A Mere Chance: A Novel. Vol. 3

"Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes that obscure, but cannot do thee wrong."

"Oh my love!" she broke out suddenly, "I do not forget thee! And," she added, more quietly, "I don't think my being happy can wrong him, Beatrice."

"No, dear child, far from it," said Mrs. Reade.

The little woman was not shocked, nor was she dissatisfied with the state of things that this naïve revelation disclosed to her. She was deeply thankful to know that Rachel, after all, was happy; but she was not sorry to know also that she was to this extent faithful to her true love, who had dealt so well by her.

It was at this very hour that the papers containing the announcement of the baby's birth arrived at the Queensland bungalow, and that Roden Dalrymple learned what a change had taken place, not only in the life and welfare of his beloved, but in his own lonely and empty lot.

"The wife of Graham Kingston, of a son." He knew as well as anybody – better even than Rachel herself – what that little notice meant. It meant that the gulf already parting them had all at once widened to an immeasurable extent.

He knew how it would be with that tender and clinging heart – it would be able to solace itself now, even for the loss of him.

Yet he loved her well enough to be glad and thankful for the comfort that had come to her, though the coming of it left him doubly bereaved.

CHAPTER IX.

REPARATION

BUT, after all, Fate willed that this marriage should be but the chief episode in the story, and not the story itself, of Rachel's life.

One day, when she was flitting about her great drawing-room, with a basket of flowers on her arm, singing soft airs from "Don Giovanni" under her breath as she busied herself with the arrangement of little groups of leaves and flowers in sundry precious receptacles here and there, a footman entered with a telegram.

"That is from your master," said Rachel, lifting it from the salver and tearing off the envelope.

"Wait a moment, James, until I see if there are any orders for you to take out."

She put down her flowers on the piano, read the brief message tranquilly, and then lifted her face with a smile.

"Ask Wilkinson to have the carriage ready at three o'clock," she said; "not the brougham, if it keeps as fine as it is now, the open carriage. And tell cook I want to speak to her in half an hour.

"Your master is coming home to-day instead of Friday."

James said "Yes'm" and retired, and his mistress continued her occupation of arranging the flowers with more haste and eagerness than before.

Mr. Kingston had gone from home a few days previously to meet some distinguished foreign visitors at a friend's house in the country, a thing he did not often do, and she had stayed behind because little Alfred seemed to have symptoms of a bad cold coming on – which, however, had been happily checked at that stage.

She had not expected her lord's return just yet, but she concluded that he had not found the party amusing, or had been bored in some way, and so had excused himself from prolonging his visit; and she was glad of the accident, whatever it was, that was bringing him back so soon.

In the afternoon she went upstairs to get ready to go to the station to meet him. It was winter, and she clothed herself in rich furs – sealskin and sable, with the sealskin cap of old days on her shining head – against which the soft roundness of her cheek and throat, and the blush-rose delicacy of her complexion was particularly distinct and striking, and also the evident fact that, far from pining away, she had developed in health and strength quite as much as in beauty during the five or six years of her married life.

When she was dressed she went to the nursery, where her little boy ran to meet her, begging her to take him with her wherever she was going.

She caught him up in her arms and looked irresolutely at the imposing nurse, who was responding to his appeal in an official and determined manner, telling him that he must not cry to go in the carriage to-day; he must go for a nice walk with his nursey, because his dear papa did not like to be bothered with little boys when he was driving with his dear mamma (which was very true).

"Never mind, Alfy," said Rachel, hugging him to her maternal bosom, and covering his fair little face – which was very like her own – with kisses; "You shall go with mother next time, my sweet. Don't cry, dear little man! Suppose mother brings him home a pretty new toy? What shall mother bring Alfy home, nurse, eh?"

"I don't want toys, I want to go with you, mother," wailed Alfy.

"Oh, well, I think he might," said Rachel, weakly. "It is a fine afternoon, and he would enjoy it so! And his father hasn't seen him for four days. Dress him quickly, nurse, and I'll take him. You needn't come to-day, I can look after him quite well by myself for once."

Alfy was accordingly dressed, his nurse performing that operation silently, with a mien of severe disapproval, and his mother kneeling on the floor and helping her.

When he was ready – looking, Rachel thought, more nearly like an angel than ever child looked before – he was carried downstairs in her own caressing arms, resting his curly head on her sable collar, and clasping his mites of hands round her white throat; and she placed him in the carriage beside her, and tucked up his little legs in the soft bearskin, and they set forth together to Spencer Street in a state of beatific satisfaction and enjoyment, slightly qualified by Rachel's well-founded apprehension that her husband would scold her for spoiling the child and making a nursemaid of herself.

When Mr. Kingston arrived at the station, closely muffled in overcoat and comforters, it was evident to Rachel's experienced eye – or ear rather, for as she knew he would object to her waiting unattended on the platform, she stayed in the carriage and sent the footman to meet him at the train and to take his baggage, and so heard him before she saw him – that he was in anything but a good temper.

He rated an unfortunate porter who drove a barrow in his way in unnecessarily violent terms, and then he demanded angrily of his servant why the dickens they hadn't brought the brougham for him on such a bitter day.

"Oh, Graham," said Rachel, stretching out her hand, "how do you do, dear? I am so sorry! – but I thought you would like the open carriage best. It was beautifully mild when we started – it has been quite a warm day. And here is Alfy come to meet you. He is quite well, again, you see, and such a good little boy, aren't you, Alfy? He is taking care of his mother to-day, and sitting so quietly."

"Why did you bring him out in the cold?" responded the father snappishly. "And where's the nurse? At home? Upon my word, Rachel, we might as well be spared the expense of servants altogether, for all the use you make of them. No, I won't kiss him – I might give him a sore throat."

"Have you a sore throat, dear?" inquired Rachel meekly, tucking the child into her own corner of the carriage, and whispering to him to sit very still.

"I should rather say so – not so much a sore throat, perhaps, as a general bad cold – the most confounded bad cold I ever had in my life. I'm regularly seedy and done up," grumbled Mr. Kingston, climbing into his seat beside her.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!"

"That is why I have come home to-day," he added. "It's the most wretched thing to be in other people's houses when you don't feel well."

"Indeed it is," assented Rachel sympathetically; "and I am very glad you came back. How did you catch it, do you think?"

"I think I must have got it before I started. But that idiot Lambert sent an open trap to meet me – you know what a pouring wet day it turned out? – and I had to sit and be soaked for an hour and a half. Umbrellas were no good in that rain, and there was a sharp wind, too, and before we reached the house – great, cold barrack of a place, with stingy little coal fires – fancy coal fires! – shows what an idiot the fellow is, and she's worse – before we got there I was thoroughly wet through, and chilled to the bone. I never was so cold in my life. I took a hot bath before I dressed for dinner, and I got Lambert to send me up some brandy, but it was no use – it seemed to have regularly struck into me. I couldn't get warm – not till about the middle of the night, and then I felt as if I'd got a fever. I believe I have too."

"Oh, Graham, I hope not."

"It has settled on my chest," he went on. "I haven't been able to sleep for coughing – you know I have never had a cough in my life – and I can't draw a breath without feeling as if I was dragging something up by the roots. Can't you hear how I breathe? You never heard me breathe like that before did you?"

Rachel turned her blooming face, now grave and anxious, to listen to his respiration, which certainly was strangely quick and laboured, and noisy, and she was struck by a great change in his since she had seen it four days ago. It had become all at once wrinkled, and hollow, and haggard – the face of an old man.

"Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, in an accent of genuine distress, "you have got a bad cold, indeed! Hadn't you better call on the doctor at once – it won't be much out of our way – and see what he says about it? It may be nothing, but I think it seems like bronchitis, and it is best to be on the safe side."

"I think I will," said Mr. Kingston, covering his mouth with his wraps again. "It seems worse than it was when I started – the cold day, I suppose. Hang it, I wish you had brought the brougham – it is colder than ever!"

And he shivered under an accumulation of great-coats and furs that one would have thought sufficient for the temperature of polar regions.

The carriage was stopped in Collins Street, and remained in the doctors' quarter until little Alfy fell asleep, and was temporarily put to bed under the long, soft skirt of his mother's jacket. Then, as the dusk was falling, Mr. Kingston came back to his place, and tremulously commanded the coachman to drive home as fast as he possibly could.

"He says it is inflammation of the lungs, Rachel," he whispered excitedly, "and that I must go to bed at once. Only a touch he called it, but he didn't look as if he thought it a touch. He is coming up to-night to do something. He says I ought to have come home the first day, and not have let it run on. Inflammation of the lungs – that is a dreadful thing, isn't it? I have never had it, but I have heard of it – it's a most dangerous complaint!"

"Oh, no, dear, not dangerous, except when people are careless," said Rachel soothingly, taking his hand under the fur rug and clasping it between her own. "And now you are home, with me to nurse you, you will soon get all right. Many people have it slightly – it is quite a common thing with a bad cold – but when they are well nursed and taken care of, they soon get all right again."

"Good little woman! you will take care of me, I know."

"Indeed I will," she responded, slipping up one hand under his arm, and resting her cheek on his coat-sleeve. "I wish you had come back to me before. But, once I get you fairly into my hands, I'll soon nurse you round."

However, though she did all that a woman and a wife, and one born to be the genius of a sick room, could do, she did not nurse him round. By the time he reached home, where the household was thrown into a panic of consternation, he was very ill indeed – his fright about himself helping very much to develop the bad symptoms rapidly; and the doctor, who next day summoned other doctors in consultation upon the case, pronounced him – not in words, but by unmistakable signs – to be in a serious and critical condition. The attack had been severe from the first; it had been allowed to run on for several days; and the constitution of the patient, enervated and shattered by years of unwholesome indulgence, was as little fitted to stand an illness as any constitution could be. The pain in breathing grew worse and worse, and the fever hotter and drier; and then stupor came on, and delirium, and exhaustion, and by-and-bye a filmy cloud over the sunken eyes, and a dusky pallor over the old, old, wrinkled face; and, in spite of all the doctors, and all the nurses, and all that money could do – in spite of the agonised devotion of his young wife, who never left him for more than five minutes at a time, taking snatches of sleep only when he slept, sitting by the bedside, and resting her tired head on the same pillow that she smoothed for his – it was over in less than a week. And a little paragraph appeared in "The Argus" one morning, to shock that small world of which he had so long been a distinguished ornament, with the incomprehensible intelligence that he was "gone," and would never be seen at a club mess or in a festive drawing-room again.

On the night of his death, when fever and pain and restlessness were sinking away with the sinking pulse, and when Rachel, watching beside him, thought he was past knowing anyone – even her – he looked at her with a gleam of loving recognition. "Good little woman!" he muttered in a struggling whisper. "Dear, good little woman!"

She stooped over him at once with a yearning passion of pity and vague remorse, and kissed him, and laid her white arms about him, raining tears on his dying face and his cold limp hands.

"Oh, Graham, Graham, I have not been good enough to you!" she cried. "And you have been so good – so kind – to me!"

He continued to look at her with dull wistful, pathetic eyes.

"Have I?" he gasped, feebly. "Have I?"

And then the gleam died out of his face in the shrouding darkness that was creeping over him. He was quiet for several minutes, and Rachel laid her cheek on the pillow beside him, and listened to the faint rattle which now and then told that the "step or two dubious of twilight" between sleep and death was not yet crossed, motioning the other watchers away from the bedside, that he and she might be alone together.

And suddenly he roused himself, and said – panting the words out slowly and huskily, but evidently with a perfect consciousness of their meaning – "Rachel – you can – have him – now."

Her arm was under his pillow, and she drew it back to her gently until his head lay next her breast.

"Hush – hush – hush!" she said, with choking sobs. But he went on steadily, as if he had not heard her.

"Only tell him – not to – not to – lead little Alfy – into bad ways."

After a pause, he said,

"Do you hear! – tell him – "

"He will not – he could not!" she broke out eagerly. "He is a good, good man, though people think he is not! He will take care of little Alfy, my darling – do not be afraid – he will never lead him into bad ways – never never!"

Ought she to have said it? Had she given him – she, who, at this moment, would have laid down her life to save his, if that had been possible – the comfort she had meant to give, or a most cruel, cruel stab, in his last conscious hour? She looked at him with agonised, imploring face, which mutely prayed him to try and understand her; and there came slowly into his sunken eyes a vague intelligence and a dim, dim smile. He did understand her – better, perhaps, than he had ever understood her before.

"Good little woman!" he murmured, "Good little girl – to tell the truth."

CHAPTER X.

FULFILMENT

RACHEL, who could not have dissembled if she had tried, appeared to be overwhelmed by Mr. Kingston's sudden death.

She wept herself ill, sitting now in his library chair, now in his office, now in his dressing-room, with mementoes of his domestic occupations and the homely companionship of nearly half-a-dozen wedded years around her; missing him from his accustomed place with a sense of having lost one of the best and kindest husbands that ever ungrateful woman had.

She allowed no one to touch his clothes and trinkets, or his books and pipes, or anything that he had used and cared for, but herself; and she cried over them, and kissed them, and laid them away in sacred drawers, to be treasured relics and heirlooms for her little Alfy, who was to be taught to reverence the memory of the tenderest of fathers, and to hand down to unborn generations the name and fame of the most accomplished and estimable of men.

She wandered about her great, silent house, in and out of the spacious rooms, making loving inventories of all the rich appointments, which had never had so much grace and beauty as now.

"He built this lovely place for me," she would say to herself, or perhaps say aloud to Beatrice, who was her chief companion at this time, "He had this carved dado made because I didn't like tiles; he gave me this Florentine cabinet on my twentieth birthday; he chose these hangings himself because he said they suited my complexion." Every bit of the house and its furniture was newly sanctified by some of these reminiscences.

She gathered together all his letters reverently – some had been waiting for his return from Mr. Lambert's, and were still unopened; and though many of them were addressed in the kind of handwriting that was especially calculated to arouse curiosity, she would not pry into his correspondence, nor allow anyone else to do so.

She would not read what he had evidently never intended her to read; she burnt them all without taking one of them out of its envelope, and then drove to the cemetery with a wreath of flowers for his grave.

"He was the best of husbands," she said, when to her own people she talked of him.

And Mrs. Hardy, who was truly afflicted by the family bereavement, was comforted to be able to repeat this tender formula to all the gossip of her own circle.

"He was the best of husbands. So fond of her to the last! Even when he was delirious you could see plainly his distress when she went out of the room, and his relief when she came back again. And she was so devoted! Such a thoroughly suitable marriage in every way – as if they had been made for each other! She is broken-hearted for the loss of him. And how he valued her he has plainly proved."

And here the gossips would smile decorously, and shake their heads, and say, "Yes, indeed." For they all understood what this allusion meant. It meant that Mr. Kingston had left the half of his great property absolutely at his young wife's disposal, and that she was the sole and unrestricted trustee of the rest, which was settled upon his son; which certainly did prove that he had valued her in the most conclusive manner.

But in a little while – a scandalously little while – indications that this young widow of twenty-five was not inconsolable for the loss of her elderly husband, became apparent to all but the most superficial observers.

It was not that she wore such very slight mourning – soft black silks and cashmeres that were the merest apology for weeds – for everybody knew that Mr. Kingston had had a horror of crape, and had been repeatedly heard to declare that no wife of his should wear it if he could help it.

Mrs. Hardy had explained that it was in deference to his wishes that she had defied custom in this respect; and, though there was a strong impression that she ought to have insisted on paying proper respect to his memory, in spite of him – and even that his protests against conventional suttee were never intended to include this particular case (as was very probable), but only indicated his personal distaste for harsh and unbecoming materials in ladies' apparel – the fact that it was growing the fashion to be lax and independent in these matters, saved her the verdict of the majority.

And it was not that she drove about, within two months of his death, with her veil turned back over her bonnet – in the case of a veil so transparent, it didn't make much difference whether it were up or down – leaving her youthful, lovely, rose-leaf face exposed to public view as heretofore.

It was not that she was heartless or unfeeling, or that she infringed the laws of good breeding and good taste in any distinctly and visible manner.

No one could quite say what it was, and yet everyone felt that the fact was sufficiently indicated that she was recovering from the shock of her sudden and terrible bereavement with unexpected, if not unbecoming, rapidity.

"You mark my words," somebody would say to somebody else, when Mrs. Kingston's carriage went flashing by, and she turned to bow to them, perhaps with her serene, sweet, grave smile; "you mark my words – that woman will be married again by this time next year. I don't know what makes me think so, but I am sure of it. There is a look in her face as if she were going to make herself happy."

The person addressed, being a man, would probably reply that the odd thing would be if she did not make herself happy (and generally he suggested that by remaining a widow she would be most likely to secure that object), with youth and beauty, leisure and liberty, and ten thousand a year to do what she liked with; and that he sincerely hoped she would be.

Being a woman, she was more likely than not to look after Rachel and her carriage with solemn severity, and wonder how it was that that poor, dear, foolish man never could see that the girl cared nothing at all about him, and had only married him for his money.

Mrs. Hardy was becoming aware of this state of public opinion with respect to her niece's conduct – which had been so extremely proper hitherto – and was herself conscious of the subtle change that had taken place, and was uneasily wondering what it indicated, when one day Rachel came to see her.

It was eleven o'clock on a warm summer morning, just before Christmas; and the young widow walked over through the gardens and the back gate, wearing a light, black cambric dress and a shady straw hat, looking – Mrs. Hardy thought, glancing up at her from her writing-table in a cool corner of the now transformed drawing-room – unusually well and strikingly young and girlish.

"Well, my dear, how are you? And where's Alfy? Have you not brought him with you?"

Rachel put her arm over her aunt's shoulder, and kissed her affectionately.

"I haven't brought him to-day, because I wanted to have a little quiet talk," she said. "Are you very busy, auntie?"

Mrs. Hardy was busy – she always was, from breakfast until lunch time; but she was impressed by a certain gentle gravity in Rachel's voice and manner, and understood that there was something of importance to be attended to. So she gathered up her papers, told her visitor to take off her hat and sit down, and inquired anxiously what was the matter.

"There is nothing the matter," said Rachel, with a little hesitation. "But, auntie dear, I am going to – do something, and I would not do it without telling you first."

She sat upon the edge of a chair, and leaned her arms on a corner of the writing-table; and she looked into the elder woman's face with wistful, longing, pleading eyes.

Mrs. Hardy had faint, instinctive premonitions.

"Well, my dear," she replied a little brusquely, "I shall be glad to advise you to the best of my power. But you are your own mistress now, you know." Then after a little pause, she said anxiously, "What is it you are going to do?"

"Auntie," faltered Rachel, "auntie – you know all about Mr. Dalrymple?"

"Rachel– my dear– you don't mean to say – ! And your poor husband not six months in his grave!"

"Not yet," said Rachel, suddenly becoming composed and collected. "Though I do not believe that I ought to put it off. But presently, auntie – as soon as you would think it right – I want to marry Mr. Dalrymple. And in the meantime he is waiting for me to send him a message – he has asked me to write – we want to have the comfort of some sort of recognised engagement, if it is ever so quiet – "

"Oh, Rachel, don't ask me to have anything to do with such a thing! Only think what poor Graham would say if he could know! And he left little Alfy in your hands – and he left all that money to you – little thinking what you would do with it!"

"He knew – he knew," said Rachel. "He has already sanctioned it. Dear, good husband! He left me the money without any conditions if I married again, and he knew I should do this. It was understood between us when he died. Aunt Elizabeth, I think he wished to make reparation to Roden and me. Don't you wish it, too? Only think, it is six years – six whole years – that poor Roden has been lonely in Queensland, without any brightness or comfort in his life; and, though he has loved me just the same, he has never attempted to do – what you would not have wished him to do – all that time. It is six years this very week, Aunt Elizabeth, since he sent Mr. Gordon down to you."