The Lovels of Arden, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [win 10 ebook reader .txt] 📗

no use for anything of that kind. Chromolithographs were cheap and popular--people would rather buy a lithograph of some popular artist's picture than a nameless water-colour. If she liked to leave a couple of her sketches, he would try to dispose of them, but he could not buy them--and giving her permanent employment was quite out of the question.

"Do you know anything about engraving?" he asked.

Clarissa shook her head sadly.

"Can you draw on the wood?"

"I have never tried, but I daresay I could do that."

"I recommend you to turn your attention that way. There's a larger field for that sort of thing. You might exhibit some of your sketches at the next Water-Colour Exhibition. They would stand a chance of selling there."

"Thanks. You are very good, but I want remunerative employment immediately."

She wandered on--from dealer to dealer, hoping against hope always with the same result--from Rathbone-place to Regent-street, and on to Bond-street, and homewards along Oxford-street, and then back to her baby, broken-hearted.

"It is no use, Jane," she sobbed. "I can understand my brother's life now. Art is a broken reed. We must get away from this dreadful London--how pale my Lovel is looking!--and go into some quiet country-place, where we can live very cheaply. I almost wish I had stayed in Belgium--in one of the small out-of-the-way towns, where we might have been safely hidden. We must go down to the country, Jane, and I must take in plain needle-work."

"I'm a good un at that, you know, mum," Jane cried with a delighted grin.

And then they began to consider where they should go. That was rather a difficult question. Neither of them knew any world except the region surrounding Arden Court. At last Clarissa remembered Beckenham. She had driven through Beckenham once on her way to a garden-party. Why should they not go to Beckenham?--the place was so near London, could be reached with so little expense, and yet was rustic.

"We must get rid of one of the rings, Jane," Clarissa said, looking at it doubtfully.

"I'll manage that, mum--don't you fidget yourself about that. There's a pawnbroker's in the next street. I'll take it round there in the evening, if you like, mum."

Clarissa shuddered. Commerce with a pawnbroker seemed to her inexperience a kind of crime--something like taking stolen property to be melted down.

But Jane Target was a brave damsel, and carried the ring to the pawnbroker with so serene a front, and gave her address with so honest an air, that the man, though at first inclined to be doubtful, believed her story; namely, that the ring belonged to her mistress, a young married lady who had suffered a reverse of fortune.

She went home rejoicing, having raised fifteen pounds upon a ring that was worth ninety. The pawnbroker had a notice that it would never be redeemed--young married ladies who suffer reverse of fortune rarely recover their footing, but generally slide down, down, down to the uttermost deeps of poverty.

They were getting ready for that journey to Beckenham, happy in the idea of escaping from the monotonous unfriendly streets, and the grime and mire and general dinginess of London life, when an unlooked-for calamity befell them, and the prospect of release had, for the time at least, to be given up. Young Lovel fell ill. He was "about his teeth," the woman of the house said, and tried to make light of the evil. These innocents are subject to much suffering in this way. He had a severe cold, with a tiresome hacking cough which rent Clarissa's heart. She sent for a doctor immediately--a neighbouring practitioner recommended by the landlady--and he came and saw the child lying in his mother's lap, and the mother young and beautiful and unhappy, and was melted accordingly, and did all he could to treat the matter lightly. Yet he was fain, after a few visits, and no progress for the better, to confess that these little lives hang by a slender thread.

"The little fellow has a noble frame and an excellent constitution," he said; "I hope we shall save him."

Save him! An icy thrill went through Clarissa's veins. Save him! Was there any fear of losing him? O God, what would her life be without that child? She looked at the doctor, white to the lips and speechless with horror.

"I don't wish to alarm you," he said gently, "but I am compelled to admit that there is danger. If the little one's father is away," he added doubtfully, "and you would like to summon him, I think it would be as well to do so."

"O, my flower, my angel, my life!" she cried, flinging herself down beside the child's bed; "I cannot lose you!"

"I trust in God you will not," said the surgeon. "We will make every effort to save him." And then he turned to Jane Target, and murmured his directions.

"Is there any one else," said Clarissa in a hoarse voice, looking up at the medical man--"anyone I can send for besides yourself--any one who can cure my baby?"

"I doubt whether it would be of any use. The case is such a simple one. I have fifty such in a year. But if you would like a physician to see the little fellow, there is Dr. Ormond, who has peculiar experience in children's cases. You might call him in, if you liked."

"I will send for him this minute.--Jane, dear, will you go?"

"I don't think it would be any use, just now. He will be out upon his rounds. There is no immediate danger. If you were to send to him this evening--a note would do--asking him to call to-morrow--that would be the best way. Remember, I don't for a moment say the case is hopeless. Only, if you have any anxiety about the little one's father, and if he is within a day's journey, I would really advise you to send for him."

Clarissa did not answer. She was hanging over the bed, watching every difficult breath with unutterable agony. The child had only begun to droop a week ago, had been positively ill only four days.

All the rest of that day Clarissa was in a kind of stupor. She watched the child, and watched Jane administering her remedies, and the landlady coming in now and then to look at the boy, or to ask about him with a friendly anxiety. She tried to help Jane sometimes, in a useless tremulous way, sometimes sat statue-like, and could only gaze. She could not even pray--only now and then, she whispered with her dry lips, "Surely God will not take away my child!"

At dusk the doctor came again, but said very little. He was leaving the room, when Clarissa stopped him with a passionate despairing cry. Until that moment she had seemed marble.

"Tell me the truth," she cried. "Will he be taken away from me? He is all the world to me--the only thing on earth I have to love. Surely God will not be so pitiless! What difference can one angel more make in heaven? and he is all the world to me."

"My dear lady, these things are ordered by a Wisdom beyond our comprehension," the doctor answered gently. That picture of a disconsolate mother was very common to him--only Clarissa was so much lovelier than most of the mothers, and her grief had a more romantic aspect and touched him a little more than usual. "Believe me, I shall make every effort to pull the little fellow through," he added with the professional air of hopefulness. "Have you written to Dr. Ormond?"

"Yes, my letter was posted an hour after you called."

"Then we shall hear what he says to-morrow. You can have no higher opinion. And now pray, my dear Mrs. Graham"--Clarissa had called herself Graham in these Soho lodgings--"pray keep up your spirits; remember your own health will suffer if you give way--and I really do not think you are strong."

He looked at her curiously as he spoke. She was deadly pale, and had a haggard look which aged her by ten years: beauty less perfect in its outline would have been obscured by that mental anguish--hers shone through all, ineffaceable.

"Do not forget what I said about the little one's father," urged the doctor, lingering for a minute on the threshold. "There is really too great a responsibility in keeping him ignorant of the case, if he is anywhere within reach."

Clarissa smiled for the first time since her boy's illness--a strange wan smile. She was thinking how Daniel Granger had threatened her with separation from her child; and now Death had come between them to snatch him from both.

"My son!" She remembered the proud serenity, the supreme sense of possession, with which she had pronounced those words.

And the child would die perhaps, and Daniel Granger never look upon his face again. A great terror came into her mind at that thought. What would her husband say to her if he came to claim his boy, and found him dead? For the first time since she had left him--triumphant in the thought of having secured this treasure--the fact that the boy belonged to him, as well as to herself, came fully home to her. From the day of the baby's birth she had been in the habit of thinking of him as her own--hers by a right divine almost--of putting his father out of the question, as it were--only just tolerating to behold that doating father's fond looks and caresses--watching all communion between those two with a lurking jealousy.

Now all at once she began to feel what a sacred bond there was between the father and son, and how awful a thing it would be, if Daniel Granger should find his darling dead. Might he not denounce her as the chief cause of his boy's death? Those hurried journeys by land and sea--that rough shifting to and fro of the pampered son and heir, whose little life until that time had been surrounded with such luxurious indulgences, so guarded from the faintest waft of discomfort--who should say that these things had not jeopardised the precious creature? And out of her sin had this arisen. In that dread hour by her darling's sick-bed, what unutterably odious colours did her flirtation with George Fairfax assume--her dalliance with temptation, her weak hankering after that forbidden society! She saw, as women do see in that clear after-light which comes with remorse, all the guilt and all the hatefulness of her sin.

"God gave me my child for my redemption," she said to herself, "and I went on sinning."

What was it the doctor had said? Again and again those parting words came back to her. The father should be summoned. But to summon him, to reveal her hiding-place, and then have her darling taken from her, saved from the grasp of death only to be torn from her by his pitiless unforgiving father! No thought of what Daniel Granger had been to her in all the days of her married life arose to comfort or reassure her. She only thought of him as he had been after that fatal meeting in her brother's painting-room; and she hoped for no mercy from him.

"And even if I were willing to send for him, I don't know where he is," she said at last helplessly.

Jane Target urged her to summon him.

"If you was to send a telegraft to the Court, mum, Miss Granger is pretty sure to be there, and she'd send to her pa, wherever