time the young man wandered restlessly about the room, looking at and sometimes touching the nick-nacks lying here and there.
Her workbox, with an unfinished piece of work; her album full of extracts from Byron and Moore, written in his own scrawling hand; some books which he had given her, and a bunch of withered flowers in a vase they had bought in Italy.
“Her portrait used to hang by the side of mine,” he muttered; “I wonder what they have done with it.”
By-and-by he said, after about an hour’s silence:
“I should like to see the woman of the house; I should like to ask her about —”
He broke down, and buried his face in his hands.
Robert summoned the landlady. She was a good-natured garrulous creature, accustomed to sickness and death, for many of her lodgers came to her to die.
She told all the particulars of Mrs. Talboys’ last hours; how she had come to Ventnor only ten days before her death, in the last stage of decline; and how, day by day, she had gradually, but surely, sunk under the fatal malady. Was the gentleman any relative? she asked of Robert Audley, as George sobbed aloud.
“Yes, he is the lady’s husband.”
“What!” the woman cried; “him as deserted her so cruel, and left her with her pretty boy upon her poor old father’s hands, which Captain Maldon has told me often, with the tears in his poor eyes?”
“I did not desert her,” George cried out; and then he told the history of his three years’ struggle.
“Did she speak of me?” he asked; “did she speak of me — at — at the last?”
“No, she went off as quiet as a lamb. She said very little from the first; but the last day she knew nobody, not even her little boy, nor her poor old father, who took on awful. Once she went off wild-like, talking about her mother, and about the cruel shame it was to leave her to die in a strange place, till it was quite pitiful to hear her.”
“Her mother died when she was quite a child,” said George. “To think that she should remember her and speak of her, but never once of me.”
The woman took him into the little bedroom in which his wife had died. He knelt down by the bed and kissed the pillow tenderly, the landlady crying as he did so.
While he was kneeling, praying, perhaps, with his face buried in this humble, snow-white pillow, the woman took something from a drawer. She gave it to him when he rose from his knees; it was a long tress of hair wrapped in silver paper.
“I cut this off when she lay in her coffin,” she said, “poor dear?”
He pressed the soft lock to his lips. “Yes,” he murmured; “this is the dear hair that I have kissed so often when her head lay upon my shoulder. But it always had a rippling wave in it then, and now it seems smooth and straight.”
“It changes in illness,” said the landlady. “If you’d like to see where they have laid her, Mr. Talboys, my little boy shall show you the way to the churchyard.”
So George Talboys and his faithful friend walked to the quiet spot, where, beneath a mound of earth, to which the patches of fresh turf hardly adhered, lay that wife of whose welcoming smile George had dreamed so often in the far antipodes.
Robert left the young man by the side of this newly-made grave, and returning in about a quarter of an hour, found that he had not once stirred.
He looked up presently, and said that if there was a stone-mason’s anywhere near he should like to give an order.
They very easily found the stonemason, and sitting down amidst the fragmentary litter of the man’s yard, George Talboys wrote in pencil this brief inscription for the headstone of his dead wife’s grave:
Sacred to the Memory of
HELEN,
THE BELOVED WIFE OF GEORGE TALBOYS,
“Who departed this life
August 24th, 18 — aged 22,
Deeply regretted by her sorrowing Husband.
Chapter 6
Anywhere, Anywhere Out of the World.
When they returned to Lansdowne Cottage they found the old man had not yet come in, so they walked down to the beach to look for him. After a brief search they found him, sitting upon a heap of pebbles, reading a newspaper and eating filberts. The little boy was at some distance from his grandfather, digging in the sand with a wooden spade. The crape round the old man’s shabby hat, and the child’s poor little black frock, went to George’s heart. Go where he would he met fresh confirmation of this great grief of his life. His wife was dead.
“Mr. Maldon,” he said, as he approached his father-in-law.
The old man looked up, and, dropping his newspaper, rose from the pebbles with a ceremonious bow. His faded light hair was tinged with gray; he had a pinched hook nose; watery blue eyes, and an irresolute-looking mouth; he wore his shabby dress with an affectation of foppish gentility; an eye-glass dangled over his closely buttoned-up waistcoat, and he carried a cane in his ungloved hand.
“Great Heaven!” cried George, “don’t you know me?”
Mr. Maldon started and colored violently, with something of a frightened look, as he recognized his son-in-law.
“My dear boy,” he said, “I did not; for the first moment I did not. That beard makes such a difference. You find the beard makes a great difference, do you not, sir?” he said, appealing to Robert.
“Great heavens!” exclaimed George Talboys, “is this the way you welcome me? I come to England to find my wife dead within a week of my touching land, and you begin to chatter to me about my beard — you, her father!”
“True! true!” muttered the old man, wiping his bloodshot eyes; “a sad shock, a sad shock, my dear George. If you’d only been here a week earlier.”
“If I had,” cried George, in an outburst of grief and passion, “I scarcely think that I would have let her die. I would have disputed for her with death. I would! I would! Oh God! why did not the Argus go down with every soul on board her before I came to see this day?”
He began to walk up and down the beach, his father-in-law looking helplessly at him, rubbing his feeble eyes with a handkerchief.
“I’ve a strong notion that that old man didn’t treat his daughter too well,” thought Robert, as he watched the half-pay lieutenant. “He seems, for some reason or other, to be half afraid of George.”
While the agitated young man walked up and down in a fever of regret and despair, the child ran to his grandfather, and clung about the tails of his coat.
“Come home, grandpa, come home,” he said. “I’m tired.”
George
