A HALCYON DAY.
'They had been much together; and one for ever bears
A name upon the loyal heart, and in the daily prayers;
The other but remembers, when the pleasant hours are past,
That something has been sending them so sweetly and so fast.'
S M.
On Whit-Monday forenoon 'Mr. Underwood' was announced in the drawing-room at Stoneborough, and Gertrude May's face, which had at first clouded at the pre-prandial intrusion of any visitor, brightened at the name, but lost a little eagerness when the entering visitor proved himself to be only Lancelot, shaven now all but his moustache, and with an air of entirely recovered health, justifying his declaration that he had no desire to see the Doctor professionally, and had been quite well ever since his return to Bexley at Easter. He was now on his way to keep his holiday at home, but had made a deviation 'to show that I have tried to obey you,' he said, proffering to Gertrude a roll of music, the stiff paper cover beautifully and delicately adorned with a daisy border, with pen-and-ink etchings in the corners illustrating the receipt of telegrams for weal or woe, and the first bars were made to resemble the wires and posts, the notes, the birds perched thereon, the whole being of course William Harewood's poem set to music. So beautiful and elaborate was the finish, that Gertrude was startled and confused; the meaning flashed on her, and the sudden recoil roused the contradictoriness of her nature. The earnest look abashed and frightened her, and with a sort of anger she coldly said, 'Very pretty, very nicely got up.'
'I think it may suit your voice,' said Lance wistfully.
'Thank you' (more nervously, and therefore more coldly), 'we will order some copies.'
Lance, after a moment's pleading gaze, dropped his eyes, coloured, and stammered, 'Not that.'
Ethel came to the rescue with praise of the etching, but this availed little; Gertrude spoke not a word, and Lance, though making some kind of reply, clearly did not know what he was saying, and presently took leave, in spite of Ethel's entreaties that he would stay to the early dinner, and to see her father. He made answer in a bewildered voice about not meaning—and getting home; shook hands, and was gone.
'That was not gracious, Daisy,' said Ethel.
'I'm sure I didn't want it,' said the spoilt child.
'You need not have hurt him.'
No answer but scarlet colouring.
About half-past three he was at the Priory, just as the whole party and Charles Audley besides were standing on the lawn, with rugs and cloaks betokening boating intentions. His first impulse was to shrink away like some wounded animal, but he had been spied, and was eagerly hailed—'O Lance! just in time! Here's the four-oar coming out! Clem and Angel want to go up the river to Tranquillity Bridge, and we are taking them.'
Lance would have done anything rather than betray his wound, so he took his place in the boat, and tried to shake himself into the present; but Felix thought he looked tired, and would not let him take an oar against the stream. Then it occurred to Cherry to ask whether he had had anything to eat. No, he believed not; but he was resolute that he wanted nothing, not even a draught of cider, which Angela mischievously recommended as they passed the 'Hook and Line,' a little tea-garden public-house, a favourite Sunday resort of Ewmouth idlers, and a great scandal and grievance to the Vicar, but secured, like other abuses, by a lease. A boat, belonging no doubt to some holiday-makers, was moored at the steps; but as it was the day of a great Maying at East Ewmouth, most observers of 'tide time' were likely to be there absorbed.
Angela amused herself with wild proposals to Charlie Audley to repair thither in disguise together, talking nonsense that greatly annoyed Clement, and was far from pleasing Felix or Cherry; but she was in so reckless and defiant a mood, that they could only hope that she might work it off at the oar. Her arms were strong as well as long, and rowing was a pastime she loved, having been franked as an A B S ever since she had taken lessons at a swimming-bath. The day was delicious, with clouds chasing one another so as to make fleeting lights and shadows on Penbeacon and the hills beyond; the clear brown water sparkling in ripples or lying in deep pools, shadowed by the woods that came down to the bank in the early green of spring, flowering may, mountain ash, and wreaths of blushing eglantine overhanging the margin, or where the space was open, revealing meadows all one golden sheet of buttercups, while the fringe of the stream was the feathery bogbean and the golden broom, mixed with tall sword leaves of the flag and the reed.
Shaded at length by a picturesque high-backed one-arched bridge, the boat waited while Clement and Angela went on their cottage visiting.
Charlie did not, as Cherry expected, invite Lance to promenade the bank with a cigar, but applied himself to helping Stella in collecting a grand nosegay of every sort of flower and grass within reach. The others remained in the boat: Lance leaning over the gunwale dreamily watching the ripples, apparently half asleep, lulled by the monotonously sweet humming of Theodore, and the songs of the birds in the woods; Cherry was sketching, and Felix rested musingly.
'Tranquillity Bridge,' he said. 'I always fancy it must have been named by some pious builder imbued with the spirit of the Pilgrim's Progress.'
'An unconscious poet,' said Cherry.
'Yes. Such a tranquil rest, amid such perfect peace and loveliness, without one discordant element, is one of the choicest boons of life.'
Lance swallowed a sigh; and Cherry answered, 'The very movements and sounds are all peace, though full of life.'
For a gold-billed moorhen was swimming among its little ones at the margin of the reeds at the bend of the river, and a sapphire kingfisher darted across the arch.
'Halcyon days,' said Felix.
'Oh no! Halcyon days precede storms.'
'Maybe they give strength for them. Times like these are surely foretastes of perfect bliss.'
'How does that prepare for storms?'
'Not only by calming nerves and spirits, but by giving some experience of the joy beyond—ay, and sense of love and confidence in Him who has made all so exquisite for our delight.'
It seemed to come from his heart, drawn forth by the grateful enjoyment of that sweet Whitsun hour.
Cherry held up her finger as a ring-dove began to coo from the thicket, making fit answer to one thus resting in the Feast of the Comforter; Theodore cooed in return, and the bird seemed to be replying. Even the tumult of pain and grief in Lance's breast was soothed by the spirit of the words and scene, while he felt the contrast, like an abyss, between himself and the others.
But when the rest of the party came gaily back with talk and laughter, inaction had become intolerable to him. He wanted to take Angela's oar, but she would not hear of giving it up, and Felix resigned his, while Cherry owned that she preferred having him at the helm when going down the river.
Theodore, with a shout, held out his hands for Stella's flowers, and she gave the whole into his hands, Charlie for a moment looking disappointed; but as the twins sat together, and the little fellow drew out the flowers singly and dropped them into his sister's lap, while she whispered their names, it was evidently perfect joy to both. Some, such as the bright spires of broom, he greeted with a snatch of nursery song, though otherwise the pair were scarcely audible as long as the nosegay lasted, and that was for a long time; but when Stella had made it up again, only leaving the broom to him, he returned to his usual hum, and this time with the tune of 'The strain upraise,' which had been practised that morning for Trinity Sunday, and which met the sound of the bells ringing for Evensong.
'That's rather too much!' exclaimed Angela. 'We shall be taken for some of the pious, a singing of hymns.—Come, Tedo.'
'No, no,' said Felix, 'I'll not have him interfered with.' And he hummed the tune.
'That's always the way when Baby goes out with us,' muttered Angela, audaciously singing out at the top of her clear soprano—
'Six o'clock is striking,
Mother, may I go out?
My young man is waiting,
To take me all about.
First he gives me apples,
Then he gives me pears;
Then he gives me sixpence,
To take me round the fairs;'
thus effectually silencing both the others, the one from sense of discord, the other from serious displeasure. At that moment, shooting from behind the bend of the river where stood the Hook and Line, came the other boat. Excited probably by the song, the young men in it shouted 'Come on! Who'll be first! We'll take a couple of your sweethearts aboard, to make fair play! We'll have your nightingale!'
'Next he gives me bacon
And eggs to fry in the pan,
And no one there to eat them
But me and my young man.'
sung they lustily, as on they came, as fast as the current, assisted by twelve vigorous arms, could carry them.
A few strokes would have gained the garden landing-place, but the pursuers' velocity was reckless. One moment as they passed the eddy of the junction of the Leston, and the end of the four-oar swung round into the middle of the river, there was a shock, a shriek of many voices; and just as John and Wilmet Harewood were crossing the lawn to return to their own cottage, they beheld both boats upset, and fifteen persons struggling in the midstream.
Even as the collision took place, Felix had seized Theodore, and after both had been drawn down for a second, rose again, making vigorous strokes with one arm for the bank, reaching that of the churchyard, where it was built up high and steep; but with one of the violent efforts of a supreme moment, he grasped a branch of the overhanging willow tree, swung himself up by one arm till his feet had a hold, and he could launch himself partly over the iron rail, and deposit his burthen on the grass, when climbing over, he reached down and dragged up Geraldine from the arm of Clement, who had closely followed him.
By that time both the other sisters were safe; Charles Audley, thoroughly at home in the water, had directed himself more skilfully, holding Stella by her shoulder, to the garden landing-place, further off, but of easier access. Indeed, she had not lost the power of helping herself, when Wilmet's arms clasped her on the steps; and only a few moments later, Angela, who had kept herself afloat, was likewise landed, with very little aid from Charles.
Lance's rescue was harder. He could not swim at all, sank twice, and rose the second time a little way down the stream, where John Harewood grappled him and brought him to the steps, helpless and at first unconscious. Of the other boat's crew, two reached the bank alone, another had saved his fellow, a fifth clung to his oar, and was guided ashore by Clement, a sixth was drawn out insensible by young Audley; the last was still missing, and John, Charles, one of the other lads, and old Tripp, were all striving to find and rescue him. Four figures lay insensible, three more were struggling back to life—the servants rushing down; Wilmet, supporting Lance in his gasping efforts, took the command. 'Angel, Stella—don't wait, back to the house. Change instantly.—Amelia, go with them, give them something hot, never mind what, and put Miss Underwood to bed.—Yes, Clement, carry her to her room; and you—don't do anything else till you have changed—Felix, we'll take Tedo to the laundry; it is hot, and flannels can be warmed sooner.—Golightly, you and Martha take this one.—You two the other.—Follow Mr. Underwood—Yes, dear Lancey, you are better. They are all safe. Shall I help you up? That's right. Lean on, my dear, more than that; don't be afraid, I'm strong enough; there, you get on very well.'
Before they had made many steps, a shout proclaimed that the last sufferer had been found; and while he was carried between his friend and Tripp, Wilmet hastily insisted that her husband should hurry home and change his clothes before doing anything else, and relinquishing Lance to Charlie to be helped up-stairs, hastened to the scene of action in the laundry, where the four lifeless figures were stretched on the ironing tables. The other three young men were sent to be between blankets till their clothes could be dried; and Felix, after having laid down his unconscious burthen, lingered for a moment, till Wilmet ordered him off to change his dripping clothes, when he obeyed without a word.
Clement, half-dressed, was finding garments for Charlie, and insisting that bed was the place for Lance, when there was a sudden call at his door, and as he opened it Angela stood before him, exclaiming, 'Come this instant!' and as he followed her flying steps, he beheld Felix on the stairs, sitting propped against the balusters, holding a handkerchief to his mouth covered with blood. He had been standing, supporting himself against the post at the bottom, when Angela had first found him, and had so far helped him up; but the effort had evidently been agonizing, and increased the bleeding so much, that she had tried to place him safely, and hurried for aid. He could do nothing for himself, but Charles Audley coming to their assistance, they brought him to his room door, where Angela, crying, 'Ice! ice is the thing!' dashed away to the offices, where she heard voices.
'Miss Angela, you mus'n't come here.'
'Quick, Martha, the key of the ice-house.'
'Hice-ouse! bless you, Miss Hangela, 'tis 'ot as is wanted.'
'It is ice for the bleeding. It's a blood-vessel! It is Felix. I must have the key.'
But Martha, always despising Angela, and now all the more with her hair streaming below her waist, simply did not hear, and hurried away with her flannels. Angela rushed after her, but only heard, 'You can't come here.'
As she was raising her voice for a more peremptory cry, she saw John Harewood returning. He understood in a moment, made entrance, obtained the key, and while she fetched the ice, he hurried to the scene of the most pressing and grievous need.
By the time she brought the ice, the drenched clothes had been removed, and Felix was in bed, and the remedy she had obtained did at last check the flow of blood, but there was not only exhaustion but evidently very severe pain. 'Where?' He put his hand to his right side; and at that moment, to their infinite relief, they found among them Dr. Thomas May, the professor, who—on his way home from a visit to his friend the chemist—had been met in the village and brought to their aid even before Page, who was out on his rounds.
The verdict of the first moment was that the hæmorrhage was not from the lungs, and indeed the patient showed no difficulty in speaking after the first faintness. Had he felt the hurt on throwing himself over the rail? He thought so, but could not recollect; it only became disabling when he tried to go up-stairs, and that brought the bleeding—'but Theodore! Pray go to Theodore!'
There was no withstanding his anxiety, only the Professor directed the unsuccessful endeavour to make the posture easier, and ordered fomentations as the only present alleviation, except perfect stillness. No judgment could be formed as yet, and he therefore gratified the ardent desire faintly breathed forth, while the great drops of pain stood on the brow. 'Please, see Geraldine! And when Theodore comes round, bring him here! Clem, see it is so; he will be pacified in sight of me.'
Clement promised, and made it plain that it would be better for both; and then he took the young doctor first to Geraldine, who, once in bed, could not leave it without assistance, and was chained there in terrible anxiety, with Stella as her messenger; but her agony of suspense was her chief ailment, and after saying all he conscientiously could to soothe her, Dr. Tom was guided to the laundry, where he vanished.
Long, long was news watched for from thence. Even those who went in quest of hot water learnt nothing, till at last Charlie heard that one of the young men was reviving, and presently he was carried up to the spare room.
Another quarter, another half-hour dragged by. Felix renewed his entreaty for Theodore's presence, but messenger after messenger returned not. First John went and came back no more, then Clement was called for and never returned, and Felix became so restless under the impression that Wilmet would choose to put the child to bed unhappy in Sibby's room, that Lance could only carry down his mandate to the contrary. Then when the next access of watching and anxiety was visibly increasing the suffering and danger, Angela left Stella in charge, and went herself to represent that the dire suspense must be relieved before it did further harm.
The ear was in a state of agonized tension, and caught a sound. 'Open the door, Stella. Hark!'
She obeyed. There were voices; Wilmet's—Clement's. 'You go!'—'He will bear it best from you!' they said.
She heard no more, for Felix had started up on his elbow, and the blood had again rushed to his lips. She called for help. All were about him, there was no checking it, for seconds—for minutes. His face was deathly, his hands cold. Clement, holding him on his breast, whispering prayers, felt him more prone and feeble every instant; all believed that a life was ebbing away far more precious than the little feeble spark so easily quenched.
When a respite came, it was with a hand on the pulse, and with an anxious face, that the doctor durst signify to them that this was relief—not the end as yet; but as Clement laid the head back the furrows of pain had cleared, the brow had smoothed, the breath came without the stifled groans, the position was less constrained, and when Angela ventured to say, 'He looks more comfortable,' there was an air of assent and rest, the worst of the pain was evidently relieved for the time.
Stella stole away with the tidings to poor Geraldine, whom she found sitting up in bed, trembling so that the whole framework shook, and totally unable to move from it, without the appliances that assisted her lameness. Before long, Wilmet was able to attend to a representation of her condition, and could bring her wonted remedies, and what was even better, her strong soft arms to enfold the little frail quivering frame, and her sweet, steady, full voice to assure her that Felix was undoubtedly better, and not suffering near so much.
And when Cherry was quieted, and Wilmet would have returned, the little handmaid said, in an imploring voice, 'Where is dear Tedo? mayn't I go to him now?'
'My dear child!' exclaimed Wilmet, in pitying consternation, 'then you don't know?'
Cherry saw what was implied! How else could the helpless darling have been left by all!
'It is so?' she said.
Wilmet bent her head.
Stella gave a kind of moan.
'Yes,' Wilmet said, 'It is nearly three hours since. The Professor said there might be hope for two. One young man is getting better at last, Page is with him. We went on trying—John says for two hours and a quarter, and Sibby is going on still; but there is no hope now; and when I heard about Felix—Stella, dear child, where are you going?'
'Mayn't I help Sibby?' The voice was so plaintively imploring, the eyes looked so mournfully earnest out of the loose damp mass of dark brown hair, that it seemed cruel to answer, 'Stella, dear dear little one, indeed you must not, you can't go there.'
Instinctive obedience recalled her; but still she pleaded, 'He must get better! He was such a little moment under water! I think he is afraid to open his eyes because I am not there, nor Brother. Do let me try! I'm sure he would know me.'
'Stella, sweet, indeed I would let you if I could; but you can't go to the laundry, there are strange men about, and they are making up a bed for young Light; he can't be moved. The hope is quite gone, my dear, it was such a feeble little tender life.'
'And there could have been no pain or fright,' said Cherry.
But she broke off, as poor little Stella collapsed with her face between her hands, sitting on the floor, lost in her hair, not speaking, only a great stifling smothering sob heaving up, as if the oppression of her first grief were crushing, nay strangling her.
Wilmet knelt down to gather her into her motherly arms, and whisper comfort, but this was not what she wanted; she somehow slid away, stood up, and said, 'Please, may I go into my own room? I want to be by myself.'
'To your room and your bed, my dear,' said Wilmet. 'I am going to send you both some tea.'
Cherry only had visits from the maids, with tea that refreshed her, but from which Stella in the inner room turned away. The summer twilight had passed into night before a long black figure looked in. 'Asleep, Cherry?'
'Oh no, Clem! I knew you would come.'
'I am sorry not to have come before, but there has been so much to do.'
'And he?'
'Tom May thinks his pulse stronger, and was struck by the look of rally about his face when we came back after supper.'
'Who is there now?'
'Wilmet and the Professor. May will let no one sit up who has been in the water. I care the less because with my door open it is almost like being in the same room.'
'But he is better?'
'Not in pain,' said Clement; 'and May thinks that there are no ribs broken, though there is a great bruise. Much may be only violent sprain, and it may be only some unimportant vessel that has given way; but he is too weak and tender yet for anything like examination. However, as long as the bleeding does not return, he is gaining every hour.'
'It was that dreadful scramble up the bank!'
'That quite accounts for it; and he must have twisted himself as he threw himself over the rail. No one could have done it in cold blood, even without dear Baby's weight.'
'And after that he pulled me up! Clem, it was you that saved me, and yet I could not thank you if—O Clem!' She laid her head on his shoulder, struggling with horror at the bare notion of life without Felix.
He was very sorry for her. He had always loved her the best of his sisters, yet he felt himself so inadequate to fill to her the place of their eldest, or even of the lost Edgar.
'My poor Cherry!' he said, stroking her damp hair; 'but thus far God has been very gracious to us, and we will take hope, and trust Him. Think how much worse it might have been. So many in danger, and the only one taken so surely gone home!'
'Ah! I can only think how happy we were so short a moment before. He said halcyon weather came to bear us through storms; but oh! it makes it worse.'
'You will not think so when you see our little one's countenance, sealed with his Alleluia! The vacancy is gone, and there is a wonderful depth in his face, as if his Ephphatha had come to the guileless lips. Sibby and I have been dressing him in his surplice, and laying him under the Cross in the Oratory with his broom blossoms in his hand. Sibby says he was still clutching them when Felix gave him to her. Poor Sibby, she says her heart stood still then; but she would not cease from trying to restore him till long after we all knew it was vain; and when I made her desist, for the sake of young Light, who must be kept quiet, I thought she would have broken her heart; but at last she seemed to feel the soothing awe of the dear little face; and she has got her beads, and means to keep her vigil over him all night.'
'Does he know?'
'Wilmet fancies not, and is on the watch for his asking; but I am sure he understood, when I thought he was fast going, and told him Theodore was "safe home." I am sure it made it easier;' and as Cherry winced and shuddered, he added, 'This calmness after the suspense was over was really what did him most good. He is better every hour, and no one else of ourselves at all the worse except Lance. When the alarm was over, we found him shivering violently, and hardly able to hold up his head. I believe that his danger was the greatest of all, and that he could not have been saved but for John; the stream was carrying him down against the bridge.'
'O Clem! help me to be thankful! But is not one poor fellow really taken?'
'Yes, a fine young lad about Bernard's age. He had been under water so long, that we never had much hope; but the whole frame seemed so made for vigour, that Page thought there might be a return, and went on with Krishnu's help for four hours—nor did Sibby leave off till after that. They were a party of clerks and shopmen from Spiers and Hart's. The four who are gone home are very subdued and grateful. The father of one came out in a fly and took them all back, though I thought it rather a risk for the lad who had been so long insensible.'
'Then there is one in the red-room.'
'He had had some blow, and was too much done up to move; but Page says he will be all right to-morrow. I am more afraid for the one in the laundry, and have got Kerenhappuch to sit up with him. The poor boy who is lying by our dear child was a clerk of Hart's; Audley was going to see about sending to his people. He went off in his skiff a couple of hours ago.'
'There's eleven o'clock! O Clem, I ought not to keep you from resting.'
'This is rest, Cherry.'
'Only leave me something to rest on.'
'What shall I say to you?'
'What you like. There are matches.'
'I need not read.'
And he murmured over her Psalm, Collect, thanksgiving, and prayer, half quoted, half from his own heart, and then stood to give her his blessing of peace, and his kiss, which left her hushed, softened, comforted, attuned to meet whatever might be coming.
Again he was at her door in early morning, with tidings of reassurance. Felix had spent a quiet night, without recurrence of bleeding, and though too feeble almost for speech, and unable to make the least movement without pain, he had so far surmounted the first danger, that Professor May meant to go away on the return of the carriage he had sent home at night, and, unless telegraphed for, would not come again till Thursday, only enforcing absolute quiescence though not forbidding speech. Clement had seen a great improvement in looks, and Wilmet had consented to lie down on her husband's coming to take charge of the patient.
'And Lance?'
'He is getting up to come to Church, though he has had a bad night, and he looks anything but fit for it. He says he must come even if he has to go back to his bed.'
'Surely it is too great a risk.'
'So I told him, but he declares he has caught no cold, and that it is all headache and feverishness, which fresh air will relieve. I don't know, but I can't withhold him.'
'Whit-Tuesday! I had forgotten. Sunday seems to have been ages ago!'
'And how are you, Cherry? Did you sleep?'
'In a sort of way; I am quite well, if only any one would come and help me to get up! I can't bear lying here any longer. Do try to send me one of the maids. I can't disturb that poor little dear; she is asleep at last. Take my heart with you, Clement! After all, it is a sacrifice of thanksgiving this morning.'
Clement was wont to gather his small daily congregation in the Lady Chapel, where never since the family migration had the early Holy-day Celebration been so scantily attended. It was in unison with the many beyond that he made his Commemoration, his oblation, his intense intercession, in the dewy light of the early summer morning, his apparently low yet really powerful deep-pitched voice sounding far down the aisles and among the pillars in the nave.
The blessing echoed beyond the enclosing screen, and presently Lance rose from his knees and moved slowly westwards. If for a space he had felt some of the joy of holy comfort on the renewal of the sacrifice of self, soul and body, love and hope, before the Lord of life and death, yet he was more conscious of the oppression of the sickly odour of the drooping greenery and faded flowers that hung trailing on column and poppy-head, and which compelled him to leave the Church, though every step down the nave seemed to increase the load of sorrow, anxiety, and wounded affection, beneath which head and heart had burnt and throbbed the long night through. If he had reinforced patience and resolution, he could not yet feel the benefit.
A slight sound made him raise his eyes. Whom did he see catching at a bench for support, with white cheek and dilated eye? Whose voice exclaimed, 'You! you safe then!' Whose hand, so strangely cold, grasped his with convulsive eagerness, as her lips formed but did not utter the inquiry, 'Who?'
'Our poor little Theodore,' he said. 'My brother is better this morning.'
'Theodore! I never thought of him!' she gasped. 'Two lives—one in great danger—the note said—Tom's man could not tell which—I could not bear it—I had behaved so ill to—'
And she was cut short by a violent though hushed fit of weeping, while he exclaimed incoherently, 'No! no! don't think—I was a fool—oh! don't cry—don't—it is all over now—and this is so good and precious! Oh! please don't cry! Come in to Cherry! Take my arm.'
'Oh!' between her sobs, in a panting whisper. 'I never meant that. But I should have died if I had not come with the carriage to find out. I went in here to wait. I meant no one to know.'
'You must come in now. Cherry is well, and up.'
'I can't! I ought not! Don't let any one know.'
'Indeed you must come in! Think of the comfort to Cherry. Besides, you will hear of them all. Come.'
The tone was most persuasive, and Gertrude felt that she must yield; indeed, she trembled so much as to need the support of his arm as he took her along the cloister into the darkened house, up the stairs to the Prior's room, where he was glad to find preparations for breakfast; and placing Gertrude on the sofa, he was knocking at Cherry's door, when he heard the tap of her stick as she came along the gallery from a visit to Felix.
She had only been allowed to give him ocular demonstration that she was well and afoot, and exchange a kiss and five fond words; but the welcoming smile of gladness had so enlightened his face, that she was cheerful enough to be able to meet Lance's eager face and gesture as he threw his arm round her, whispering, 'She's here, Cherry. She's come in May's carriage. That most dearest—!'
And before she had fairly recollected who was most dearest to Lance, she was borne away into the room, to see tearful eyes, and crimson face, find them hidden against her, and be almost stifled in Gertrude May's embrace.
The explanation was made in more detail than in the church. Tom May, on finding that he must stay, had scribbled a pencil-line to his wife—'Terrible boat accident; two lives gone, fears for two more. Send the other horse for me to-morrow morning.'
The groom was only sure that it was the Squire of whom scarcely a hope was given, and another brother drowned, which he could not say, except that it was not the clergyman. Dr. May and Ethel were spending the night at Abbotstoke; and Gertrude, after hours of tossing under remorse for her discourtesy, and misery of suspense, found waiting unendurable, and obeyed the impulse to rise and go with the carriage.
'Indeed,' she said, looking up to Lance, 'it was very wrong. I could not believe anything so exquisite had been done for me.'
'As if anything—'
'But haven't I been punished!' she went on, not pausing. 'Oh! to think I never—never could unsay it, nor ask your pardon!'
'Pardon!' he gasped, turning as red as before he had been pale, and holding a chair for support; and before he could say another word, the impulsive girl cried, 'And oh! it is all my selfishness, bothering him when he looks so dreadfully ill.'
'No, no,' broke out Lance, afraid he was frightening her away, and still almost beside himself. 'This is perfect healing.'
'Don't talk nonsense,' broke in Cherry, half comprehending, but a good deal alarmed, and therefore assuming authority with some peremptoriness; 'the truth is, you are both famished, and must have some breakfast this instant.' She poured out coffee, and then moved to provide eatables. Lance's instinct was of course to help her, but his hand shook so much that he had to relinquish the bread-knife. 'Yes,' said Cherry, as she took it from him; 'no wonder! When did you eat last?'
'I—can't tell. Somebody made me swallow something hot and abominable when I came in, and my head has never stopped going round ever since; but I don't care now.'
'No doubt it saved you from something worse.—You know he was longer in the water than any of us.'
'I don't know anything,' said Gertrude. 'I thought Mr. Underwood—'
Then it had to be explained—that is, as much as Cherry and Lance knew. 'Some tipsy fellows racing us—the shock—the helpless plunge;' then Cherry had felt the instant security of Clement's arm, and was drawn up the bank.
'How beautiful it was!' said Gertrude softly, 'that care for poor little Theodore first, and then you!'—and softer tears came into her eyes. 'It is just like all his life.'
'Just,' they both said, gratefully.
'And how does he look?'
'Perfectly white, dear fellow—lips and all,' said Cherry; 'and he speaks so slowly, and only just above his breath; but his eyes watch one about with all their grave brightness.'
'Grave brightness,' whispered Gertrude to herself, while a sweet satisfied look passed over her face. 'Did he know how it was with the poor little one before he—was ill?'
'No,' said Lance; but he could now add that when Felix had seen Clement about to go to church, he had said, 'Remember me, and give thanks—above all for dear Baby.'
Never perhaps had Gertrude shown such soft shy tenderness; and Lance confirmed the trust that Theodore could scarcely have felt a pang, for he said that in his own case the drowning had been far preferable to the coming back to life, when Wilmet had seemed a cruel tormentor.
'Who was it that brought you out?'
'Who, Cherry? I never asked!'
'Oh!' emphatically exclaimed Gertrude; then in a murmur under her breath, 'or what would it not have been to me?'
'It was John Harewood,' said Cherry.
There was a knock. Professor May, at his principal patient's entreaty, had come to inspect Miss Underwood. His amazement at the spectacle of her companions was unbounded, and did not make him merciful to Lance, whom he meant to have next visited in bed, and whose throbbing pulses, varying complexion, heavy eyes, aching limbs, palpitating breath, and untasted meal, all indicated that he ought to have been there. The reproof was not like the rough uncompromising scolding Rugg was wont to bestow; but with quiet irony Dr. Tom impressed on Lance that getting up had been a recklessly foolish pastime, in which he might have been permitted to indulge so far as his own insignificant welfare was concerned, but that he could not be permitted to inflict another serious illness on his family. The only thing that was proper by them was immediately to repair to his bed, and there await the upshot of his imprudence, so as to mitigate the effect as much as possible.
And then summarily carrying off his sister, Tom began as soon as they were outside the gate, 'This is simply the most extraordinary proceeding I ever heard of.'
Gertrude held her tongue.
'May I ask whether my father is in the habit of permitting these freaks when he is visiting his patients?'
'I beg your pardon,' she answered. 'I forget the unapproachableness of your patients when they are my dearest friends.'
'Oh, indeed!' Then presently, and as if for fear the groom should hear—'Les demoiselles font beaucoup de choses mal à propos à l'heure qu'il est, mais je vous conseille de ne pas avouer votre préférence à si haute voix.'
'I don't care,' she said, scorning the veil, 'who knows that I glory in appreciating heroism.'
'The heroism of getting upset in a boat!'
She deigned no reply; and he waited, trusting to her feminine nature to make her begin again, but silence was her only refuge from angry tears or words, and she kept it till the Church Ewe station was in sight.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I'll go home by train.'
He had visits to make, and was glad to be quit of her, but with elaborate cold care came to the station, found that a train was nearly due, and waited with her. He must have done so for the purpose of saying, 'Mind! these are estimable persons, but that is no reason for dropping self-restraint.' Then, as her pout nettled him, 'Nothing is more disgusting or unmaidenly than pursuit of one in a lower walk of life.'
'Walks of life are what men make them.' And they treated each other with dignified silence till the train came.
'Well,' said Dr. May, on hearing his son's story, 'the Press is king now-a-days, and one daughter is his tribute.' The Doctor still liked to tease Tom.
Meantime, Lance, in no condition to resist, had betaken himself to his own chamber, but only to find the housemaid had left the bed in the most approved sanitary state—so long as it was not to be lain on. Not sorry for a dispensation from captivity, he extracted his private horse-hair pillow from the pile of bed-clothes, and came back to the painting-room, where Cherry cleared her large sofa, and covered him up with her Indian silk quilt, he smiling blissfully, and observing, 'Isn't she the dearest girl in the world?' Cherry might have heard a great deal, had it been possible to her to sit and talk when innumerable messages were coming for her. When she had answered the first, he began again with 'So sweet and generous.' Then came the second which involved a note. When she looked at him again, he only smiled. She next had to go down to the kitchen; and on her cautious return she found him asleep, breathing like a child, and a colour—not fever—coming into his cheek.
'Poor fellow!' she sighed to herself. 'I wonder if there is any hope for him; but if the notion only bears him through to-day, it is a blessing!'
Poor Cherry! Such as this was all the nursing she was good for. Her nerves made her not to be trusted alone in a sick-room, not to do equal damage to herself and the patient; and she could only sit with the door ajar, writing notes, and acting as referee to countless questions, all in an undertone out of respect to Lance's slumbers.
And there meanwhile sat Angela, trusted to fan Felix, refresh him with a strawberry or spoonful of iced lemonade, bathe his face with eau-de-cologne, or catch his slightest wish, cares so congenial, that she liked them for a stranger, how much more delightful for 'my brother;' and though she knew more clearly than anyone save John and Clement how precarious his state was, youthful buoyancy viewed the danger as the cause of future triumph. To be a lady-doctor was surely her vocation! What a pity Charlie was heir to a baronetcy! And he had finally saved her—though she had kept herself afloat—he might be allowed the honour of her rescue; and if it made him her fate, Lady Audley, M.D., should obtain a magnificent triumph over conventionality, far beyond all her former conceptions.
When Clement came into the room at noon, she would not give up her place. Felix looked up to him, and said, 'You are seeing to things!'
'Yes—' interrogatively.
'Try how near that willow it can be.'
'I will.'
'How about the inquest?'
'At the Rood this afternoon. Never mind about that.'
'Only see there is no injustice to those poor lads! It was our own doing;' and as Clement looked amazed, 'if our boat had not swung round;' but the earnestness with which the words were spoken brought a thrill of pain that cut him short; and they wiped his brow, and sprinkled him with scent, and watched anxiously till the lines about the eyes and mouth began to relax, and he smiled thanks back, then closed his eyes.
Clement left the room unheard, for the heat of the day compelled the opening of window and doors. He had only just became conscious that from the moment of the accident he had never had leisure to consider the cause; and he went across to the painting-room, where he did not find Cherry; but Lance awoke at his entrance, sat up, and in answer to his apology and inquiry pronounced, 'There's wonderful virtue in sleep. I don't think any of the ills Tom May threatened me with are coming to pass.'
'Your head?'
'No worse than I'm well used to, thank you. How is it in there?'
Clement told him what had just passed, adding, 'What do you remember?'
'My notion,' said Lance, 'was simply that we were overtaken by a lot of scamps too excited to perceive what they were about, and egged on by Angel's unlucky song.'
'I doubt the "excitement" being of the technical kind, unless the water had a very sudden sobering effect.'
'Indeed! Well, considering that you were in your shirt-sleeves, their not perceiving that we weren't in their style was not so wonderful. So Felix says we ought to have cleared them. Ay, I do remember the swinging round now.'
'An oar must have missed the stroke, and brought her stern foul of the other.'
'He must have seen who it was,' said Lance.
'Yes, but as the point is to exonerate these fellows, there seems no need to drive it close home among ourselves.'
'No, she need never know exactly what she has done,' said Lance.
'I did not say she never should,' returned Clement; 'but the public need not. In fact, we have nothing to say. Felix, in the stern, may have seen, but I did not.'
'And Charlie Audley?'
'If he knows no more positively than we do, you may be sure he will not draw inferences. I wonder he has not been here yet, by-the-by.'
'You don't mean to forewarn him?'
'Certainly not.'
'No, it would not be right. All we determine is that it shall not be known through us, if we can keep truth and justice without,' said Lance; 'and if appearances are to be trusted, he is likely to be as ready—or more so—to shield her as any one of us.'
'I believe that is as great an absurdity as any of the rest,' said Clement, gloomily.