Chapter XXI: A Treasure Taken

"Her little child hath gone to sleep,
Why should a mother watch and weep?
Earth's ills were gathering round his nest.
He crept into a Father's breast."

ANOTHER lovely spring afternoon, reminding Heather strangely of the first day she saw the Priory. But now she was coming to it as a bride, and as she entered the old stone porch, leaning on her husband's arm, she looked up with a happy smile. "'Sic vos non vobis,'" she repeated; "you must remind me of that, sometimes, Bertram. I hope I shall not be tempted to forget it."

Captain Vaughan knew his young wife too well to think that would be possible, and later in the evening, when they stood together watching the sun set in all its golden beauty, he drew her gently to him.

"Will an old man make you happy?" he asked.

Heather's doubts and fears had long gone now. She raised her face trustingly to his.

"I never thought I could be so happy," she said.

And then he laughed.

"Your sister had her doubts of me. She told me I was too undemonstrative. But I cannot wear my heart on my sleeve. From the first day that you set your foot inside this house, I knew that if I were to have a wife at all, it must be you. I was afraid our life would be too quiet for you, and the disparity in our ages made me waver."

"But you ventured at last," Heather said, laughingly, "and I think I was never so astonished in my life. If you ever do such a thing again, let me advise you to show a little more warmth of feeling before you propose; you were always like an iceberg to me."

"I think one venture will be enough," Captain Vaughan replied humorously. "I will see how this one turns out first."

And then, secure in each other's trust and love, they settled down as husband and wife, and Ena's cup of happiness was full.

One evening towards the end of June, they were again in the garden. Heather was picking some roses; Captain Vaughan resting in a lounge chair under one of the old elms, for he had been away from home on business all day, and had returned very tired; and Ena reading an article in the "Times" by his side. Heather hovered about, occasionally putting in a remark, and presently her husband called her.

"Come here," he said, for he was watching her every movement; "you are looking quite pale; why are you so restless? Leave the roses in peace, and listen to this article."

She came and stood over him, with her hand lightly resting on his shoulder.

"I am listening," she said; "but I don't care for the subject. I am afraid I am too insular to care about quarrels in the French senate."

Captain Vaughan drew another chair to his side, and made her sit down. But directly Ena had finished, she got up, and wandered away by herself again.

This time Captain Vaughan followed her, and found her leaning over a stone wall at the end of the flower garden, which overlooked the valley and river below.

When she turned round and saw him, she smiled, but the creases in her forehead did not disappear.

"Well," he said, taking out his pipe, and leaning against the wall rather lazily, "what is the matter with you this evening? Why are you so perturbed?"

"I don't think I am perturbed," Heather replied evasively; "it is very close to-night. Do you think we are going to have a storm?"

"I should not say so."

There was silence for a minute, then he said lightly, watching her keenly the while—

"I am not to be honoured with your confidence then?"

Heather flushed up at once. Then turning round in her pretty, graceful way, she laid her hand on his arm.

"You won't laugh at me?"

"Do I ever?"

"Yes, with your eyes, if not with your mouth."

"I will shut them."

"I don't think I will tell you."

Captain Vaughan was a wise man. He said nothing, only waited.

And then, with a little sigh, Heather looked away to some dark grey clouds rolling by in the distance.

"I feel oppressed," she said. "I have felt so all day. I can't describe it to you, but I'm sure there's trouble coming, and—and Bluebell's in it!"

Captain Vaughan did not laugh, but he raised his eyebrows.

Heather went on with knitted brow—

"I dreamt of her all last night, and I haven't had her out of my thoughts all day. I feel as if she is in trouble, and it makes me uneasy."

Captain Vaughan put his arm round her, and drew her to him gently.

"You mustn't get fanciful, little woman. I thought you were too sensible to be so swayed by your imagination."

"I am sure I shall hear some bad news," Heather said, in a troubled voice, as she tightened her hold of his coat-sleeve. "We are twins, Bertram. People may laugh at it, but I remember, when we were quite children, I always knew if Bluebell were in trouble, even when she was quite away from me."

"Don't get into the way of anticipating trouble. You will make yourself more miserable than you are intended to be."

"You don't believe in it? Do you think I am mistaken?"

Heather raised her face so wistfully that her husband had not the heart to laugh at her.

"My dear child," he said gently, "if you are anxious about her, pray for her and leave it. What do you think could happen to her? She was quite well when you heard last, was she not?"

"Yes; she is in town. I will try and think it fancy. Talk to me about other things to take my mind off."

Captain Vaughan did his best to comply with this request, but Heather was not at all herself that evening.

And she had unconsciously so impressed her husband with her sense of impending trouble that he was not in the least surprised the next morning when a telegram was brought up to the house for her. Its contents were brief.

"Come to me at once."

"BLUEBELL."

Yes, after eighteen months of happy married life, Bluebell was called to go through her first crushing trouble.

She had come up for the season in town, without a shadow on her path. Her boy was growing into a most lovely and engaging child, and when she was not enjoying the society of her friends, she was always to be found in his nursery. She had been fortunate enough to secure the services of a very trustworthy and experienced nurse, so had no anxiety about his welfare.

One afternoon, her husband came into the drawing-room, and found mother and son in the midst of a regular gambol on the hearthrug. He remonstrated with a smile on his wife's undignified position, and she rose to her feet, tossing her boy in the air with all a mother's pride in his bonny beauty.

"Isn't he a kill-joy, my sweet! Your mother shall crawl on all fours with you if she pleases, and you shall satisfy her craving for a romp, as her cynical old husband never can!"

Baby Percival chuckled with delight at this thrust at his father, and diving amongst his mother's curly tresses, wrought such havoc there with his chubby fingers that Cyril had to come to the rescue. And then, with wife on one knee and son on the other, he proceeded to deliver a mild harangue on a time and season for all things.

It was a pretty family scene, and one that lingered in the parents' memories for long afterwards.

Only the next day, the nurse remarked on baby's listlessness. It was the heat, his mother said.

"We shall be going out of town soon. He is looking pale; the country will soon set him up again."

She went out to dinner that night, and when she and her husband returned, were met on their door-step by their doctor.

"Your nurse has called me in," he said gravely; "I think the child has had a touch of the sun—"

Bluebell's cheeks blanched at once.

"Nothing serious, is it?" asked her husband, quickly.

"We will hope not. I will come again to-morrow early. I have given your nurse all necessary instructions."

Bluebell had dashed upstairs with her usual impetuosity, and her husband found her a few minutes later leaning over her child's cot with agonized anxiety, the nurse trying in vain to soothe her.

She turned her eyes up to her husband's face as he drew near, and her expression was like that of some wounded animal brought to bay.

"She won't let me touch him, Cyril! I'm his mother. He is ill; and he shall be ill in his mother's arms!"

With difficulty, she was persuaded to let her child alone. But an hour after, her husband came again into the nursery, and found her in a low rocking-chair, with her baby in her arms.

"I have him fast," she said, "and—" lowering her voice to one of intense determination—"I shall let no one—no, not death itself, take him from me!"

Cyril wondered if she were losing her senses. He noted the fever spots on her cheeks, the dark circles round her eyes, and the anguish that shone out of them.

"You are exciting yourself needlessly, darling," he said. "Dr. Hope did not say he was in danger."

Bluebell looked at her husband, then at her child.

"Dr. Hope is not a mother," she said. "I know! I can tell! He hardly knows his mother, my bonny baby boy!"

And all through the silent hours of the night, she sat with her child in her lap, prepared to wrestle with the unseen foe, so close at hand.

At early dawn the doctor was sent for, and he came in haste, but a look at the baby's figure, with his curly golden head hanging like a dead weight upon his mother's arm, told him the truth.

He shook his head sadly. "I am afraid it is only a question of time."

"You 'must' save him, doctor; you 'must.' He shall not be taken from me. He hasn't yet learnt to call me mother; his life is only beginning; it is all in front of him. I tell you, he 'shall' not die!"

Dr. Hope stood silently by. He had witnessed too many of these scenes to be very deeply moved; and yet something in the pitiable defiance of this young mother, the hopeless fight against a power that was going to crush her in spite of all her struggles, brought a huskiness into his voice as he replied—

"Life and death are in higher hands than mine. God alone can save your child."

"Then pray, oh, Cyril, pray, all of you pray!"

Bluebell's voice rang out, and it was shrill and metallic in tone. Her husband stood by her side, working his moustache up and down fiercely to hide his emotion. The nurse stood behind her mistress's chair, and the doctor on his knees felt the tiny pulse that was beating so fitfully, so feebly.

There was no response to Bluebell's appeal, only silence.

She talked recklessly on, hardly knowing what she said. "Only God can save him. Well, He will, He 'must,' He gave him to me. I used to love God once; He remembers; He won't be so cruel as to take him. If He takes him, I shall go too, I shall! I will not live without him. Oh, pray, Cyril, pray! Be quick, the minutes are flying! I am like a stone; I can't do it; some one must. Will you see him die for want of a prayer?"

A sob rose in Cyril's throat. He turned despairing eyes towards the doctor.

And he did not fail them.

"O God Almighty, we beseech Thee to save this child's life, for
Christ's sake. Amen."

There was stillness. The angel of death hovered above as if awaiting God's command.

But in love and pity the word was given, and the angel softly descended.

Baby opened his blue eyes, and the sweetest smile hovered over his lips. But his look and smile were not at his mother, and she saw and understood.

Only the ticking of the doctor's watch in his hand was heard, and then a little child's tired sigh and a sharp agonizing cry from a mother's breaking heart.

One more baby spirit gathered in all its fresh innocence and beauty above, one more empty cot and childless home.

An hour after, the telegram was sent to Heather, and she reached her sister that same evening. She was met in the hall by Cyril.

"It's the boy," he said huskily; "he has been taken from us. Go to his mother, and get her to eat something if you can; she has touched nothing for twenty-four hours."

Without a word, Heather sped up the stairs, and was shown into her sister's darkened bedroom. She found her seated in her easy chair, her hands locked tightly together, but lying listlessly upon her lap. She looked up, and Heather almost started. Could this white-strained face, with vacant, hard stare and grim-set mouth, belong to her bright and sunny sister? She seemed to have aged ten years.

And then in a moment Heather had her arms round her, and was sobbing out—

"My darling, I knew of your trouble yesterday. I would have come to you, even if I had received no telegram, for I felt you would need me. How did it happen? Can you tell me?"

"Yes," said Bluebell, in an unmoved tone. "I can tell you every detail. God has struck hard at last. He couldn't have sent me a worse punishment, could He? He knew better than you can, what my baby was to me. I suppose He gave me my chance of serving Him in my prosperity, and as I didn't do it, has begun to take away from me! Begun! He has taken my all, and it will not draw me heavenwards. Cruelty will not draw me!"

"Oh, hush, hush, dear. God is never cruel. He only wounds to heal. Tell me about your darling."

Bluebell gave her all the details in a hard, dry voice.

"Come and see him," she said; "I have only just come away. Nurse won't let me stay longer."

She led the way into the nursery, and the sight of the little clothes, the toys, and all the child's belongings, brought the tears with another rush to Heather's eyes. The mother drew aside the curtains of the little cot, and gazed with tearless eyes upon her boy.

Like a little waxen image he lay, nestled in a bed of white flowers. His little hands were clasped across his breast, and the long lashes, resting on his cheek, looked as if they ought to lift and show his mischievous blue eyes beneath them.

Heather bent and kissed the white, fair brow, and softly stroked the golden curls.

"Happy baby," she murmured. "He will never give you a heartache now—an anxious thought."

"He never would have done that had he lived," said Bluebell, coldly.

"How can you tell? You would have brought him up for the world, and think of some of the men we have met, who have had just such careful love from their mothers as you would have given him."

"I would have taught him to be good," said Bluebell, gazing with thoughtfulness on the silent little form. "I think I might have been given another chance."

"I suppose God felt He could train him better Himself," said Heather, softly. "Don't think of him as dead, darling; he has been moved into God's garden. You will thank God one day that He took him before he knew either sorrow or sin."

Bluebell made no reply, she continued to gaze upon her child with stony eyes.

"I keep thinking he may wake up," she said drearily; "it's the awful stillness that appals one so. And yet I wish I could be lying dead beside him. I have nothing to live for now."

"Oh, Bluebell, not your husband?"

"I am sick of everybody and everything. Oh, my boy, my boy!" She flung herself on her knees by the cot, and bowed her head upon the little form.

Heather knelt quietly by her and prayed. She felt it was the only thing she could do. Who could comfort a mother but the Comforter Himself?

"O God, have pity upon us. Thou hast done it in love, let Bluebell feel this. Comfort her; draw her to Thyself, and let her realize that the same arm that is round her child is round her. And comfort Cyril too, and make this heavy trial into a real blessing to them both. For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

Then sobs shook Bluebell's frame—dry, choking sobs at first, but soon the tears came, and proved a real relief to her heated brain. And then, by the side of her dead child, Bluebell crept back to the feet of that Saviour whom she had left.

"Have pity on me!" she sobbed. "I want him to be mine still, though Thou hast taken him. Help me to meet him again. Forgive my worldliness, my love of everything but Thee. Take me back, receive me, pardon me. Make me believe Thou hast done it in love. Keep me from getting more hardened."