CHAPTER XXXIX.
WHITE FLOWERS.
As soon as practicable Madeline stole a visit to Mrs. Holt, Mr. West having much business of importance in London.
“I have been ill,” she gasped as she tottered into the familiar kitchen, “or I would have come back long ago.”
“So you have, I declare. Dear heart alive! and aged by years, and just skin and bone. Sit down, sit down,” dragging forward a chair and feeling for the keys, with a view to a glass of wine for Mrs. Wynne, who looked like fainting.
“No, no. Never mind; I can’t stay. But tell me where it is, Mrs. Holt—where have they buried him?”
“No, no. Now sit you down,” enforcing her request with her hand. “Mr. Wynne was thinking of burying him with his own people in Kent; but it was too far away, so he is laid in Monks Norton, with a lovely stone over him. I’ve been there,” and then she proceeded to give the unhappy mother a minute description of the funeral, the coffin with silver plates, and a full account of the last resting-place, keeping all the while an angry and incredulous eye on her visitor’s coloured dress.
“You are not in black, I see,” looking at her own new black merino with some complacency.
“No, Mrs. Holt; I—I never thought of it, if you will believe me. My head was full of other things and my heart too sore; but I will wear mourning outwardly, as I wear it in my soul, and—heart—to the end of my days.”
“Well, I do wonder as you never thought of a bit of black,” sniffed the other, incredulously. “’Tis mostly the first thing!”
“Sometimes, I suppose,” responded her visitor wearily. “And now, Mrs. Holt, I must go; I know that you think badly of me, and I deserve it.”
“Well, ma’am, I can’t say but I do!” Her tone was of an intensity that conveyed a far greater degree of disapproval than mere words could convey. “But my opinion ain’t of no value to the likes of you.”
“You were very good to him. You took my place; I will not thank you. You do not want my thanks. You did all for his own sake and for pure love. Oh, Mrs. Holt, if I could only live the last two years over again!”
“There’s nothing like beginning a new leaf, ma’am. You have Mr. Wynne still.”
“Mr. Wynne will never forgive me—never. He said so. He said——” Then her voice failed. “Good-bye, Mrs. Holt.”
“Ay, I’m coming to the gate with you. I’ll tell Tom Holler where to take ye; it’s in or about three miles. You’d like a few white flowers? The lilies are just a wonder for beauty.”
“No, no, no. I won’t trouble you. I won’t take them,” she protested tremulously.
“Oh, but indeed you must!” Mrs. Holt was determined that, as far as lay in her power, Mrs. Wynne should respect les convenances, and, seizing a knife as they passed through the kitchen, cut quite a sheaf of white lilies, whilst Madeline stood apathetically beside her, as if she was a girl in a dream.
Monks Norton was an old, a very old grey country church, thickly surrounded by gravestones—a picturesque place on the side of a hill, far away from any habitation, save the clerk’s cottage and a pretty old rectory house smothered in ivy.
As Madeline pushed open the heavy lych gate, she was aware that she was not the only visitor to the churchyard. On a walk some little way off stood two smartly dressed girls, whom she knew—London acquaintances—and an elderly gentleman, with a High Church waistcoat, apparently the rector.
They had their backs turned towards her, and were talking in a very animated manner. They paused for a second as they noticed a tall lady turn slowly down a pathway, as if she was looking for something—for a grave, of course. Then resumed their discussion, just where they had left it off.
“It’s too sweet!” said one of the girls rapturously, “quite a beautiful idea, and you say put up recently?”
“Yes,” assented the rector, who took a personal pride in all the nice new tombstones, “only last Saturday week. It’s quite a work of art, is it not?”
“Yes,” returned the second lady. “You say that it was a child, brought by the father, and that he was very much cut up. His name was Wynne—one of the Wynnes. It can’t be our Mr. Wynne, Laura; he is not married.”
“Oh, there are dozens of Wynnes,” replied her sister. “And you said it was a sad little funeral, did you not, Uncle Fred? Only the father and a friend and two country-people. The mother——”
At this moment the girl was aware of some one coming behind her—a tall person, who could look over her shoulder—some one whose approach had not been noticed on the grass; and, turning quickly, she found herself face to face with—of all people in the world!—Miss West, who was carrying an immense bunch of freshly cut lilies. She gave a little exclamation of surprise as she put out her hand, saying—
“Miss West, I’m so charmed to see you. I heard you had been so ill. I hope you are better?”
“Yes, I have been ill,” returned the other languidly, wishing most fervently that these gay Miss Dancers would go away and leave her alone with her dead.
They were standing before the very grave she was in search of—a white, upright marble cross, on the foot of which was written in gilt letters—
Harry Wynne,
Died [here followed the date],
Aged 2 years and 7 months.
“Is it well with the child? It is well!” (2 Kings iv. 26).
“We have just been admiring this pretty tombstone, Miss West—so uncommon and so appropriate. I have never seen that text before, have you?”
Madeline turned away her eyes, and with wonderful self-command said, “No, she never had.”
“I wonder what Wynnes he belonged to. It does not say. The head of the Wynnes is very poor. The old estate of Rivals Wynne has passed out of the family. I saw it last summer. It is a lovely old place—about two miles from Aunt Jessie’s—delightful for picnics. Such woods! But the house is almost a ruin. The old chapel and banqueting-hall and ladies’ gallery are roofless. It’s a pity when these old families go down, is it not, and die out?”
“Yes, a pity,” she answered mechanically.
There was, after this, a rather long silence. Miss West was not disposed to converse. Oh, why could they not go away? and her time was so precious! Perhaps they divined something of her thoughts; for the sisters looked at one another—a look that mutually expressed amazement at finding the gay Miss West among the tombs of a lonely rural churchyard; and one of them said—
“Is it not delightful to get into the country? I suppose you are staying in the neighbourhood for the yeomanry ball?”
Madeline made no reply. Possibly her illness had affected her hearing.
“This old church is considered quite the local sight. Our uncle is the rector. If you have come to look for any particular grave, we know the whole churchyard, and can help you to find it with pleasure.”
This was one of the remarks that Miss Laura Dancer subsequently wished she had not made.
Miss West murmured her thanks, and shook her head. And the girls, seeing that she evidently wished to be by herself—and, after begging her with one breath to “come and have tea at the rectory”—pranced down to the lych gate on their high-heeled shoes, followed more leisurely by the rector.
And at last Madeline was alone. But how could she kneel on the turf and press her lips to the cold marble and drop her bitter tears over her lost darling with other eyes upon her? How could she tell that the windows in yonder rectory did not overlook every corner and every grave? She laid the lilies on the turf, and stood at the foot of the new little mound for half an hour, kissed the name upon the cross, gathered a few blades of grass, and then went away.
The Miss Dancers, who had a fair share of their mother Eve’s curiosity, had been vainly laying their heads together to discover what had brought Miss West to Monk’s Norton church; and over the tea-table they had been telling their aunt and uncle what a very important personage Miss West was in the eyes of society—how wealthy, how run after, how beautiful, and what a catch she would be for some young man if she could be caught! But she was so difficult to please. She was so cold; she froze her admirers if they ever got further than asking for dances.
“All heiresses are said to be handsome, no matter what their looks. She is no beauty, poor thing! She looks as if she is dying. How can any one admire lantern jaws, sunken eyes, and a pale face? Give me round rosy cheeks.” And the rector glanced significantly at his two nieces, who were not slow to accept the compliment.
“Oh, aunty, she is shockingly changed since I saw her last,” said Laura. “She really was pretty; every one said so—even other women. She had an immense reputation as a beauty; and when she came into a ballroom nobody else was looked at.”
“Well, my lasses,” said the rector, rising and brushing the crumbs of cake from his knees, “the world’s idea of beauty must have altered very much since I was a young man; or else your friend has altered greatly. Believe me, she would not be looked at now.”
So saying, he went off to his study, presumably to write his Sunday sermon—perhaps to read the newspaper.
His nieces put on their hats again, and went out and had a game of tennis. Tennis between sisters is a little slow; and after a time Laura said—
“Look here, Dolly, supposing we go up to the churchyard and see where she has left those flowers. There would be no harm in that, would there?”
Her sister warmly agreed to the suggestion, and the two set forth on their quest with eager alacrity.
They discovered the object of their walk without any difficulty; for the lovely white lilies were quite a prominent object on the green turf.
Miss West had laid them upon the new grave—the child’s grave. How strange!