The Darlington news. (Darlington, S.C.) 1875-1909, November 01, 1894, Image 3
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CHAPTER XL. "
Qwex’s duty-forced efforts to
comfoji her father were inces
sant, tnd rather tragic; he said
.very little and worked his usual
aumher of hours conscientiously
it his latest work, but the best
part of him was away. Hishead
bowed a little more every day,
his aUp fell a little more heavily,
L is eyes lost a fresh spark of life;
e w*s followirg his wife in his
atieet, well bred manner, with
eitfter cry nor moan.
Stdden fits of half conpunc
ious duty would now and again
eile upon him, and remind him
e pau a daughter who also knew
ioitow; then he would pursue
vreu softly, aud catch her, no
|matt«r how inconvenient it
might be, and ply her with
questions on embarrassing top
ics. Gwen was very gentle
with him and us i to do him
small services w «.i a curious
j shy anxiety that had a touch of
1 molherliness in it.
Cne day late in August Mrs.
Felowes was sitting down for a
brief rest, when to her astonish-
mentGwen was announced; she
nevef sought her of her own ac
cord since her mother’s death.
She s it down now quite natur
ally, and looked round the room
with a pleased smile.
‘Ahl you have altered that
bracket, it used to be in the other
corner! And the piano, I hardly
know if I like it there—I believe
I do. I wonder why tea is never
an atom like yours, is it the
cream, on the cups, or what?”
When she had drunk her tea
she put the cup down and said
suddenly, “I w >uld like to go to
Strange Hall next week; will
you come with me?”
I “Next week !” repeated Mrs.
fellowes.
1 “Yes, I know this sudden
move looks rather insane, but I
have been thinking it over for
some time. The child is Humph
rey’s, it has a right to bo born
in the home of its father, and—
and I cannot go without you!”
I shouldn’t dream of letting
you, my Gwen, only you took
me by surprise. Mary will go
too, of course, but about your
father?”
Gwen looked disturbed.
“I don’t know. Do you think
my going or staying would make
much difference to him?”
‘,1 do, dear, a very great dif-
erence, but he will think as 1 do,
low you have spoken, that you
Te doing right. When we are
>way John will be with him
very moment he can spare.”
“As if I did’nt know that!”
ffwen said. “I will tell him to-
light.”
To the amazement of all, Mr.
Varing, as soon as he had
f-asptd the equation, rose to it
a a remarkable, quiet way; the
proceeding on Gwen’s part
struck him as most fit and pro
per, and he braced himself up to
support her. He also announced
his intention of accompanying
the ccrh-fje.
In the first shock of his resolve
Gwen winced; the fact of carry-
iug him in her train and on such
an errand brought a spice of lu
dicrousness into the affair that
seemed to her ghastly.
The day before they started
she surprised him i his study,
grasping in one hand a heap of
manuscript in her mother’s pret
ty hand writting and reading
with knit brows a copy of Cha-
vasse’s “Advice to Mother.”
This was too much for Gwen;
she escaped to her room, and
cried and laughed, and cried and
iaughed agin in a perfect parox
ysm of grief and piteous amuse
ment.
It was in the end quite a toss-
up as to Gwen’s ever seeing her
baby at all, she hovered so loug
on the borders of death. Her si
lent lonely enduring anguish had
shattered her more than any of
them had guessed, and then, as
ill-luck would have it, the first
’ound that struck on her ear
"'hen consciousness was coming
br k was the shrill shriek of her
' .’sty boy.
Day after day she held the
thild and pondered over it; she
wis very gentle, and ate and
(hank in an absent way all that
/as given her, but she hardly
spoke at all; some leaven was
J irking in her.
f Then this haunting, sweet-bit-
v pain is motherhood.” she
♦nought, the first day she was
p, as she watched the sleeping
' hild gobbling a red fist, “and
it’s for this that one half the
'/omen in the world live and
brood Madonna-like over their
infants, with that awful peace
in their eyes which takes the
commonness from the most com-
nwn of them! Goodness, what
would’nt I give for just the mer
est knowledge of that mother
and broods and
the world! That
painted wretch down stairs is
teeming with it, and—it’s bitter,
it's terrible, to want your moth
er as I want mine now, to teach
ne the meaningof motherhood!”
8bs stood up, and leaned for-
ardover tl « baby.
“If this feeling grows much
*aor$ in me I shall go mad,” she
murmured, “I am quite sane
now. Baby, my own little ba
by, can’t you help me, to lie in
absolute i tquch with the beauti
f ul mysterious things that t he
crown of womanhood? S°um
ingly not,” she said, turning
away, “with all your warm
sweetness. 1 believe I have a fair
understanding of this part of a
mother; I could make a fool of
myself over the tiny thing there,
1^ could—Oh!—Mother, mother!
Can I never forget you over my
hands! Must a new heartache
spring up every hour? Is there
rest nowhere?—Ah, Humphrey,
if only I weren’t mvself and vou
weren’t just you. I’d setoff this
minute and find you!—Certainly
l am mad. and here are Mrs.
Fellowes and Mary upon me!”
CHAPTER XLI.
About a month after herchild's
birth, an urgent message came
from Strange’s steward to Lady
Strange. He was very ill and
must see her.
She drove to his house and
found him dying, and infinitely
concerned that he could not de
liver up his stewardship into his
master s hands. He was a man
who had always rather suffered
from hypertrophied conscience,
and perhaps lie exaggerated the
importance of his office, and the
impossibility of getting any one
to follow him in it; at any rate
he impressed Gwen a good deal,
and rather put her on her mettle.
After reviewing|the situation,
she came to the conclusion that
if no one else could keep things
straight she would undertake to
do it herself. As she took off
her things, a new complication
struck her; to do this she must
be on the spot, and how would
that suit her father?
She was rather absent and full
of tne question when she got
down to tea, and Mrs. Fellowes,
as a sort of cure and antidote to
her wistful aloofness, went and
brought the baby. And then
Mr. Waring came in and con
templated it silently, as he had
done every day since it was
born.
Gwen told them of Hopkins, and
in a rather shy tentative way
spoke of her project.
To her astonishment Mr. War
ing woke up fully, and spoke
with hearty approval of it; then
without giving her a chance to
reply, he went out; but soon re
turned with a large parcel of
manuscript, tied up laboriously
with string, the knots all over it
in haphazard style.
“This is the book,” he said
slowly, and with frequent paus
es, “on which we had worked so
long; it is at last complete. It
is sad, is it not, that it is only I,
who am here to see the end? 1
have been more than afraid that
I should be unable to finish it, it
is hard to work alone, old habits
are strong within us—I will at
tempt no new work.”
He swayed a little end leaned
heavily on the table.
“You, my daughter, have
your work here, you must up
hold the house of your husband
and of his first-born: to-morrow
I will go home.”
Gwen attempted to say some
thing, but he mentioned her to
silence.
“ You may perhaps think your
duty is with me; it is not, it is
here, and here you must remain
to guard your husband’s lands,
and to cherish his child. It is
the soul that is just entering life
that needs all your care, not
that which is done with it.”
Then he went and stood over
the child, and suddenly some
vague old feeling surged up in
him and he raised his hands
that trembled above its head,
and his lips were moved by a
mute blessing.
Mrs. Fellowes intended going
herself that week, as she was a
good deal wanted at home, but
she could not bring herself to
leave Gwen entirely alone, and
then she had not heard a word
of Humphrey from his wife’s
lips for more than a montb now,
and his letters to her, after one
she got of his perfect recov
ery, were anything but satisfac
tyry; they were short and dry
and told her nothing. Then, as
the missionary he was in pur
suit of, had escaped through the
intervention of friendly blacks
some other way, and was al
ready on his way home, proba
bly preparing his experiences
for the religious press. Humph
rey’s continued presence in Afri
ca was simply rediculous, and
she was in a fever of anxiety as
to the next step of this most try
ing couplfl.
A few nights after, she was
very glad she had decided to re
main.
She had just fallen off into
her first seep when she was
awakened by a violent shake,
and found Gwen standing ab<*ve
her, white and rigid and too ter
rified to speak. She pulled her
out of the room and into the
nursery by her nightdress sleeve,
to show her baby in very bad
convulsions in the nurse’s arms.
The whole night through, two
women watched the strange
cruel possession that twisted
and contorted the small fiower-
like face and the tender limbs,
aud the next day the spasms
ceased and a sharp attack of
bronchitis set in.
Gwen’s mute tense agony up
set even the old doctor, who as
a rule was emotion proof enough;
he would have given a great
deal to have been able to reas
sure her. but he could uot in
conscience do so; the child was
about as dangerously ill as it was
possible for it to be.
But he came of a lustv stock,
and fought gallantly for life,
while his mother hovered
breathless above him and allow
ed no one but herself to touch
him for any service, and when
she absolutely could keep her
eyes open no longer, she would
trust him to no one but Mrs
Fellowes.
As she fought desperately for
her child’s life, the girl for the
first time in her own, lost herself
in supreme self forgetfulness,and
then at last the latent truth in
her nature broke through its
bonds and unfolded itself hour
by hour, and overpowered
though she was by grief and ter
ror ou the child’s account, Mrs.
Fellowes blessed God and re
joiced.
The splendid reserves of the
girl’s tenderness, her lovely
frank abandonment to her new
found motherhood, fairly stag
gered the elder woman. She
could hardly keep control of
herself, she felt so small, so
humble, so absolutely unfit to
do as she ought to do. There
was to her something most holy,
most reverent in the awakening
of this virgin mother; she felt
almost indecent in her greedy
absorption of its regal loveliness,
and this time God did stay His
hand and His heart inclined it
self to mercy.
Seven days after the beginning
of the illness a little ray of hope
set to play in the doctor’s eyes,
and sent a wave of new sweet
life rushing through Gwen’s
veins.
The next day, and the next,
this grew and strengthened, and
at the end of the day after that
the doctor spoke with perfect
confidence, and he added:
“I never until now knew ex
actly how much a mother’s love
can do, Lady Strange. You are
an incomparable nurse.”
When we went away Gwen
still knelt by the cot. with moist
eyes, and looked at the baby,
who suddenly stirred, and
awoke, and began to watch her
in that tei rible all-knowing way
babies have, then a little waver
ing ghost of a smile touched its
mouth. Gwen waited with part
ed lips, and the smile grew and
took proper tangible human
shape, till the tender mouth
gave a little tremble with it and
and the eyes widened, and sud
denly, to Mrs. Fellowes’ horror.
Gwen fell back against he in a
dead swoon.
When she had recovered and
they had brought her to her
room, she fell asleep at once,
and it was midnight when she
awoke.
She got up directly and stole
softly out to see her baby, who
was sleeping peacefully with
Mrs. Fellowes on guard.
“He couldn’t possibly be bet
ter,” she whispered, “you must
go back to bed at once.”
“And you—you must too, you
look green with tiredness.”
She knelt down by the cot
with a little soft cooing sound
that half frightened herself; she
turned her head to find out
where it came from; when she
knew she smiled up at Mrs. Fel
lowes, and her eyes were radiant
with a sweet mystery.
When she came in to see her
baby next morning she carried
a telegram she had just written,
in her hand. It was to Strange
and very simple.
“Will you come?” it said, “we
want you, baby and I.”
“Read it,” she said to Mrs.
Fellowes, “and wil you send it
yourself?”
She stooped over the cot for a
long time, and nothing was to
be seen of her but the tips of two
pink ears.
ume of new life has flowed into howl now quite easily: he has
me, I could move the world at been at ‘Chava'se’ again,’ and
this moment; not to say carry 1 to rather an awful extent.”
this mite I am a woman at
last, a full, complete, proper
woman, and it is magnificent.
No other living woman can feel
as I do; other women absorb
these feelings as they do their
d ii'y bread and butter, and they
have to them the same placid
everyday taste, they slip into
their womanhood; mine has
rushed into me with a great tor
rent—I love my husband, I wor
ship him, I adore him—do you
hear, my dear 1 ”
She stopped in her march, and
turned on Mrs. Fellowes a radi
ant triumphant face.
“Ah, if 1 hadn’t you to tell all
this to,. I would go out into the
fields and shout it aloud. And
what are you crying for? I am
not mad. I am, I suppose, what
Humphrey would call natural,
but somehow it makes me feel
too big for the room. Hold the
child while I open the windows.”
Mrs. Fellowes, as soon as she
got hold of him, carried him off
to the nursery, and simply in
sisted on Gwen’s lying down
and holding her tongue
“Do you want to bring a fever
on yourself,” she demanded
sternly, “and be a scarecrow
when Humphrey comes? You are
shockingly young, my Gwen!”
She was sane after that, and
tried to behave as if nothing had
happened to her, but the change
in her was quite visible to the
naked eye. Next day she buck
led to her steward's work with
a whole hearted dominance,
that insured success, and Mrs.
Fellowes went borne to her hus
band big with happy news.
When five weeks had passed,
and she had neither message
nor sight of Humphrey, Gwen’s
magnificent abandonment of joy
had a break, and a trembling
came into it, and into her eyes
a wave of fear, and every time
she came in from her work in
the village or on the home farm,
she betook herself to the baby to
steady her nerves.
And then the press began to
set flying little gnat-like biting
doubts as to Strange’s unac
countable silence, after it was
ascertained through a long de
layed scrap of a note to Mrs.
Fellowes that he had joined an
ivory expedition into an unset
tled district. Then, toadd to her
anxieties, the missionary, grate
ful for his intended capture, ran
down to Strange Hall, and being
rather an ass, and having been
left with only the tail end of a
constitution—a solemn and
gloomy one—ne gave her a most
lurid and awful impression of
those parts into which Humph
rey had penetrated.
She put a brave front on, but
she had a shocking time of it,
aud her usual song to her baby,
in exactly Humphrey’s tones
was:
“Dann willst
kleiuel”
du weine, du leibe
CHAPTER XLII.
“How soon can he come?”
said Gwen, when Mrs. Fellowes
returned after sending th'' mes
sage. “I have been counting up,
it must be three weeks even if
he is at the coast; if he is inland,
it may be longer. Now the mis
sionary is safe, he must be just
hunting; he will be sure to get
my message without much de
lay.”
She spoke rapidly and walked
about the room with her boy n
her arms.
She hasn’t a doubt as to his
reply to her message,” thought
Mrs. Fellowes; “how absolutely
she trusts him!”
Will he wonder when he sees
“Yes, he is failing day by day,
and unfolding himself at the
same time. I never quite real
ized befire how beautilul and
single hearted his character is;
he comes now to see me, or
rather to sit and meditate in my
presence, after he has been to
your mother's grave, and when
he has sat and rested, he speaks of
you. You can gather the way,
I fancy, from his letters—oh, the
quaintness, the pathetic grotes
queness of his remarks!”
“ I have often wanted to ask
vou if Mr. Fellowes ever brings
his professional capacity to bear
on my father?” asked Gwen
“Never. ‘Only God is fit to
undertake the care of such a
soul as his,’ John says, ‘neither
he nor his soul are subject to or
dinary laws, each lives out the
life given it to live.’ Good gra
cious! fancy John or any other
parson attempting to shove the
ology into such a nature, or to
dig down after his beliefs!
Gwen, darling, you may be in
good condition, but how very
tired you look!”
“Tired! Oh yes, I am, I can
not tell you how tired! At first
I used to live in a whirl so as to
tire myself, now there’s no need
of it, lam just as tired when I
get up as when I go to bed, and
nothing will drive the days on,
and the endlessness of life sick
ens one. I feel creepy enough
to please anyone, goodness
knows, but even if Humphrey
| never comes, I will neither wear
crepe nor put on any of the trap
pings of decent widowhood, for
I know he never got my mes
sage If he is dead, he died
knowing nothing, 1 am no hon
est widow of his; and I will wear
hats to the end of the chapter,
and possibly grow fat and outri
val Lady Mary, who knows!
“You see my life is a healthy
one, I ride miles a day all over
the farms, there isn’t a fact con
cerning manure I couldn’t tell
you: as to drainage, I feel like
turning into a pipe myself; I
have even a medicine chest, and
doctor the babies, Heaven help
them. If I could only follow
him as he would me, it would be
less awful, but you see, there’s
baby, my place is here, and I
must just stand and wait like
those wretched creatures in the
hymn. As for those relief expe
ditions, though I send checks, I
look upon them as a farce, as if
he wanted to be caught and
brought home like a mission
ary.”
“It seems to me you are on the
go from morning to night; what
time do you leave yourself for
sleeping?”
“Uh, any amount, more than
1 want.”
“How long did } ou sleep last
night?”
“Oh, I forget. Are you too
tired to drive to a farm about a
mile a wav?”
“Tired. No, dear,” stooping
down and kissing her, “but
must you go? Lie down, and let
me read to you.”
Anything in the shape of ten
derness was just the one stroke
too much for Gwen; she gave a
quick dry sob and moved away.
“I can’t stand that sort of
thing,” she said, “I told you I
had maudlin. Treat me as you
would a nice orthodox Christian
widow, who wears crepe and
caps and gets to the proper state
of thinness pulling herself up,
however, just short of scraggi
ness like a self-respecting crea
ture. And now we must hurry,
for I hear the carriage.”
She turned round as she was
leaving the room, and laughed.
“I am altogether losing tone.
Do you know that young Will
Dyer—Sir William’s black
sheep, whom I have been occu-
of
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which the baby looked upon as
a huge joke.
Week after week passed and
not a word, and then whisper
ings of relief expeditions began
to stir the papers, and Mrs. Fel
lowes was hurrying up wildly
with her work to be able to get
to Gwen.
At last she came over from
the station in a fly, a day or two
before she was expected; and
found Gwen in Strange’s den,
which showed tokens of her all
over the place, playing with her
child, now a big fellow who beat
the record in the matter of
crawling.
When the nurse took him at
last, Gwen said to Mrs Fellowes
rather grimly.
“The county considers I
should wear a widow’s cap, and pying my spare moments in be
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I am here—will he guess why I your father.”
sport crepe, and my horrible
state of plumpness makes me to
stink in their nostrils. Just
look at my arms! 1 wish I could
oblige them,” she went on wear
ily, “and bear my woe accord
ing* to tho rules of decency.
Lady Mary rolled down on me
and stayed a week, and nev6r
got out what she came to say
until I was putting her into the
railway carraige on her way
back to London; then she pro
duced her rebuke on the top of a
sign, and began a prayer, but
the train started before she got
well into it.
“ ‘My dear’ she said, ‘I think
that under the circumstances a
plain black gown and a bonnet
—and then, my dear Gwen, if
by any means you could man
age, ahem, not to add to your
plumpness—people in our posi
tion must set an example—I as
sure you, for myself, I lost eight
pounds and a half the first six
months of my widowhood.’
“The she began her rather ir
relevant prayer.”
“Gwen, sit down, and I’ll
make tea, and tell you about
came?” she went on in her glad
excitement. “Darling sweet,
beauty! What wilt he think of
yoif?”
and put her hands to her hot
head.
“I forget everything but my- lively guarantee! to give
down, or let me self and this fatten ing misery of or the meney will be refunded.
It is admitted to be the most re-
ing a mother to, and in trying to
detach from the d^vil—began
yesteiday to make violent love
to me?”
“I don’t wonder?”
“Good gracious me, why?” s.
“Look at your face! You are a
woman now, my good Gwen.”
“And is this the first result?
God help us! Is my one pride
in life to become a thorn in my
flesh?”
“That's as you take it! It
will, unless you are careful, be a
very considerable thorn in other-
er people's. Good gracious,
child, why even virtue in women
is very much a matter of tem
perament, and where the tem
perament is, there will oppor
tunities be gathered together.”
[to be continued.]
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