enough now, Miss," observed Nurse, "even that sour stiff-backed lady would have a hard matter to call him fat. He's never been the same since she looked at him with those sharp ferret eyes of hers;" and then she moved away and went and seated herself by the fire, recounting the whole history to Anne, of not only her dislike for Miss Barker, but the reason of Bertie's apparent partiality for Frances; while the latter sat and listened to Bertie's talk, he wounding and opening her heart afresh at every word he uttered.
"Naughty Missy not to come to Bertie!" he said; and Frances could not tell him why she had stayed away; she could only remain silent and so allow him to conclude she had been unkind.
She took up some of the books Amy had left.
"Here are pretty pictures," she said, "shall Missy tell you some of the nice stories?"
"No, you mustn't. Mamma tells me them; I like her to, she tells them so pretty."
"Is there nothing Missy can do for you? Shall she sing you a song?"
"Mamma sings 'Gentle Jesus;' you don't know one so pretty do you?"
"No, Bertie, I am sure I don't."
Presently his little face brightened. "I should like you to get me kitty," he said.
"Yes. Who is kitty though?"
"That's what Master Bertie cried for the very day he was taken ill. It's the kitten he saw in the village, Miss," said Hannah.
"Bertie shall have kitty," said Frances, decidedly. "Missy will fetch her."
"Yes, she's big now, her mother won't cry," he said, as if not quite satisfied that she would not.
It had come on to rain, since the morning but what cared Frances for that; she scarcely stayed to snatch her hat and cloak before she was hurrying through it. What cared she for the rain or anything else? Her whole soul was with Bertie—the child who through her means was dying, and yet had clasped her neck so lovingly as she bent over him dismayed and appalled at the ravages illness had made in his sweet face.
There was only Matthew in the little parlour as she entered the cottage.
"You'd better not come in, Miss," he said "no offence, Miss, but my sister-in-law's been ill with the fever these days past."
"It can make no difference now," she said, bitterly, "that little boy I brought here only ten days ago is—is dying of the fever he caught here."
"Lord save us! Miss, dying?" said Matthew regretfully.
"He has just asked for the kitten he saw here. Will you let him have it? It may be," she said despairingly, seeing he hesitated, "only—only for a day, or for—a few hours, you would never have the heart to refuse a child's last wish." In days gone by she would have abused him for the hand he had had in causing poor Bertie's illness, and her misery. But it was different now.
"No, Miss, you're right, I haven't the heart to. What's the kitten's life worth next to the young master's. Here take it and welcome; though what the Missus'll say when she finds it's gone, and the old un a howling about the place I don't know, but there, it can't be helped," said Matthew philosophically, as Frances wrapped the kitten up carefully in her cloak, and hurried away.
The evening had closed in by the time Frances reached the Park again. She hastily changed her wet things, and went at once to Bertie's room, but her heart misgave her, as, going down the long corridor, she saw Anne seated on the ledge of the large window, with the traces of tears on her face.
"I am not too late?" she asked.
"I don't know," replied Anne. "He is very, very weak. I could not bear to stay."
Frances went on, Robert, as well as Amy, was in the room. He moved a little on one side to allow Frances to come near. "Bertie, my boy," he said, "Missy has brought you Kitty."
Frances leant over, and placed it beside him.
He opened his eyes feebly, then took the kitten so full of life, and nestled it to his side.
"Bertie is very sick," he said, weakly, as he tried to murmur his thanks.
This was the first time he had spoken of feeling ill. How pitifully his little childish words smote upon the hearts of his sad, sorrowing parents.
"Bertie is very sick," he said again. "I think Bertie is going to die. Poor Bertie!"
His mother's tears fell like rain. "God will take care of my boy for me," she said. "My boy, my precious Bertie!"
"Yes; but you mustn't cry, you and Papa, and Hannah."
Robert's face was wet with tears, while old Hannah sat away in a corner, with her face covered up in her apron, sobbing audibly; but she stifled her sobs upon this, his—might be—last request.
"God bless you, Bertie," said Frances, in a broken voice, ere she went away.
"Good night," he said. "You may have my top, for bringing me Kitty. Papa will get it for you."
And then he turned his head away wearily, and begged his mother to hush him in her arms to sleep. Robert lifted him gently, and laid him close to Amy. She drew him near, nearer still to her poor breaking heart, but she dared not press her lips to his, lest she should draw away the feeble breath, already coming so faintly, growing fainter and fainter every moment.
"Kitty must go back to her mother," he said. "Take care of Kitty—pretty Kitty."
But soon he grew too weak to heed even Kitty, and could only murmur short broken sentences about Papa, Mamma, and sometimes Missy.
Presently he roused again. "Don't cry, Papa, Mamma—Kiss Bertie—Bertie's very sick. Tell Hannah to bring a light—Bertie wants to see you."
Alas! his eyes had grown dim. He could no longer distinguish those he loved best, those who could scarcely answer his cry for their tears. They brought a light, old faithful Hannah did.
"Can you see me, my own darling?" asked Amy.
"No—no," he murmured, and his eyes closed gently, his breathing became more gentle still; once more he said, lovingly, "Dear Papa,—Dear Mamma," and then—he slept.
"Don't disturb him, Robert," sobbed Amy to her husband, who was kneeling near.
But Bertie had gone to a sleep from which there was no awaking.
Bertie, little loving Bertie, was dead.