Part 27 (1/2)
”Well?”
”Well, he set that matter right between us with perfect taste. He said: 'I cannot presume to offer repayment to a person so wealthy. We gratefully accept our obligation to our kind unknown friend. For the future, however, my nephew's expenses must be paid from my purse.' Of course I could only agree to that. From time to time the mother is to hear, and I am to hear, how the boy goes on. Or, if you like, Romayne--now that the General's family has left England--I don't see why the proprietor might not make his report directly to yourself.”
”No!” Romayne rejoined, positively. ”Let things remain as they are.”
”Very well. I can send you any letters that I may receive from the asylum. Will you give us some music, Mrs. Romayne? Not to-night? Then let us go to the billiard-room; and as I am the worst of bad players, I will ask you to help me to beat your accomplished husband.”
On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid arrived at Ten Acres with a note from her mistress.
”Dearest Stella--Matilda must bring you my excuses for to-day. I don't in the least understand it, but I seem to have turned lazy. It is most ridiculous--I really cannot get out of bed. Perhaps I did do just a little too much yesterday. The opera after the garden party, and a ball after the opera, and this tiresome cough all night after the ball. Quite a series, isn't it? Make my apologies to our dear dismal Romayne--and if you drive out this afternoon, come and have a chat with me. Your affectionate mother, Emily Eyrecourt. P. S.--You know what a fidget Matilda is. If she talks about me, don't believe a word she says to you.”
Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart.
”Is my mother very ill?” she asked.
”So ill, ma'am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a doctor. You know what my mistress is. If you would please to use your influence--”
”I will order the carriage instantly, and take you back with me.”
Before she dressed to go out, Stella showed the letter to her husband.
He spoke with perfect kindness and sympathy, but he did not conceal that he shared his wife's apprehensions. ”Go at once,” were his last words to her; ”and, if I can be of any use, send for me.”
It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She brought sad news.
The physician consulted told her plainly that the neglected cough, and the constant fatigue, had together made the case a serious one.
He declined to say that there was any absolute danger as yet, or any necessity for her remaining with her mother at night. The experience of the next twenty-four hours, at most, would enable him to speak positively. In the meantime, the patient insisted that Stella should return to her husband. Even under the influence of opiates, Mrs.
Eyrecourt was still drowsily equal to herself. ”You are a fidget, my dear, and Matilda is a fidget--I can't have two of you at my bedside.
Good-night.” Stella stooped over her and kissed her. She whispered: ”Three weeks notice, remember, for the party!”
By the next evening the malady had a.s.sumed so formidable an aspect that the doctor had his doubts of the patient's chance of recovery. With her husband's full approval, Stella remained night and day at her mother's bedside.
Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage, Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.
The illness of Mrs. Eyrecourt was unexpectedly prolonged. There were intervals during which her vigorous const.i.tution rallied and resisted the progress of the disease. On these occasions, Stella was able to return to her husband for a few hours--subject always to a message which recalled her to her mother when the chances of life or death appeared to be equally balanced. Romayne's one resource was in his books and his pen. For the first time since his union with Stella he opened the portfolios in which Penrose had collected the first introductory chapters of his historical work. Almost at every page the familiar handwriting of his secretary and friend met his view. It was a new trial to his resolution to be working alone; never had he felt the absence of Penrose as he felt it now. He missed the familiar face, the quiet pleasant voice, and, more than both, the ever-welcome sympathy with his work. Stella had done all that a wife could do to fill the vacant place; and her husband's fondness had accepted the effort as adding another charm to the lovely creature who had opened a new life to him. But where is the woman who can intimately a.s.sociate herself with the hard brain-work of a man devoted to an absorbing intellectual pursuit? She can love him, admire him, serve him, believe in him beyond all other men--but (in spite of exceptions which only prove the rule) she is out of her place when she enters the study while the pen is in his hand.
More than once, when he was at work, Romayne closed the page bitterly; the sad thought came to him, ”Oh, if I only had Penrose here!” Even other friends were not available as a resource in the solitary evening hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social and political engagements. And Major Hynd--true to the principle of getting away as often as possible from his disagreeable wife and his ugly children--had once more left London.
One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and death, Romayne found his historical labors suspended by the want of a certain volume which it was absolutely necessary to consult. He had mislaid the references written for him by Penrose, and he was at a loss to remember whether the book was in the British Museum, in the Bodleian Library, or in the Bibliotheque at Paris. In this emergency a letter to his former secretary would furnish him with the information that he required. But he was ignorant of Penrose's present address. The Lorings might possibly know it--so to the Lorings he resolved to apply.
CHAPTER III.
FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK.
ROMAYNE'S first errand in London was to see his wife, and to make inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. The report was more favorable than usual. Stella whispered, as she kissed him, ”I shall soon come back to you, I hope!”
Leaving the horses to rest for a while, he proceeded to Lord Loring's residence on foot. As he crossed a street in the neighborhood, he was nearly run over by a cab, carrying a gentleman and his luggage. The gentleman was Mr. Winterfield, on his way to Derwent's Hotel.
Lady Loring very kindly searched her card-basket, as the readiest means of a.s.sisting Romayne. Penrose had left his card, on his departure from London, but no address was written on it. Lord Loring, unable himself to give the required information, suggested the right person to consult.