SUSPENSE.
"Down thou climbing sorrow!
Thy element's below."
King Lear.
"Till now thy soul has been
All glad and gay:
Bid it awake, and look
At grief to-day."
Adelaide Anne Procter.
As Althea walked into the library, she was aware that Waveney was following her closely. Doreen had made some excuse and had gone off to her own room, probably to write letters.
"Do you want me to read to you to-night?" asked Waveney. She looked wonderfully bright and animated this evening. As she spoke she slipped her hand into Althea's arm, in a coaxing, girlish way. "Dear Miss Harford, I am not a bit tired. I feel as springy as possible"—this being a favourite word in the Ward vocabulary to express latent and superfluous energy.
"No, my child, not to-night," returned Althea, gravely. "Waveney, dear, I am afraid I have rather bad news for you. You were out when the message came, so I went over to Cleveland Terrace to inquire."
Then a troubled, almost a scared look, came into the girl's eyes.
"A message!" she gasped. "Did they send for me? Is any one ill—father? or——" But she did not finish the sentence, as Althea quietly handed her the telegram.
"What does it mean?" she asked in a bewildered tone; but her lips were trembling. "Mollie ill! But she is never ill. Except when we had the measles, she has never been in bed a single day for years. What is it? Why do you not tell me?" and Waveney spoke in a tone of intense irritation.
"I am waiting, dear, until you can listen to me," returned her friend, soothingly. "My cousin Moritz was with me when the telegram came"—here Waveney started—"and I thought—we both thought—that the best thing would be for me to go over to Cleveland Terrace. Moritz went with me. We saw your father, and I went up to Mollie. It is diphtheria—no one knows how she has caught it. She is ill, and her throat is very painful, but she could speak to me. She sent her love, and said that you must not think of coming to her."
Then an incredulous smile crossed Waveney's face.
"Mollie said that, but of course she did not mean it; the idea is too absurd. If I were not so miserable I could laugh at it. Not go to my Mollie when she is ill and in pain! Has father sent for Dr. Duncan, and have they given her a fire?—the room is so cold!" Then, interrupting herself with sudden impatience, "Why do I stop to ask these questions when it is getting late? Oh, Miss Harford, you ought to have told me before dinner! What does that matter? But I will get ready now. And if you will be kind enough to send for a cab, I shall not be five minutes changing my frock"—for even at the supreme moment some instinct told the girl that sapphire blue velveteen was not quite suitable for a sick room.
Althea was quite shaken by Waveney's impetuosity. It was evident that her young companion had entirely forgotten her rôle; her sole idea was that Mollie was ill, and that nothing else mattered. She was actually half-way to the door when Althea called her back in a tone that arrested even her attention.
"Waveney, my poor child, what are you doing? Did you not understand the telegram? Your father will not allow you to go home—he told me so himself; and here is a note he has sent you." Then Waveney, without a word, took the letter.
"My precious Child," wrote Everard, "we are in sad trouble. Our dear Mollie is very ill, but Dr. Duncan tells me that it will not be safe for you to be with her, and that he must have a properly trained nurse—one is coming in directly—and then she will have every care and attention. Do not come unless I send for you; it is enough to have one child ill, and I will not have you here, my little Waveney. I know I can trust you. Since you were a baby you have never given me a moment's uneasiness—you have been my dear, good child, who has always obeyed my least wishes. If you love me, my darling, you will be brave and calm. Miss Harford will tell you everything. She is a good, kind creature, and I feel you will be safe with her. You shall know everything: nothing shall be kept from you—I promise you that faithfully.
"Your loving
"Father."
When Waveney had finished the letter, there was despair in her eyes.
"He is cruel. Every one is cruel," she said, in a choked, unnatural voice. And then, with a dry sob, "Oh, why am I not lying there in her place!"
"Do not say that, dear child," returned Althea, gently; "for then Mollie would have to suffer." And at this Waveney winced.
"Where are you going?" Althea spoke rather nervously, for again the girl seemed about to leave her. "Oh, Waveney, surely you will not go against your father's wishes." But she need not have asked the question. The loyal little soul would have died sooner than grieve that beloved parent.
"No, I cannot disobey father," she said, in a dull voice; and her poor little face looked so white and rigid. "I am going to my own room now."
"Will you not stay and let me talk to you a little?" asked Althea, anxiously. "You are taking things too hardly, dear. Mollie may be better to-morrow."
But she spoke to deaf ears.
"No, no. Please do not keep me. I must be alone. There is no use in talking. How do you know, how does any one know about things?" and Waveney abruptly turned away.
Althea's eyes looked very sad as the door closed behind her. "I knew it," she said to herself. "I knew how she would suffer. Her nature is intense. Those who love much, suffer much. Mollie and she seem to have only one heart between them. It is not so with all twins." But the next moment her dreary moralising was interrupted; for Waveney came hastily back and stood by her.
"I did not bid you good-night," she said, huskily. "I am afraid I was rude and abrupt; but I did not mean it. And you are so kind, so kind."
Then Althea put her arms round the girl and kissed her tenderly. "My dear, do not trouble about that. I quite understand. May I come to you presently? I may be able to think of something to comfort you." But Waveney shook her head.
"No; please do not come. There is no comfort for me while my Mollie is ill and suffering;" and Waveney drew her cold hands out of Althea's detaining grasp. It was sad to see how her step had suddenly lost its springiness. To be alone—that was her one thought now, as it is the instinct of all sorely wounded creatures in God's free world.
Waveney never recalled that night of misery without a shudder. The sudden shock quite prostrated her. That Mollie should be ill, perhaps dangerously ill!—for every one knew that people died of diphtheria: Princess Alice had, and the butcher's little daughter, and one or two others that she and Mollie knew—that Mollie should be ill, and that her only sister should not be allowed to nurse her!—this was almost inconceivable to Waveney.
It was this separation that seemed so unnatural, and Waveney chafed bitterly against her father's restrictions. After those first unguarded expressions she did not blame him in words, but again and again in her heart she accused him of cruelty.
"Oh, father, how could you, how could you!" she said over and over again that night. "It is not right, it is not fair, that you should torture me like this. If I were only there I should not be so unnerved and frightened, but everything is worse when one is kept away."
Waveney was right from her own point of view. She would have been her brave, resolute little self at Cleveland Terrace, and Mollie would have had the tenderest and most cheery of nurses.
"I should not have taken it. I should have been careful and left the nurse to do things," she said later on. "It was just father's nervousness."
Dr. Duncan's opinion she treated with contempt. It was part of a doctor's duty to say these things.
More than once Althea crept to the girl's door; but she could hear nothing. Once she turned the handle, but the door was locked. Waveney, who was still sitting huddled up in the easy-chair, heard the soft, retreating footsteps go down the passage again. Her fire had burnt out, and she felt strangely chilled. "I may as well go to bed," she thought, drearily; but it was long before the deadly cold left her limbs. Even when she slept, her dreams troubled her, and she woke the next morning to see Althea standing beside her bed with a cup of hot coffee in one hand, and in her other a yellow envelope.
"Will you drink this, my dear? Doreen and I have had our breakfast, but there is no need for you to hurry. If you lie still Nurse Marks will bring you yours."
"Oh, no, I could not think of such a thing," returned Waveney, quite shocked. "I am not ill. I would rather get up, please. I am so sorry I have overslept myself; but I was late, and——" Then she looked at the telegram wistfully. "Is that for me, Miss Harford?"
"No, my dear, it is for me. Moritz sent over to Cleveland Terrace quite early this morning. You will see what he says.
"'Miss Ward not so well. A bad night. Shall wire for Richmond.'"
"What does it mean?" returned Waveney, faintly, and her head sank back on the pillow. "I don't understand it."
"It means that you and Mollie have a good friend," returned Althea, sitting down beside her, "a very kind and generous friend. Moritz wants to help you all. Sir Hindley Richmond is the great throat doctor. He is wonderfully clever, and some of his cures are marvellous; but his fees are immense, and of course Moritz knows that Mr. Ward could not afford to have him, so he is arranging it with Dr. Duncan."
"But we have no right—we have no claim on Mr. Ingram," stammered Waveney. "But he is doing it for Mollie's sake."
She said it quite simply. In her own mind it had long been an assured fact that Mr. Ingram was her sister's lover. How could any one mistake such devotion?
"Yes, he is doing it for Mollie's sake," returned Althea, with equal frankness. "Poor fellow! he is very unhappy about her, and his only comfort is to do her service."
And Althea smiled a little as she thought of that tender and fantastic chivalry with which Moritz was wooing his beautiful Mollie.
"I will get up now," Waveney observed, restlessly. Mollie was not so well. It would drive her frantic to lie still and think of that. She would dress and go out. Miss Althea was too kind to think of asking her to write and read. She could not sit still. She must have air and movement. But though she said no word of this, Althea understood her perfectly.
"We must leave her alone," she said, rather sadly, to Doreen. "Her nerves are unhinged by the suspense, and she is not used to trouble.
"I shall drive down to Cleveland Terrace," she continued, "on my way to Aunt Sara. There may be some little thing Mollie requires, and Waveney will be glad of news." She spoke rather hurriedly, as though she feared Doreen might raise some objection. But Doreen, who could read her sister like a book, merely nodded assent.
So all the morning Waveney wandered about the common like a little lost spirit, until her limbs ached with weariness; and after luncheon Noel arrived.
Mr. Ingram had sent him, he said, bringing out the words rather sheepishly. They had been shopping all the morning, tearing up and down Regent's Street and Bond Street in a hansom, and they had had luncheon at the Army and Navy Stores. Then they had called at the door of Number Ten, and Noel had seen his father. Things were much the same, and he sent his love, and so on.
Althea had already started when Noel made his appearance, so it was too late to prevent her fruitless journey to Chelsea.
There was nothing Mollie wanted, Noel declared, bluntly, and he chuckled as he thought of all the things Ingram had ordered. "My word, there's no mistake about his being a viscount," he thought. "If he turned out to be a duke I should hardly be surprised."
Waveney was very fond of her young brother, but his society failed to give her comfort; and Noel, on his side, was so awed and depressed by her sad face and unusual silence, that he could find little to say. It was quite a relief when his visit was over, and he had to return to Eaton Square.
But one word he did say as Waveney followed him into the hall.
"I say, Wave, I suppose you will send your compliments or kind regards to Mr. Ingram"—and here Noel cleared his throat. "He is awfully cut up, you know, and all that."
"Oh, yes, you may give him my kind regards," returned Waveney, in a listless tone. Then her conscience accused her of ingratitude. "Yes, certainly, Noel, my kindest regards. I know how good he has been; he is actually going to have that great throat doctor down to see dear Mollie."
"I know that," replied Noel, mysteriously. "I know a thing or two that would make you stare. He is a good old sort; he is as good as they make them, and he deserves to turn up trumps." And with this peculiar form of blessing—which was nevertheless genuine in its way—Noel adjusted his pince-nez, and marched off with his head in the air as usual.
When Althea returned, she had very little to add to this. Mollie was no better, certainly, and Dr. Duncan was undoubtedly anxious about her; but she had excellent nurses, and Sir Hindley Richmond was to come the next day.
There had been some hitch or difficulty, and Moritz had been much put out. Althea was in the dark about it, for Mr. Ward had volunteered no explanation.
"Sir Hindley Richmond is coming to-morrow," was all he said. "Mr. Ingram insists on it. He wired for him to-day, but there was some difficulty, and Ingram fussed awfully about it. I am not allowed to put in a word," he continued, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "The doctor and nurses manage everything; all sorts of things come to the house. Of course Ingram sends them, and if I remonstrate, I am told that the doctor ordered them, or that Nurse Helena wished for it."
Althea was the bearer of another sad little missive from Everard. Waveney carried it off to her own room. She was still reading it with dry, tearless eyes when the gong sounded.
"Do not lose heart, my darling," it finished. "It is always darkest before day. We will pray to our Heavenly Father that our sweet Mollie may be spared." Waveney was repeating this sentence over and over again, as she sat at the dinner-table. And Althea, seeing that she ate nothing, told Mitchell to fill her glass with Burgundy.
"You must take that, my dear, and some of this nice light roll. If you make yourself ill, it will only give additional trouble."
Althea spoke with such quiet decision that Waveney was compelled to obey. As she sipped the wine a tinge of colour came into her lips. But the bread was sadly crumbled on her plate. As she rose from the table her knees trembled under her, and she almost tottered as she followed Althea.
Last night about this time she had told her. What a nightmare of horror these four-and-twenty hours had been!
No wonder she felt giddy—no wonder—but here Althea took possession of her with gentle force.
"Sit down, Waveney. Why, you foolish child, you have over-walked yourself, and eaten nothing, and of course you feel bad." And before Waveney could summon up sufficient energy to contradict this, she found herself lying on the library couch, with the softest of pillows under her head and a warm quilt over her.
"Doreen and I are going across to the Porch House," observed Althea, kissing her. "It is Thursday evening. But dear old Nursie will look after you."
"Thank you. But she need not trouble," returned Waveney, drowsily. "I am quite well, only tired."
Every one was very kind, she thought. And Miss Althea, how dear and good she was! After all, it was very comfortable to lie still. The silence, the firelight, the soft warmth, were so soothing. Why were the bees humming so? Beehives and libraries were surely incongruous. And there were white lilies, too, nid-nodding at each other. And the writing-table had gone, and there was a bed of pansies. "Pansies, that's for thoughts," she said to herself. For, little as she knew it, Waveney was fast asleep.