CHAPTER XXX.
SUSPENSE.
"Down thou climbing sorrow! Thy element's below."
_King Lear._
"Till now thy soul has been All glad and gay: Bid it awake, and look At grief to-day."
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
As Althea walked into the library, she was aware that Waveney wasfollowing her closely. Doreen had made some excuse and had gone off toher own room, probably to write letters.
"Do you want me to read to you to-night?" asked Waveney. She lookedwonderfully bright and animated this evening. As she spoke she slippedher hand into Althea's arm, in a coaxing, girlish way. "Dear MissHarford, I am not a bit tired. I feel as springy as possible"--thisbeing a favourite word in the Ward vocabulary to express latent andsuperfluous energy.
"No, my child, not to-night," returned Althea, gravely. "Waveney, dear,I am afraid I have rather bad news for you. You were out when themessage came, so I went over to Cleveland Terrace to inquire."
Then a troubled, almost a scared look, came into the girl's eyes.
"A message!" she gasped. "Did they send for me? Is any one ill--father?or----" But she did not finish the sentence, as Althea quietly handedher the telegram.
"What does it mean?" she asked in a bewildered tone; but her lips weretrembling. "Mollie ill! But she is never ill. Except when we had themeasles, she has never been in bed a single day for years. What is it?Why do you not tell me?" and Waveney spoke in a tone of intenseirritation.
"I am waiting, dear, until you can listen to me," returned her friend,soothingly. "My cousin Moritz was with me when the telegram came"--hereWaveney started--"and I thought--we both thought--that the best thingwould be for me to go over to Cleveland Terrace. Moritz went with me. Wesaw your father, and I went up to Mollie. It is diphtheria--no one knowshow she has caught it. She is ill, and her throat is very painful, butshe could speak to me. She sent her love, and said that you must notthink of coming to her."
Then an incredulous smile crossed Waveney's face.
"Mollie said that, but of course she did not mean it; the idea is tooabsurd. If I were not so miserable I could laugh at it. Not go to myMollie when she is ill and in pain! Has father sent for Dr. Duncan, andhave they given her a fire?--the room is so cold!" Then, interruptingherself with sudden impatience, "Why do I stop to ask these questionswhen it is getting late? Oh, Miss Harford, you ought to have told mebefore dinner! What does that matter? But I will get ready now. And ifyou will be kind enough to send for a cab, I shall not be five minuteschanging my frock"--for even at the supreme moment some instinct toldthe girl that sapphire blue velveteen was not quite suitable for a sickroom.
Althea was quite shaken by Waveney's impetuosity. It was evident thather young companion had entirely forgotten her _role_; her sole idea wasthat Mollie was ill, and that nothing else mattered. She was actuallyhalf-way to the door when Althea called her back in a tone that arrestedeven her attention.
"Waveney, my poor child, what are you doing? Did you not understand thetelegram? Your father will not allow you to go home--he told me sohimself; and here is a note he has sent you." Then Waveney, without aword, took the letter.
"MY PRECIOUS CHILD," wrote Everard, "we are in sad trouble. Our dear Mollie is very ill, but Dr. Duncan tells me that it will not be safe for you to be with her, and that he must have a properly trained nurse--one is coming in directly--and then she will have every care and attention. Do not come unless I send for you; it is enough to have one child ill, and I will not have you here, my little Waveney. I know I can trust you. Since you were a baby you have never given me a moment's uneasiness--you have been my dear, good child, who has always obeyed my least wishes. If you love me, my darling, you will be brave and calm. Miss Harford will tell you everything. She is a good, kind creature, and I feel you will be safe with her. You shall know everything: nothing shall be kept from you--I promise you that faithfully.
"Your loving "FATHER."
* * * * *
When Waveney had finished the letter, there was despair in her eyes.
"He is cruel. Every one is cruel," she said, in a choked, unnaturalvoice. And then, with a dry sob, "Oh, why am I not lying there in herplace!"
"Do not say that, dear child," returned Althea, gently; "for then Molliewould have to suffer." And at this Waveney winced.
"Where are you going?" Althea spoke rather nervously, for again the girlseemed about to leave her. "Oh, Waveney, surely you will not go againstyour father's wishes." But she need not have asked the question. Theloyal little soul would have died sooner than grieve that belovedparent.
"No, I cannot disobey father," she said, in a dull voice; and her poorlittle face looked so white and rigid. "I am going to my own room now."
"Will you not stay and let me talk to you a little?" asked Althea,anxiously. "You are taking things too hardly, dear. Mollie may be betterto-morrow."
But she spoke to deaf ears.
"No, no. Please do not keep me. I must be alone. There is no use intalking. How do you know, how does any one know about things?" andWaveney abruptly turned away.
Althea's eyes looked very sad as the door closed behind her. "I knewit," she said to herself. "I knew how she would suffer. Her nature isintense. Those who love much, suffer much. Mollie and she seem to haveonly one heart between them. It is not so with all twins." But the nextmoment her dreary moralising was interrupted; for Waveney came hastilyback and stood by her.
"I did not bid you good-night," she said, huskily. "I am afraid I wasrude and abrupt; but I did not mean it. And you are so kind, so kind."
Then Althea put her arms round the girl and kissed her tenderly. "Mydear, do not trouble about that. I quite understand. May I come to youpresently? I may be able to think of something to comfort you." ButWaveney shook her head.
"No; please do not come. There is no comfort for me while my Mollie isill and suffering;" and Waveney drew her cold hands out of Althea'sdetaining grasp. It was sad to see how her step had suddenly lost itsspringiness. To be alone--that was her one thought now, as it is theinstinct of all sorely wounded creatures in God's free world.
Waveney never recalled that night of misery without a shudder. Thesudden shock quite prostrated her. That Mollie should be ill, perhapsdangerously ill!--for every one knew that people died of diphtheria:Princess Alice had, and the butcher's little daughter, and one or twoothers that she and Mollie knew--that Mollie should be ill, and that heronly sister should not be allowed to nurse her!--this was almostinconceivable to Waveney.
It was this separation that seemed so unnatural, and Waveney chafedbitterly against her father's restrictions. After those first unguardedexpressions she did not blame him in words, but again and again in herheart she accused him of cruelty.
"Oh, father, how could you, how could you!" she said over and over againthat night. "It is not right, it is not fair, that you should torture melike this. If I were only there I should not be so unnerved andfrightened, but everything is worse when one is kept away."
Waveney was right from her own point of view. She would have been herbrave, resolute little self at Cleveland Terrace, and Mollie would havehad the tenderest and most cheery of nurses.
"I should not have taken it. I should have been careful and left thenurse to do things," she said later on. "It was just father'snervousness."
Dr. Duncan's opinion she treated with contempt. It was part of adoctor's duty to say these things.
More than once Althea crept to the girl's door; but she could hearnothing. Once she turned the handle, but the door was locked. Waveney,who was still sitting huddled up in the easy-chair, heard the soft,retreating footsteps go down the passage again. Her fire had burnt out,and she felt strangely chilled. "I may as well go to bed," she thought,drearily; but it was long before the deadly cold left her limbs. Evenwhen she slept, her dreams troubled her
, and she woke the next morningto see Althea standing beside her bed with a cup of hot coffee in onehand, and in her other a yellow envelope.
"Will you drink this, my dear? Doreen and I have had our breakfast, butthere is no need for you to hurry. If you lie still Nurse Marks willbring you yours."
"Oh, no, I could not think of such a thing," returned Waveney, quiteshocked. "I am not ill. I would rather get up, please. I am so sorry Ihave overslept myself; but I was late, and----" Then she looked at thetelegram wistfully. "Is that for me, Miss Harford?"
"No, my dear, it is for me. Moritz sent over to Cleveland Terrace quiteearly this morning. You will see what he says.
"'Miss Ward not so well. A bad night. Shall wire for Richmond.'"
"What does it mean?" returned Waveney, faintly, and her head sank backon the pillow. "I don't understand it."
"It means that you and Mollie have a good friend," returned Althea,sitting down beside her, "a very kind and generous friend. Moritz wantsto help you all. Sir Hindley Richmond is the great throat doctor. He iswonderfully clever, and some of his cures are marvellous; but his feesare immense, and of course Moritz knows that Mr. Ward could not affordto have him, so he is arranging it with Dr. Duncan."
"But we have no right--we have no claim on Mr. Ingram," stammeredWaveney. "But he is doing it for Mollie's sake."
She said it quite simply. In her own mind it had long been an assuredfact that Mr. Ingram was her sister's lover. How could any one mistakesuch devotion?
"Yes, he is doing it for Mollie's sake," returned Althea, with equalfrankness. "Poor fellow! he is very unhappy about her, and his onlycomfort is to do her service."
And Althea smiled a little as she thought of that tender and fantasticchivalry with which Moritz was wooing his beautiful Mollie.
"I will get up now," Waveney observed, restlessly. Mollie was not sowell. It would drive her frantic to lie still and think of that. Shewould dress and go out. Miss Althea was too kind to think of asking herto write and read. She could not sit still. She must have air andmovement. But though she said no word of this, Althea understood herperfectly.
"We must leave her alone," she said, rather sadly, to Doreen. "Hernerves are unhinged by the suspense, and she is not used to trouble.
"I shall drive down to Cleveland Terrace," she continued, "on my way toAunt Sara. There may be some little thing Mollie requires, and Waveneywill be glad of news." She spoke rather hurriedly, as though she fearedDoreen might raise some objection. But Doreen, who could read her sisterlike a book, merely nodded assent.
So all the morning Waveney wandered about the common like a little lostspirit, until her limbs ached with weariness; and after luncheon Noelarrived.
Mr. Ingram had sent him, he said, bringing out the words rathersheepishly. They had been shopping all the morning, tearing up and downRegent's Street and Bond Street in a hansom, and they had had luncheonat the Army and Navy Stores. Then they had called at the door of NumberTen, and Noel had seen his father. Things were much the same, and hesent his love, and so on.
Althea had already started when Noel made his appearance, so it was toolate to prevent her fruitless journey to Chelsea.
There was nothing Mollie wanted, Noel declared, bluntly, and he chuckledas he thought of all the things Ingram had ordered. "My word, there'sno mistake about his being a viscount," he thought. "If he turned out tobe a duke I should hardly be surprised."
Waveney was very fond of her young brother, but his society failed togive her comfort; and Noel, on his side, was so awed and depressed byher sad face and unusual silence, that he could find little to say. Itwas quite a relief when his visit was over, and he had to return toEaton Square.
But one word he did say as Waveney followed him into the hall.
"I say, Wave, I suppose you will send your compliments or kind regardsto Mr. Ingram"--and here Noel cleared his throat. "He is awfully cut up,you know, and all that."
"Oh, yes, you may give him my kind regards," returned Waveney, in alistless tone. Then her conscience accused her of ingratitude. "Yes,certainly, Noel, my kindest regards. I know how good he has been; he isactually going to have that great throat doctor down to see dearMollie."
"I know that," replied Noel, mysteriously. "I know a thing or two thatwould make you stare. He is a good old sort; he is as good as they makethem, and he deserves to turn up trumps." And with this peculiar form ofblessing--which was nevertheless genuine in its way--Noel adjusted his_pince-nez_, and marched off with his head in the air as usual.
When Althea returned, she had very little to add to this. Mollie was nobetter, certainly, and Dr. Duncan was undoubtedly anxious about her; butshe had excellent nurses, and Sir Hindley Richmond was to come the nextday.
There had been some hitch or difficulty, and Moritz had been much putout. Althea was in the dark about it, for Mr. Ward had volunteered noexplanation.
"Sir Hindley Richmond is coming to-morrow," was all he said. "Mr. Ingraminsists on it. He wired for him to-day, but there was some difficulty,and Ingram fussed awfully about it. I am not allowed to put in a word,"he continued, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "The doctor and nursesmanage everything; all sorts of things come to the house. Of courseIngram sends them, and if I remonstrate, I am told that the doctorordered them, or that Nurse Helena wished for it."
Althea was the bearer of another sad little missive from Everard.Waveney carried it off to her own room. She was still reading it withdry, tearless eyes when the gong sounded.
"Do not lose heart, my darling," it finished. "It is always darkestbefore day. We will pray to our Heavenly Father that our sweet Molliemay be spared." Waveney was repeating this sentence over and over again,as she sat at the dinner-table. And Althea, seeing that she ate nothing,told Mitchell to fill her glass with Burgundy.
"You must take that, my dear, and some of this nice light roll. If youmake yourself ill, it will only give additional trouble."
Althea spoke with such quiet decision that Waveney was compelled toobey. As she sipped the wine a tinge of colour came into her lips. Butthe bread was sadly crumbled on her plate. As she rose from the tableher knees trembled under her, and she almost tottered as she followedAlthea.
Last night about this time she had told her. What a nightmare of horrorthese four-and-twenty hours had been!
No wonder she felt giddy--no wonder--but here Althea took possession ofher with gentle force.
"Sit down, Waveney. Why, you foolish child, you have over-walkedyourself, and eaten nothing, and of course you feel bad." And beforeWaveney could summon up sufficient energy to contradict this, she foundherself lying on the library couch, with the softest of pillows underher head and a warm quilt over her.
"Doreen and I are going across to the Porch House," observed Althea,kissing her. "It is Thursday evening. But dear old Nursie will lookafter you."
"Thank you. But she need not trouble," returned Waveney, drowsily. "I amquite well, only tired."
Every one was very kind, she thought. And Miss Althea, how dear and goodshe was! After all, it was very comfortable to lie still. The silence,the firelight, the soft warmth, were so soothing. Why were the beeshumming so? Beehives and libraries were surely incongruous. And therewere white lilies, too, nid-nodding at each other. And the writing-tablehad gone, and there was a bed of pansies. "Pansies, that's forthoughts," she said to herself. For, little as she knew it, Waveney wasfast asleep.
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