  On the following night, as Esther was preparing to go to bed, the nursery door was suddenly opened and Mrs. Wyndham entered. "Esther," she said, "I want baby." "He is sound asleep, madam. You would not wake him?" "He can be moved without disturbing him. I want him to sleep in my bed. I want his company. My little child?" She was trembling. She caught hold of the rails of the baby's cot. "Little children are sacred innocent things, aren't they, nurse? I want my little child to-night." "Strange," thought Esther. "I listened with all my might, and I could not hear anything except the usual barrel organs and German bands in the street. But she has heard something, there isn't a doubt. How queer and shaken she looks. Poor young thing, I do pity her; she can't help thinking she is a widow when she is a wife." Aloud Esther complied with Mrs. Wyndham's request cheerfully. "Certainly, madam. The child will never know that we are moving him. If you will go on to your room, ma'am, I'll follow with master baby." Mrs. Wyndham turned away at once. When the nurse entered her mistress' room with the child, there was a soft nest made in the big bed to receive him, and the fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow over everything. "Let me kiss him," said the mother. "My darling, my beloved. I'll take him into my arms presently, nurse, and then all fears will fly away." "Fears, Mrs. Wyndham? No one ought to fear in this cheerful ro "Perhaps not, nurse; but sometimes I am superstitious—painfully so. Yes, put baby there. Is he not a handsome boy? Although I could wish he were more like his father." "He seems to feature your sister-in-law, Miss Lilias Wyndham, madam." "How queer that you should find that out! He is not like what Lilias is now, but they all say she was just such another little child. Nurse, I hate high winds—there is going to be a storm to-night." "Would you like me to sleep on the sofa in your room, madam?" "Yes, no—yes, oh, yes." "I will bring a shawl, and wrap it round me and lie down." "No, don't, nurse, don't. I must not yield to this nameless thing. I must—I will be brave. And the child, my own little child, will comfort me." "What is the nameless thing, dear madam?" "I cannot—I won't speak of it. Esther, are you—are you going?" "Certainly not, Mrs. Wyndham. I mean, not yet." "That is right. Take this chair; warm yourself. Esther. I don't look on you as an ordinary nurse. Long ago I used to be so much interested in you." "It was very kind of you, madam; young ladies, as a rule, have no time to interest themselves in poor girls." "But I had plenty of time, and did interest myself. My father was always so much attached to yours. I was an only child and you were an only child. I used to wonder if you and your father cared for each other as passionately, as loyally, as I and my father cared." "I don't know that, madam; we did love each other. Our love remains unchanged. True love ought never to change, ought it?" "It ought never to change," repeated Mrs. Wyndham. Her face grew white, her lips trembled. "Sometimes true love is killed by a blow," she said suddenly. Then her expression changed again, she tried to look cheerful. "I won't talk any more. I am sleepy, and that nest near baby looks inviting. Good-night, dear nurse." "Let me undress you, ma'am. Let me see you in your nest beside the child." "No. Go now. Or rather—rather—stay a moment or two longer. Esther, had you ever the heartache?" "There are a few women, madam, who don't know what the heartache means." "I suppose that is true. Once I knew nothing about it. Esther, you are lucky never to have married." Esther Helps made no response. "To marry—to love—and then to lose," dreamily murmured Mrs. Wyndham. "To love, and then to lose. Esther, it is a dreadful thing to be a widow, when you are young." "But the widow can become a wife again," suddenly replied Esther. The words seemed forced from her lips; she was sorry the moment she had uttered them. Mrs. Wyndham opened her big eyes wide. "I suppose the widows who can become wives again have not lost much," she responded in a cold voice. Then she moved over to the bedside and began to undress. A few moments later Esther left her. She felt puzzled, perplexed, unhappy. She had no key to the thoughts which were passing in her mistress' mind. Her impression was that Valentine loved Carr, but felt a certain shame at the fact. The next evening the vicar of St. Jude's called again. He came hurriedly to the door, ran up the stairs without being shown the way, and entered Valentine's presence The drawing-room door was shut on the two, and Esther, who had been sitting with the child, now crept softly downstairs and entered a small bedroom at the back of the drawing-room. This bedroom also looked on the street. It was the room occupied by Lilias when she visited her sister-in-law. Esther closed the door softly behind her. The room was dark. She went up to the window and looked eagerly up and down the gaily-lighted street. She could distinguish no words, but the soft murmur of voices came to her through the drawing-room wall. "You are better to-night?" said Carr, in a cheery, confident tone; "although you took it upon yourself to disobey me." "I could not go to the prayer-meeting. I could not." "Well, well, you must act as you think best; only I don't think staying at home is the best thing for you." "Oh, I shan't get over-nervous; and Lilias is coming to me next week." Carr's eyes brightened. "That is good," he said. "Well, I must not stay. I just looked in for a moment. I knew you would not let these superstitious fears get the better of you. Good-night." He held out his hand. Valentine put hers behind her. "No," she said; "you always stay until past ten. It was at ten o'clock last night——" She trembled—more words would not come. "And I will stay until past ten to-night," responded Carr resuming his seat. "Now, don't look at the clock. Turn your thoughts to me and my affairs. So Miss Wyndham comes here next week?" "She does." "Shall I put everything to the test, then?" Valentine's face grew bright. "Oh how earnestly I wish you would," she cried, clasping her hands. "Do you, indeed? Then you must think there is some chance for me. The fact is, Mrs. Wyndham, I am the veriest coward that ever breathed. If I win, I win for ever. I mean that I am made, body, soul, and spirit. If I lose, I think morally I shall go under. A main spring will be broken which has kept me right, kept my eyes looking upwards ever since I knew your sister Lilias." "But even if she refuses you, you will live on," said Valentine, in a dreamy voice. "We often have to live on when the main spring is broken. We creep instead of running, that is all." "Now you are getting gloomy again. As your spiritual adviser I cannot permit it. You have put a daring thought into my head, and you are bound to think of me, not yourself, at present. Will you sing something to me before I go? You know Lilias' song of triumph; you taught it to her. Sing it to me to-night, it will be a good omen." Valentine hesitated for a moment. Then she went over to the piano and opened it. Her fingers touched one or two chords tremblingly. Suddenly she stopped, her face worked. She looked at Carr with a piteous expression. "I cannot sing the triumph song," she said, "it is not in me. I should do it no justice. This must take its place. But it is not for you, remember. Oh, no, I pray God never for you. Listen, don't scold me afterwards. Listen." Her fingers ran over the keys, her voice swelled and filled the room:— "The murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine. Oh, Keith of Ravelston. The sorrows of thy line! Ravelston, Ravelston. The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill. And through the silver meads. Ravelston, Ravelston. The stile beneath the tree. The maid that kept her mother's kine. The song that sang she. She sang her song, she kept her kine. She sat beneath the thorn. When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday morn. His henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring. His belted jewels shine— O, Keith of Ravelston. The sorrows of thy line!" "Now, good-night," said Valentine, springing to her feet. "Don't question me about the song. I sang it, but I cannot speak of it. The clock is about to strike. It is your hour for farewell. Oh, yes, I wish you all luck—all luck. The clock is striking——! Oh, what a noise there is in the street!" "What a silence you mean," said Carr, as he took her hand. It was true. The thunderous rattle of a heavy waggon, the discordant notes of a brass band, the din of a hurdy-gurdy frightfully out of tune, suddenly stopped. It was as if a wave of sound had been arrested, and in the quiet floated up the passionate wail of a soul. There are no other words to describe what the sound meant. It had a voice and an interpretation. It was beautiful, but its beauty was torture. Trembling in every limb, Valentine sprang away from Carr, flew to one of the French windows, wrested it open, and stepped on to the balcony. She was in white, and the people in the street could see her. The wailing of the lost soul grew more feeble—more faint. It stopped. There was a pause of half a minute, and then the waggon lumbered on, and the hurdy-gurdy crashed out its discordant notes. "I saw nothing," said Carr, who had followed Mrs. Wyndham on to the balcony and now led her back to the drawing-room. "I saw nothing," he repeated. "I mean. I did not see the man who played." "But you heard?" "Oh, yes, I heard." "You could not see. That was spirit music. My husband played. Don't speak to me; don't touch me; you tried to argue me out of my belief last night, but even you heard to-night. My husband has come back in the spirit, and he has played for me. Only he knows that air—only he in all the world. That was 'Waves.' Once I told you the story of 'Music waves.'" She did not faint, she crouched down by the fire; but no face to be alive could be whiter than hers. "What is the matter, Mr. Carr?" she said suddenly. "Why cannot my husband's spirit rest? They say that those spirits that are hurried out of life before their time cannot rest. O, tell me what you think. O, tell me what it means. You heard the music yourself to-night." "I did. I certainly heard it." "And at the same hour. When the clock struck." "That is a mere coincidence, not worth considering." "I don't believe in its being a coincidence." She beat her hands passionately together. "The thing was planned—he planned it. He will come again to-morrow night when the clock strikes ten." Again she beat her hands together; then she covered her face with them. Carr looked at her anxiously. The weird soft wailing music had affected even his nerves. Of course he did not believe in the supernatural element, but he was touched by the distress of the woman who was crouching at his feet. This mental unrest, this superstitious terror, might have a disastrous effect. He must do his utmost to check it. If necessary he must even be cruel to be kind. "Mrs. Wyndham," he said, "you must go away to-morrow; you must go into the country for a few days." "I will not. I won't stir a step." "You ought, your nerves are shaken. There is nothing for shaken nerves like change of air. Go to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and talk to Lilias. She, too, loved your husband; she will sympathize, but she will not lose sight of common-sense." "I will not stir from here." "I think for your child's sake you ought. The child belongs to your husband as well as you, to your dead husband. The child is fatherless as far as this world is concerned. You have no right—it is very, very wicked of you to do anything to make him motherless." "What do you mean? Why do you speak to me in that tone? I don't deserve it." "You do." "I think you are cruel." Valentine's eyes filled with sudden tears. "What do you mean by saying that I will leave baby motherless?" "I mean that if you encourage the fancy which has now taken possession of you you are extremely likely to lose your senses—to become, in short, insane. How can you train your child if you are insane?" Valentine sh "But I did hear the music," she said. "The old story music that he only played. How can I doubt the evidence of my senses? Last night at ten o'clock I heard 'Waves' played on the violin, my husband's favorite instrument—the melody which he made, the harmony and melody with all the passion and its story, which he made about himself and me. No one else could produce those sounds. I heard them last night at ten o'clock, you were here, but you heard nothing. To-night there was silence in the street, and we both heard—we both heard." "I certainly heard some very melancholy music." "Played on the violin?" "Yes, played on the violin." "In short, you heard 'Waves.'" "I heard something which I never heard before. I cannot tell the name." "No. What you heard was 'Waves,' in other words the cry of a soul." "Mrs. Wyndham, get up. Give me your hand. Look me in the face. Now, that is better. I am going to talk common-sense to you. You have been from the first impressed with the idea that foul play was done to your husband. For a time I own I shared your apprehension. I discovered one or two things in connection with his death which far more than your words inclined me to this belief. Since I came to London I have thought a great deal over the matter. Last week a lucky chance brought me in communication with Captain Jellyby of the Esperance. Ah, you start. I saw him. I think you would like me to bring him here some night. He entered into minute particulars of Wyndham's last days. He would like to tell you the story himself. I can only say that a fairer story could not be recorded of any man. He was beloved by every one on board the ship. 'We all loved him,' said Captain Jellyby. 'Emigrants, passengers, sailors, all alike. Sir,' he said, 'when Mr. Wyndham was washed over, there wasn't a dry eye on board. But if Valentine was silently crying. "You comfort me," she said; "you comfort me much. Go on." "That is all, my dear friend, that is all. It set my mind at rest with regard to your husband. It ought to set yours at rest also. He is a glorious, and happy spirit in heaven now. Is it likely that he would come back from there to frighten you for no object or purpose? No, you must dismiss the idea from your mind." "But the music—the unearthly music." "Played by a strolling musician with a talent for the thing. That was all." "His air and mine—'Waves.' The air that no one else knew, that was never written down." "You imagined the likeness to the air you mention. Our imaginations play strange tricks with us. The air played to-night was of a very minor character, and had notes in common with the one your husband composed. Hence a fleeting resemblance. It is more natural and in accordance with sense to believe this than to suppose that your husband came back from heaven to torture you. Now, good-night. You are good. You will try and be brave. I ask you to be brave for the sake of your noble husband's child." |
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