Chapter VI: What a Day Brought Forth

A THOUGHTFUL writer has said, "We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once." There is truth in those words. We do not know when we are most happy. Girls seldom realise how happy they are in their sheltered, peaceful home life till the shock of some calamity upheaves its foundation, and they see with sorrow that their future cannot "copy fair their past."

It seems to me now that I was very happy in the clear, bright autumn days that fell that year, though no doubt I sometimes complained of their dulness, or vexed myself about trifles, or pitied myself on account of imaginary troubles. But how I enjoyed the long rambles across fields and through lanes which I took, with no companion save our dog Rough! What beautiful spoil of bright leaves and crimson berries I brought from the hedges, with which to decorate our rooms! Somehow I liked these wayside beauties better than the exquisite hothouse blooms Mabel would send me from the conservatories at The Towers.

There were times when I asked myself whether I were not indeed happier than my sister, fortunate young woman as most people esteemed her. True, Mabel generally appeared serene and satisfied; but one day, bursting unexpectedly into her boudoir, I found her crying as if her heart would break. How indignant she was with me for surprising her thus! How annoyed that I would not at once accept a nervous headache as the sole explanation of her tears! If I were not always in such rude health myself, I should know that others must occasionally feel weak and dispirited, she said.

But I was not satisfied. That incident set me wondering whether Mabel found her married life quite so blissful as she had expected it would prove. Already I had observed that Howard Steinthorpe's demeanour as a husband differed considerably from his bearing as a lover. I had heard him address Mabel in a dry, sarcastic fashion that I felt would have pained me sorely had I been in her place; and his omission of little acts of courtesy towards her, which he would not have failed to bestow on other ladies, made me question his right to be considered a true gentleman.

My heart grew tender to my sister as I reflected that there were perhaps many hours when in solitude she endured a heartache, for which her handsome rooms, beautiful pictures, and costly dresses could afford her no solace. But whatever were Mabel's trials in her new position, true to her nature she kept them to herself.

As autumn deepened into winter, business appeared brisk in the tannery once more. I saw new machinery arrive, and learned—not from my father, for he rarely spoke to me about his business—but from the foreman, that certain improved methods of tanning were to be introduced into the yard. Fresh workmen were engaged, strangers from London, who were not very well received by the older hands, I fancied, judging by hints that Martha and Salome let fall.

And every day, Howard Steinthorpe rode into the yard on his fine black horse, and passed to and fro inspecting everything with a far more master-like air than father displayed. I watched and wondered greatly, but something withheld me from asking questions.

The deep depression father continued to manifest was inconsistent with the returning prosperity these changes seemed to indicate. Whatever others thought, I could see that he was far from well, and my anxiety was quickened when I discovered that he had had one or two slight returns of the dizziness and faintness which had overpowered him on the morning when I found him lying senseless in the office.

I remember that one day I was deluded enough to impart my fears to Howard Steinthorpe, with the hope of getting sympathy and help from him. I happened to meet him as I came out of Salome's cottage. He was coming apparently from our place, walking, as his habit was, with his head bent and his eyes on the ground. He was smiling to himself with his sardonic smile, and his meditations were so pleasant that he was not aware of my appearance till I spoke.

"Ah, Dorothy!" he said, then, in the cool, careless manner he had adopted towards me since his marriage. "How are you?—All right?"

"Oh, I am well enough," I replied; "but have you noticed how ill father is looking to-day? You have seen him, I suppose?"

"Ill?" repeated Howard, lifting his eyebrows as he spoke. "I have seen Mr. Carmichael, certainly, but I cannot say that he struck me as looking ill. He seemed as usual."

"He is ill, I fear. He tells me he cannot sleep as he should. Sometimes I think that the worry of business is making him ill."

A change passed over Howard's face as I said this. I do not know how to describe the change; but it conveyed to me the idea that my words had a deeper meaning for him than for me, and prompted by this notion I exclaimed impulsively—

"Oh, Howard! You know more about father's affairs than I. Do tell me what it is that is going wrong in his business?"

He smiled a cold, it seemed to me a cruel, smile.

"That is more than I can say," he returned carelessly. "I have business worries enough of my own without concerning myself with your father's."

"But you must know about them," I said, "You are in father's counsel; you come to the office almost every day; you must know what it is that worries him."

Howard's manner changed. His cold, blue eye rested on me with an air of quiet contemplation fora few moments, ere he said, in measured tones—

"And if I do—if your father does like to consult me—do you suppose that I shall repeat to you what passes between us in private? I wonder you can ask me to do anything so dishonourable. If you wish to understand Mr. Carmichael's business affairs, why not ask him to explain them to you? He would do so, doubtless, if he thought it well."

"I beg your pardon; I did not mean—" I faltered, shrinking from him in hot confusion.

Howard Steinthorpe lifted his hat with ironical politeness, and passed on without another word.

I walked home with burning cheeks and a bitter sense of shame. I felt almost ready to tear my tongue out in my mortification at the folly it had committed.

Very slowly did the weeks pass before Christmas; but the happy season came at last, and our home was brightened by a brief visit from Edmund. Ah, how brief it seemed, and how heavy the gloom that succeeded it!

I did not see very much of Mabel as the New Year advanced. She had little leisure to bestow on me. She and Howard gave many dinner-parties and went to many, for there was some talk of Howard Steinthorpe's standing for one of the Essex boroughs in the next election, and his acquaintance was being sedulously cultivated by those interested in politics.

As a rule, I was not invited to dine at the Towers when Mabel had company. My gowns were not sufficiently elegant to grace her rooms on those occasions.

The winter was long, the spring cold and wet that year. At the time when we were wont to look for spring flowers and blossoms, keen winds and drenching rains prevailed. I have not known a drearier spring. Day after day the skies were dark and the rain lashed down with pitiless severity. Everyone was complaining. The farmers were in despair, for in many places whole meadows were flooded, and the prospect for the corn was deplorable.

There was much sickness, too, abroad; ague and rheumatism, fevers and colds, beset both old and young. Dr. Perrow was in his element as he went about, shaking his head and darkly hinting at coming evils.

"Dorothy," father said to me one day as we sat at dinner together, he, as was so often the case, making but a sorry pretence of eating, "I must drive to Halstead this afternoon; I suppose you do not care to go with me?"

As I glanced out of the window, I shivered at the very thought. It was not raining, but the sky was overcast, a chill mist darkened the atmosphere, the trees were dripping, the ground sodden.

"No, thank you, father," I said. "Why, I should be splashed from head to foot. Do you think you had better drive all that way? The roads will be hardly passable. We heard yesterday that the water was over the bridge at New Burford."

"It will have subsided by this time," he replied; "there has been no rain for some hours."

"But there will be before many more have passed," I returned; "it will pour before night. Do, father, be persuaded to go by train!"

"I cannot, dear; the train would not serve me," he said.

So I let the matter drop. But when I saw him driving out of the yard alone, I was seized with regret that I had refused to go with him. It was always so with me. I became aware what was the right thing to do when it was too late to do it.

But as an hour or two later, the rain began to pour down again in the steady, determined way which had become so familiar to us, I soon ceased to regret my decision. It was grievous to think of my father being exposed to such weather.

Ah, how well I remember every incident of the dreary hours during which I waited for him! For once my favourite books failed to interest me. I could not settle to steady reading. I grew nervous as I sat by the window in father's room, listening to the plash, plash of the drops falling from the eaves overhead. I went out to the kitchen, disturbing Martha in the midst of a gossip with Luke, who had no right to be idling there at that hour.

She naturally resented my intrusion, but I stayed with her, preferring her company to my own thoughts, till I had talked her into a good temper.

Remembering that father had taken hardly any dinner, I planned to have a savoury dish for the late tea he was to have when he came in. I helped to lay the table, and arranged everything almost as daintily as Mabel would have done it.

Then I waited. How slowly the time passed! But now, at any moment father might return.

Yet he did not come. What could be keeping him? But of course the roads were heavy. How foolish of me not to know that he would be late.

I would not own to myself that I was nervous, but I stationed myself at the window and listened eagerly for the return of the dog-cart. One or two vehicles passed, but I knew at once that their lumbering wheels did not belong to the dog-cart. It grew dark early that evening, and whilst I waited, the rain seemed to increase in violence, and the wind, which had been slowly rising, beat against the casement and moaned drearily in the chimney.

"Miss Dorothy," cried Martha, bursting unsummoned into the room, "do you think master would come home by the road? Luke have been up to the Swan, and they do say up there that the water be right over the bridge at Burford, and it wouldn't be very safe to drive that way at dusk. Not so be that I would frighten you, miss."

Alas! I was frightened enough already. But the resolution I took astonished Martha.

"Something must be done," I said. "I shall run up to The Towers, it is on the way to Burford, and tell Mr. Steinthorpe. He will know what to do; he will send someone perhaps to Burford."

"You, Miss Dorothy! You must not go out in such weather! And to The Towers! What would Mrs. Steinthorpe say? Indeed, miss, you must not think of it; Luke will go."

"I shall go more quickly than Luke," I said. For I felt as if fear would give me wings, and Luke was not remarkable for celerity, either of thought or movement.

So without listening to my maid's remonstrances, I proceeded to equip myself for a struggle with wind and water. It took me but a few minutes to don a thick pair of boots, tuck up my skirt, and wrap myself in an ample waterproof cloak, to which was attached a hood which I drew over my head. Then, without an umbrella, which it would have been difficult to carry in such a wind, I dashed out into the rough weather.

Oh, what rain it was, with what passionate gusts it beat on me, and how the wind buffeted me, driving me into the deepest puddles, as vainly I tried to avoid them! How long appeared the way to The Towers! I could see the great house as soon as I got beyond the village street, the windows all brightly lit shining out in the gloom, but I felt as if I should never get to it, for the speed I longed for was impossible when the road was half water and the wind and rain blew straight in my face. But I splashed on with desperate courage. And at last, the great iron gates were gained; I passed through them and hurried up the gravelled path to the house.

My appearance on that stormy evening, and in such a plight as I was from the combined effects of mud, wind, and rain, might well create consternation in Mabel's well-ordered household. But the servants hardly seemed so astonished as I expected, though they exclaimed at my condition as they relieved me of my dripping cloak.

"Where is Mr. Steinthorpe?" I asked, as soon as I could get my breath.

But before they could answer, he appeared, coming out of the dining-room with a flushed, elated air.

"Dorothy, this is good of you!" he exclaimed, ere I could explain what had brought me. "You are brave to venture out in such weather. But how did you hear the news? I was just going to send a messenger to you."

"What news?" I asked, in amazement.

Then he told me that Mabel was the mother of a little boy. The news drove all else from my mind for a while, but presently I bethought me of what had brought me out in the wild rainy weather.

Howard made light of my fears when I imparted them to him.

"Your father knows how to take care of himself, Dorothy," he said. "I daresay he will stay the night at Halstead if he hears that the roads are under water. Or perhaps he will leave the gig there and come back himself by the last train. You have no cause to feel uneasy yet."

His words cheered me greatly. I began to think that my fears were groundless. Perhaps my father would stay the night at Halstead, though to be sure I had hardly ever known him spend a night away from home. More than most men, he loved the shelter of his own roof. It seemed to me more likely that he would return by the last train, and I said so.

"Well, perhaps you are right," replied Howard, "but if I were in his place, I should certainly put up at Halstead. If you like, I will send a man into New Burford to inquire if anything has been seen of him; but you have really no cause for fear. I am just having my dinner; you had better come and have some with me," and, taking my arm in kindly fashion, he led me into the large dining-room.

Paternity had a wonderfully softening influence upon Howard Steinthorpe, it seemed to me. I had never known him so kind, so brotherly in his manner. Evidently his heart was kindled to unusual warmth by the thought of the young mother and infant upstairs. It no longer appeared impossible that I should come to feel towards him as a sister should. I took myself to task for the hard thoughts and suspicions I had cherished concerning him.

The dinner could not tempt me, so Howard ordered coffee and cake for me, and drawing a deep, low chair close to the glowing hearth, he made me rest there whilst he took his meal; and to such an extent had my anxiety been allayed, that I enjoyed sitting comfortably by the fire for half an hour whilst we chatted pleasantly.

But when Howard rose from the table, I, too, rose and said that I must be going home.

"Oh, you need not go yet," he said. "Wait whilst I have a cigar. I know you do not object to smoking."

So I waited; but I was no longer easy in doing so. When at last I insisted upon going, Howard went to the front door to judge of the weather.

"Whush! How it does rain!" he exclaimed. "Dorothy, you cannot go out in such weather. You would be drowned. You had better stay here for the night."

"Oh, no! I cannot do that," I said, earnestly; "father would be alarmed if he found me missing when he came back. Whatever the weather is, I must get home."

"Then I shall send you in the carriage," he said, with unusual good nature, for it must have involved some sacrifice of feeling to send horse and carriage out on such a night.

But he would not listen to my remonstrances. The order was given, and after some delay—for doubtless the coachman was not disposed to hurry himself in preparing for such an unpleasant drive—the carriage drove up to the door, and Howard carefully put me into it.

"You must come in a day or two to see your nephew," were his last words. "Percival Howard Steinthorpe, his name is to be, Mabel says. Now, mind, you are not to alarm yourself if Mr. Carmichael is not at home. Good-bye."

Earnestly I hoped that I should find my father had returned during my absence. But my anxiety was less than when I left home. My mind no longer dwelt exclusively on the fears that had suggested themselves. Master Percival Howard Steinthorpe shared my thoughts. I was not a little proud of my new dignity of aunthood. My heart had a loving welcome for my infant nephew. I was passionately fond of children, and I thought what happy hours Mabel and I would spend together in worshipping and petting this wonderful baby. The Towers would be a different place to me now that the home could boast a child. So I mused whilst the brougham plodded on along the muddy road, and with every gust of wind the rain lashed the glass.

It was past nine o'clock when I reached home, but my father had not come back. In spite of Howard's words, my heart sank within me as I entered the empty house. How dismal now looked the preparations I had made some hours earlier!

Martha met me with so long a face that I was forced to rally my courage as I met her questioning glance.

"Mr. Steinthorpe says that we need not be anxious, Martha. He thinks that father would probably put up at Halstead as it is such a stormy night."

"Does he think so?" said Martha, her tone expressive of a contrary opinion. "It would be something new for master to do so, that is all I can say."

"Why, of course," I returned, almost impatiently, "but the weather is unusually rough, and exceptional weather demands exceptional action."

Martha did not appear satisfied. I hastened to tell her of the baby's birth, and the news gave as pleasant a diversion to her thoughts as it had to mine, and inclined her to take a more cheerful view of things. We discussed the event at some length.

"It will be a fine piece of news for master when he comes in," Martha said. "He will be mighty proud and pleased to learn that he has a grandson."

Her words reawakened my anxiety. Would he come that night? Somehow I could not bring myself to believe that he would stay the night at Halstead. It was impossible to contemplate the idea of locking up the house and retiring to rest, satisfied with that bare supposition.

I went into father's room and made up the fire, that there might be a warm hearth to welcome him should he come in. Then I sat down and waited.

I tried to persuade myself that I was not nervous; I tried to fix my thoughts on Mabel and the baby, but the fear haunted my mind like a grim shadow dimming the brightness of every other idea.

Suddenly I started up with a cry of joy. My ear had caught the roll of wheels. Yes, it was the dog-cart; I could not mistake it, and my consciousness was quick to approve itself, saying, "I knew he would come home."

But how rapidly and heedlessly father was driving! I heard the wheel jar against the gate-post as the horse and cart dashed into the yard.

I sprang to the window which commanded the tan-yard, but I peered vainly into the darkness. I could see nothing, only hear the clash of hoofs and wheels as the cart went by. No matter; father had come home.

I ran out to the back door, opened it, and stood, fearless of the beating wind and rain, to welcome father. I could hear Luke checking and soothing the horse, which apparently was restless and excited, but I caught no tone of my father's voice. He must be very tired and exhausted. But why did he not come in? In my impatience, I caught hold of a shawl which hung in the passage, folded it over my head, and ran round to the yard.

In the darkness, I could at first see nothing save the gleam of the lantern Luke carried. But presently I discerned the outline of the vehicle, on which Luke was throwing the light as he tried to examine its condition.

"Luke," I cried, "where is father?"

"Eh, gude sakes, Miss Dorothy; how can I tell? And what 'll be the meaning of this, do you suppose?"

"Oh, Luke, what is it?" I cried, hastening to his side, for the man's bewildered, frightened manner warned me of some catastrophe.

Then he held the lantern so that I could see that the poor, panting, frightened horse was streaming wet, that the reins were broken and draggled, the cushions gone, and the whole vehicle wet and muddy, and knocked about to an indescribable extent. I saw, but my mind refused to take in what it meant.

"And where is father?" I said, stupidly.

"Eh, who can say?" the man returned. "The poor beast came blundering alone into the yard, and he's come some way without being driven, I reckon, by the look of things."

I knew the truth then. From that moment, I had no hope of seeing my father come home alive. They told me to have courage, and to hope for the best; but I knew that there could be no best in this case, and that courage was only needed for endurance.

I have no distinct recollection of what followed. I think Martha must have sent for Salome, for I know that my dear old nurse came to me and sat silently by my side during the long, awful watches of that night. She tried to get me to bed, but I would not seek rest whilst my father's fate was yet unknown.

All night long in the wind and rain, men were out making search along the country road. Towards morning, the wind sank and the rain ceased. I observed that it was so, for something prompted me to go to the window, and I stood there for awhile, with my burning forehead pressed against the pane as I blankly watched the growing light. I began to shiver at last, and I went back to the hearthrug and stretched myself there with my head resting on Salome's lap.

In that attitude, I must have slept for a while, for when I opened my eyes again it was broad daylight, and Martha stood in the room with a cup of tea in her hand which she had brought for me. I was very thirsty, and I was drinking the tea eagerly when I heard again the sound of wheels on the road which passed the house.

With a shiver, I set down the cup and went to the window. Dr. Perrow's chaise came in sight. It was early for the old man to be abroad, and I felt sure that he had come on a special mission to me. Without surprise I saw the horse drawn in at our gate, and the old man descend and approach the house. I went forward to meet him as he entered.

"You bring me bad news," I said, as he took my hand.

"It is true," he said, gravely; "this long, sad night has prepared you for bad news, has it not?"

I waited for him to tell me more, questioning him only with my eyes.

"Your poor father has been found beneath the bridge at New Burford," he began, falteringly; "he must have fallen—"

"Then he is drowned?" I said, in a low, quick whisper.

And he made a sign of assent.

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