Читать книгу Wee Wifie - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 11

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I have no reason than a woman’s reason;

I think him so, because I think him so.

Shakespeare.

Before noon there was terror and confusion in Belgrave House. Nea, flitting like a humming-bird from flower to flower, was suddenly startled by the sound of heavy jolting footsteps on the stairs, and, coming out on the corridor, she saw strange men carrying the insensible figure of her father to his room. She uttered a shrill cry and sprung toward them, but a gentleman who was following them put her gently aside, and telling her that he was a doctor, and that he would come to her presently, quietly closed the door.

Nea, sitting on the stairs and weeping passionately, heard from a sympathizing bystander the little there was to tell.

Mr. Huntingdon had met with an accident in one of the crowded city lanes. His horse had shied at some passing object and had thrown him—here Nea uttered a low cry—but that was not all.

His horse had flung him at the feet of a very Juggernaut, a mighty wagon piled with wool bales nearly as high as a house. One of the leaders had backed on his haunches at the unexpected obstacle; but the other, a foolish young horse, reared, and in another moment would certainly have trodden out the brains of the insensible man, had not a youth—a mere boy—suddenly rushed from the crowded footpath and thrown himself full against the terrified animal, so for one brief instant retarding the movement of the huge wagon while Mr. Huntingdon was dragged aside.

It had all happened in a moment; the next moment the horses were plunging and rearing, with the driver swearing at them, and the young man had sunk on a truck white as death, and faint from the pain of his sprained arm and shoulder.

“Who is he?” cried Nea, impetuously, “what have they done with him?”

He was in the library, the butler informed her. The doctor had promised to dress his shoulder after he had attended to Mr. Huntingdon. No, his mistress need not go down, Wilson went on; it was only Mr. Trafford, one of the junior clerks. Only a junior clerk! Nea flashed an indignant look as Wilson spoke. What if he were the city messenger; her father should make his fortune, and she would go and thank him. But there was no time for this, for the same grave-looking doctor who had closed her father’s door against her was now standing on the threshold; and Nea forgot everything in her gratitude and joy as he told her that, though severely injured, Mr. Huntingdon was in no danger, and with quiet and rest, and good nursing, he would soon be himself again. It would all depend on her, he added, looking at the agitated girl in a fatherly manner; and he bade her dry her eyes and look as cheerful as she could that she might not disturb Mr. Huntingdon. Nea obeyed him; she choked down her sobs resolutely, and with a strange paleness on her young face, stole into the darkened room and stood beside him.

“Well, Nea,” observed her father, huskily, as she took his hand and kissed it; “I have had a narrow escape; another instant and it would have been all over with me. Is Wilson there?”

“Yes, papa,” answered Nea, still holding his hand to her cheek, as she knelt beside him; and the gray-haired butler stepped up to the bed.

“Wilson, let Stephenson know that he is to get rid of Gypsy at once. She has been a bad bargain to me, and this trick of hers might have cost me my life.”

“You are not going to sell Gypsy, papa,” exclaimed the girl, forgetting the doctor’s injunctions in her dismay; “not your own beautiful Gypsy?”

“I never allow people or animals to offend me twice, Nea. It is not the first time Gypsy has played this trick on me. Let Stephenson see to it at once. I will not keep her. Tell him to let Uxbridge see her, he admired her last week; he likes spirit and will not mind a high figure, and he knows her pedigree.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Wilson.

“By the bye,” continued Mr. Huntingdon, feebly, “some one told me just now about a youth who had done me a good turn in the matter. Did you hear his name, Wilson?”

“Yes, papa,” interrupted Nea, eagerly; “it was Mr. Trafford, one of the junior clerks, and he is down-stairs in the library, waiting for the doctor to dress his shoulder.”

Nea would have said more, for her heart was full of gratitude to the heroic young stranger; but her father held up his hand deprecatingly, and she noticed that his face was very pale.

“That will do, my dear. You speak too fast, and my poor head is still painful and confused;” and as Nea looked distressed at her thoughtlessness, he continued, kindly, “Never mind, Doctor Ainslie says I shall be all right soon—he is going to send me a nurse. Trafford, you say; that must be Maurice Trafford, a mere junior. Let me see, what did Dobson say about him?” and Mr. Huntingdon lay and pondered with that hard set face of his, until he had mastered the facts that had escaped his memory.

“Ah, yes, the youngest clerk but one in the office; a curate’s son from Birmingham, an orphan—no mother—and drawing a salary of seventy pounds a year. Dobson told me about him; a nice, gentlemanly lad; works well—he seems to have taken a fancy to him. He is an old fool, is Dobson, and full of vagaries, but a thoroughly good man of business. He said Trafford was a fellow to be trusted, and would make a good clerk by and by. Humph, a rise will not hurt him. One can not give a diamond ring to a boy like that. I will tell Dobson to-morrow to raise Trafford’s salary to a hundred a year.”

“Papa!” burst from Nea’s lips as she overheard this muttered soliloquy, but, as she remembered the doctor’s advice, she prudently remained quiet; but if any one could have read her thoughts at that moment, could have known the oppression of gratitude in the heart of the agitated girl toward the stranger who had just saved her father from a horrible death, and whose presence of mind and self-forgetfulness were to be repaid by the paltry sum of thirty pounds a year! “Papa!” she exclaimed, and then in her forbearance kept quiet.

“Ah, Nea, are you there still?” observed her father in some surprise; “I do not want to keep you a prisoner, my child. Wilson can sit by me while I sleep, for I must not be disturbed after I have taken the composing draught Dr. Ainslie ordered. Go out for a drive and amuse yourself; and, wait a moment, Nea, perhaps you had better say a civil word or two to young Trafford, and see if Mrs. Thorpe has attended to him. He shall hear from me officially tomorrow; yes,” muttered Mr. Huntingdon, as his daughter left the room, “a hundred a year is an ample allowance for a junior, more than that would be ill-advised and lead to presumption.”

Maurice Trafford was in the library trying to forget the pain of his injured arm, which was beginning to revenge itself for that moment’s terrible strain.

The afternoon’s shadows lay on the garden of the square, the children were playing under the acacia trees, the house-martins still circled and wavered in the sunlight.

Through the open window came the soft spring breezes and the distant hum of young voices; within was warmth, silence, and the perfume of violets.

Maurice closed his drowsy eyes with a delicious sense of luxurious forgetfulness, and then opened them with a start; for some one had gently called him by his name, and for a moment he thought it was still his dream, for standing at the foot of the couch was a girl as beautiful as any vision, who held out her hand to him, and said in the sweetest voice he had ever heard:

“Mr. Trafford, you have saved my father’s life. I shall be grateful to you all my life.”

Maurice was almost dizzy as he stood up and looked at the girl’s earnest face and eyes brimming over with tears, and the sunlight and the violets and the children’s voices seemed all confused; and as he took her offered hand a strange shyness kept him silent.

“I have heard all about it,” she went on. “I know, while others stood by too terrified to move, you risked your own life to protect my father—that you stood between him and death while they dragged him out from the horses’ feet. It was noble—heroic;” and here Nea clasped her hands, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

Poor impetuous child; these were hardly the cold words of civility that her pompous father had dictated, and were to supplement the thirty pounds per annum, “officially delivered.” Surely, as she looked at the young man in his shabby coat, she must have remembered that it was only Maurice Trafford the junior clerk—the drudge of a mercantile house.

Nea owned afterward that she had forgotten everything; in after years she confessed that Maurice’s grave young face came upon her like a revelation.

She had admirers by the score—the handsome, weak-minded Lord Bertie among them—but never had she seen such a face as Maurice Trafford’s, the poor curate’s son.

Maurice’s pale face flushed up under the girl’s enthusiastic praise, but he answered, very quietly:

“I did very little, Miss Huntingdon; any one could have done as much. How could I stand by and see your father’s danger, and not go to his help?” and then, as the intolerable pain in his arm brought back the faintness, he asked her permission to reseat himself. “He would go home,” he said, wearily, “and then he need trouble no one.”

Nea’s heart was full of pity for him. She could not bear the thought of his going back to his lonely lodgings, with no one to take care of him, but there was no help for it. So Mrs. Thorpe was summoned with her remedies, and the carriage was ordered. When it came round Maurice looked up in his young hostess’s face with his honest gray eyes and frank smile and said good-bye. And the smile and the gray eyes, and the touch of the thin, boyish hand, were never to pass out of Nea’s memory from that day.

* * * * * *

The shadows grew longer and longer in the gardens of the square, the house-martins twitted merrily about their nests, the flower-girls sat on the area steps with their baskets of roses and jonquils, when Mr. Huntingdon laid aside his invalid habits and took up his old life again, far too soon, as the doctors said who attended him. His system had received a severer shock than they had first imagined, and they recommended Baden-Baden and perfect rest for some months.

But as well might they have spoken to the summer leaves that were swirling down the garden paths, as move Mr. Huntingdon from his usual routine. He only smiled incredulously, said that he felt perfectly well, and rode off every morning eastward on the new gray mare that had replaced Gypsy.

And Nea flitted about the room among her birds and flowers, and wondered sometimes if she should ever see Maurice Trafford again. While Maurice, on his side, drudged patiently on, very happy and satisfied with his sudden rise, and dreaming foolish, youthful dreams, and both of them were ignorant, poor children, that the wheel of destiny was revolving a second time to bring them nearer together.

For when November came with its short days, its yellow fogs, its heavy, damp atmosphere, a terrible thing happened in Mr. Huntingdon’s office.

A young clerk, the one above Maurice—a weak, dissipated fellow, who had lately given great dissatisfaction by his unpunctuality and carelessness—absconded one day with five thousand pounds belonging to his employer. Mr. Huntingdon had just given authority to the manager to dismiss him when the facts of his disappearance and the missing sum were brought to their ears. The deed was a cool one, and so cleverly executed that more than one believed that an older hand was concerned in it; but in the midst of the consternation and confusion, while the manager stood rubbing his hands nervously together, and Mr. Huntingdon, in his cold, hard voice, was giving instructions to the detective, Maurice Trafford quietly asked to speak to him a moment, and offered to accompany the detective officer.

He knew George Anderson’s haunts, he said, and from a chance word accidentally overheard, he thought he had a clew, and might succeed in finding him.

There was something so modest and self-reliant in the young man’s manner as he spoke that, after a searching glance at him, Mr. Huntingdon agreed to leave the matter in his hands, only bidding him not to let the young villain escape, as he certainly meant to punish him.

Many were the incidents that befell Maurice and his companion in this his first and last detective case; but at last, thanks to his sagacity and the unerring instinct of the officer, they were soon on the right track, and before night had very far advanced were hanging about a low public-house in Liverpool, lurking round corners and talking to stray sailors.

And the next morning they boarded the “Washington,” bound for New York, that was to loose anchor at the turn of the tide; and while Staunton, the detective, was making inquiries of the captain about the steerage passengers, Maurice’s sharp eyes had caught sight of a young sailor with a patch over his eye, apparently busy with a coil of ropes, and he walked up to him carelessly; but as he loitered at his side a moment his manner changed.

“Don’t look round, George,” he whispered; “for Heaven’s sake keep to the ropes or you are lost. Slip the pocket-book in my hand, and I will try and get the detective out of the boat.”

“Would it be penal servitude, Maurice?” muttered the lad, and his face turned a ghastly hue at the thought of the human blood-hound behind him.

“Five or ten years at least,” returned Maurice. “Were you mad, George? Give it to me—quick—quick! and I will put him on the wrong scent. That’s right,” as the shaking hands pushed a heavy brown pocket-book toward him. “Good-by, George; say your prayers to-night, and thank God that you are saved.”

“Staunton,” he said, aloud, as the detective approached him, “we are wrong; he is in the bow of the ‘Brown Bess,’ and he sails in the ‘Prairie Flower;’ ” and as he uttered the first lie that he had ever told in his guileless young life Maurice looked full in the detective’s face and led him quietly away.

But a couple of hours later—when Staunton was losing his temper over their want of success, and the “Washington” was steaming out of the dock—Maurice suddenly produced the pocket-book, and proposed that they should take the next train back for London. “For I am very tired,” finished Maurice, with provoking good-humor; “and Mr. Huntingdon will sleep better to-night if we give him back his five thousand pounds.”

“You let the rogue go!” exclaimed Staunton, and he swore savagely. “You have cheated justice and connived at his escape.”

“Yes,” answered Maurice, calmly. “Don’t put yourself out, my good fellow. I will take all the blame. He sailed in the ‘Washington,’ and there she goes like a bird. You are out of temper because I was too sharp for you. Evil communications corrupt good manners, Staunton. I have taken a leaf out of your book—don’t you think I should make a splendid detective?” continued Maurice, rattling on in pure boyish fun. “I got up the little fiction about the ‘Brown Bess’ and the ‘Prairie Flower’ when I saw him dressed like a sailor, with a patch over his eye, hauling in the ropes.”

Then, as Staunton uttered another oath:

“Why, did you expect me to bring back my old chum, when I knew they would give him five or ten years of penal servitude? Do you think I am flesh and blood and could do it? No! I have kept my promise, and brought back the five thousand pounds, and not a farthing of it would he or you have seen but for me.”

Perhaps Staunton was not as hard-hearted as he seemed, for he ceased blustering and shook Maurice’s hand very heartily; nay, more, when they told their story, and Mr. Huntingdon frowned angrily on hearing Maurice had connived at the criminal’s escape, he spoke up for Maurice. “You did not expect the young gentleman, sir, to put the handcuffs on his old pal; it is against human nature, you see.”

“Perhaps so,” returned Mr. Huntingdon, coldly; “but I should have thought better of you, Trafford, if you had sacrificed feeling in the matter. Well, it may rest now. I have struck off George Anderson’s name as defaulter out of my book and memory, and I will tell Dobson to add his salary to yours. No thanks,” he continued in rather a chilling manner, as Maurice’s eyes sparkled, and he attempted to speak; “it is a fair recompense for your sagacity. Go on as well as you have begun, and your future will be assured. To-morrow I shall expect you to dine with me at Belgrave House. Dobson is coming, too,” and with a slight nod Mr. Huntingdon dismissed him.

That night Maurice laid his head upon his pillow and dreamed happy dreams of a golden future. To-morrow he should see the dark-eyed girl who had spoken so sweetly to him; and as he remembered her words and glances of gratitude, and the touch of her soft, white hands, Maurice’s heart gave quick throbs that were almost pain.

He should see that lovely face again, was his first waking thought; but when the evening was over Maurice Trafford went back to his lodgings a sadder and a wiser man.

He was dazzled and bewildered when he saw her again—the young girl in the white gown was changed into a radiant princess. Nea was dressed for a ball; she came across the great lighted room to greet Maurice in a cloud of gauzy draperies. Diamonds gleamed on her neck and arms; her eyes were shining; she looked so bewilderingly beautiful that Maurice grew embarrassed, all the more that Mr. Huntingdon’s cold eyes were upon them.

Maurice never recalled that evening without pain. A great gulf seemed to open between him and his master’s daughter; what was there in common between them? Nea talked gayly to him as well as to her other guests, but he could hardly bring himself to answer her.

His reserve disappointed Nea. She had been longing to see him again, but the handsome young clerk seemed to have so little to say to her. He was perfectly gentlemanly and well bred, but he appeared somewhat depressed.

Nea’s vanity was piqued at last, and when Lord Bertie joined them in the evening she gave him all her attention. Things had not progressed according to Mr. Huntingdon’s wishes. Nea could not be induced to look favorably on Lord Bertie’s suit; she pouted and behaved like a spoiled child when her father spoke seriously to her on the subject. The death of one of Lord Bertie’s sisters had put a stop to the wooing for the present; but it was understood that he would speak to Nea very shortly, and after a long and angry argument with her father she was induced to promise that she would listen to him.

Nea was beginning to feel the weight of her father’s inflexible will. In spite of her gayety and merry speeches, she was hardly happy that evening. Lord Bertie’s heavy speeches and meaningless jokes oppressed her—how terribly weary she would get of him if he were her husband, she thought. She was tired of him already—of his commonplace, handsome face—of his confidential whispers and delicately implied compliments—and then she looked up and met Maurice’s thoughtful gray eyes fixed on her. Nea never knew why she blushed, or a strange, restless feeling came over her that moment; but she answered Lord Bertie pettishly. It was almost a relief when the carriage was announced, and she was to leave her guests. Maurice, who was going, stood at the door while Lord Bertie put her in the carriage—a little gloved hand waved to him out of the darkness—and then the evening was over.

Mr. Huntingdon had not seemed like himself that night; he had complained of headache and feverishness, and had confided to Dobson that perhaps after all Dr. Ainslie was right, and he ought to have taken more rest.

Somehow he was not the man he had been before his accident; nevertheless he ridiculed the idea that much was amiss, and talked vaguely of running down to the sea for a few days.

But not even that determined will of his could shake off the illness that was creeping over him, and one night when Nea returned from a brilliant réunion she found Belgrave House a second time in confusion. Mr. Huntingdon had been taken suddenly ill, and Dr. Ainslie was in attendance.

By and by a nurse arrived—a certain bright-eyed little Sister Teresa—and took charge of the sick man. After the first few days of absolute danger, during which he had been tolerably submissive, Mr. Huntingdon had desired that he should be kept informed of all matters connected with an important lawsuit of his at present pending; and during the tedious weeks of convalescence Maurice Trafford carried the daily report to Belgrave House. It seemed as though fate were conspiring against him; every day he saw Nea, and every day her presence grew more perilously sweet to him.

She had a thousand innocent pretexts for detaining him, little girlish coquetries which she did not employ in vain. She would ask him about her father, or beg him to tell her about the tiresome lawsuit, or show him her birds and flowers, anything, in fact, that her caprice could devise to keep him beside her for a moment; very often they met in her father’s room, or Mr. Huntingdon would give orders that Mr. Trafford should stay to luncheon.

Nea, in her blindness, thought she was only amusing herself with an idle fancy, a girl’s foolish partiality for a face that seemed almost perfect in her eyes; she little thought that she was playing a dangerous game, that the time was fast approaching when she would find her fancy a sorrowful reality.

Day by day those stolen moments became more perilous in their sweetness; and one morning Nea woke up to the conviction that Maurice Trafford loved her, that he was everything to her, and that she would rather die than live without him.

It was one afternoon, and they were together in the drawing-room. Maurice had come late that day, and a violent storm had set in, and Mr. Huntingdon had sent down word that Mr. Trafford had better wait until it was over. To do Mr. Huntingdon justice, he had no idea his daughter was in the house; she had gone out to luncheon, and he had not heard of her return.

The heavy velvet curtains had been drawn to shut out the dreary scene, and only the fire-light lit up the room; Nea, sitting in her favorite low chair, with her feet on the white rug, was looking up at Maurice, who stood leaning against the mantel-piece talking to her.

He was telling her about his father’s early death, and of the sweet-faced mother who had not long survived him; of his own struggles and poverty, of his lonely life, his efforts to follow his parents’ example. Nea listened to him in silence; but once he paused, and the words seemed to die on his lips. He had never seen her look like that before; she was trembling, her face was pale, and her eyes were wet with tears; and then, how it happened neither of them could tell, but Maurice knew that he loved her—knew that Nea loved him—and was holding her to his heart as though he could never let her go.