CHAPTER XLIV.
AT THE SOUND OF THE CLOCK.
She left the room, tripping lightly upstairs in her neat nurse's dress. When she got to Wyndham's door and knocked gently for admission her heart, however, was beating so wildly that she feared he might notice it.
"Come in," said his voice; she entered.
He was lying back in his easy-chair. When he saw Esther he took off the soft hat which he always wore in Cherry's presence, and greeted her with that brightness in his eyes which was the greatest reward he could possibly offer her.
"You are a little late," he said; "but I thought you would not fail me."
"I won't ever fail you, Mr. Wyndham; you know that."
"Esther, it is safer to call me Brother Jerome."
"Not at the present moment. The house is empty but for my father. Still, if you wish it, sir."
"I think I do wish it. A habit is a habit. The name may slip out at a wrong moment, and then—my God, think what would happen then!"
"Don't excite yourself, sir. Esther Helps is never likely to forget herself. Still I see the sense of your wishes. You are Brother Jerome to me always from this out. And now, before I go any further, I want to state a fact. Brother Jerome, you are ill."
"I am ill, Esther. Ill, nigh unto death."
"My God, you shan't die!"
"Hush; the question of dying does not rest with you or me. I want to die, so probably I shall live."
"You look like dying. Does Cherry feed you well?"
"Better than well. I want for nothing."
"Is your fire kept up all night?"
"Esther, I have not come to requiring a night nurse yet. My fire goes out in the early hours before the dawn."
"The coldest part of the twenty-four hours. Brother Jerome, you must give up visiting in East London at present."
"No, not while I can crawl. You forget that on a certain night I surrendered my body as well as my spirit to the service of comfort. While I can comfort others I will. There is nothing else left to me."
"Then, sir, you will die—you will deliberately kill yourself."
"No, I tried that once. I won't again. Esther, what is the matter? You are a good girl. It is a mistake for you to waste your pity on me."
"You must forgive me, sir. Pity comes to one unbidden. Pity—and—and sympathy. If you get worse, I shall leave my situation and come home and nurse you."
"Then you will indeed kill me. You will take away my last hope. My one goblet of new wine will be denied me. Then I shall truly die. Esther, what is your budget of news? How is my wife? Begin—go on—tell me everything."
"Mrs. Wyndham is well, sir."
"Well? Do you mean by that that she is happy? Does she laugh much? Does she sing?"
"Sometimes she laughs. Once I heard her sing."
"Only once, Esther? She had a very sweet voice. I used sometimes to tell her that it was never silent."
"Once, sir, I heard her sing."
"Oh, once? Was it a cheerful song?"
"It was on a Sunday evening. She was singing to your little boy. I think she sang the 'Happy Land.' I don't quite remember. I came to fetch the boy to bed, and she was singing to him. She took her hands off the piano suddenly when I came in, and there were tears in her eyes."
"Tears? She was always sensitive to music. And yet you say she does not look sad."
"I should not call her sad, Brother Jerome. Her face is calm and quiet. I think she is a very good young lady."
"You need not tell me that, Esther; you managed very well about the boy."
"Thank you, sir. I think I did. What did you feel when you saw him, sir?"
"Rapture. All my blood flowed swiftly. I lived and breathed. I had an exquisite five minutes."
"The boy is not like his mother, sir."
"No, nor like me. He resembles my sister Lilias. Esther, I must see him again."
"You shall, by-and-bye, but not too soon. We must not run any risks."
"Certainly not. I will have much patience. Hold out the hope only, and I will cling to it indefinitely."
"You shall see the child again, Brother Jerome."
"God abundantly bless you. Now go on. Tell me more. How does my wife spend her time? Has she many visitors?"
"Sometimes her father."
"Only sometimes? They used to be inseparable."
"Not now, sir. There is something wrong between them. When they meet they are constrained with one another, and they don't meet very often. I have orders, though, to take the child every morning to see Mr. Paget."
"Have you? I am sorry for that. He kisses my son, does he?"
"Yes, sir. He seems wrapped up in him; he——"
"Don't talk of him. That subject turns my blood into vinegar. Go on. Tell me more. What other visitor has my wife?"
"Sometimes your sister, Miss Lilias Wyndham."
"My sister? Esther, you don't know what that name recalls. All the old innocent days; the little hymns before we went to bed, and the little prayers at our mother's knee. I don't think I can bear to hear much about Lilias; but I am glad she loves my wife."
"She does, sir. She is devoted to Mrs. Wyndham. I don't think any other visitors come except Mr. Carr."
"Adrian Carr, a clergyman?"
Wyndham's tone had suddenly become alert and wakeful.
"I believe the gentleman's name is the Rev. Adrian Carr. Brother Jerome."
"Why do you speak in that guarded voice, Esther? Have you anything to conceal?"
"No, sir, no. Don't excite yourself. I conceal nothing; he comes, that is all."
"But surely, not often? He is my father's curate; he cannot often come to London."
"He is not Mr. Wyndham's curate now, sir; he has a church of his own, St. Jude's they call it, at the corner of Butler-street."
"And he comes constantly to my house? To—to see my wife?"
"Your—your widow, sir."
"God help me, Esther! God help me! How am I to endure this! My poor—my beloved—my sweet—and are you exposed to this? Esther, Esther, this care turns me into a madman."
"You must stay quiet, Brother Jerome. Mr. Carr comes, and your—your widow sees him."
"Do you think she likes him?"
"Oh, sir, I would rather die than have to tell it to you."
"I cannot listen to your sentimentalisms. Does my wife seem happy when Adrian Carr calls upon her?"
"I think she is interested in him, Brother Jerome."
"Does she see him alone?"
"Often alone."
"And you say she seems pleased?"
"I think so. It is incomprehensible to me."
"Never mind whether you understand it or not. Do you know that by this news you are turning me into a devil? I'll risk everything—everything. I'll expose the whole vile conspiracy if my wife is entrapped into engaging herself to Adrian Carr."
Brother Jerome was no longer a weak-looking invalid; he began to pace his attic floor; a fire burnt in his sunken eyes, and he clenched his thin hands. For the time he was strong.
"Listen to me, Esther Helps. My wife shall run no risk of that kind. It was in the contract that that should be prevented. I sinned for her—yes, I willingly sinned for her—but she shall never sin for me. Rather than that we'll all go to penal servitude. I, and your father, and her father."
"Do quiet yourself, Mr. Wyndham. There may be nothing in what I told you."
Esther felt really frightened.
"Perhaps the gentleman comes to see your sister, Miss Wyndham. He certainly comes, but—but——"
"Esther, the whole thing must be put a stop to—the faintest shadow of risk must not be run. My wife thinks herself a widow, but she must retain the feelings of a wife. It must be impossible for her, while I live, to think of another man."
"Can you not bring yourself back to her memory, sir? Is there no way?"
"That is a good thought. Don't speak for a little. Let me think."
Wyndham continued to pace the floor. Esther softly built up the fire with trembling fingers. In this mood she was afraid of Wyndham. That fire in his eyes was new to her. She was cowed—she shivered. With her mental vision she already saw her grey-headed father in the prisoner's dock.
"Esther," said Wyndham, coming up to her suddenly. "I have thought of a plan. It won't implicate anyone, and if a chord in Valentine's heart still beats true to me this must touch it. At what hour does Carr generally call to see my wife?"
"He is a busy man; he comes mostly at night, about nine o'clock. He has a cup of tea, and goes away at ten. When Miss Wyndham is there he sometimes stays on till nearly eleven."
"He comes every night?"
"Almost every night."
"And he leaves at ten?"
"A few minutes after ten. When the clock strikes ten it seems to be a sort of a signal to him, and he gets up and goes away."
"Thank you. Ten, then, will be the hour. Esther, something else may happen at ten of the clock. You need not look so white. I said no risk would be run. It is possible, however, that my wife may be agitated. No, you don't suppose I am going to reveal myself to her—nothing of the sort. Still, something will happen which may break down her nerve and her calm. In that case she may even appeal to you, Esther, you will be very guarded. You must remember that on the success of this scheme of mine depends your father's safety, for if she engages herself to Carr I swear by the God above me that we three, Paget, your father, and I, go to prison."
"Sir, I must own that I feel dreadfully frightened."
"Poor Esther! And you don't deserve it, for you are the best of girls and quite innocent. But that is ever the way. The innocent bear the sins of the guilty. In this matter, however, Esther, you must trust me, and keep your own counsel. Now, I want to know if you have any money you can lend me?"
"I have two sovereigns in my purse, sir. Will that do?"
"Plentifully. I will tell you what I want the money for. I want to hire a violin—a good one. Once, Esther. I used to express my feelings through the violin. It talked for me. It revealed some of the tortures of my soul. The violin shall speak again and to my wife. Now you are prepared at all points. Good-bye. Be as brave as you are good, and the worst may be averted."