[CHAPTER V.]
ALL THE WAY TO GATTIGO.
JANET hardly knew how the time passed during her journey back to Liverpool. She was not asleep, though her fellow-travellers thought she was, for she sat perfectly still with her eyes shut. She felt so awfully alone that she did not know how to bear it.
Arrived in Liverpool, her first care was to secure a berth on board the ship; she had not done so before, not being certain that the children would not be with her. She saw the stewardess, and got her to give her a list of the few things she might want during the passage more than what was supplied by the company. Then she went back to her lodgings, paid up her few debts, packed up everything, went to the school and settled things there; finally, she had everything ready in good time.
It was well that she had so much to do, and so little time in which to do it. For she was very unhappy, when she had time to think. She could not reconcile herself to the step she had taken at her husband's desire. To part with her boys—ah! It seemed cruel. Surely she could not have done it? Surely the door would open, and a baby face peep in, and a merry shout of "Muddie, Muddie, we've come home!" would be heard. But no, all was silence. Fred's loudest howl would have been music to his mother.
And there was another thing that she could not help feeling uncomfortable about. She had not told Mrs. Rayburn that Fred's trouble was so serious that he had been imprisoned and must stand his trial. She had no suspicion that Mrs. Rayburn was not the good-tempered, obliging person she had always appeared, but she did know that she was a great talker and a great gossip. She might write all this to her sister-in-law in Hemsborough; she might even tell the boys, from whom their father so much desired to conceal it.
It had seemed to Janet that there could be no harm in keeping back the worst part of the story, but now she felt uneasy at having done so, being a very truthful and candid woman. Events proved that it would have been wiser to tell all; yet I do not think Janet was to blame for her reticence.
At last the time came for her to go on board; and she and her luggage reached the vessel in safety. It was a lovely evening, and the Mersey as smooth as glass, yet before the vessel left the river, poor Janet was lying in her berth, deadly sick, and only hearing a voice as at a great distance, saying—
"Dear, dear, fancy being took like this before we're out of the river!"
On the river, or on the broad Atlantic, it was all much the same to poor Janet. She was never free from sickness till she found herself landed alone in a strange land. They told her on board that she would feel all right the moment she landed, but she did not feel much better than when at sea. Then she dimly hoped that a night's sleep would cure her, and that everything would cease to swim before her eyes, and leave off coming into violent contact with her when she tried to move. But the night brought no sleep, and no refreshment.