CHAPTER XX.
ROLF’S PENITENCE.
rom a child, that story of Casabianca had fascinated me, and I could see it fascinated Rolf.
“How I do like that fellow Cassy——what do you call him?” he exclaimed, enthusiastically, when I had finished. “I call that plucky, and no mistake, to stick to the burning ship. What a brave man he would have made if he had lived!”
“Yes, indeed; but he lived long enough to do a man’s work in the world—faithful until death. ‘Faithful in little, faithful in much,’ Rolf. Casabianca would never have disobeyed his mother, or thought he knew best, would he?”
“No, Fenny,” in a contrite voice, and sidling up to me again.
“I am afraid you can never be a soldier, dear!”
“What do you mean?”—sitting up erect in bed, with his beautiful eyes quite glaring at me in the twilight. “I mean to be a soldier, I tell you, and use father’s sword! I shall be Colonel Markham, too, one of these days, unless I am killed in battle.”
“You cannot be a soldier unless you learn to obey, Rolf; you cannot rule your men until you have submitted to rule yourself. Officers are gentlemen, and gentlemen are never cowards; and I call it cowardly, Rolf—quite a mean trick—to creep into the nursery in my absence. Honour should have kept you from crossing the threshold.”
Now Rolf could not endure to be called a coward, so he lost his temper, and, I am sorry to say, called me a nasty, spiteful old cat, “which you are Fenny, you know you are, and a great deal worse!” And the next moment he had thrown a rough pair of arms round my neck, his penitence inflicting on me excruciating pain.
“There, there, never mind”—hugging me—“I don’t mean it. You are a dear old thing, Fenny, and I mean to marry you when I grow up. You are such a plain young woman, as mother says, that no one else would ask you, so I will.”
“Do you think I could marry a coward, Rolf?”
“There you go again”—in a vexed voice—“but I shall never be a coward any more; I mean to be a brave boy, like Cassy—what do you call him? I mean to mind mother, and not forget; and I will throw my cannon into the sea to-morrow, though I am so fond of it, and Mr. Rossiter (Walter I call him, but he does not mind) gave it to me. It cost a lot—indeed, it did, Fenny—but, all the same, it shall be drownded dead.”
“If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.” I think there was something very real in that childish sacrifice. It was his treasured plaything, but it had tempted him to disobedience; he would fling it away with both hands. How few of us repent in that way! Mea culpa, we say, but we hug our darling sin close to us; it is not, like Rolf’s cannon, “drownded dead.” Brave, poor little faulty Rolf, I begin to have better hopes of you!
So I kissed and comforted Rolf, and he clung to me quite affectionately. I asked him if he had said his prayers, and he said no, he had been too unhappy, because no one would forgive him; so we said them together, and afterwards we had a little more talk. I was just going to leave him when a light crossed the threshold, and there stood Mrs. Markham, with a lamp in her hand. She looked very ill and unhappy, and I am sure she had been shedding tears.
Rolf sprang up in bed. “Oh, mother, do forgive me!” he cried. “I am sure I have been miserable long enough. Fenny has been telling me about Cassy—you know the fellow; and I mean to be like him. I will drown my dear little cannon, and I will never, never, never disobey you again!”
I think Mrs. Markham was longing in her heart to forgive him. She had suffered as much as the child. She said nothing, but sat down on the bed and held out her arms, and Rolf nestled into them. She kissed him almost passionately, but a tear rolled down her face.
“I think you will break my heart one day, Rolf, as your——” She checked herself, and did not finish her sentence. Did she mean Rolf’s father? Colonel Markham had been a brave officer, I knew, and had died in battle; but he had not made his wife happy.
“Oh no, mother,” returned Rolf, “I am going to be a brave man, like father, and fight for everybody. I mean to take care of you when you are an old, old woman. Won’t that be nice? You won’t mind my marrying Fenny when I am quite grown up, will you, mother? Because she is such an old dear—not really old, you know, but so nice.”
Mrs. Markham smiled faintly at the boy’s nonsense, but she looked at me very pleasantly.
“Thank you for talking to Rolf, Miss Fenton, and helping him to be good. He is sorry, I think, and I hope this painful lesson will teach him to be less mischievous. But now you look very unfit to be up. You have done us all good service to-day, and we are all extremely grateful. Let me help you back to your room.”
I was very much astonished at this civility, but I declined her assistance and wished Rolf good-night. I was still more surprised when she held out her hand.
“You must be careful of yourself, Miss Fenton, for my sister’s sake,” she said, so kindly that I could hardly believe it was Mrs. Markham’s voice.
I marvelled at her manner greatly as I retraced my steps to the night nursery. She was really grateful to me, I could see that. Probably she realised that my prompt action had saved her and her boy a lifetime of regret. To extinguish life accidentally must be a bitter and sore retrospect to any human mind. Rolf’s boyhood would have been shadowed if his little cousin’s death had laid at his door.
I tried to cheer myself with these thoughts as I laid awake through the greater part of that long summer’s night. I could only sleep by snatches, and my dreams were full of pain. I imagined myself a martyr at Smithfield, and that the faggots were lighted about my feet. I could see the flames curling up round me, and feel their scorching breath on my face. Excruciating pain seemed to tingle in my veins; I cried out and woke Joyce, and then the misery of my burns kept me restless. I was quite ill the next day, and could not stir from my bed; but Mrs. Markham and Rolf came to see me more than once, and Reggie played on my bed, and was so dear and good, and Joyce kept creeping up to me to know what she could do for nurse, and every two or three hours Gay’s bright face seemed to bring sunshine into the room.
She had always some pleasant thing to tell me: a kind inquiry from Mr. Hawtry, and some flowers and fruit that Mrs. Cornish had arranged; a book from the vicar’s wife, who had been very shocked to hear of the accident, and thought I wanted amusement; a message from Squire Cheriton, with a basket of fine yellow plums that he had picked himself; and, later in the evening, a tin of cream and some new-laid eggs from Wheeler’s Farm, that Molly had brought herself.
I begged to see Molly, and she came up at once, looking very respectable in her Sunday gown and straw bonnet crossed with yellow ribbons. She shook hands heartily until I winced with pain, and then begged my pardon for her carelessness.
“Thank you so much for your delicious presents, Molly,” I said, gratefully.
“Oh, please don’t mention it, Miss Fenton; it is pleasure to me and father to send it, and father’s duty; and there is a chicken fattening that will be all ready for eating on Thursday; and there is a pot or two of cherry jam that I shall take the liberty to send with it. It is just for the children and yourself, as I shall tell Mrs. Murdle.”
“Everyone is far too good to me,” I stammered, and the tears came into my eyes, for the old Squire and Gay had been so kind, and there was all those beautiful flowers and fruit from the Red Farm, and now this good creature was overwhelming me with homely delicacies. Molly patted me with her rough hand as though I had been a child, and then kissed me in her hearty way.
“There, there, poor dear, who could help being good to you, seeing you lie there as helpless as a baby, with your poor arms all done up in cotton wool, and the pain hard to bear? Never mind, the Lord will help you to bear it, and He knows what pain means.” And with this homely consolation Molly left me and went in search of Hannah.
When Gay came to me to see I was all comfortable for the night, I asked her rather anxiously if she expected to hear from Mrs. Morton in the morning.
She looked as though she were sorry I had asked the question. “Well, no—the fact is, I wrote the letter, Merle, but father forgot to post it, and it has not gone yet. I am very sorry,” as I uttered an exclamation of annoyance, “but it cannot be helped, and it was all father’s fault; he is so careless with letters; but now Adelaide has written to say how well Reggie seems to-day, and both of them shall go by the same post to-morrow morning. Benson shall take them.”
It was no use saying any more. Gay was sorry enough, and it was not her fault, so I only asked her to add a word or two to explain the delay, and this she promised to do. She wanted to write to Aunt Agatha as well, but I would not hear of this. Aunt Agatha was very tender-hearted, and could not bear to hear of any suffering that she could not remedy, and I could see no benefit in harrowing her feelings. I would tell her myself one day.
Dr. Staples had given me a sedative, so I slept more that night, but it was three days before I could leave my bed, and all that time we heard nothing of my mistress. On the fourth day I put on a dressing-gown Gay lent me, with loose hanging sleeves, for my arms were still swathed like mummies, but the pain had lessened; and though I was weak enough only to lean back in an easy chair and watch the children at their play, I liked to be with them, and it was pleasant to sit by the nursery window and look out on the terrace and sundial and the sunny orchard with the old white pony grazing as usual.
Gay had come up that morning with rather a troubled face. They had had a letter from Alick, she said, but he had not received either hers or Adelaide’s. Violet had seemed so ill that he had taken her home to Prince’s Gate that Dr. Myrtle might see her. They had left Abergeldie before their letters had arrived, and he could not possibly receive them until the next morning, but of course they would be forwarded at once.
I was much distressed to hear that the letters had miscarried, and still more that my mistress was ill. It was dreary taking her back to that great empty house; but then Dr. Myrtle understood her constitution, and would do her more good than a stranger. I begged Gay to tell me what was the matter, but she did not seem to know. It was a collapse, Alick had said, a sudden serious failure of strength; he had written very hurriedly, and seemed worried and anxious.
“I wish I need not have told you all this, Merle,” she finished. “It has made you paler than you were before. Violet has never been strong since Joyce was born, but I do not see that there is any need for special anxiety.” But though Gay insisted on taking a cheerful view of things, I could not bring my spirits to her level. I felt nervous and unaccountably depressed. I had not sufficiently recovered from the effects of the accident to bear the least suspense with equanimity. In spite of my efforts to be quiet and self-controlled, I grew restless and irritable; the least noise jarred on me; it was a relief when Hannah took the children out and I had the nursery to myself. My nervous fancies haunted my dreams that night, and I woke so unrefreshed that Gay scolded me for not getting better more quickly, and pretended to laugh at my dismal face when I heard there was no letter from Mr. Morton.
“It is nonsense your fretting about those letters, Merle,” she said, in her brisk way. “Alick has them by this time, and we shall hear from him before evening. Do, pray, pull yourself together, and I will ask Dr. Staples if a drive will not do you good; your indoor life does not suit you.”
I did not contradict her, but I knew there would be no drive for me that day; perfect quiet and rest were all I wanted, and I knew Dr. Staples would be of my opinion. The afternoon was showery, so the children played about the nursery. I did not admit Rolf, for his noisy ways would have been too much for me, but he was very good, and promised to stay with Judson if he might come to me a little in the evening.
I had gone into the night nursery to lie down for an hour when I heard footsteps coming down the passage. The next moment I heard Mr. Morton’s voice speaking to Gay.
“You can go in and see the children, Alick,” she said, “and I will join you directly, when Adelaide has finished with me;” and then Joyce called out “Fardie,” and I could hear Reggie stumping across the floor.
I waited a few minutes before I made my appearance. Much as I longed to see Mr. Morton, I thought he would rather meet his children alone. I almost felt as though I intruded when I opened the door. Hannah was not there, and he was sitting in my rocking-chair with Reggie in his arms, and his head was bowed down on the little fellow’s shoulder. He started up when he heard me, but I never saw him look so pale and agitated. I knew then that he was a man of strong feelings, that his children were more to him than I had dreamed.
“Miss Fenton,” he began, and then he bit his lips and turned away to the window. I saw he could hardly speak, and there was Reggie patting his face and calling “Fada, fada,” to make him smile.
“Reggie is quite well,” I said, feeling the silence awkward.
“Yes, yes,” quite abruptly, “I see he is; thank God for that mercy; but, Miss Fenton, you have suffered in his stead. You are looking ill, unlike yourself. What am I to say to you? How am I to thank you?”
“Please do not say anything to me,” I returned, on the verge of crying. “Dear little Reggie is all right, and I am only too thankful. Tell me about my mistress, Mr. Morton; we are all so anxious about her.”
I thought he looked a little strangely at me. He held out his hand without speaking. That hearty grasp spoke volumes. Then he cleared his throat and said, quickly, “She does not know; I have not told her; she is very weak and ill. Dr. Myrtle says we must take great care of her; she has been over-exerting herself.”
To my dismay and his I burst into tears, but I was not quite myself, liable to be upset by a word.
“Oh, she is always over-exerting herself; she does more every day than her strength will allow,” I cried, almost hysterically. “It makes one’s heart ache to see her so worn out and yet so patient. Oh, Mr. Morton, do let me come home and nurse her; she is never happy without the children; it will do her good to see them; she frets after them too, and it makes her ill. Do let me come home; there is nothing I would not do for her.”
I heard him beg me to be calm. I was ill myself, I heard him say, and no wonder, and he looked pityingly at my bandages.
“I only wish you could come back to us, Miss Fenton,” he went on, so kindly that I was ashamed of giving way so. “The home feels very empty, and I think it would do my dear wife good to have the children’s feet pattering overhead. She is too weak to have them with her just now, but it would be pleasant to know they were near.”
I pleaded again that we might come home, and he smiled indulgently.
“You must get well first,” he said, gently, “and then I will come and fetch you all back myself. Just now you require nursing, and are better where you are; and it is still hot in London, and the sea breezes will benefit the children a little longer. Come, you will be sensible about this, Miss Fenton.”
And then, as Gay joined us, he turned to her and reiterated his opinion that I must stay at Marshlands until I was well.
Of course, Gay agreed with him; but I thought she was a little graver than usual. I knew Mr. Morton was right. I was no use to anyone just now; but, all the same, it made me feel very unhappy to see him go away and leave us behind. He could not stay any longer, he said, for fear of arousing his wife’s suspicions. He should just tell her he had run down to have a peep at the children; that would please her, he knew. He bade me good-bye very kindly, and told me to keep up my courage, and not lose heart. I could see he was not vexed with me for giving way. No doubt he attributed it all to weakness.
I sat down and had a good cry when he had left us, and there was no denying that I was homesick that night, and wanted Aunt Agatha. I felt a poor creature in my own estimation. Perhaps I was impatient; Dr. Staples told me I was, and his eyes twinkled as he said it; but it seemed to me I recovered very slowly. The burns were healing nicely; in a few more days I could put on my dress and enjoy the country drives; but I did not resume my usual duties for some time.
I could not dress and undress the children; walking tired me, and my spirits were sadly variable. The news from Prince’s Gate did not cheer me: my mistress continued in the same unsatisfactory state. Mr. Morton wrote every day, and both Mrs. Markham and Gay had gone up to town for a few hours. I heard more from Mrs. Markham than from Gay. She thought her sister looking very ill, and considered there was grave cause for anxiety. She had an excellent nurse, and her husband was most devoted in his attentions; she had never seen anyone to equal him. Here Mrs. Markham sighed; but her sister looked dull and depressed, and she thought she missed the children.
The bright September days passed away very slowly. I was growing weary of my banishment; and yet Marshlands and Netherton had become very dear to me, and I had grown to love the quaint old nursery. I was thankful when my strength permitted me to resume our mornings on the beach and our afternoons in the orchard. I felt less restless out of doors, and I liked to have Rolf with me. I saw very little of Gay; just then she was busy with parish work. I heard from her casually one day that Mr. Hawtry had gone to Italy. I suppose I looked astonished, for she said, quickly—
“He called the other afternoon and asked to see the children, but Adelaide had taken you all for a drive. I thought he seemed a little sorry not to say good-bye to them, as he expected to be away some time. He hoped you were better, Merle, and desired his kind regards.”
“And he has gone to Italy?”
“Yes; a young cousin of his is lying dangerously ill at Venice, and so this Don Quixote has started off to see after him. It is just like him, he is always doing things for other people.” And with this speech she left me.
I was sorry not to say good-bye to Mr. Hawtry; he had been very kind to us, and it seemed such a pity that we had missed him that afternoon. I often thought about our visit to the Red Farm, and how pleasant and hospitable he had been. It seemed rather tantalising just to make friends (and he had always been so friendly to me) and then not to see them again, but perhaps next summer we should come down to Marshlands again.
(To be continued.)