“LITTLE MASTER.”
“For when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers,
His quiet eyelids closed—he had
Another morn than ours.”
Thomas Hood.
HAD Mr. Guildford been a native of Sothernshire, he could not but have been familiar with the name of the Methvyns of Carling, one of the oldest and wealthiest families of the county. Had he been in the least addicted to local gossip, or less preoccupied, he could hardly have failed, even at Sothern, to hear casual mention of them and of their younger branch, the Methvyns of Greystone. But if he had ever heard of either Carling or Greystone, he had forgotten all about it; and as he was whirled along to Haverstock that cold February evening, his mind was a perfect blank as regarded Methvyns of anywhere. Nor did he feel much interest or curiosity respecting the summons he had received.
He had brought a book with him, but the lamp gave so feeble and uncertain a light that reading was out of the question. So for the half-hour of his railway journey, Mr. Guildford set himself to think instead; to work out in his head the results of a certain shadowy theory or suggestion bearing upon an obscure and hitherto but slightly considered department of medical science, which had lately come under his notice for the first time. It had interested and even fascinated him, but he had so often fancied himself on the brink of a great discovery, so often imagined that he saw the flashing of “some bright truth in its prism,” only to be disappointed, that he was already learning to be sceptical and cautious, keen to criticise and slow to pronounce. Outward circumstances too, helped to check his impetuosity, to moderate without damping his ardour—the apparent disadvantage of his leisure consisting mostly of odd snatches of time, liable at any moment to interruption; the being constantly recalled to matters of present fact, obliged suddenly to concentrate his powers on subjects seldom presenting anything in common with his chosen studies; all this was excellent training for an excitable, enthusiastic temperament naturally impatient of discipline or restriction. Gradually he acquired great inward self-control—mental independence of, or rather superiority to, his external surroundings for the time being. He learnt to choose and limit his subjects of thought; a habit as valuable to a man of his profession, as was in another direction the great soldier’s far-famed capability of “sleeping to order.”
So Mr. Guildford was really thinking—not merely dreaming, or passively receiving the impressions of the objects around him when the train stopped, and the railway officials’ equivalent for “Haverstock,” was shouted along the little platform. It was only a roadside station, badly lighted and dreary looking. Though not yet ten o’clock, there was a sort of middle-of-the-night air about the place, and the two or three men to be seen looked as if they had been wakened out of their first sleep. For a moment or two Mr. Guildford, as he stood alone mechanically watching the green light of the train that had brought him, as it disappeared in the darkness, felt bewildered and confused. But a voice at his side recalled him to what was before him.
“Are you the doctor, sir, if you please—the doctor from Sothernbay?” and turning at the question, Mr. Guildford saw that the speaker was a pleasant-looking man-servant, buttoned up to the chin in a thick driving coat; his tone was eager and anxious.
“Yes. I have come from Sothernbay in answer to a telegram I received this evening,” he replied. “Are you Colonel Methvyn’s man,—have you come to meet me?”
“I have been here since five o’clock, sir. ’Twas I sent off the message. The dog cart is waiting at the gate, and if you please, sir, I was to say as Miss Cicely—my master, I should say,—hoped you’d excuse the dog-cart instead of a close carriage; the road from here to the Abbey is terrible bad just now, and a heavy carriage would have taken twice as long,” said the man, as he led the way through the station-gate to where a two-wheeled vehicle and an impatient-looking horse stood ready for them.
“I prefer it, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford good-naturedly. Like many self-contained people, he had a liking for a frank manner on the part of others, especially perhaps when they were his inferiors.
“You see, sir,” continued the man, “I was hurried both ways, first to get the telegram off, and then to get you to the Abbey when you came.”
His remarks were interrupted by the zeal with which he set to work to tuck Mr. Guildford up in the rugs, of which there appeared a profusion.
“Miss Cicely—leastways my master, I should say, though for that matter it were Miss Cicely, she never forgets nothing,—she told me as I were to be sure to bring plenty of wraps,” he observed, his language becoming comfortably ungrammatical as he felt himself growing at ease with the “strange doctor.”
“Thank you, that will do capitally,” said Mr. Guildford, as they started off at a brisk pace. “But it doesn’t seem to me as cold here as at Sothernbay, or is there a change in the weather?” he added, glancing up at the sky, in which but few stars were visible.
“Bless you, sir! yes to be sure, there’s a thaw,” said the servant eagerly; “it began this afternoon. We was all so glad, thinking it might be better for little master. Shouldn’t you think so, sir?” he asked with an anxiety in his voice that Mr. Guildford could not understand.
“I have not heard who it is that is ill, my good fellow,” he said kindly; “is ‘little master’ the patient? I am all in the dark, you see; I know nothing except what was in the telegram you sent off.”
“Of course not, sir, of course not,” exclaimed the man. “You see, sir, we’ve been thinking of little else all these days, and it seemed like as if every one must be the same. Yes, sir, it’s little master, bless him! as is ill; it begun with the croup, he’s had that many a time; many a night Miss Cicely has called me up to fetch the old doctor—there’s a bell rings into my room on purpose,—but this time it’s turned to worse. I can’t exactly say what it is. Miss Cicely’s never closed a eye these three nights, Mrs. Moore told me; I’m afraid he’s very bad. But now you’ve come, and the break in the weather, he’ll pull through; don’t you think so, sir?” he inquired wistfully, as if the question of life or death hung upon the opinion it was utterly impossible for Mr. Guildford to express.
“You forget, my good fellow,” said the doctor again, “you forget I have not yet seen the poor little boy; but of one thing you may be sure, I shall do my very best.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the groom fervently.
“Is Dr. Farmer still at the Abbey—was he there when you left?” asked Mr. Guildford.
“Yes, sir, but I don’t think you’ll see him tonight; he was quite wore out, poor old gentleman, and I heard Miss Cicely telling him as I came away he must go to bed. He’s gettin’ on in years is the old doctor.”
“Miss Cicely” again. A passing feeling of curiosity crossed Mr. Guildford’s mind as to whom she could be. A maiden sister or aunt perhaps of Colonel Methvyn’s, who managed his household and looked after his children. The name suggested a quaint old-fashioned maiden lady, and, so far, there had been no mention of a Mrs. Methvyn. “Miss Cicely” was evidently the ruling spirit of Greystone Abbey. But it was not Mr. Guildford’s habit to obtain in formation about either people or things save from head-quarters, so he put no more questions to his communicative companion. The road was now becoming so bad that it took all the driver’s skill to avoid catastrophes.
“Do you never have any repairs done hereabouts?” inquired the stranger; “this road is really sadly in want of looking after.”
“It isn’t no road at all, sir, by rights,” replied the servant, when he had time to draw breath after the “joltiest bit” they had yet passed, “it’s only a short cut to Haverstock. Haverstock isn’t our station—not the Abbey station; by the highway, Haverstock is good six mile from us. Our station is Greybridge, but the fast trains don’t stop there, unless notice is given special; and there’s no telegraphy at Greybridge. That’s how I had to bring you such a rough way, sir; it saves four mile and more.”
“Ah! yes, I see,” said Mr. Guildford.
“We’re near home now, sir,” said the man, and the remaining few minutes were passed in silence.
It was far too dark to distinguish anything plainly. Mr. Guildford felt, rather than saw, when they turned off the road or lane into enclosed grounds; the change from the jolting and jogging they had been enduring for the last quarter of an hour to the smooth roll of a well-kept gravel drive was very pleasant.
“We’re going in by the side way, sir,” said the groom, “I left the gate open as I came out; it’s not often this way is used now.”
A few minutes more and they drew up at the front entrance. A wide porch, with deep stone seats at each side, lighted by a heavy iron-bound lamp hanging from the roof, was all Mr. Guildford could distinguish of the outside of Greystone Abbey, It looked more like the entrance to an ancient church than to a modern dwelling house; it was in keeping, however, with the associations of the name, and Mr. Guildford’s perceptions were acute enough for him to infer from what he saw that by daylight the old house must be picturesque and quaintly beautiful.
The door was opened, almost before the servant had time to ring,—anxious ears evidently were on the alert for the first sound of carriage-wheels,—and two or three servants hurried forward. The hall into which Mr. Guildford was ushered was a picture of comfort; a great log fire blazed in the wide open grate, antlered heads threw grotesque shadows on the wainscoted walls, there were furry fleecy rugs under foot, armchairs and sofas, and little tables in every corner; everything looked homelike and inviting, and seemed to tell of happy gatherings and merry voices. And the pet and pride of the house—the “little master”—upstairs dying! Little as the young doctor knew of the Methvyns, a sort of chill seemed to strike through him at the thought.
His arrival had been quickly announced, for almost immediately a door at the opposite side of the hall opened, and a stout elderly person in black silk, and with a general indescribable look of responsibility and trustworthiness, came forward. She made a sort of curtsey as she drew near the stranger, a salutation which said as plainly as any words, “I am the housekeeper, if you please,” and destroyed instantaneously a passing suspicion of Mr. Guildford’s that “the managing spirit” of Greystone Abbey stood before him.
“I am so very glad you have come, sir,” said the housekeeper respectfully; “it will be a great satisfaction. There are refreshments, sir, in the library, but—if you are not very tired and cold, perhaps—Miss Cicely is so very anxious to see you. Would you take a glass of wine now, sir, and something else later?”
But Mr. Guildford declined everything of the kind for the present. “I should much prefer seeing my patient at once,” he said decidedly; “will you show me the way?”
“Certainly, sir,” she replied, looking relieved. “Miss Cicely wished me to take you upstairs as soon as possible.”
Always “Miss Cicely.” She was becoming a sort of “Marquis de Carabbas” to Mr. Guildford. No mention of the heads of the household; to judge by appearances, Miss Cicely might be the owner as well as the ruler of the whole place. So thought the new-comer, as he followed the worthy Mrs. Moore out of the hall, down a long dimly lighted passage, looking like enclosed cloisters from the vaulted ceiling and succession of narrow sharp-pointed windows along one side, widening at the end into a small square hall, round two sides of which curved a broad shallow-stepped spiral stair case. Upstairs, a long passage again, somewhat wider than the one below, with doors at both sides; at one of these the housekeeper stopped, tapped softly, but, receiving no answer, went in, beckoning to Mr. Guildford to follow her. The room which he entered was small and plainly furnished; it looked almost as if it had once been a schoolroom, but its present contents were somewhat heterogeneous; the carpet was nearly threadbare, the windows had no curtains, but there were two or three good pictures on the walls, a beautiful stand of ferns, several cages, whose little occupants had all retired for the night, each carefully shaded by a curtain drawn round the wires; a glass, filled with lovely flowers, on the table, a Skye terrier asleep on the hearth rug, a bookcase full of books, of which some of the titles would have surprised Mr. Guildford had he read them.
He had time for a certain amount of observation, for the housekeeper, whispering to him a request to wait where he was for a minute, left the room quickly by another door. It was still cold, notwithstanding the thaw. Mr. Guildford instinctively turned towards the fire; the Skye terrier, disturbed by his intrusion, peered up at him for a moment through its shaggy hair with its bright beady eyes, growled lazily, and went off to sleep again. So the stranger took up his position on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, and looked about him with some curiosity. There was a history in this little room—the history not so much of a life, as of a character. But it was not for many a long day that the man who entered it to-night for the first time learnt to read it. There are many such histories that are never read at all.
Still he was conscious vaguely of a certain impress of individuality in the room—some body lived in it and loved all these things thus much was visible at a glance. Perhaps “the marquise” was of the genial order of old maids after all, neither managing nor domineering! Mr. Guildford was smiling at his fancy when the door—the second again. It was not Mrs. Moore returning. Who was it? Could this be “Miss Cicely?”
A tall, fair girl in a crimson dress, with coils of hair that must be sunny by daylight; with a pale, quiet face, and soft, grave eyes. She stood for a moment in the doorway, the lamp-light falling full upon her. Some pictures—a few in a lifetime only—take far less time than our clumsy words can express to imprint themselves for ever on the brain. This was one of them. Through all the chequered future, through happy days and “days of cloudy weather,” in her presence or absent from her, Edmond Guildford never forgot this first vision of Cicely Methvyn, pale, grave Cicely, standing there for a fairy’s moment, in her brilliant crimson dress.
The dress, not improbably, had something to do with the vividness of the impression. Little as he was given to observing such matters, it could not fail to strike him, both from its beauty and extreme unsuitability to the girl’s present occupation. It was of velvet of the richest and loveliest shade of damask red; there was exquisite lace round the throat and wrists, and there was something quaint and peculiar in the shape of the bodice. And to add to the effect, Miss Methvyn wore a thick gold chain round her neck, from which hung a very beautiful, very large, and evidently antique gold cross, which shone out with a rich, dull lustre from its crimson background.
Mr. Guildford stood with his eyes fixed upon her for a moment in absolute amazement. Afterwards he tried to define to himself his exact impression of the young girl. Was she “pretty?” The word seemed utterly unsuited to her. Was she beautiful? Hardly. He could describe her by no words that satisfied his sense of correctness.
She was tall and fair—and then he stopped. She was neither graceful nor dignified, or rather perhaps she was, strictly speaking, both. Only the words did not seem to suit her, for they implied a suspicion of self-consciousness, from which her bearing, her expression—everything about her, was utterly and unmistakably free.
But just now he had hardly time to realise anything but surprise before she came forward and spoke. She spoke rather slowly; it was evidently her habit to do so, her voice was low but clear, and perfectly calm.
“I am so very, very glad you have come,” she said. “It is exceedingly kind of you to have come so quickly. Charlie—it is Charlie that is so ill, did you know?” Mr. Guildford made a slight gesture of assent. “He is in the next room. Will you come in and see him? He is asleep.”
Mr. Guildford hesitated for a moment.
“Shall I not see Dr. Farmer first?” he said. “Is he here?”
“Oh! I was forgetting to tell you,” she said. “No, Dr. Farmer has gone home. I made him go, and promised to send for him if you did not come. He lives only a mile away. He was so knocked up, I really begged him to go. He left this note for you, and he said he was sure I could tell you everything.”
She drew a letter out of her pocket as she spoke and gave it to Mr. Guildford. As he read it, his face grew graver. She, watching him, observed this.
“I think Charlie is better than when Dr. Farmer left,” she said. “He is less restless. I asked him how he was just before he went go to sleep, and he answered me quite distinctly, and his voice sounded much more like itself.”
“How did he say he felt?” asked Mr. Guildford, stopping for a moment as he was going to follow Miss Methvyn.
“He said he was sleepy,” she replied. “I asked him if he felt very ‘sore,’ that is his word for ‘ill,’” she explained with a faint little smile, “and he said, ‘Not so wenny bad, Cissy,’ He calls me ‘Cissy.’ ”
“Ah!” said Mr. Guildford. Then they went into the room, and Cicely led the stranger to the child’s bedside.
He lay there, propped up with pillows to ease his laboured breathing. He was sleeping, the girl had said, but, ah! what a different sleep from the rosy, easy rest of healthy infancy! It was very pitiful—terribly pitiful. Mr. Guildford looked at the child steadily for some moments. Then he turned to the young lady.
“Dr. Farmer has told me all that has been done,” he said. “Everything has been tried, I see. I should like to watch the little fellow for the next hour or two. I hear you have been up for two or three nights. Will you not go to bed now and let me, who am quite fresh, take my turn?”
For the first time there was a slight quiver in the pale young face as she looked up at Mr. Guildford.
“Won’t you tell me first what you think of him?” she said. “I have been so anxious to hear your opinion.”
Mr. Guildford turned away with a very, very slight gesture of impatience. He was beginning to be very sorry for Miss Methvyn, but he felt the position an uncomfortable one. He was by no means sure that it would be right to express his real opinion to this girl, so young and apparently so lonely. He wished Dr. Farmer had stayed; or at least that he could see the heads of the house, the child’s parents.
“I don’t think you should ask me for my opinion just yet,” he said somewhat brusquely. “If you will leave me here to watch him, I shall soon be able to judge better. Shall I not see your parents? Your father, perhaps I should say? I should like to speak to him about your little brother.”
“He is not my brother,” she answered quietly. “He is my nephew, my only sister’s child. My father is a chronic invalid and suffers a great deal, and my mother is constantly with him. That is why it is impossible for her to nurse Charlie. He is my especial charge; my sister left him in my care when she went to India some months ago. I fancied you understood or I would have explained this before.”
She spoke very gently, almost apologetically. But to Mr. Guildford it sounded like a reproach.
“I should not have given you the trouble of explaining anything,” he said quickly. “But will you not do as I proposed? Will you not take a little rest for an hour or two? I shall stay till the morning. I arranged to do so before I left home.”
Just then Mrs. Moore, who had left the room before they entered it, came back again. She heard what Mr. Guildford was urging upon Cicely.
“Oh! do, Miss Cicely,” she said earnestly. “You will be quite knocked up soon, and what would Master Charlie do then?”
“If he wakes and I am not beside him, he will be so frightened,” said the girl.
“I promise to send for you the moment he wakes—or—or in case of any change.” said Mr. Guildford.
So at last she gave in. Could Mr. Guildford have realised the agony her submission was costing her, he would hardly have had the heart to enforce it, though his motives were of the best. But how was he, a perfect stranger, seeing her for the first time, to pierce below the quiet exterior that puzzled many who had known her for years? She stooped and kissed the little pale drawn face, and repeating,
“You will promise to call me?” went softly out of the room.
Mr. Guildford had no intention of deceiving her. His fears were great, but so far, he perceived a chance—a faint chance of their not being realised, and he had no belief in the wisdom of preparing oneself or others for the worst by crushing prematurely the last little blossom of hope which may serve its purpose by cheering hours of otherwise unendurable anguish. But as the night went on, his own hopes faded slowly. He did the little that was possible to alleviate the suffering, more painful, it is to be trusted, at this last sad stage, to witness than to endure; but long before the morning dawned, it became evident that the little life was ebbing away. There was no fear of Charlie waking to miss his young aunt; the short journey through the dark valley was all but over; Charlie’s waking would be in the bright country “beyond the sun.”
“I think you had better call Miss Methvyn. I promised to send for her if there was any change,” said Mr. Guildford to the housekeeper, who had remained with him. There was no need to tell her what the only change would be now. But almost before he had finished speaking the door opened swiftly, and Cicely, still in her beautiful dress, stood again by the bed side.
“I could not stay away any longer. I tried to sleep, but,” she was beginning; but the words died upon her lips. “Oh! he is not better, he is worse,” she exclaimed, catching sight of the baby-face, and reading in Mr. Guildford’s quiet sadness the confirmation of her terror. “Oh! my darling, my dear, dear little Charlie.”
The anguish of her tone was unmistakable; still, by a supreme effort of self-control, she forced herself to speak quietly. “Will he not know me when he wakes?” she whispered to Mr. Guildford.
“He will never wake to consciousness again; all his suffering is over,” said Mr. Guildford very gently, but Cicely interrupted him with a faint cry. “What is that? He has never looked like that. Oh! is that dying?” she sobbed—a slight convulsion had momentarily distorted the exhausted little frame.
“It does not hurt him, he feels no pain. It is far sadder for you than for him,” said Mr. Guildford, wishing he could spare her this ordeal.
But it was not protracted; soon, very soon there was no little Charlie lying there; only the deserted dwelling in which his innocent spirit had sojourned for four short years.
Then the young girl could no longer restrain her grief. The incentive to self-control was gone, the unnatural strain broken at last. She was weakened by her days and nights of watching, and such sorrow as this was new to her. She laid her head down on the pillow beside the still white face of the child she had loved so dearly, and cried as if literally her heart was breaking. She was not a girl who cried often or easily, and to such natures extreme emotion from its very rarity is terribly prostrating. Mrs. Moore took the commonplace view of the matter.
“I never saw Miss Cicely like this,” she said, “but it is better she should cry. It will do her good in the end; will it not, sir?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Guildford. “If she seldom cries, she will be sadly exhausted by this. There is a good deal of nonsense talked about tears. To some natures they are like drops of blood.”
He made one or two efforts to persuade her to come away, but for some time it was useless.
“Oh! do let me stay here a little,” she prayed. “There is no need to tell any one yet. There is nothing to do. I must not cry to-morrow, for it would distress my father and mother; but do leave me for tonight. And, oh! to-morrow, I must write and tell Amy. Oh! how can I? Her little Charlie that I was to take care of till she came back. And now I can never do anything for him again. I even put on this dress to please him this morning, or was it yesterday morning?” she said confusedly, lifting her head suddenly and looking up in Mr. Guildford’s face with an almost wild expression in her blue eyes. “He was so fond of it, he called it my picture frock. I shall never, never put it on again. I should like never to see it again. Oh, Charlie!”
Then she buried her face in the pillow, and her whole figure shook convulsively. Mrs. Moore looked at Mr. Guildford in despair. Suddenly an idea struck her.
“Miss Cicely, my dear,” she said, “I am very sorry to disturb you, but I think you are forgetting that Mr. Guildford must be very tired. He came from Sothernbay in a hurry, you know, and has been up all night and has had nothing to eat. And it is nearly morning now.”
A faint streak of dawn was creeping in at the window—the cold ghastly dawn of a rainy February morning. Cicely sat up, but shivered as she saw it. This time yesterday she had been glad to see the daylight, for the night had been long and trying, and Charlie had wished many times “morning would come.” Oh! how dreadful these trifling associations sometimes are. “This time yesterday” our darling was still here; “this day last week,” bright and full of life perhaps; “this time last year,”—ah! what bitter changes since then;—to the young, the first tear-stained entries in life’s calendar seem to dim all the leaves of the book, even the white blank sheets of the future; to the old, the gentle, merciful haze of distance mellows and softens the darkness of even the darkest pages.
But Cicely was young, not old, and today the sight of the cold, careless daylight returning again, “as if nothing were the matter,” was strange and repulsive. She shivered, and for a moment covered her face with her hands. But the old servant had touched the right chord. When Miss Methvyn spoke again, it was in quite a different tone.
“I have been very selfish,” she said with a sort of simple dignity, “very selfish and thoughtless. Mr. Guildford, you must for give me.”
Then she stood up and was moving away, when a thought struck her, and she turned back.
“I have not thanked you,” she said, looking up at Mr. Guildford and holding out her hand. “Good-bye, and thank you very much. It will always be a comfort to us that you came so quickly, otherwise we might have thought that something else might have been done.”
Her lips quivered again, in spite of her effort to be calm. She turned quickly, and stooping over the bedside, once more kissed the little face and then hurried away.
An hour later, when the grey dreary dawn was growing into dull daylight, Mr. Guildford was driven away again—to Greybridge Station this time. The same young groom drove as on the night before, but he was very silent this morning, and his eyes looked as if he had been crying all night.
“Little Master” had left some sore hearts behind him.