Part 36 (1/2)

But when Stephen Lenox's wife understood the position in which she was placed, she at once decided upon all that was to be done, and gave her directions clearly and calmly--directions which Blake executed with an attention and thoughtful care as complete as any one could possibly have bestowed.

The little boy was to be buried at Venice, in the cemetery on the island opposite, early in the morning of the second day.

”She is _so_ sensible!” Mrs. Marcy commented, admiringly. ”Of course, under all the circ.u.mstances, it is the thing to do. But so many women would have insisted upon--all sorts of plans; and it would have been _so_ hard.”

”I would willingly carry out anything she wished for, no matter how difficult,” replied Blake. ”I greatly respect and admire Mrs. Lenox.

But, as you say, the perfect balance of her character, her clear judgment and beautiful goodness, have at once decided upon the best course.” (The lily had not quite said this; but in her present state of distressed sympathy she accepted it.)

Claudia, meanwhile, remained through all very silent. She a.s.sisted, and ably, in everything that was done, but said almost nothing.

The evening before the funeral the two ladies went across to Mrs.

Lenox's rooms; they had left her some hours before, as she had promised to lie down for a while, but they thought that she was now probably awake again. They found her sitting beside the little white-shrouded form.

”Now this is not wise, Elizabeth,” began Mrs. Marcy, chidingly.

”I think it is; I like to look at him,” replied the watcher. ”See, the peaceful expression I have been hoping for has come; it is not often needed on the face of a child, but it was with my poor little boy.

Look.”

And, sure enough, there shone upon the small, still countenance a lovely sweetness which had never been there in life. The face did not even seem thin; its lines had all pa.s.sed away; it looked very fair and young, and very peacefully at rest.

”His mother would know him now at once; he was a very pretty little fellow the last time she saw him, when he was about a year old,” she went on. ”I was very fond of his mother, and his father, as probably you know, was my only brother. Their child was very dear to me,” she resumed, after a short silence, which the others did not break. ”His constant suffering made him unlike stronger, happier children, and I think that was the very reason I loved him the more. I wanted to make it up to him. But I could not. I suppose he never knew what it was to be entirely without pain--the doctors have told me so. He did not know anything else, or any other way, but to suffer more or less, and to be tired all the time. And he was so used to it, poor little fellow, that I suppose he thought that every one suffered too--that that was life. He has found a better now.” Leaning forward, she took the small hands in hers. ”All my loving care, dear child, was not enough to keep you here,”

she said, smoothing them tenderly. ”But you are with your mother now; that is far better.”

The funeral took place early the next morning. Then Mrs. Lenox came back to her empty rooms, and entered them alone. She preferred it so.

After the first explanation, the only allusion she had made to her husband's absence was to Rodney Blake. That gentleman had not expressed the shadow of a disapprobation. He had not told her that he had objected to Lenox's lengthened absence, and had done what he could to prevent it; he had stopped Mrs. Marcy sharply when she spoke of telling.

”Can't you see, Sophy, that that would be the worst of all for her?” he said; ”to know that Lenox would go, in spite of my unconcealed opposition, just because Clau--just because he wanted those trivial drawings,” he added, changing the termination of his sentence, but quite sure, meanwhile, that ”Sophy” would never discover what he had begun to say.

Mrs. Lenox's remark was this. Blake had come in to speak to her about some necessary directions concerning the funeral, and when she had given them she said: ”It will be a grief to Stephen when he comes back that he could not have seen the little boy, even if but for once more. And I hoped so that he would see him! I expected you back at eight--you know that was the first arrangement--and towards seven he seemed easier. Once he even smiled, and talked a little about that legend of St. Mark and St. Theodore, of which, you remember, he was so fond. Then it was half-past seven, and I still hoped. And then it grew towards eight, and he was in pain again. Still I kept listening for the sound of your gondola. But it did not come. And at half-past eight he died. But perhaps it was as well so,” she continued, although her voice trembled a little. ”Stephen would have felt his suffering so much. I was more used to it, you know, than he was.”

”Yes,” answered Blake.

But she seemed to know that he was not quite in accord with her. ”Of course I feel it very deeply, Mr. Blake, on my own account, that my husband is not here; I depend upon him for everything, and feel utterly lonely without him. But his absence is one of those accidents which we must all encounter sometimes, and as to everything else--the outside help I needed--you have done all that even he could have done. You have been very good to me,” and she held out her hand.

Blake took it, and thanked her. And in his words this time he put something that contented her. It was the sacrifice he made to his liking for Stephen Lenox's wife.

The evening after the funeral Mrs. Marcy, who had been made nervous and ill by all that had happened, went out at sunset for a change of air, and Blake accompanied her. Claudia preferred to stay at home. But five minutes after the departure of their gondola she went up the stairs and across the hall bridge that led to Mrs. Lenox's apartment. Mrs. Lenox was there, lying on the sofa. It was the first time since the return that the two had been alone together. She looked pale and ill, and there were dark shadows under her eyes; but she smiled and spoke in her usual voice, asking Claudia to sit beside her in an easy-chair that stood there. Claudia sat down, and they spoke on one or two unimportant subjects. But the girl soon paused in this.

”I have come to say,” she began again, in a voice that showed the effort she made to keep it calm, ”that I shall never forgive myself, Mrs.

Lenox, for--for a great deal that I have thought about you, but especially for having had a part in the absence of your husband at such a time. If it had not been for me he would not have gone off on that foolish expedition. But I wanted those miserable drawings, or at least sketches of them, and so I kept talking about it. When I think of what you have had to go through, alone, in consequence of it, I am overwhelmed.” Here her voice nearly broke down.

”You must not take it all upon yourself, Miss Marcy,” answered the wife.

”No doubt Stephen wanted to please you; no doubt he wanted to very much--to get you the drawings, if it was possible; of that I am quite sure.”

But Claudia was not quieted. ”If you knew how I have suffered--how I suffer now as I see you lying there so pale and ill”--here she stopped again. ”I come to tell you how I feel your suffering, and I spend the time talking about my own,” she added, abruptly. ”I am a worthless creature!” And covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.

Mrs. Lenox put out her hand and stroked the beautiful bowed head caressingly. ”Do not feel so badly,” she said. ”You must not; it is not necessary.”

”But it is--it is,” said the girl, amid her tears. ”If you knew--”

”I do know, Claudia. I know _you_.”