Chapter XXIII: A Pledge of Friendship

I SLEPT, and towards morning I dreamed. In my dream, I was again amongst mountains; but not now in snow covered regions. I was treading an Alpine glade of emerald green, gemmed with flowers. The sun was shining brightly, birds were chirping and singing in the bushes, little silvery rills flashed in the sunlight, and the sky was blue overhead. I felt no fear, only joy, when I saw Edmund descending the green slope of a mountain side.

He came with fleet steps, and I saw that he carried in his arms a little child. Hurrying to meet him, I found that he held little Percy. Ah, how the child's golden curls shone in the sunlight, how the blue eyes smiled, how angelic was the look of the sweet, innocent face!

Edmund put him in my arms saying only,—

"Take him back to Mabel. He will be a blessing to her; he will lead her upward."

And in my dream, I seemed to know that the child had been lost and was found. Pressing him close to me, I turned to seek Mabel with the feeling that I was bringing her joy after great sorrow, when a voice close beside me said—

"We must thank God."

With that, mountains, green vale, flowers, the child—all vanished. I opened my eyes to find the sun shining brightly in at my window, swallows twittering from beneath the turret, and a light soft breeze fluttering the white curtains. And full in the sunlight stood Grace, pale and worn from her night's watching, but with a glad light in her eyes; her whole countenance expressing a heartfelt thankfulness.

"Percy!" I exclaimed, starting up.

"Is better," said Grace. "There has been a change in the night, and now the doctors think that he may recover."

"Oh, thank God!" I cried.

And then we embraced each other and wept together.

It was the first real spring day, and all nature seemed to echo our hearts' deep thanksgiving. Easter, a cold, wintery Easter, had come and gone whilst I lay in the unconsciousness of fever. Spring had long delayed her coming; but now, when the month was all but over, came this true April day, with warm sunshine and soft showers, making the birds sing melodiously, and the shy flowers unfold their buds without fear.

During the day, Howard sent me a little knot of sweet violets, the first to be found in our dear old garden at the tannery. I was delighted with them; but I wondered greatly that he should have thought of showing me such a kind attention. Surely the joy of relief from sore dread must have opened his heart and enlarged his sympathies to a wonderful extent.

But my weary days of confinement were drawing to a close. Spring having come, the doctor advised my speedy removal to the seaside. A little house was taken for us at Southend, this place being fixed on because it was conveniently near to Burford, and we could drive there direct from The Towers without risking the fatigue to myself and possible peril to others that a long journey by rail would involve. Salome and Grace, who by this time needed a change as much as I did, were to accompany me for the first week, at the end of which Mabel hoped to be able to join us with little Percy.

Southend in those days was a quaint, almost rural little place, unspoiled by the visits of London holiday-makers. Our house was on the high cliff, open to the strong sea breezes and commanding a fine view of the tossing waves when the tide was high. It was delightful to see the sea again and to breathe the fresh air with the feeling that each breath gave me strength. Those who have experienced such a period of convalescence will know the new joy in life that comes with returning health.

But for me that joy was shadowed. Little Percy's danger had shaken me out of myself for a time, and I had ceased to trouble about the future that lay before me. But now, with returning strength, the whole crowd of doubts, fears, and regrets assailed me afresh.

I think Grace saw that there was a cloud on my mind that marred my enjoyment of the lovely spring days. Doubtless she understood its nature; but she asked no questions and did not attempt to force my confidence. Only her gentle, never failing kindness told me of her sympathy.

One bright, breezy afternoon, we were returning from a stroll upon the beach, and ascending the somewhat steep path to the cliff, when I saw a gentleman looking down on us from a point almost opposite the house in which we were dwelling.

Grace saw him at the same moment and exclaimed, "Why, it is Ralph!"

I needed not to be told that. My heart had sunk at the sight of him, my limbs were trembling, my breath growing short; it was all I could do to keep on walking.

He had seen us and was making his way to us by a steep rugged zig-zag that cut into our path.

We paused at the junction, and in a few minutes he was beside us.

"How are you, Dorothy?" he asked, in the kindest manner, holding my hand in his as he studied my looks with affectionate, anxious interest.

"I am much better; almost well indeed," I said, falteringly.

"Is she really gaining strength, Grace? She looks very frail. Has she never more colour than this?"

"She is tired now," said Grace, evading the question; "we have, perhaps, been a little too far."

She knew as well as I knew that it was his sudden, unexpected appearance which had driven the colour from my cheeks, and for the time robbed me of strength.

With that, he made me lean upon his arm as we slowly continued the ascent, and, tremulous and breathless as I was, the support of his strong arm was most acceptable.

Sparing me, he talked to Grace, telling her all the home news she was eager to hear. Bright and ready were his words, and yet there was a change in him, a change not easy to define, though I had been aware of it at the first glance. A look it was that told of past suffering and present sorrow, held in check by a strong will.

When we reached the house, Grace led me into the sitting-room, put me into an easy chair by the fire, removed my hat and jacket, and insisted on my resting for awhile. Then she went away, leaving me alone with Ralph.

He had taken a chair near me; but, for what seemed to me a terribly long time, he said not a word. I suppose he thought that I should rest better in silence; but the stillness was to me slow torture. In desperation, I broke it at last.

"You came to see me when I was ill," I said; "you should not have done so; it was running a risk."

"A very slight one," he replied; "but I should have done the same however great the risk. Nothing could have held me from you when your life was in danger; unless, indeed, the fear of making you worse. But as you were unconscious, that was impossible. And now I am thankful that I watched at your bedside when you were so ill," he added, in a tone of peculiar meaning; "as thankful as I am, dear Dorothy, to see you well again."

His words, and even more, his tone, frightened me. What could he mean? I turned hot and cold, and looking down began twisting my fingers in nervous, school-girl fashion. Then, prompted by the sight of my ringless fingers, I rushed, as I was wont in moments of embarrassment, into impulsive speech.

"Grace tells me that you have my ring," I said, holding up to view the hand that lacked it. "I missed it almost as soon as my senses returned to me. Will you not give it to me now?"

"Do you really wish to wear that ring again, Dorothy?" he asked, very gravely.

And I could not answer him. His searching eyes, his grave tones, arrested me, and made it impossible to utter anything save the very truth. Then he stretched out his hand and took mine. It was cold, and it trembled in his clasp.

"My poor child," he said, tenderly, his voice vibrating with strong emotion, "do I frighten you so much? Oh, what a mistake I have made! I thought I could make you happy, Dorothy. I meant to guard your happiness with jealous care; and see! My very presence alarms you, makes you turn cold and white."

"No, no," I faltered; "it is not so. I am not afraid of you."

"Then why does your hand flutter in mine like a frightened bird? Dorothy, let us be frank with each other. Believe me, it is best. I know now what a mistake we have made—a mistake that would have been fatal to your happiness and mine. We must thank God that we have found it out in time. Dear, when I stood by your bed you uttered words in your delirium that revealed to me your heart's secret. Nay, do not shrink so. You said nothing you need blush for—nothing that was not honourable to you. Only I wish you had better understood my love; I wash you had trusted me fully."

He spoke gently, calmly; but the effort it cost him so to speak was apparent with every word. My heart was wrung with pain as I listened. I wanted to speak, but words would not come to me.

"If I had known that there was another," he added, after a pause, speaking not bitterly, but with somewhat of reproach in his tone.

"Indeed, indeed, I did not mean to deceive you," the words stung me into saying; "I thought that was all over and done with; I thought I could put an end to it, or I would not have promised to be your wife. Pray believe that."

"I do believe it," he replied, gently. "I know you meant to be true to me. I do not blame you, dear; it has all been a sad mistake."

"I meant it for the best," I sobbed. "I thought I could make you happy, and I knew it was what dear Edmund had wished."

"Yes, because he thought that you could love me; he was so sure that there was no one else you cared for. He would not have wished it otherwise."

"Oh, I might have known—I might have known!" I cried bitterly. "I can never forgive myself for what I have done, for the pain I have caused you. And yet—oh, I did want to make you happy!"

"Do not grieve, child," he said, tenderly. "You shall make me happy yet. Do you remember telling me that you should find your happiness in mine? Now I say the same to you; if you are happy, I shall be happy."

"I shall never be happy," I sighed; "for I can never forget. My life will be one long regret."

"No, dear, that must not be. For my sake, you must embrace happiness when it comes to you. You must be happy, for I want to be happy, and I cannot be unless you are. Remember that when you are inclined to make yourself miserable on my account."

How bravely, almost cheerfully, he spoke, and yet every word told me of the pain I had caused him! I responded only by tears. He drew from his pocket a tiny leather case, which he placed in my hand.

"There, dear, is your ring. You will keep it for my sake? Don't put it on now; but at some future time, wear it for the sake of your friend. For, Dorothy, I cannot renounce our friendship. I shall ever be your friend and the friend of all whom you love, not for your sake alone, but for your brother's sake—that friend of mine that lives in God."

So saying he held out his hand. It still bore traces of the burns he had received when he heroically rescued me from the fire. The sight of those scars reproached me keenly. I owed to this man my life, and in return, I had thus pained and wronged him. I gave him my hand and he pressed it to his lips.

Then, still holding it, he said, "And now good-bye, Dorothy; I am going away for awhile. In another month I sail for Jamaica to transact some business for my father there. When we meet again, this painful episode in our lives will have ceased to trouble us, and you will welcome me as your friend, will you not?"

"Yes, yes, my best friend," I murmured.

It was all I could say under the pressure of overwhelming emotion. And yet how much more I should have said!

I longed to thank him for his noble forgiveness, to assure him of my undying gratitude, to tell him that henceforth he stood apart and sacred in my life, as a friend, honoured and prized above all friends, a brother, worthy of the best love and reverence a sister's heart can know. But I had no power to speak, and the next moment he was gone.

I heard him leave the house; he would not stay even for a word with Grace, and I knew that he had gone forth to sorrow, heart-hunger, loneliness. Well might I weep, who had brought such suffering to this true and noble man.

Grace came in ere my sobs were stilled. She was amazed to find her brother gone, but in a moment, she understood.

"I have sent him away!" I cried, wildly. "Grace, you ought to hate me; I have made your brother wretched; I have spoiled his life."

But she did not hate me. She put her arms about me and kissed me.

"He will suffer," she said, speaking with deep emotion; "but you have not spoiled his life. It is sin, not sorrow, that ruins human lives. And you suffer, too, my poor Dorothy."

And so she could bear the burden of each, feeling keenly for us both.

For many days the thought of Ralph weighed on my heart and retarded my advance to health. At the end of a week, Grace returned to Beechwood, where, by this time, her presence was earnestly desired. Mabel came down to Southend, bringing Percy, his nurse, and a younger maid. The child had already made rapid progress towards recovery, but he needed great care, and Mabel watched over him with anxious, jealous solicitude, trusting little to servants, and guarding him herself by night and by day. I think she was glad to have her child all to herself, and to live a simple, quiet life for a little time. She was looking very worn and ill when she came to Southend, but soon, as Percy grew rosy and strong, her looks also began to improve.

It was amusing to watch the child's wonder and delight when first he saw the sea. He loved to see the waves rippling on the sandy beach, and never tired of playing there. Mabel and I spent many an hour with him by the shore. The nurse's duties were light indeed, for we generally took Percy out and had him with us for the greater part of the day. Our common love for the little darling, our delight in marking his development, planning new pleasures for him, and laughing over his precocious ways, formed a strong bond between me and Mabel. We were very happy together. Our old sisterly affection renewed itself; Mabel was softened by her recent experience; she had lost her dictatorial manner, and was more gentle and loving than I had ever seen her.

Only once was the harmony of our intercourse broken. It was when I told Mabel that my engagement to Ralph Dugdale had come to an end. This was a sore blow to her pride, since she had plumed herself on the good marriage I was about to make. She thought I had done very wrong, guided by foolishly romantic notions, and that I should live to repent my folly. It was not strange that she should think so, for I could not tell her all that had led to my parting with Ralph. I shrank from mentioning Leonard Glynne. I had never named him to Mabel; it had been an astonishment to her to learn in the vicarage drawing-roots at Dunsted that I had some acquaintance with Mrs. Gower's relatives.

Not for the world would I have had Mabel even suspect my heart's secret; for I still looked upon it as a weakness to be overcome, a thing to be buried and forgotten. I had no hope in connection with it; I should have held it base to cherish such a hope whilst that painful parting with Ralph was still so recent, his suffering so vividly before my mind. No; I said to myself that I should never see Leonard Glynne again. Much as I loved Mrs. Lyell, dear as Grace was to me, nothing should induce me to go to Weylea or Beechwood till many years had passed.

Mabel was somewhat mollified when I told her that Grace approved of what had taken place. She had felt the influence of Grace's pure, unselfish character. A gentle, almost sad expression came to my sister's face with the memories her name recalled.

"She is a good woman," she said with a sigh, "a good and noble woman. I believe that I owe my child's life to her devotion and skill. I wish there were more such women in the world."

Mabel had intended to stay but a few weeks at Southend; but in the end, we spent nearly the whole summer there. Sea air and sea water were considered so desirable for little Percy that Mabel determined he should enjoy them as long as possible. She went back to The Towers once or twice for a short visit, but she seemed glad to return to the quiet, simple life at the seaside.

Howard Steinthorpe used to ride over every Saturday, and stay with us till Monday or Tuesday. How much he made of his boy on these occasions! How glad he was to see the child who had been given up to death growing ruddy and strong in the summer sunshine!

And his manner towards Mabel was marked by a grace and tenderness which it had lacked before that season of sore suspense and dread which they had endured together. They had loved each other when they married, and their love had not died, though the strain of a commonplace, worldly life had worn it very thin. It was blooming into new beauty and strength in the light and joy which had succeeded the gloom cast by the dread shadow of death.

The first time Howard came to us at Southend, he surprised his wife and me by producing from his coat pocket two little packets, exactly alike, one of which he tossed to each of us.

"A little keepsake from me," he said.

And the keepsake proved to be a memorial locket, beautifully wrought in gold, black enamel, and pearls. Opening mine, I saw on one side a miniature photograph of my brother, and on the other a lock of his hair. The likeness was excellent; it was one Edmund had sat for a short time before his health began to fail. It was a lovely gift, and must have cost a considerable sum; but I cared less for its intrinsic worth than for the unexpected kindness and thoughtfulness Howard evinced in giving it to me.

Mabel was delighted with her locket, and exclaimed at its beauty; but I was so touched by the sight of mine that I hardly could speak.

"I don't know how to thank you," I said, looking at Howard through tears.

"I don't want thanks," he said, rather brusquely; "I am glad if it pleases you. I always meant to be a friend to you and your brother, Dorothy, if you would have let me."

And doubtless his words were true. He had meant to befriend us, but, like many persons in similar circumstances, he wished to do so in his own way, and had no desire that we should be unconscious of our obligations to him.

"I believe you," I said, putting out my hand to grasp his. And then, thank God, the old rancour died out of my heart, and I could forgive Howard Steinthorpe all that had seemed hard in his dealings with me and mine in the past.

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