CHAPTER XXXVII.
ILL NEWS FLY APACE.
Never any more, while I live, Need I hope to see his face as before.
Maud reached her house over-tired, over-wrought, and somewhat sad atheart. She had gone much further than she meant, much further than herreal feelings prompted. Even as she yielded to the sudden impulse shehad repented, and while still doing it begun to wish the deed undone.She had been vexed and teased and excited till she scarce knew what heractions meant. The man to whom she had committed herself by socompromising an indiscretion had no sooner reached the dangerouseminence in her regard than he began to fall away and make her doublyremorseful for the act. She resented his ascendency over her, the forceof the liking with which he inspired her and the degree to which he ledher where he would. His language, when he was not there to carry it offwith fun and daring, seemed unreal, exaggerated, absurd. Even beforethey got home her taste had begun to turn against him. Boldero's almostreverential care of her set her upon disparaging the other's lawless,inconsiderate homage. The very way in which he stayed behind was, sheknew, intended as a sulky protest against Boldero's intrusion. A man whoreally cared about her would, Maud felt, have acquiesced in what shechose, what it was obviously right for her to choose, without any suchdisplay of temper. Then there had been something in Desvoeux's manner,when he wished her good-night, which implied a private understanding andset her heart beating with indignation. A really fine nature would havebeen doubly deferential, doubly courteous, doubly watchful againstseeming to take a liberty. Desvoeux's tone had something in it to Maud'sear, which was familiar, easy, only just not disrespectful. She had beendefying public opinion for him all day; she had at last, in a suddenimpulse of pity, put herself at his mercy: already she began to doubtwhether he was a man who would use his advantage generously. Perhapsafter all Felicia had been right about him.
Then, when she got home, everything conspired to try her nerves. In thefirst place, no letter had come from her husband; there had been noletter for two days before, and this was a longer interval than hadever yet occurred. She tried in vain not to be frightened at theunaccustomed silence. Mrs. Vereker laughed her anxieties to scorn, butMaud knew better what such a long cessation implied. Her conscience wastoo ill at ease not to be apprehensive at the first occasion, howevertrivial, for alarm. Either something had happened or, dreadfulpossibility, her husband was displeased, and too displeased to write.While she was taking off her things and harassing herself with all sortsof fancied troubles, Mrs. Vereker came in and completed herdiscomfiture.
'Maud,' she said, and Maud thought her tones sounded harsh andunsympathetic (how different from Felicia's gentle lectures! whichalways thawed her heart at once), 'I have been commissioned to give youa scolding and by whom, do you suppose?'
'I really don't know, and don't care,' said Maud, in a pet, 'I have hadenough the last few days to last me for some time. Will it not keep tillto-morrow or the day after?'
'No, it will not,' said Mrs. Vereker, who was herself sincerely provokedat the notoriety which Maud's indiscretion had attained; 'it is from theViceroy. I have something to say to you from him. Now do you wish tohear?'
'No,' said Maud, 'unless it is an appointment for my husband.'
'No, but it is about your husband, or about things your husband wouldnot like. He told me to scold you thoroughly.'
'Then,' said Maud, her heart beating so that she could scarcely speak,'he took a great liberty. I know, however, that he did not.'
'Guilty conscience!' cried the other; 'how white you look! Well, it isnot exactly the truth, but it is not far off it. He gave me a hint.'
'He gave you a fiddlestick!' cried Maud in a passion; 'he meant to tellyou not to flirt yourself.'
'Oh no! Lord Clare and I understand each other far too well for that. Hesaid quite seriously, "When is Colonel Sutton coming up? Why don't hecome? He ought to come; write to him and say so; say so from me." Now,what do you think that meant?'
Maud felt her colour gone and her heart beating violently, and couldventure on no reply.
'You see,' said her monitress pitilessly, 'you will be injudicious. I amalways telling you. You can't be content with fluttering round thecandle, but must needs go into the flame and singe your wings, and thenof course it hurts you. People should know when to stop.'
'And,' cried Maud, in a thorough passion, 'people should not throwstones who live in glass houses. Why, Mrs. Vereker, if I am a flirt, Ishould like to know who taught me?'
'Now you are rude and cross. You should never throw stones, whether youlive in a glass house or not. The best thing I can do is to leave you torecover your temper.'
Mrs. Vereker was gone and Maud's last friend seemed lost to her. She hadoffended every one; or rather every one had done something to offendher. She disliked them all. She flung herself upon her bed and wept invery bitterness of heart. She longed for a really friendly, loving handto take her and get her right; she longed for her old mistress toconfess to; she thought of Felicia, considerate, tender, sympathetic,and she seemed like an angel compared with those amongst whom she wasliving. If she could but have crept to her embrace and breathed hertroubles in her ear! She thought of her husband--the pure and faithfulheart beating with no thought but for her, where nothing coarse orunchivalrous could ever find a place; where she knew that she alone wasenshrined; of his perfect trust in her, his spotless faith, histransparent honour. She looked at his photograph standing on the table:how grave and sad it looked! She flung herself on the bed; the bittertears of remorse and repentance began to flow, and while theyflowed--for Maud was far more exhausted than she knew--she slept; and inher sleep of a few minutes passed into dreamland; not the happy, silly,aimless dreamland of easy minds and tired frames, where Maud's nightswere chiefly spent; but into a sad weird region, where everything seemedhorribly real and connected and designed and to bear some frightfulrelation to actual life that makes it part of our being and haunts one'safter-thoughts. She was with her husband once again, and yet it was notquite himself; an undefined something separated him from her and all thepast. She was riding by him. How grieved and reproachful a mien he wore,as of a man with a hidden sorrow cankering his heart! And then he fell,and Maud saw him crushed and wounded and helpless as once before, andagonised in some frightful entanglement with his horse. She meanwhilewas trying in vain to help or to approach him, for a hidden handrestrained her, and Sutton himself, sad and stern, was waving her away.And then came a fierce struggle and blows and cries, and Maud foundherself waking with a scream and her servant standing by her bed andsaying that a 'Sahib' had come and wanted to see her directly.
She knew what it meant and went with a beating heart into thedrawing-room, as fresh from the land of sorrow and ready for news ofdisaster.
She found Boldero in the drawing-room, looking ominously grave.
'Well, Mr. Boldero,' Maud said, with an unsuccessful attempt at gaietyand a dread of the answer which she would receive, 'why have you comeback? Do you want me to give you some tea or to receive some advice?'
'Have you heard from Sutton to-day?' said the other, not heeding herinquiry.
'No,' said Maud, turning sick at heart and deadly white; 'why do youask? Quick, quick!'
'Because I have bad accounts of him from Dustypore. You must not bealarmed.'
'But I _am_ alarmed,' cried Maud, by this time in thorough terror;'don't you see that standing there and giving hints is just the way tofrighten one? I know quite well you have brought me some bad news.'
'Yes,' said Boldero, 'I am sorry to say I have. Your husband is ill.'
Maud started up and looked him straight in the face, with a serious,eager look, that made Boldero, even at that moment, think how lovely shewas.
'Now,' she cried, 'tell me the truth. Have you told me all?'
'No, I have not. I can hardly bear to tell you; but you have sense andcourage, and would rather hear the truth. _He is down with cholera._'
The words went like a sword through Mau
d's heart. A blank horror seizedher. This, then, had been the meaning of her dream. The blow camecrashing down upon her, and body and soul seemed to reel before it. Shesank like a crushed, terrified child on the sofa, and, covering her facein her hands, hid herself, speechless, motionless, as from an ill thatwas too great to bear.
'Let me send for Mrs. Vereker,' said Boldero.
'No!' cried Maud, starting up, 'pray do not. Leave me for a minute ortwo. I shall be better directly. Will you come back in a quarter of anhour?'
'I will do anything you bid me,' said Boldero frightened at the task hehad in hand and its probable results, and thinking that perhaps the bestthing he could do was to leave Maud to deal with her sorrow alone.
So Boldero went out into the moonlight, and strolled about the pathway,now so silent, where so many joyous footsteps used to press, and Maudwas left to herself with her first great trouble.
It was significant of the real nature of her relations to Mrs. Verekerthat she shrank especially from seeking her now, in her time of sorrow,or following her counsel. Mrs. Vereker was essentially a fine-weatherfriend. The task which Maud had now in hand was something deeper andgraver than anything that the other's feelings reached. What lay beforeher now to do, or to endure, was something between her husband andherself, and it would be profanity for a stranger to come into thatsacred region. Mrs. Vereker's advice would, Maud knew instinctively, beall wrong. She herself felt already what she ought to do. She kneltweeping on the sofa, and the thoughts of sorrow, humiliation, remorse,came pouring thick upon her troubled mind. To what a precipice's edgehad not her folly and madness brought her! her fair fame darkened, herhusband's name dishonoured, her vows of love and honour how badly kept!Oh, how unutterably weak, faithless, heartless she had been! How ghastlyall the afternoon's adventures, the evening's folly, seemed! how wicked,how base, how altogether bad! She had felt the thought stinging all thewhile, but other, stronger feelings had helped her to ignore it andforget. Now there was no other feeling, and it was overwhelming.
There was only one thing left to do, one good, one hope left--to fly toher husband's side, to pour out the pent-up stream of confession,repentance, and love, and, if only God would spare him, never, neverleave him again!
When Boldero came in again Maud was herself again. 'I am better andstronger now,' she said; 'the news came upon me too suddenly, but now Iam calm. I have settled what I ought to do, and you must help me. Ishall go down to him at once.'
'Indeed, you cannot do that,' Boldero said, decisively; 'it would beexcessively wrong.'
'Indeed, indeed I will!' cried Maud; 'I feel that I ought and must. Whatis there to stop me?'
'It is out of the question,' said the other; 'you will be running into agreat deal of danger unnecessarily.'
'I have no strength to talk about it,' said Maud, 'but I must go or Ishall die, and you must help me. Do you mean me to stay quietly here,and Jem dying by himself? My God, my God! why did I ever leave him?'
Here Maud threw herself on the sofa, and cried a longer, sadder, moreheartfelt cry than ever in her life before. Boldero went again into thegarden in despair, for it was in vain, he saw, to try to soothe her.
It ended, of course, in Boldero telegraphing for two relays of horses tobe sent out from the Camp, and sending out two more as fast as possible,to get as far as might be on the way for the forced march of fifty mileswhich Maud and he were, it was settled, at once to undertake. She wasto rest for a few hours, start at three o'clock, get on as far as theycould in the cool, rest through the day, and complete the remainder ofthe journey the following night. They would be at the Camp, Bolderoreckoned, by the morning of the day after to-morrow.
It required all his official resources to organise such a journey, but aCollector on his march can do anything; and Boldero, with whom Maud wasby a sudden reaction of sentiment rapidly being promoted from heroine tosaint, was determined that her journey, so far as in him lay, should beas comfortable as money and care could make it.