Volume Iii Part 31 (1/2)

Deep in thought, Vavasour sat, until the minutes crept into hours, and then Mrs. Archer came, looking very different from the Mrs. Grey of old.

The frown had not, it is true, disappeared, but it had faded and given way to a mild, happy expression pervading every feature of her face.

There was still a mournful look--how could it be otherwise?--the mournful remembrance of the past; but even that was growing dim beside the ever-living presence of her son, and of her love for him. She had gained her wish, too, for Robert loved his mother, and, I think, was somewhat proud of her. There was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing he need blush for; she was his mother, he her son, acknowledged to be so by all the world.

She was dressed in black silk, and grey-coloured ribbons in her cap; her glossy, almost snow-white hair, still beautiful in its abundance, rolled round her head. She had grown quiet and gentle, and had none of the wild pa.s.sions or fits of half-madness now. As Robert sat gazing at her, he thought she must have been very beautiful in her youth, when that ma.s.s of hair was golden.

”Amy is not here,” she said, looking round.

”No. I am alone, and rather tired of my solitude, with a don't-care feeling of being left any longer by myself just creeping over me.”

”I thought Amy had been with you, or I should have been here before. Ah!

I see she has been, by the fresh flowers on the table. She is always thinking of you, my son; her love always in her heart.”

Robert moved impatiently. Had every one combined together to din his wife's love into his ears? Was he the victim of a conspiracy? So he replied, touchily.

”Amy is kind enough, and I dare say I am an ungrateful wretch.”

”Not ungrateful; but you might be a little, just a little, more loving to her sometimes. She is such a loving, sweet young wife.”

”You think she loves me?”

Mrs. Archer laughed. ”Are you in earnest, my son?” she asked.

”Never more so in my life,” was the reply.

His mother looked at him almost reproachfully.

”Can anyone doubt it?” she answered. ”I believe her whole soul is wrapt up in you, and I thank G.o.d that it is so, my son.”

Robert was silent,

”She is a fragile flower,” continued Mrs. Archer, ”one that the slightest cold breath might crush, yet withal strong in her deep love for you. It must be that, that has enabled her to bear up as she has, for she has had enough to try the strongest of us, and, I fear, looks more thin and shadowy every day.”

”Mother!” cried Robert, in alarm. ”You do not think Amy really ill?”

”I don't know what to think. She suffered an agony while she and I sat watching those dreadful weary hours by your bed-side; and I know Dr.

Bernard has now prescribed a tonic; but she does not gain strength, and seems more feeble than ever. Forgive me, my son, but I sometimes fear there is a coldness, a nameless chill between you, which makes my heart tremble for the future of both. For hers--because she will die, loving you so intensely, and--” Mrs. Archer hesitated a moment, ”and with little return; for yours--lest, when too late, you will see your error, and the remorse may break your heart. Oh! my son, if she has erred, it cannot have been wilfully, and surely she has been sufficiently punished. Think,” she added, laying her hand on his, as she was leaving the room, ”think well on my words, for I can have but one wish at my heart, and that is my son's happiness.”

And Robert did think--think deeply all the rest of that day. He seemed never tired of thinking, while his eyes rested oftener on his wife, and he watched her intensely.

What if she did love him? Ah! if only she did. His heart leapt wildly at the thought, and his jealous hatred seemed to have no place there now, but to be a far-off dream; or if it did intrude, he set it aside as a bugbear, or felt less savagely inclined than heretofore.

Could it be for him--she, his wife, brought fresh flowers for those already fading? How graceful she looked as she arranged them; not hurriedly, but slowly and tastefully--as though her heart was with the work,--in the gla.s.s. Was it for him she trod so softly over the room, while everything she touched a.s.sumed a different look, and slid quietly into its place, as though under the influence of a magic wand.

Hard and cruel! How chill those words of Mrs. Elrington's fell, like a dead weight on his heart, and had been ringing in his ears ever since.

If Frances Strickland had told him a lie, then he had been hard and cruel. But his wife had never denied the facts, hideous as they appeared; but had Frances exaggerated the story, and why had he refused to listen to Amy's explanation? Might she not have cleared away half its hideousness? His heart surged like the troubled waves by the sea-sh.o.r.e, and his breath came quick and hot, as he felt that he might have been mistaken in fancying his wife loved him not. If all this long time it had been so, then, indeed, he had been hard and cruel; and would she ever forgive him? or could he ever forgive himself? Tormented with doubts and fears, he watched and waited, and gave no sign to his wife that he did so, while she grew paler and paler, fading imperceptibly.

The days crept on--three more slipped by, and found Robert still undecided, still undetermined. Again Amy brought fresh flowers, and stood at the table arranging them as before, and again her husband's eyes watched her, and had she only looked up as the last flower was being placed in the gla.s.s, her heart would have found its rest, for her eyes must have seen the love trembling in her husband's; but Amy never looked, but went and sat over by the fire, without a word. Then Robert spoke--