A Life For a Love Part 24

"Yes, love is beautiful," answered Valentine gravely. Her eyes filled with sudden soft tears of happiness. "And there is something better even than love," she said, looking at Suzanne, and speaking with a sudden burst of confidence. "The highest bliss of all is to give joy to those who love you."

"And you will do that to-morrow, madame," replied Suzanne fervently.

"Oh, this lof, so beautiful, so rare--you will lay it at monsieur's feet--he is goot, monsieur is, and how great is his pa.s.sion for madame."

The young Swiss girl flitted gaily about, and by-and-bye the packing even for this sudden voyage was accomplished.

"You will take me with you, madame?" said Suzanne.

"No, Suzanne, there is no time to arrange that, nor shall I really want you. We may have to rough it a little, my husband and I; not that we mind, it will be like a continual picnic--quite delicious."

"But madame must be careful of her precious health."

The color flushed into Valentine's cheeks.

"My husband will take care of me," she said. "No. Suzanne, I shall not take you with me. You will stay here for the present, and my father will arrange matters for you. Now you can go downstairs and have some supper. I shall not want you again to-night."

The girl withdrew, and Valentine stood by the fire, gazing into its cheerful depths, and seeing many happy dream pictures.

"Yes, I shall certainly go with him. Even if what I dread and hope and long for is the case, I shall be with him. I can whisper it first to him. I ought to be with _him_--I ought to be with my husband then. Why did Suzanne speak about my health? No one will take such care of me as Gerald. Even my father cannot approach Gerald for tenderness, for sympathy when one is out of sorts. How soothing is Gerald's hand; how quieting. Once I was ill for a few hours. Only a bad headache, but it went when he made me lie very still, and when he clasped my two hands in one of his. Yes, I quite believe in Gerald. Even though I do not understand that night at the Gaiety, still I absolutely believe in my husband. He is too n.o.ble to tell a lie; he had a reason for not explaining what looked so strange that night. He had a right reason, probably a good and great one. Perhaps I'll ask him again some day.

Perhaps when he knows there's a little--little _child_ coming he'll tell me himself. Oh, G.o.d, kind, good, beautiful G.o.d, if you are going to give me a child of my very own, help me to be worthy of it. Help me to be worthy of the child, and of the child's father."

Mr. Paget's ring was heard at the hall door, and Valentine ran down to meet him. He had made all arrangements he told her. They would catch the 8.5 train in the morning from Waterloo, and he would call for her in a cab at a sufficiently early hour to catch it.

His words were brief, but he was quite quiet and business-like. He kissed his daughter affectionately, told her to go to bed at once, and soon after left the house.

Valentine gave directions for the morning and went back to her room.

She got quickly into bed, for she was determined to be well rested for what lay before her on the following day. She laid her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and prepared to go to sleep. Does not everybody know what happens on these occasions? Does not each individual who in his or her turn has especially desired for the best and most excellent reason a long sleep, a deep sleep, an unbroken and dreamless sleep found it recede further and further away--found eyes more watchful--brain more active, limbs more restless, as the precious moments fly by? How loud the watch ticks, how audible are the minutest sounds!

It was thus with Valentine Wyndham that night. No sleep came near her, and by slow degrees as the fire grew faint and the night deepened in silence and solemnity, her happy excitement, her childish joy, gave place to vague apprehensions. All kinds of nameless terrors came over her. Suppose an accident happened to the train? Suppose the _Esperance_ sailed before its time? Above all, and this idea was agonizing, was so repellant that she absolutely pushed it from her--suppose her father was deceiving her. She was horrified as this thought came, and came. It would come, it would not be banished. Suppose her father was deceiving her?

She went over in the silence of the night the whole scene of that evening. Her own sudden and fierce resolve, her father's opposition, his disappointment--then his sudden yielding. The more she thought, the more apprehensive she grew; the more she pondered, the longer, the more real grew her fears. At last she could bear them no longer.

She lit a candle and looked at her watch. Three o'clock. Had ever pa.s.sed a night so long and dreadful? There would not be even a ray of daylight for some time. She could not endure that hot and restless pillow. She would get up and dress.

All the time she was putting on her clothes the dread that her father was deceiving her kept strengthening--strengthening. At last it almost reached a panic. What a fool she had been not to go to Southampton the night before. Suppose Gerald's s.h.i.+p sailed before she reached it or him.

Suddenly an idea came like a ray of light. Why should she wait for her father? Why should she not take an earlier train to Southampton? The relative depths of Valentine's two loves were clearly shown when she did not reject this thought. It mattered nothing at all to her at this supreme moment whether she offended her father or not. She determined to go to Southampton by the first train that left Waterloo that morning. She ran downstairs, found a time-table, saw that a train left at 5.50, and resolved to catch it. She would take Suzanne with her, and leave a message for her father; he could follow by the 8.5 train if he liked.

She went upstairs and woke her maid.

"Suzanne, get up at once. Dress yourself, and come to me, to my room."

In an incredible short time Suzanne had obeyed this mandate.

"I am going to take you with me to Southampton. Suzanne. I mean to catch the train which leaves here at ten minutes to six. We have plenty of time, but not too much. Can you make some coffee for us both? And then either you or Masters must find a cab."

Suzanne opened her bright eyes wide.

"I will go with you, my goot madam," she said to herself. "The early hour is noting, the strangeness is noting. That olt man--I hate that olt man! I will go alone with you, mine goot mistress, to find the goot husband what is so devoted. Ach! Suzanne does not like that olt man!"

Coffee was served in Valentine's bedroom. Mistress and maid partook of it together. Masters was aroused, was fortunate enough in procuring a cab, and at five o'clock, for Valentine's impatience could brook no longer delay, she and Suzanne had started together for Waterloo.

Once more her spirits were high. She had dared something for Gerald. It was already sweet to her to be brave for his sake.

Before she left she wrote a short letter to her father--a constrained little note--for her fears stood between her and him.

She and Suzanne arrived at Waterloo long before the train started.

"Oh, how impatient I am!" whispered Mrs. Wyndham to her maid. "Will time never pa.s.s? I am sure all the clocks in London must be wrong, this last night has been like three."

The longest hours, however, do come to an end, and presently Valentine and Suzanne found themselves being whirled out of London, and into the early morning of a bright clear March day.

The two occupied a compartment to themselves. Suzanne felt wide awake, talkative, and full of intense curiosity; but Valentine was strangely silent. She ceased either to laugh or to talk. She drew down her veil, and establis.h.i.+ng herself in a corner kept looking out at the swiftly pa.s.sing landscape. Once more the fear which had haunted her during the night returned. Even now, perhaps, she would not be in time!

Then she set to work chiding herself. She must be growing silly. The _Esperance_ did not leave the dock until noon, and her train was due at Southampton soon after eight. Of course there would be lots of time.

Even her father who was to follow by the later train could reach the _Esperance_ before she sailed.

The train flew quickly through the country, the slow moments dropped into s.p.a.ce one by one. Presently the train slackened speed--presently it reached its destination.

Then for the first time Valentine's real difficulties began. She had not an idea from which dock the _Esperance_ was to sail. A porter placed her luggage on a fly. She and Suzanne got in, and the driver asked for directions. No, the _Esperance_ was not known to the owner of the hackney coach.

When the porter and the cabman questioned Mrs. Wyndham she suddenly felt as if she had come up against a blank wall. There were miles of s.h.i.+ps all around. If she could afford no clue to the whereabouts of the _Esperance_ the noon of another day might come before she could reach the dock where it was now lying at anchor.

At last it occurred to her to give the name of her father's s.h.i.+pping firm. It was a great name in the city, but neither the porter nor the cabman had come under its influence. They suggested, however, that most likely the firm of Paget Brothers had an office somewhere near. They said further that if there was such an office the clerks in it could give the lady the information she wanted.

Valentine was standing by her cab, trying not to show the bewilderment and distress which had seized her, when a man who must have been listening came up, touched his hat, and said civilly:--

"Pardon, madam. If you will drive or walk down to the quay, this quay quite close, there is an office, you cannot fail to see it, where they can give you the information you desire, as they are always posted up with regard to the out-going and in-coming vessels. That quay, quite near, cabby. Messrs. Gilling and Gilling's office."

He touched his hat again and vanished, being rewarded by Valentine with a look which he considered a blessing.

"Now," she said, "now, I will give you double fare, cabman, treble fare, if you will help me to get to the _Esperance_ in time; and first of all, let us obey that good man's directions and go to Messrs.

Gilling and Gilling."

The quay was close, and so was the office. In two minutes Valentine was standing, alas, by its closed doors. A sudden fierce impatience came over her, she rang the office bell loudly. Three times she rang before any one answered her summons. Then a rather dishevelled and sleepy-looking boy opened the door wide enough to poke his head out and asked her her business.

"I want to get news of the s.h.i.+p called the _Esperance_."

"Office don't open till nine."

He would have pushed the door to, but Suzanne stepping forward deftly put her foot in.

"Mine goot boy, be civil," she said. "This lady has come a long way, and she wants the tidings she asks very sore."

The office boy looked again at Valentine. She certainly was pretty; so was Suzanne. But the office really did not open till nine, and the boy could not himself give any tidings.

"You had better step in," he said. "Mr. Jones will be here at nine. No, I don't know nothing about the s.h.i.+p."