CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.
A POSTSCRIPT BY MARTIN DOBRÉE.
You may describe to a second person, with the most minute and exact fidelity in your power, the leading and critical events in your life, and you will find that some trifle of his own experience is ten times more vivid to his mind. You narrate to your friend, whom you have not met for many years, the incident that has turned the whole current of your existence; and after a minute or two of musing, he asks you, "Do you remember the day we two went bird-nesting on Gull's Cliff?" That day of boyish daring and of narrow escapes is more real to him than your deepest troubles or keenest joys. The brain receives but slightly second-hand impressions.
I had told Olivia faithfully all my dilemmas with regard to Julia and the Careys; and she had seemed to listen with intense interest. Certainly it was during those four bewildering and enchanted months immediately preceding our marriage, and no doubt the narrative was interwoven with many a topic of quite a different character. However that might be, I was surprised to find that Olivia was not half as nervous and anxious as I felt, when we were nearing Guernsey on our visit to Julia and Captain Carey. Julia had seen her but once, and that for a few minutes only in Sark. On her account she had suffered the severest mortification a woman can undergo. How would she receive my wife?
Olivia did not know, though I did, that Julia was somewhat frigid and distant in her manner, even while thoroughly hospitable in her welcome. Olivia felt the hospitality; I felt the frigidity. Julia called her "Mrs. Dobrée." It was the first time she had been addressed by that name; and her blush and smile were exquisite to me, but they did not thaw Julia in the least. I began to fear that there would be between them that strange, uncomfortable, east-wind coolness, which so often exists between the two women a man most loves.
It was the baby that did it. Nothing on earth could be more charming, or more winning, than Olivia's delight over that child. It was the first baby she had ever had in her arms, she told us; and to see her sitting in the low rocking-chair, with her head bent over it, and to watch her dainty way of handling it, was quite a picture. Captain Carey had an artist's eye, and was in raptures; Julia had a mother's eye, and was so won by Olivia's admiration of her baby, that the thin crust of ice melted from her like the arctic snows before a Greenland summer.
I was not in the least surprised when, two days or so before we left Guernsey, Julia spoke to us with some solemnity of tone and expression.
"My dear, Olivia," she said, "and you, Martin, Arnold and I would consider it a token of your friendship for us both, if you two would stand as sponsors for our child."
"With the greatest pleasure, Julia," I replied; and Olivia crossed the hearth to kiss her, and sat down on the sofa at her side.
"We have decided upon calling her Olivia," continued Julia, stroking my wife's hand with a caressing touch—"Olivia Carey! That sounds extremely well, and is quite new in the island. I think it sounds even better than Olivia Dobrée."
As we all agreed that no name could sound better, or be newer in Guernsey, that question was immediately settled. There was no time for delay, and the next morning we carried the child to church to be christened. As we were returning homeward, Julia, whose face had worn its softest expression, pressed my arm with a clasp which made me look down upon her questioningly. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her mouth quivered. Olivia and Captain Carey were walking on in front, at a more rapid pace than ours, so that we were in fact alone.
"What is the matter?" I asked, hastily.
"O Martin!" she exclaimed, "we are both so happy, after all! I wish my poor, darling aunt could only have foreseen this! but, don't you think, as we are both so happy, we might just go and see my poor uncle? Kate Daltrey is away in Jersey, I know that for certain, and he is alone. It would give him so much pleasure. Surely you can forgive him now."
"By all means let us go," I answered. I had not heard even his name mentioned before, by any one of my old friends in Guernsey. But, as Julia said, I was so happy, that I was ready to forgive and forget all ancient grievances. Olivia and Captain Carey were already out of sight; and we turned into a street leading to Vauvert Road.
"They live in lodgings now," remarked Julia, as we went slowly up the steep street, "and nobody visits them; not one of my uncle's old friends. They have plenty to live upon, but it is all her money. I do not mean to let them got upon visiting terms with me—at least, not Kate Daltrey. You know the house, Martin?"
I knew nearly every house in St. Peter-Port, but this I remembered particularly as being the one where Mrs. Foster had lodged when she was in Guernsey. Upon inquiring for Dr. Dobrée, we were ushered at once, without warning, into his presence.
Even I should scarcely have recognized him. His figure was sunken and bent, and his clothes, which were shabby, sat in wrinkles upon him. His crisp white hair had grown thin and limp, and hung untidily about his face. He had not shaved for a week. His waistcoat was sprinkled over with snuff, in which he had indulged but sparingly in former years. There was not a trace of his old jauntiness and display. This was a rusty, dejected old man, with the crow's-feet very plainly marked upon his features.
"Father!" I said.
"Uncle!" cried Julia, running to him, and giving him a kiss, which she had not meant to do, I am sure, when we entered the house.
He shed a few tears at the sight of us, in a maudlin manner; and he continued languid and sluggish all through the interview. It struck me more forcibly than any other change could have done, that he never once appeared to pluck up any spirit, or attempted to recall a spark of his ancient sprightliness. He spoke more to Julia than to me.
"My love," he said, "I believed I knew a good deal about women, but I've lived to find out my mistake. You and your beloved aunt were angels. This one never lets me have a penny of my own: and she locks up my best suit when she goes from home. That is to prevent me going among my own friends. She is in Jersey now; but she would not hear a word of me going with her, not one word. The Bible says: 'Jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.' Kate is jealous of me. I get nothing but black looks and cold shoulders. There never lived a cat and dog that did not lead a more comfortable life than Kate leads me."
"You shall come and see Arnold and me sometimes, uncle," said Julia.
"She won't let me," he replied, with fresh tears; "she won't let me mention your name, or go past your house. I should very much like to see Martin's wife—a very pretty creature they say she is—but I dare not. O Julia! how little a man knows what is before him!"
We did not prolong our visit, for it was no pleasure to any one of us. Dr. Dobrée himself seemed relieved when we spoke of going away. He and I shook hands with one another gravely; it was the first time we had done so since he had announced his intention of marrying Kate Daltrey.
"My son," he said, "if ever you should find yourself a widower, be very careful how you select your second wife."
These were his parting words—words which chafed me sorely as a young husband in his honeymoon. I looked round when we were out of the house, and caught a glimpse of his withered face, and ragged white hair, as he peeped from behind the curtain at us. Julia and I walked on in silence till we reached her threshold.
"Yet I am not sorry we went, Martin," she observed, in a tone as if she thus summed up a discussion with herself. Nor was I sorry.
A few days after our return to London, as I was going home to dinner, I met, about half-war along Brook Street, Mrs. Foster. For the first time since my marriage I was glad to be alone; I would not have had Olivia with me on any account. But the woman was coming away from our house, and a sudden fear flashed across me. Could she have been annoying my Olivia?
"Have you been to see me?" I asked her, abruptly.
"Why should I come to see you?" she retorted.
"Nor my wife?" I said.
"Why shouldn't I go to see Mrs. Dobrée?" she asked again.
I felt that it was necessary to secure Olivia, and to gain this end I must be firm. But the poor creature looked miserable and unhappy, and I could not be harsh toward her.
"Come, Mrs. Foster," I said, "let us talk reasonably together. You know as as well as I do you have no claim upon my wife; and I cannot have her disturbed and distressed by seeing you; I wish her to forget all the past. Did I not fulfil my promise to Foster? Did I not do all I could for him?"
"Yes," she answered, sobbing, "I know you did all you could to save my husband's life."
"Without fee?" I said.
"Certainly. We were too poor to pay you."
"Give me my fee now, then," I replied. "Promise me to leave Olivia alone. Keep away from this street, and do not thrust yourself upon her at any time. If you meet by accident, that will be no fault of yours. I can trust you to keep your promise."
She stood silent and irresolute for a minute. Then she clasped my hand, with a strong grip for a woman's fingers.
"I promise," she said, "for you were very good to him."
She had taken a step or two into the dusk of the evening, when I ran after her for one more word.
"Mrs. Foster," I said, "are you in want?"
"I can always keep myself," she answered, proudly; "I earned his living and my own, for months together. Good-by, Martin Dobrée."
"Good-by," I said. She turned quickly from me round a corner near to us; and have not seen her again from that day to this.
Dr. Senior would not consent to part with Minima, even to Olivia. She promises fair to take the reins of the household at a very early age, and to hold them with a tight hand. Already Jack is under her authority, and yields to it with a very droll submission. She is so old for her years, and he is so young for his, that—who can tell? Olivia predicts that Jack Senior will always be a bachelor.
THE END.