Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife. Yonge Charlotte Mary
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fears of the effect of Albert’s account of her were better founded; for two mornings after, on coming down to breakfast, she found a letter from her mother to exhort her to be careful, assuring her that she need have no scruple in sending for her, and betraying so much uneasiness as to add to all her terrors. She saw this in one glance; for she knew that to dwell on the tender affectionate letter would bring on a fit of weeping, and left it and the dreadful consideration of her reply till Arthur should be gone, as he was to spend the day in fishing with a friend in the country. He had come home late last night, and was not yet dressed, and she waited long, gazing at the gleams of sunshine on the square gardens, thinking how bright this second day of April must be anywhere but here, where it was close and oppressive, and wondering whether Helvellyn was beginning to lose his snow; then, as Helvellyn brought the sensation that led to tears, she took the newspaper, and had read more than she cared for before Arthur appeared, in the state of impatience which voluntary lateness is sure to produce.
She gave him his tea as quickly as she could, but all went wrong: it was a horrid cold day, ALL east wind—there was a cold wind coming in somewhere.
‘The back drawing-room window! I’m sorry I did not see it was open.’
‘What makes you go to shut it?’ said he, hastily marching across the room, and closing it and the doors. ‘I shall be gone in a moment, and you may let in a hurricane if you like. Have you seen my cigar-case!’
‘It was on the ledge of your wardrobe.’
‘Some of your maids have been and hid it.’
‘I told Sarah never to put your things away. I think I could find it.’
‘No, don’t go, I have looked everywhere.’
As he never found things, even when before his eyes, this was not conclusive; and she undertook the search in spite of another careless ‘No, no, don’t,’ knowing it meant the contrary.
She could not find it in his dressing-room, and he looked annoyed, again accusing the maids. This made her feel injured, and though growing exhausted, as well she might, as she had not even begun breakfast, she said she would look in the sitting-room. He half remonstrated, without looking up from the paper, but she hoped to be gladdened by thanks, hunted in all his hiding-places in vain, and found she must give it up, after a consultation with Sarah, who resentfully denied all knowledge of it, and told her she looked ready to drop.
Dolefully coming into the hall, she saw Arthur’s black travelling-bag. Was it for more than the day? The evenings were bad enough—but a desolate night! And he had never told her!’
‘I suppose you have not found it?’
‘No; I wish I could!’
‘Never mind; it will turn up. You have tired yourself.’
‘But, Arthur, are you not coming home to-night?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? If I can’t get away by the seven o’clock train, I thought of sleeping there. Ten o’clock, I declare! I shall miss the train!’
She came to the head of the stairs with him, asking plaintively, ‘When DO you come home? To-morrow, at latest?’
Perhaps it was her querulous tone, perhaps a mere boyish dislike to being tied down, or even it might be mere hurry, that made him answer impatiently, ‘I can’t tell—as it may happen. D’ye think I want to run away! Only take care of yourself.’
This was in his coaxing voice; but it was not a moment when she could bear to be turned aside, like an importunate child, and she was going to speak; but he saw the wrong fishing-rod carried out, called hastily to James, ran down-stairs, and was gone, without even looking back at her.
The sound of the closing door conveyed a sense of utter desolation to her over-wrought mind—the house was a solitary prison; she sank on the sofa, sobbing, ‘Oh, I am very, very miserable! Why did he take me from home, if he could not love me! Oh, what will become of me? Oh, mamma! mamma!’
CHAPTER 2
What is so shrill as silent tears?
Arthur came home late in the afternoon of the following day. The door was opened to him by his brother, who abruptly said, ‘She is dying. You must not lose a moment if you would see her alive.’
Arthur turned pale, and gave an inarticulate exclamation of horror-stricken inquiry—‘Confined?’
‘Half-an-hour ago. She was taken ill yesterday morning immediately after you left her. She is insensible, but you may find her still living.’
Nothing but strong indignation could have made John Martindale thus communicate such tidings. He had arrived that day at noon to find that the creature he had left in the height of her bright loveliness was in the extremity of suffering and peril—her husband gone no one knew whither; and the servants, too angry not to speak plainly, reporting that he had left her in hysterics. John tried not to believe the half, but as time went on, bringing despair of the poor young mother’s life, and no tidings of Arthur; while he became more and more certain that there had been cruel neglect, the very gentleness and compassion of his nature fired and glowed against him who had taken her from her home, vowed to cherish her, and forsaken her at such a time. However, he was softened by seeing him stagger against the wall, perfectly stunned, then gathering breath, rush up-stairs without a word.
As Arthur pushed open the door, there was a whisper that it was he, too late, and room was made for him. All he knew was, that those around watched as if it was not yet death, but what else did he see on those ashy senseless features?
With a cry of despair he threw himself almost over her, and implored her but once to speak, or look at him. No one thought her capable even of hearing, but at his voice the eyelids and lips slightly moved, and a look of relief came over the face. A hand pressed his shoulder, and a spoon containing a drop of liquid was placed in his fingers, while some one said, ‘Try to get her to take this.’
Scarcely conscious he obeyed, and calling her by every endearing name, beyond hope succeeded in putting it between her lips. Her eyes opened and were turned on him, her hand closed on his, and her features assumed a look of peace. The spark of life was for a moment detained by the power of affection, but in a short space the breath must cease, the clasp of the hand relax.
Once more he was interrupted by a touch, and this time it was Sarah’s whisper—‘The minister is come, sir. What name shall it be!’
‘Anything—John,’ said he, without turning his head or taking in what she said.
The clergyman and John Martindale were waiting in the dressing-room, with poor Violet’s cathedral cup filled with water.
‘She does not know him?’ asked John, anxiously, as Sarah entered.
‘Yes, sir, she does,’ said Sarah, contorting her face to keep back the tears. ‘She looked at him, and has hold of his hand. I think she will die easier for it, poor dear.’
‘And at least the poor child is alive to be baptized?’
‘O, yes, sir, it seems a bit livelier now,’ said Sarah, opening a fold of the flannel in her arms. ‘It is just like its poor mamma.’
‘Is it a girl?’ he inquired, by no means perceiving the resemblance.
‘A boy, sir. His papa never asked, though he did say his name should be John.’
‘It matters little,’ said John, mournfully, for to his eye there was nothing like life in that tiny form. ‘And yet how marvellous,’ thought he, ‘to think of its infinite gain by these few moments of unconscious existence!’
At the touch of the water it gave a little cry, which Sarah heard with a start and glance of infinite satisfaction.
She returned to the chamber, where the same deathly stillness prevailed; the husband, the medical men, the nurse, all in their several positions, as if they had neither moved nor looked from the insensible, scarcely breathing figure.
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