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.

"I must go on to Gattigo. I must get to Fred and Gilbert. I'm going to be ill," she said aloud. And she dressed herself with much difficulty, and made her way to the railway station named in Gilbert's notes.

How she remembered her route, as sent her by Gilbert, how she contrived to drag herself from place to place, and to keep her luggage together—but that is, I believe, easier in Canada than at home—she never could remember. Her head ached so dreadfully that the effort of moving or speaking was agony, and every now and then she lost all sense of her present surroundings and fell into a half-conscious state of fear and misery, only to be realized by those who have endured the slow coming-on of a bad fever.

She reached Gattigo at last. No Fred was visible, but Gilbert was waiting for her.

"Why, here you are, my brave girl," he said pityingly, "and, as things have turned out, I need not have hurried you so."

Janet caught at his arm to keep herself from falling, crying out—

"Gilbert—is he dead?"

"No, no; hold up, Janet. Why, the poor girl has fainted! Here, Brett!"—to a passing railway clerk. "Lend me a hand."

"Your sister that you were expecting? Ah, poor girl, no doubt it was a shock."

"I hadn't time to shock her; she took me up wrong, and thought her husband was dead. Help me, and I'll get her into my waggon and make tracks for home. I think she's ill by the look of her, and finding every one curious about her would make her worse. I must get her home to my wife; she'll manage her."

With his friend's help, he got Janet out of the station, and into his light spring-waggon, where they made her as comfortable as possible. She had revived a little by this time, and obediently swallowed something hot which Brett brought for her. But before they had passed over the fifteen miles of rough road which lay between Gattigo and "Old Man's Ferry," she was almost unconscious; and in that state she lay for hours. Even when this passed off, and she seemed more alive, she never spoke, nor looked as if she knew what they were doing to her.

Mrs. Gray, a bright-looking little French Canadian, who, without a single really good feature except her dark, vivacious eyes, was a very pretty woman, was lost in admiration of Janet's regular features and white skin.

"But you never told me that your sister was so pretty, Gilbert?"

"I declare, I never thought about it," he answered. "Poor mother used to be very proud of her looks, and her good marriage, poor child!"

"Gilbert, is there no chance that we may keep them here? Now that she is getting better, we ought to settle what to say to her."

"You wish to keep them?"

"Well, think of our long, lonely winters! Even the children would be glad of two new companions. And for me, a woman like her—ah, what a comfort!"

"But, Aimée, the hotel notion won't work—not with Rayburn as manager; he's done for that plan."

"I suppose so; but, should you try it with another manager, you would want help here, and so should I. And you would have to drive to Gattigo much oftener than now. You could trust him?"

"Well, I hope so."

"Why, Gilbert, you always say you think him innocent."

"Yes; but he failed to convince the court of it. It is a tangled skein, Aimée, and we can settle nothing till we have him here and Janet well again."

He got up and walked once or twice up and down the long, low room, with a cooking-stove at one end and an open grate for burning wood at the other. Coming to a standstill near the stove, at which Aimée was busy, he said, as if to himself—

"And one thinks of the disgrace, too."

"Now, Gilbert, the case went against him, no doubt; but there were many who, like you, believed him innocent of all but careless folly. It would be forgotten in time if he works steadily here, and makes people like him."

"To like him would be easy; he's a taking kind of fellow enough. Whether he has it in him to bear up under all this misfortune, and live it down, is a different question."

"He would have a better chance here, under your eye, than in any other place."

"That is true. Anyhow, I have Janet and the two boys to think of."

This conversation passed one day that Janet had seemed a little better, but it was not for some time afterwards that she was really quite herself again; even then her weakness was very great. The first time she spoke was a great joy to Aimée, who had begun to fear that her mind was really affected.

Aimée had come to the bedside with a cup of soup and a dainty little bit of toast, when something in the wistful gaze she met, made her say with a smile—

"It is your soup, my dear. Let me raise you up a little."

"You are so kind!" Janet whispered. "Tell me, am I in a hospital? I do not remember coming here."

"No, you were so ill. This is your brother's house, and I am his wife, Aimée."

"And my husband—is dead," Janet said slowly.

"Not he. What made you think that? He will be here in a day or two, and will tell you all about it himself, and why he could not come sooner."

Janet took the speaker's hand, and held it with more strength than she looked capable of.

"You are sure—you do not say this only to quiet me?"

"No, my dear, indeed I would not be so cruel. Your Fred is in good health, and will be here very soon now."

Janet closed her eyes and fell asleep; indeed, it seemed to her that she did nothing but sleep until one day she awoke to find Fred sitting beside her, watching for the opening of her eyes.