Read Ebook: A moment of madness and other stories (vol. 2 of 3) by Marryat Florence

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'You are not doing right by this poor little baby, nor his parents,' I continued, 'by brooding over a silent grief. You will injure his health, when perhaps if you will tell us all, we may be able to comfort you.'

'No one can comfort me, madam! I am beyond all relief.'

'No one dare say that in this world, which God rules according to His will. You cannot tell what solace He may hold in the future for you.'

'I have no future,' she said sadly. 'If you think I am likely to injure this little one,' pressing it tightly to her bosom, 'I am very, very sorry; but to have something to love and care for, seemed to be the only thing to prevent my going mad.'

'Mrs Graham, I don't wish to be impertinently curious, but I want to hear your story. Won't you tell it to me?'

'If you do, you will hate me--as I hate myself.'

'I hardly think that possible. Of what crime can you be guilty, to accuse yourself so bitterly.'

'Was it the baby?' I cried. 'Oh! my poor child! what drove you to such an awful deed?'

'Do you pity me still?'

'I pity you with all my heart.'

'Ah! madam; you are too good.'

She trembled so violently that I had taken the child from her arms, and as I stood there in the wintry path, she sank down upon her knees before me and kissed the border of my shawl, and hid her face in it and cried.

'Mrs Graham, I cannot believe it!'

'No! you need not believe it. In that sense I did not kill my child. God took it away from me in anger; but I sent its father, my dearly-loved husband, to his death.'

'Sent him to his death!'

'My poor girl! how did it happen?'

'He was washed off the deck, madam, by a huge wave that nearly swamped the ship--so they told me afterwards. But I never saw him more! The glimpse I had of his bonnie face as it was thrust in at the half-opened door, beaming with love and anxiety, was the last glimpse I was ever to have in this world--and I sent him to his death. I said, 'Go away, and don't come back'--and he never came back!--he never came back!'

Her grief was so violent I almost thought she would have swooned at my feet. I tried to direct her thoughts in another direction.

'Have you no friends to go to, Mrs Graham?'

'None of my own, madam. I was a soldier's orphan from the Home when Edward married me. And I could not go to his.'

'How did you lose your baby?'

'It died of my grief, I suppose; it only lived a few days. And then they advised me at the hospital to get a situation as wet nurse; and I thought the care of an infant might soothe me a little. But my sorrow is past cure.'

'You have bad dreams at night, I fear.'

'Oh! such awful dreams! He is always calling me--calling me to go to him, and I can find him nowhere; or else I am in the ship again, and see that which I never did see--the cruel wave that washed him from me!'

'Do you feel strong enough to take the child again?'

She had risen by this time, and was, comparatively speaking, calm. She held out her arms mechanically. I put the baby in them, and then stooped and kissed her swollen eyes and burning forehead.

'I will not discuss this subject with you further to-day,' I said; 'but you have found a friend. Go on with your walk, child, and may God comfort you. I am glad you have told me the story of your grief.'

I hurried back to Bessie, fearful lest she might come in search of me, and insist upon hearing the reason of Mrs Graham's tears. There was no doubt of one thing--another nurse must be found as soon as possible for little Dick, and I must take on myself the responsibility of providing for his present one. But all that required my husband's permission and advice, and I must wait till I had seen and confided in him.

Bessie, who had discovered that, notwithstanding my deplorable deficiency in the way of children, I could cut out their garments far better than she could do herself, had provided a delightful entertainment for me in the shape of half-a-dozen frocks to be made ready for the nurse's hands, and the whole afternoon was spent in snipping and piecing and tacking together. But I didn't grumble; my mind was too much occupied with poor Mrs Graham and her pathetic story. I thought of it so much that the temporary fear evoked by the apparition of the night before had totally evaporated. In the presence of a real, substantial human grief, we can hardly spare time for imaginary horrors.

As bed-time recurred, and Bessie and I locked ourselves into our stronghold, I refused the half of the bed she offered me, and preferred to retain my own. I even made up my mind, if possible, not to sleep, but to watch for the mysterious sounds, and be the first to investigate them. So I would not put out my candle, but lay in bed reading long after Bessie's snores had announced her departure to the land of dreams.

I had come to the end of my book, my candle, and my patience, and was just about to give up the vigil as a failure, when I heard footsteps distinctly sounding along the corridor. I was out of bed in a moment, with my hand upon the lock of the door. I waited till the steps had passed my room, and then I turned the key and looked gently out. The same white figure I had seen the night before was standing a little beyond me, its course arrested, as it would appear, by the slight sound of unlocking the door.

So I stepped out into the passage, just as I should sit down to have a tooth drawn. The figure had recommenced walking, and was some paces farther from me. I followed it, saying softly, 'What are you? Speak to me.' But it did not turn, but went on, clasping its hands, and talking rapidly to itself.

A sudden thought flashed across my mind. In a moment I felt sure that I was right, and had solved the mystery of Poplar Farm. I placed myself full in the path of the apparition, and as the end of the corridor forced it to turn and retrace its steps, I met face to face my poor, pretty Mrs Graham, with the flaxen hair she usually kept concealed beneath her widow's cap, streaming over her shoulders and giving her a most weird and unearthly appearance.

'Edward! Edward!' she was whispering in a feverish, uncertain manner, 'where are you? It is so dark here and so cold. Put out your hand and lead me. I want to come to you, darling; I want to come to you.'

I stretched out my own hand and took hers. She clung to me joyfully.

'Is it you?' she exclaimed, in the undisturbed voice of a sleep-walker. 'Have I found you again? Oh, Edward! I have been trying to find you for so long--so long, and I thought we were parted for ever.'

I drew her gently along to her own room and put her in her bed, whilst she continued to talk to me in the fond, low tones in which she thought she was addressing her dead husband.

Bessie slept through it all.

Of course I told her all about it next day, and equally, of course, she did not believe half what I said. She did not like the idea of parting with her cherished grievance in the shape of the ghost, nor having the trouble of changing her wet nurse. So I left her, as soon as ever Dick arrived, rather disgusted with the manner in which she had received my efforts for her good, but still determined to do what I could in the way of befriending Mrs Graham. As I told her the last thing, when I ran up to the nursery to say good-bye to little Dick, and received her grateful thanks in reply. 'Only nothing,' she said with a deep sigh, 'could ever do her any good in this world again.'

'But I'm determined to get her out of Poplar Farm,' I said to Dick, as we drove homeward, after I had told him this long-winded story. 'She's killing the baby and herself too. She ought to have a much more cheerful home and active employment. Now, can't you think of something for her to do about the gaol or the hospital, like a dear, darling old boy as you are?'

'Well, I don't quite see how you can take Mrs Maclean's servant away from her against her will, Dolly. If Mrs Graham leaves, it will be a different thing; but as things are, I'm afraid you ought not to interfere.'

I called him a wretch; but I knew he was right for all that, and determined to take his advice and wait patiently to see how things turned out. And, as it happened, I had not long to wait, for a week afterwards I received this doleful epistle from Bessie:--

'MY DEAR DOLLY,--I am perfectly miserable; nothing ever goes right with me. Tom threw Charlie out of the wheel-barrow yesterday, and cut his forehead right across. He will be scarred for life. And nurse has entirely spoiled those frocks you were so kind as to cut out for Lily and Bessie. She is so obstinate, she would have her own way, and the children positively cannot get into them. But the worst news of all is, that Mrs Graham is going to leave me, and I have had to wean baby, and put him on the bottle.'

'Halloa! what's up now?' said that vulgar Dick, in his own way of expressing things.

'My darling, she's got him again.'

'Who's got which?'

'Mrs Graham's husband has returned. He wasn't drowned, but let me finish the letter,' and drying my eyes I went on--

'Just imagine how awkward and unpleasant for me. The other evening there was an awful screaming in the kitchen, and when I went down, I found Mrs Graham fainted dead away in the arms of a man. I was very angry at first, naturally; but when she recovered I found it was her husband whom she thought was drowned at sea three months ago. It seems he was picked up insensible by some ship, and taken to Spain, where he had a fever, and was delirious, and all that sort of thing; and when he recovered, he worked his way home before the mast, and had only just found out where his wife lived. But I think it is excessively unreasonable of people to take situations, and say they're widows, and then--'

'Oh, don't read any more of that rubbish, for heaven's sake!' said Dick, irreverently. 'The long and the short of the matter is, that the girl's got her man again.'

'You seem to take a vast interest in this Mrs Graham, and her joys and sorrows,' said Dick; 'why is it, Dolly?'

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