Cassell's Family Magazine/A Missing Witness/Chapter 3
Chapter III.—Separation.
“YOU little lazy-bones!” said Elsie, bending over me as I opened my eyes on Christmas morning.
She herself was dressed in her best morning gown, and looked the very picture of freshness and vivacity, her violet eyes twinkling with merriment as I turned in bewilderment on my pillow.
“Is it very late? is little mother down?” I asked, struggling to rise and collect my senses at the same time.
“No, dear; it's only half-past eight, and mother's still asleep. Lie down again, Dolly; it's Christmas Day, and no work to do”—with a joyful sigh. “If we have breakfast in an hour's time it will be soon enough. Then”—a shade of trouble passing over her face—“mother looks so worn out that I would not wake her. I expect it was ever so late before you came to bed?”
“It was late. There—there was such a lot of clearing-up to be done,” I stammered, with a confused recollection of what had happened.
“Chiefly my litter, I know. I never can put things in their right place. And to think I left you to do it all alone! Oh, I am selfish—almost unfeeling, I think. But I'll make it up to you dears one of these days. There, let me tuck you up. Oh, it is so cold! Jane's come”—Jane was the charwoman who came in sometimes to do the house-work. “I've told her what to do, and I've polished up everything and broken nothing, and the place is as neat and bright as if you yourself had been working at it for a couple of hours.
“Why, what's the matter, Elsie?” I asked, surprised by this unusual morning activity on her part.
A smile played over her pretty face and twinkled in her eyes as she held up her finger with the ring on it, in arch silence. Then I remembered about Phil, and saw pretty clearly that he must have promised to come early this morning. And maybe that had something to do with her tucking me up so carefully.
“This is where Spring hides herself,” said Phil, pausing on the threshold before Elsie as she opened the door to him. “You lovely little vision of sunshine and warmth!”
And then he came in and the door shut, he wiping the frost from his moustache.
“The rime on my moustache will take the bloom off your cheek,” said he.
“I don't mind it, dear,” she answered timidly, as she nestled in his arms.
Elsie helped him to take off his overcoat and hat, with a new and pleasant consciousness of her proprietary duties, and then they went into the sitting-room, where a fine big fire was leaping up the chimney, regardless of the price of coal.
“What do you think, Phil? Little mother says I cannot be your wife,” said Elsie, in a tone that was meant to be terrifying. But Phil, looking in her face and seeing how slightly its expression agreed with the accent of this grave announcement, continued to rub his hands cheerfully before the fire.
“I suppose that's a way of little mothers, at first,” said he. “Putting myself in her place, I should most decidedly object to anyone taking you away from me, under any pretext whatever.”
“Don't be a goose, Phil. It's no laughing matter. Mother's quite serious.”
“So she ought to be. Don't suppose that she would get rid of you to the first old-clothes-man that comes along, as if you were a dowdy gown that she could replace next week with a new one.”
“I don't know, Phil. Perhaps it was only an impulsive feeling, or because she felt tired and unstrung; but if you had seen her face when I told her”
Phil ceased to rub his hands; there was something now in Elsie's face which betokened a real fear that there were other reasons for mother's objection than she had chosen to tell. Knowing little mother's unselfish nature, he thought that her first impulse would have been to testify her own joy in Elsie's happiness, be the afterthought what it might.
“Little mother's impulses are generally good,” he said gravely, “and I have never known her too tired to be inconsiderate of her daughters' happiness. Did she tell you why you could not be my wife, Elsie dear?”
“She spoke of the difference in our position.”
“Why, that's to my disadvantage indeed, for position I have none. I've scarcely earned enough these two past years to keep myself, whilst you at least have been in a position to offer a poor fellow a crust of bread and cheese when he's needed it. And I have needed it more than once when I've dropped in for a gossip.”
“But you're not poor now, dear,” said Elsie with sympathy dimming her sweet eyes as she thought of her lover being pressed with hunger.
“Oh! the dear soul was thinking of my windfall,” cried he, with a happy laugh. “Why, how long do you think that would last us, when we've bought the brass plate and the red lamp? Just long enough, perhaps, with good fortune, to keep the wolf from the door till we've got our first paying patient. It's an awfully tedious and expensive business making a practice.”
“But if I were very economical, Phil, and we only kept a very small girl to wait at table?”
“A very small girl! Why, we shall have to keep a full-blown cook, and a gig, and a mare, and a boy in buttons, to make any favourable impression on would-be patients. And do you think I'll let my wife drudge and scrape, and wear dowdy dresses on this dear little body, or make these sweet fingers red and grimy? Not while my name's Phil!”
“Dear old Phil!”
“No other reasons, dear?” he asked with something of the professional solicitude in his voice that even a prospective practitioner contracts in diagnosing a case.
“No, dear; but if you had seen the pain in her face when I showed her my ring and told her you had intended to give it me later for fear of spoiling our Christmas. 'Oh, my poor Elsie,' she said, 'if I had only thought of what might happen I could have saved you this.'”
“Meaning,” said Phil, now also looking into the fire thoughtfully, “meaning that if she had foreseen my making you an offer she would have warned me that it was inadvisable.”
The impression was gaining strength in his mind that little mother's objection was of a nature that could not be confessed to Elsie.
“But you don't think it can be inadvisable, dear?” said Elsie anxiously, seeing how grave Phil had become.
“No, love. Nothing in the world could make me think it wrong to marry you. But your mother's objections must be respected, and for that reason—and that reason only—I do regret that my feelings ran away with me last night. It would be hard indeed if the happiness of little mother and Dolly and mine and yours were marred to-day by a little want of self-restraint on my part. Heaven knows I have kept myself in long enough to know better—I, who have been in love with you day and night for these two past years.”
“Have you, Phil? And I have scarcely guessed it—only just suspected it now and then by a little word or look. How strong and good you must be.”
“A little stronger and a little better, I should have spoken to mamma first, as I intended to do.”
“I don't like to hear you say that, Phil,” Elsie said quickly, her spirit leaping up; “I'm not a house to be taken by agreement between two parties aforesaid.”
“I was thinking, Elsie, that if mamma has more serious objection than she has chosen to give you, she will feel compelled to tell me at once”
“She will; she said she would”
“And if the objection is insurmountable, and you must think, dear, that little mother would not crush the hope out of any living thing lightly, then—to take the most selfish view of the case—where shall I spend the rest of this day?”
“And what should we do, Phil, we three alone, all crying and miserable, with not even work to divert our thoughts? Oh, Phil! she must not tell you to-day, even though her reasons are not more serious than those she has given. She must wait till to-morrow.”
“Then there must be no love-making till then, Elsie.”
Elsie caught up his hand and pressed it to her cheek with the impulse of one anticipating loss; then she put it away from her with an air of resolution, knitting her brows and thinking desperately for a remedy.
“Oh, I'll tell you what we can do, Phil dear—Doctor Fairfield, I mean. We will go on to-day exactly as if you had kept your resolution and nothing had happened last night. Here, take this ring—dear little ring!” she gave it a parting kiss as she took it from her finger. “Keep it till to-morrow, and give it me then, and say just the same sweet things you said last night—eh?”
Phil nodded, his love silencing his tongue, and took the ring back.
“And now I'll take a cup of tea up to little mother and tell her of the arrangement we have made. Not to make love all day in any shape or way—not the littlest bit.” She paused at the door, looking back archly.
“Not the littlest bit,” responded Phil jumping up and going to her, “after you leave this room.”
But before going there must have been, I fancy, not the littlest bit but a good deal, by the redness of Elsie's cheek when she brought me my tea. Innocently enough I asked if she had been scrubbing it with a coarse towel.
Sitting on the edge of the bed she told me what had passed downstairs—partly—whilst I sat open-mouthed with the tea-cup in my hand. She was delighted with the success of her plan, which little mother had agreed to joyfully.
“Of course, there's nothing serious,” she said cheerfully. “It's only some overstrained sentiment on her part which Phil will dispose of in a couple of words. Phil has the greatest contempt for sentiment—though feeling he holds in the deepest respect. Phil is such a great strong, manly fellow.” A great deal more in Phil's praise followed, which might sound very much like harping on one string if I repeated it. “But it was delightful to see how the shadow of care went from dear little mother's face when I told her I had given back my ring, and we were to pass the whole day as if nothing had happened.”
I could understand mother's relief. A whole day would give her time for reflection, and perhaps enable her to avoid a confession which I felt sure she would have to make before agreeing to Elsie's marriage. Without that she would have enough care on her mind, poor soul.
Little mother looked pale and anxious when she came into my room; but there was little beyond that to betray the effect of the severe mental and physical strain she had endured. Her eyes were bright with hope and courage, and the resolution to make the best of everything for our sakes. She wore the fichu Phil had given her, and her dear face flushed with pleasure when we kissed her and congratulated her on her pretty appearance in it.
“You look, dear,” said Elsie, holding her at arm's-length, “just like one of those lovely old miniatures enlarged.”
Indeed, it struck me that, had her hair been differently arranged, she would have resembled strikingly Sir Joshua's beautiful portrait of Mrs. Siddons.
We went downstairs together, and there was just a little embarrassment in mother's manner as she met Philip, though she looked him frankly and steadfastly in the face. But he was so unchanged, so like himself, our “dear old Phil,” gentle and unconstrained, that in a few minutes we were all at our ease with him, and this happy condition continued throughout the day.
One could see by Elsie's high spirits and evident desire to impart some of her own overflowing happiness to us, that a great and joyous event had happened in her life; but it was not so with Philip, though he lacked nothing of his customary cheerfulness and amiability. The practice of self-restraint during the many months that he had loved Elsie had become so much a habit, that he could readily overcome the many arch temptations that Elsie laid—perhaps unconsciously—in his way. We went for a long walk—oh, the delight of breathing the open air and enjoying perfect liberty!—and he scarcely left little mother's side once, addressing most of his pleasant conversation to her. I think he was studying her—trying to read her secret, that he might spare her the pain of an avowal. He knew her reason for objecting to Elsie's marriage was not a trivial one, and with his power of observation and knowledge of the world he, doubtless, arrived at a truer conception of the state of affairs than I could form, with all the incidents of the preceding night before me. His cool judgment and trained ability in forming deductions may have led him to fathom the mystery of my father's long absence, and of my mother's reticence, with more justice than was possible to those whose minds were prejudiced by sentiment. I feel convinced now that when he left us at night he had resolved that the proposal for Elsie's hand which he had to make to mother must—not for his own sake, but for ours—be postponed.
“You will come quite early to-morrow morning, Phil,” said Elsie, when we were parting with him at the door—“as early as you came to-day?”
“Yes,” he answered, “quite as early. Good-night again!”
“Good-night, Phil!” we cried all together, and lingered at the door to watch him as he marched off, with a farewell raising of his hat.
Elsie ran after and overtook him before he had got a dozen yards from the house.
“May I come and meet you?” she asked, in a whisper.
“Yes. I shall be at Hornsey by nine o'clock.”
“So shall I, Phil—dear Phil!” she answered, squeezing his hand before running back to us.
She told us not a word of this arrangement, for fear, I suppose, that mother might object or I offer to accompany her; and before we were down the next morning—for this was another day of rest for us that mother and I took full advantage of—she was up and away to-meet Phil.
Philip spied her coming towards him long before he reached Hornsey, her face aglow with the brisk exercise and her own warm sentiments, and his good heart must have ached with the prospect of dulling the happiness that shone in her eyes, and perhaps dimming them with tears.
She took his arm, clasping both hands upon it, for at that hour nobody was about whose regard was at all worth considering.
“Well, Phil, what have you got to tell me beyond compliments?” she asked archly, pressing his arm a little closer and glancing up in his face.
“Oh, a lot,” said he, with the determination to come to the point quickly. “When you find one windfall, you may expect others to follow. Look at this.”
And taking a letter out of his pocket, he put it in her hand.
“What a beautiful crest!” exclaimed Elsie, examining the envelope.
“Magnificent, isn't it?” replied he, in a tone that she thought was rather wanting in respect.
“And there's a coronet up in the corner here,” said she in greater admiration, as she opened the letter.
“With four silver balls in sight, and two round the corner.”
“What does that mean, Phil?”
“It means that the writer wishes you to understand before going any further that he is a lord and a baron.”
“What does it say?—
- “I Lindhurst, Dec. 22.
“'My dear Nephew,'”
She stopped, turned quickly to the envelope, and then, looking up at Phil in a kind of awe, exclaimed—
“Phil! Do you mean to say that you are the nephew of a lord?”
“It's not my fault, Elsie.”
“But you ought to be proud of it. Why, if I had an uncle who was a baron, nobody would ever hear the last of it.” Then, turning again to the letter, she read—
“'My dear Nephew,—I regret to say that my son Clarence is in such ill health that the family physician has ordered him to take a long sea voyage—of not less than six or eight months—under the care of a qualified medical man who may also be a cheerful companion to the poor lad. Dr. Blandly, of St. John's Hospital, spoke of you, without knowing of your relationship with me, as the most able man he knew for this purpose; and I do not wish to disguise the fact that if you accept this appointment you will render me a very great kindness. Incidentally, Dr. Blandly informed me that you have not yet succeeded in obtaining a practice, and he suggested at the same time that this (or a partnership with some established practitioner), in addition, of course, to your travelling expenses, might be the most acceptable kind of remuneration I could offer you in return for your services. I shall be happy to agree to this arrangement, supposing, naturally, that the expense is within reasonable limits. As the case does not admit of delay, I must beg you to wire me your decision not later than Thursday next, and to come on here as soon after as circumstances will permit.—Yours,
'Lindhurst.'”
Elsie's countenance fell as she read the letter, and finishing it, she turned quickly to Phil with desolation in her face, exclaiming—
“Thursday! Why, that's to-day.” He nodded gravely. “Have you sent your answer?”
“No; we will telegraph when we reach the post-office at Wood Green. What shall the answer be, dear?”
She hesitated, biting her lip to restrain its quivering. Then, without looking up, she said—
“If there were no such person as I in the world, what would you answer?”
“I should have answered before now—'Yes.'”
She said nothing as she folded the letter with trembling fingers, her eyes downcast; but as she fumbled to get the letter back into the envelope a big tear splashed down upon the paper.
“Elsie, dear!” said Phil, in a tone rather of sympathy than remonstrance, as he pressed her arm.
“I know it's selfish—and silly,” she said, hastily seeking her handkerchief; and she continued, breaking up her sentences as she choked down her swelling grief, “but to think—we shan't see you—for nearly a year—why, if nothing had happened —I couldn't help it.” And then a rivulet of sobs gushed out as she buried her face in the handkerchief. No one was near to see her, so she yielded to her emotion, standing still with hidden face, and her shoulders quivering with the grief that shook her heart. She was a good girl despite her volatile and care less disposition, and, without hesitation, she saw at once that Phil must go. And above the feeling of tender commiseration, pride and exultation rose in his breast to perceive that Elsie—the woman he had chosen to be his wife and lifelong helpmate—had something in her being higher and better than mere prettiness.
“In a year, love,” he said, gently drawing her hand away and slipping the ring once more upon her finger; “in a little year there will be no more parting. No,” he added with passionate determination; “no consideration of interests, or even of consequences, shall keep us asunder!”
“Oh, Phil!” she exclaimed, looking with love and joy into his face, as she resolutely thrust her handkerchief away and gulped down the last sob. “Let us think of nothing but that—of the time to come, not now—only a few months hence when we shall be all in all to each other, and inseparable for ever and ever.”
So they talked of the future as they went on, she, with almost hysterical delight, building castles in the air—each with a red lamp for beacon and a brass plate for escutcheon, and furnished them from the coal oubliette to the cook's bedroom in the upper walls, and even selected a nice colour for the livery of their small retainer, the boy in buttons. And when they went into the post-office she saw him write “I accept offer” upon the telegram form unmoved, and only felt a fresh aching at her heart as he added “Leave London by night train, arriving at Lindhurst to-morrow morning 5.30.”