The next day Ruth was unable to rise, and the doctor forbade her to leave her bed. From her pillow she held to her contest with Josephine, until something in Josephine rebelled against the unequal strife. As the morning went on, the latter came to Gabriel.
“I cannot feel easy about your poor little wife. She will never rest while you are with me, and you cannot live in a sick-room. Would it be wise for you to be called away to your work? She will be easy when you are out of the house, that is, outside my influence. And I shall not have this sense of taking advantage of her. It is a strange feeling to have, for spending an hour with the nephew, whom you have brought up from babyhood; but so things are just now. They will be better when health is better, and we all start again. I am prepared to start again myself; things were unfamiliar to me as well. But do you not think I am wise?”
The relief on Gabriel’s face gave Josephine her answer.
“Ah, I know what is best for you. Trust me, and all will be well. Be wise in choosing the woman’s hands into which you put your life.”
“Mine not to reason why; mine just to do and die. At your word I will be dead to the house.”172
Josephine gave the word for the afternoon of that day. She sent her nephew for a walk in the morning, and letting his wife know he was out of the house, showed the girl a maternal kindness that conquered any reluctance to be left to her care. Her face was cheerful and her step light.
At the hour for Gabriel to leave, she led him herself to his wife, and stood smiling in the doorway over their farewell. Ruth lifted herself on her pillows and looked from one to the other, and Josephine, warning her back with a gesture, nodded and withdrew. In a few minutes, but not too few, her step was heard again, and her clear unhurried knock, and Gabriel rose from his kneeling position by the bed. Josephine followed him, shaking out her dress, and exchanging a smile with his wife over some need of repair.
Towards evening Ruth was greatly worse, and the doctor diagnosed inflammation of the lungs, and pronounced her condition to be grave. A nurse was established to attend her by day, and Josephine was to undertake the night, as Elizabeth’s hands were full. Miss Rosetti, as Elizabeth’s friend, was permitted to give her aid.
“No, I shall not be exhausted in trying to work day and night,” said Josephine. “Trying to do it! Really doing it, or it would be less than no good; it would be criminal. No sleepy nursing for me! If I give up my usual work, I give it up. A mother is bound to make a nervous nurse. I can do a simple duty that is plain before me.”
Josephine seemed impervious to weariness, and to be buoyed up by some inner strength. As Ruth’s sickness drew her down into the depths of fear and suffering, she turned to her husband’s adopted mother as much as to her own, seeming to recognise a greater force. When the crisis approached, and she cried out for her husband, who, though summoned, seemed to be delayed, Josephine moved as seldom as the mother from her side. It was 173imperative that she should remain covered in her bed; the slightest exposure might be fatal; and there was need for complete devotion. On the second evening, as Josephine watched in the dying light, her delirious murmurs became distinct, and Josephine’s ear was alert.
“I knew he would belong to me when I saw his face, though he did not know. I cannot go to meet him now I am ill; but when I am well, I will go to him; and nobody shall watch us. We will tell her not to watch us. He is coming now!” The sick girl raised herself with all her strength, and seemed to be summoning it again to leave the bed.
Josephine sprang to prevent her, but stopped and stood with an arrested look, that seemed to creep across her face and gather to a purpose. She moved with a soft step to the bed, where Ruth had fallen.
“Do you want to get up, my child? Do you want my help?” Her tone seemed of itself to have become a whisper. “You know you may trust me.”
“I think I can trust you in some things,” said Ruth, meeting her eyes with a bright, clear gaze. “You are kind when I am ill. I must put on my things and go to Gabriel. He wants to see me by myself. You know we do not want anyone with us?” She turned her eyes again to Josephine. “You will not seem as if you did not know?”
“No, he shall see you by yourself. I have been too much with you: I will see it is never so again. Which dress would you like to wear? Which does he like to see you in? Come to the fire and tell me.” Josephine lifted Ruth to her feet, and stood with her arm about her, but did not guide her forward. It was as if she felt some security in nearness to the bed. The girl leant against her, falling but for the support, and made no further movement. Josephine glanced from the open window to the door, and contracted her 174shoulders in the draught between them. Ruth’s voice came again, steadied by the cold.
“I cannot be dressed to-day; Gabriel will know that I can’t. He would not like me to be in the cold.” She shuddered, and indeed the draught seemed stronger. “I will lie down and go to sleep; I am very tired. You will watch me, and wake me when Gabriel comes? If you listen, you will hear him coming. You know his step.”
Josephine felt her body respond from head to foot, as the trust and weakness of the tones pierced something that bound her. Her face was that of another woman. She lifted the girl to the bed and covered her, bending to secure the clothes. As she raised her head, her eyes fell on the door, and set into a stare, while her body seemed to be fixed in its stooping posture. The door stood open; the reason of the draught flashed to her mind; the silent movements of sickness had escaped her ears. Miss Rosetti stood in the doorway, with something for the sick-room in her hand, her feet riveted to the floor, her eyes to Josephine’s face.
“Oh, what a moment!” said Josephine, standing up straight. “I shall never forget it. She was out of bed in a second. I should not have thought she had the strength. I was not reckoning with it, and time got wasted. I could not lift her by myself. Oh, I wish someone had been here. I found myself counting the seconds through the horror of it.”
The pause that followed seemed as full of effort as Josephine’s words.
“It was a strange thing to happen,” said Miss Rosetti, her glance going up and down Josephine’s frame, as though measuring it against the task that had been beyond it. “One of those things that we cannot explain. Was she long in the cold?”
“It seemed hours to me,” said Josephine, letting out her breath. “You must have seen us. I could not get her balanced, to help her 175forward. And she was hardly a yard from the bed; there seemed such irony in it. And the window was open, as the doctor said it must be. The draught was full on her; I felt it on myself. If only its being on her had mattered as little!”
“Yes,” said Miss Rosetti, her eyes again covering Josephine’s form. “But it does no good to talk about it. We may be in danger from our memories. And she seems to be sleeping now.”
But Gabriel’s wife did not sleep long. Her temperature went to a dangerous height, her breathing was ominously shallow and swift, and the doctor, summoned in haste, betrayed that his hope was gone. Josephine tended the girl with intense absorption, let no one but herself and the mother approach the bed, and seemed to feel it the object of her life that she should be saved. But the disease had gained ascendance, and they were losing hours. The crisis came with the expected force, and as it ebbed the life ebbed with it.
Josephine fell on her knees by the bed and broke into weeping. She and Elizabeth clung to each other, and Miss Rosetti went in silence about what had to be done.
Gabriel arrived in the small hours of the morning. The telegram sent to summon him had arrived too late, although Josephine had written and despatched it with her own hand. Josephine met him in open grief and weariness, but as she fell on his neck, her tones rang.
“My boy, you have what you have always had. You are not alone.”
But after that moment Josephine herself gave way. She wept for her nephew’s wife as she had never wept for her husband. There came no reaction from her despairing grief, and Gabriel, in his rather gentle sorrow, found himself consoling rather than consoled. She lamented her dealings with his wife, and held her own against herself.176
“I do not need false comfort. I can face the truth. What are called the little things are the gravest human wrongs. No recognised wrong, even though it were injury or death, takes its place beside them in the scale of human harm.”
“It is a good thing that you will never have a real wrong on your mind.”
“It would be easier to bear; it would be a better thing. Better a murder than a meanness.”
“A murder is the worst meanness. Yours were the least.”
Gabriel’s mood was readily in tune with a suffering that he saw as sympathy.
“A murder would never be done without an excuse: the things without excuse must remain the inexcusable things.”
At last weariness had its way, and Josephine slept; and after the unconscious hours arose in her own strength. It had been assumed that she would not attend the burial, and she met the assumption with gentle surprise.
“I should not let anything keep me away. My place is with Gabriel.”
“We thought you would not feel equal to it,” said Miss Rosetti.
“I do not know that I do feel equal to it. But that has little to do with the matter.”
“You did not go to your husband’s funeral,” said Miss Rosetti, her voice significant from its very lack of force.
“No,” said Josephine, her hands trembling. “And you know that I know that, without your telling me.”
“I suppose you see your own difference.”
“And do you not see it? Then I will help you. Simon was a man and my husband, and this was an orphan girl. Then I had myself to consider; now I have Gabriel. Then my feelings were of personal loss; now they are of pity. Do you see the difference 177now? By the way”—Josephine spoke with a haste that precluded words from the other—“if you would find it too much for you, you will not go, will you?”
“I am not going, but not for that reason. I am remaining with Mrs. Giffard.”
“I should have known if I had thought. It lifts a weight from my mind. I will not say that I am grateful.”
Josephine stood with Gabriel at his wife’s grave. Gabriel did not weep, but Josephine wept. A wreath inscribed with her name was laid on the coffin by his own.
On their return she parted from him as they entered the house.
“My son, we know what you have in your life. But to-day you must dwell on what you have not. I will leave you for a while alone.”
There was a remembrance in both their minds of the day of Simon’s burial.
“I have come to say a word of gratitude,” said Josephine, as she sought the familiar common room. “I have not been blind to what I have not seen, your loyal carrying on of the school in your own anxiety and sorrow. I know that my feelings have been indulged, and yours conquered. If I could have a pleasure, it would be one to make my acknowledgement.”
“We ought to say more than that to you, Mrs. Napier,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“No,” said Josephine, her tone rising at this unconscious testimony to Miss Rosetti’s silence. “It does not apply to me. I am the first to say it. That does not alter my recognition of a more selfless courage.”
“You had a nearer anxiety than any of us,” said Miss Luke.
“Nearer in that it was to me, that the child turned of all people at the end?” said Josephine in a voice so low as only just to be heard.178
“I meant the anxiety for Gabriel,” said Miss Luke, at the same pitch.
“No feeling is nearer to me, than that I have for those who work for and with me. In giving her that I gave her what I could give.”
“It is tragic that your nephew was not in time,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“No,” said Josephine gently; “not tragic. You must not encourage me in making too much of what is in itself indeed enough. The child was, as I have said, content; and he could only be satisfied that it was so. And he was himself, and let himself be satisfied.”
“You have to attempt more for him than ever before,” said Miss Luke. “And I know that is saying much.”
“In trying to comfort him in a trouble that leaves him myself? No, I have attempted that, and succeeded many times. You must not make me feel that I am doing more than I am.”
“But never in such a trouble as this,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“Never in this trouble. But all the troubles have been such as this, in, as I say, leaving him myself. And it has already happened in the old way; and I am here with you, feeling it has so happened. If it were not so, I confess I should not be here.”
“Then he did not—did not feel even to his wife, as he feels to you?” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“I have meant to say simply that I have left him comforted. I may say that simply, I think, among my friends.”
“You may indeed,” said Miss Luke.
“You have the anxiety and responsibility of Mrs. Giffard as well,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“The anxiety I have; the responsibility I have allowed to devolve upon Miss Rosetti. I have felt, rightly or wrongly, that a woman of her own will childless was the best comforter. And there must be other things in Miss Rosetti, that qualify her rather than me. 179Anyhow, it was to her rather than me, that my old friend turned.” Josephine folded her hands and dropped her eyes upon them.
Miss Rosetti did not speak.
“Of course we look back in doubt on our dealings with the child,” said Miss Luke. “We cannot expect to escape that burden.”
“If there are burdens for all of us, does it not come to there being no burden for any?” said Josephine. “For some young natures—I say it in all tenderness, seeing in their youth their full excuse—tend to find grounds for unhappiness. It seems to satisfy some young need. The questions we have asked ourselves, for that we all ask them, lay themselves to rest.”
“It is a great bond between you and Mrs. Giffard, that Gabriel must feel he is a son to you both,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“He is too much under the weight of things at the moment, to feel he is a son to more than one person. He has come creeping back to me like a little child. He can only feel that what has always supported him, is with him, and turn to it blindly, as the beginning and the end. I have simply to accept it, having no means of combating an instinct so deep and blind.”
“It is terrible that he should be crushed on the threshold of life.”
“It would be terrible. But he is young and brave. The young do not see courage in yielding. Forth they go on their different ways and in their different worlds!” Josephine moved her hand.
“And always together,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“And always apart. That is where the bravery lies for them. For us it lies in the truth, that the young in their eagerness and bewilderment ask so much, that we feel we have given little. And my own is perhaps the harder, the more humiliating. For I have to feel that Gabriel might have given more as a husband, if he had given less as a son. I have to let the truth close over me. And you with your little load of regret, come to me for comfort! Well, 180you may have the comfort of knowing that I am in comparison heavy laden.”
During the silence that ensued, Josephine rose and moved to the door, stooping to Miss Rosetti as she passed her.
“May I ask you for a few moments of your time? I have taken so much, that I can claim no scruple in going further.”
Miss Rosetti rose and followed, and at a distance along the corridor Josephine came to a pause.
“It is a strange place for setting on foot a discussion. But Gabriel is in the library, and we can hardly talk into youthful ears. And our friends seem to be established behind. I should have thought that this house was large enough for all its purposes, but we seem to be blocked up fore and aft. I wished to ask you if you are still available for me as a partner. If you are not, I must remind myself that I have given you time to change your mind, and not be surprised that you have used it. But now that I am harassed by personal troubles, I should be grateful for support in my working life. At one time it was not so. It is so now. Will you give me your answer, or do you desire me to wait? I need not say that I am in your hands.”
Miss Rosetti looked at the ground, something like a smile creeping across her face.
“It is wise of you to make the offer. It is clever as well as wise. I do not say that it is not also kind. I will tell you that I would accept it, if the choice were mine. But the choice is no longer mine. If it were, I would be your partner, surprising though that may be both to you and to me. I will not give you the wrong reason for my refusal: I find that what I say is the truth.”
“I am indeed sorry,” said Josephine, in simply expressionless tones. “If things are ever different, I may rely on you to tell me?”
“I can tell you now that they will never be different. But I will remember the chance you have given me: I will remember both 181sides of you that I have seen, the many facets that go to make up the surface of a soul.” Miss Rosetti spoke in her natural voice as she turned from Josephine. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Napier. I will not forget.”
Josephine took a deep breath and stood as if bewildered, and then continued her way to the library.
Gabriel was turning the leaves of a book, and looked up and closed it, uneasy at betraying interest in it. Josephine went up to him and passed her hand over his head.
“Not equal to reading as yet, being as you are? Shall we lift the troubles off your mind, that I know are on it? What do you feel about returning to your work? Can you face the return alone? Ah, don’t be afraid to break down, my boy; turn to me, and let me comfort you. You have it all left, a home and a woman in it. We will give up your house and make our life in this one, in yours and mine.”
“What about my work?” said Gabriel.
“What could there be about it? Some other young man will take it, and be gladder to have it than you can be, because it fulfils his need. You are not a person who thinks himself indispensable in any little place?”
“Of course not. And this was a little place indeed. But there will be the money wasted.”
“Not as much as will be saved.”
“I shall give up both my allowances, when the bills are paid. My proper pocket-money, as a lad at home, will be five shillings a week.”
“Well, have your proper pocket-money then,” said Josephine, with easy tenderness, “and let the balance accumulate for the future.”
“But you and Father will stop giving me help. Nothing else would be thinkable.”182
“No, why should I? Why should he? Why should an established plan be changed, when nothing has happened in direct relation to it?”
“Most people would see reasons.”
“Well, perhaps I am a little different from most people.”
“You certainly are,” said Gabriel, a gleam of interest appearing on his face.
Josephine kept her eyes averted from it.
“My dear,” she said, still in the manner of easy perplexity, “all that I have is simply yours, of course. You may as well see the stone gathering the moss. Your future is longer than mine, and I am concerned with nobody else’s. I shall not leave my hard-earned savings to hospitals, whatever you may expect of me. You have by no means such a charitable aunt.”
“A charitable aunt is what I have, if charity begins at home.”
“It seems to me a good place for it to begin, if it does not to everyone. I will show you in a moment how our affairs stand.” Josephine observed Gabriel’s recoil, and sank back as if unconsciously. “I mean some time in the future, but I think in the near future. Nothing so helps to steady nerves and spirits as concentration on material things.”
As the gleam of interest again appeared, Josephine left the subject and took up her sewing, her expression showing her own great weariness.
The cloud grew deeper on her face as her fingers worked. She felt no sense of comfort in her restored world. Something had not been returned to it; something was wanting.
A light seemed to dawn at the back of her mind, as she recognised a knock.
“I can hardly apologise for intruding,” said Felix; “as I am a person who could not be felt to intrude. And I am not forgetting 183my position in the house. I simply thought that an outsider’s influence might be wholesome.”
“Come in, in whatever character you will,” said Gabriel. “My present course is where madness lies.”
Josephine seemed to herself to experience a familiar pang without feeling it. She sat in silence, her eyes going from one to the other, blinded by a flash of understanding. The pang she actually felt, was not for Gabriel, but for Felix! She rose and stumbled from the room, her face dazed and startled, as if from a shock. With her own power she faced the truth, and grappled with her knowledge of herself. Gabriel’s place in her life had been filled by Felix! Gabriel had been snatched back to a world that was his no longer. If he remained away, it would have been better for him; it would have been better for her, as it would have left her Felix for her own.
Moving along, hardly knowing where she went, she came upon Helen, carrying some books.
“You are laden, my dear,” she said.
“I am taking some books to the library, that Mr. Bacon has chosen for Gabriel—for your nephew, Mrs. Napier.”
“Call him Gabriel, my child. I am glad for him to have friends of his own age. He must not lose youth and hope because one chapter of his life is closed. It is only a reason for his starting another. I hope you will cultivate a friendly feeling towards him?”
“We all have it already, Mrs. Napier.”
“I meant you yourself, if you will let me say what I meant. You are of his age, of his tastes, of—may I say it? —his class and kind. I should be grateful for your companionship for him; and he would be grateful, if you would allow him the necessary time. May I ask you to join him sometimes when I have to leave him?”
“It would give me great pleasure, Mrs. Napier.”184
“It would give you a sense of duty done, of kindness accomplished, that would be a pleasure, I am sure. You may rely upon us to grant you the pleasure as often as we can persuade you to accept it.”