Kitabı oku: «The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations», sayfa 3
They were directed to John Taylor’s house, a low mud cottage, very wretched looking, and apparently so smoky that Mr. Ernescliffe and Norman were glad to remain outside and survey the quarry, while the ladies entered.
Inside they found more cleanliness and neatness than they had expected, but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient furniture, and the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding nothing but toast and water, as a substitute for their proper contents. The poor woman was sitting by the fire with one twin on her lap, and the other on a chair by her side, and a larger child was in the corner by the fire, looking heavy and ill, while others of different ages lounged about listlessly. She was not untidy, but very pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way, as if the ills of life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even to complain. She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not visibly brighten when told that her husband was better.
Flora asked when the babes would be christened.
“I can’t hardly tell, Miss—‘tis so far to go.”
“I suppose none of the children can go to school? I don’t know their faces there,” said Flora, looking at a nice tall, smooth-haired girl of thirteen or fourteen.
“No, Miss—‘tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they always was used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl she can work very nicely. I wish I could get a little place for her.”
“You would hardly know what to do without her,” said Miss Winter.
“No, ma’am; but she wants better food than I can give her, and it is a bad wild place for a girl to grow up. It is not like what I was used to, ma’am; I was always used to keep to my school and to my church—but it is a bad place to live in here.”
No one could deny it, and the party left the cottage gravely. Alan and Norman joined them, having heard a grievous history of the lawlessness of the people from a foreman with whom they had met. There seemed to be no visible means of improvement. The parish church was Stoneborough, and there the living was very poor, the tithes having been appropriated to the old Monastery, and since its dissolution having fallen into possession of a Body that never did anything for the town. The incumbent, Mr. Ramsden, had small means, and was not a high stamp of clergyman, seldom exerting himself, and leaving most of his parish work to the two under masters of the school, Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Harrison, who did all they had time and strength for, and more too, within the town itself. There was no hope for Cocksmoor!
“There would be a worthy ambition!” said Etheldred, as they turned their steps homeward. “Let us propose that aim to ourselves, to build a church on Cocksmoor!”
“How many years do you give us to do it in?” said Norman.
“Few or many, I don’t care. I’ll never leave off thinking about it till it is done.”
“It need not be long,” said Flora, “if one could get up a subscription.”
“A penny subscription?” said Norman. “I’d rather have it my own doing.”
“You agree then,” said Ethel; “do you, Mr. Ernescliffe?”
“I may safely do so,” he answered, smiling. Miss Winter looked at Etheldred reprovingly, and she shrank into herself, drew apart, and indulged in a reverie. She had heard in books of girls writing poetry, romance, history—gaining fifties and hundreds. Could not some of the myriads of fancies floating in her mind thus be made available? She would compose, publish, earn money—some day call papa, show him her hoard, beg him to take it, and, never owning whence it came, raise the building. Spire and chancel, pinnacle and buttress, rose before her eyes, and she and Norman were standing in the porch with an orderly, religious population, blessing the unknown benefactor, who had caused the news of salvation to be heard among them.
They were almost at home, when the sight of a crowd in the main street checked them. Norman and Mr. Ernescliffe went forward to discover the cause, and spoke to some one on the outskirts—then Mr. Ernescliffe hurried back to the ladies.
“There’s been an accident,” he said hastily—“you had better go down the lane and in by the garden.”
He was gone in an instant, and they obeyed in silence. Whence came Ethel’s certainty that the accident concerned themselves? In an agony of apprehension, though without one outward sign of it, she walked home. They were in the garden—all was apparently as usual, but no one was in sight. Ethel had been first, but she held back, and let Miss Winter go forward into the house. The front door was open—servants were standing about in confusion, and one of the maids, looking dreadfully frightened, gave a cry, “Oh! Miss—Miss—have you heard?”
“No—what? What has happened? Not Mrs. May—” exclaimed Miss Winter.
“Oh, ma’am! it is all of them. The carriage is overturned, and—”
“Who’s hurt? Mamma! papa! Oh, tell me!” cried Flora.
“There’s nurse,” and Ethel flew up to her. “What is it? Oh, nurse!”
“My poor, poor children,” said old nurse, passionately kissing Ethel. Harry and Mary were on the stairs behind her, clinging together.
A stranger looked into the house, followed by Adams, the stableman. “They are going to bring Miss May in,” some one said.
Ethel could bear it no longer. As if she could escape, she fled upstairs into her room, and, falling on her knees, hid her face on her bed.
There were heavy steps in the house, then a sound of hasty feet coming up to her. Norman dashed into the room, and threw himself on a chair. He was ghastly pale, and shuddered all over.
“Oh, Norman, Norman, speak! What is it?” He groaned, but could not speak; he rested his head against her, and gasped. She was terribly frightened. “I’ll call—” and she would have gone, but he held her. “No—no—they can’t!” He was prevented from saying more, by chattering teeth and deadly faintness. She tried to support him, but could only guide him as he sank, till he lay at full length on the floor, where she put a pillow under his head, and gave him some water. “Is it—oh, tell me! Are they much hurt? Oh, try to say!”
“They say Margaret is alive,” said Norman, in gasps; “but—And papa—he stood up—sat—walked—was better-”
“Is he hurt—much hurt?”
“His arm—” and the tremor and fainting stopped him again.
“Mamma?” whispered Ethel; but Norman only pressed his face into the pillow.
She was so bewildered as to be more alive to the present distress of his condition than to the vague horrors downstairs. Some minutes passed in silence, Norman lying still, excepting a nervous trembling that agitated his whole frame. Again was heard the strange tread, doors opening and shutting, and suppressed voices, and he turned his face upwards, and listened with his hand pressed to his forehead, as if to keep himself still enough to listen.
“Oh! what is the matter? What is it?” cried Ethel, startled and recalled to the sense of what was passing.
“Oh, Norman!” Then springing up, with a sudden thought, “Mr. Ward! Oh! is he there?”
“Yes,” said Norman, in a low hopeless tone, “he was at the place. He said it—”
“What?”
Again Norman’s face was out of sight.
“Mamma?” Ethel’s understanding perceived, but her mind refused to grasp the extent of the calamity. There was no answer, save a convulsive squeezing of her hand.
Fresh sounds below recalled her to speech and action.
“Where is she? What are they doing for her? What—”
“There’s nothing to be done. She—when they lifted her up, she was—”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
The boy lay with his face hidden, the girl sat by him on the floor, too much crushed for even the sensations belonging to grief, neither moving nor looking. After an interval Norman spoke again, “The carriage turned right over—her head struck on the kerb stone—”
“Did you see?” said Ethel presently.
“I saw them lift her up.” He spoke at intervals, as he could get breath and bear to utter the words. “And papa—he was stunned—but soon he sat up, said he would go to her—he looked at her—felt her pulse, and then—sank down over her!”
“And did you say—I can’t remember—was he hurt?”
The shuddering came again, “His arm—all twisted—broken,” and his voice sank into a faint whisper; Ethel was obliged to sprinkle him again with water. “But he won’t die?” said she, in a tone calm from its bewilderment.
“Oh! no, no, no—”
“And Margaret?”
“They were bringing her home. I’ll go and see. Oh! what’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed he, scolding himself, as, sitting up, he was forced to rest his head on his shaking hand.
“You are still faint, dear Norman; you had better lie still, and I’ll go and see.”
“Faint—stuff—how horridly stupid!” but he was obliged to lay his head down again; and Ethel, scarcely less trembling, crept carefully towards the stairs, but a dread of what she might meet came over her, and she turned towards the nursery.
The younger ones sat there in a frightened huddle. Mary was on a low chair by the infant’s cot, Blanche in her lap, Tom and Harry leaning against her, and Aubrey almost asleep. Mary held up her finger as Ethel entered, and whispered, “Hush! don’t wake baby for anything!”
The first true pang of grief shot through Ethel like a dart, stabbing and taking away her breath, “Where are they?” she said; “how is papa? who is with him?”
“Mr. Ward and Alan Ernescliffe,” said Harry. “Nurse came up just now, and said they were setting his arm.”
“Where is he?”
“On the bed in his dressing-room,” said Harry.
“Has he come to himself—is he better?”
They did not seem to know, and Ethel asked where to find Flora. “With Margaret,” she was told, and she was thinking whether she could venture to seek her, when she herself came fast up the stairs. Ethel and Harry both darted out. “Don’t stop me,” said Flora—“they want some handkerchiefs.”
“What, is not she in her own room?”
“No,” said Harry, “in mamma’s;” and then his face quivered all over, and he turned away. Ethel ran after her sister, and pulling out drawers without knowing what she sought, begged to hear how papa and Margaret were.
“We can’t judge of Margaret—she has moved, and made a little moaning—there are no limbs broken, but we are afraid for her head. Oh! if papa could but—”
“And papa?”
“Mr. Ward is with him now—his arm is terribly hurt.”
“But oh! Flora—one moment—is he sensible?”
“Hardly; he does not take any notice—but don’t keep me.”
“Can I do anything?” following her to the head of the stairs.
“No; I don’t see what you can do. Miss Winter and I are with Margaret; there’s nothing to do for her.”
It was a relief. Etheldred shrank from what she might have to behold, and Flora hastened down, too busy and too useful to have time to think. Harry had gone back to his refuge in the nursery, and Ethel returned to Norman. There they remained for a long time, both unwilling to speak or stir, or even to observe to each other on the noises that came in to them, as their door was left ajar, though in those sounds they were so absorbed, that they did not notice the cold of a frosty October evening, or the darkness that closed in on them.
They heard the poor babe crying, one of the children going down to call nurse, and nurse coming up; then Harry, at the door of the room where the boys slept, calling Norman in a low voice. Norman, now nearly recovered, went and brought him into his sister’s room, and his tidings were, that their father’s arm had been broken in two places, and the elbow frightfully injured, having been crushed and twisted by the wheel. He was also a good deal bruised, and though Mr. Ward trusted there was no positive harm to the head, he was in an unconscious state, from which the severe pain of the operation had only roused him, so far as to evince a few signs of suffering. Margaret was still insensible.
The piteous sound of the baby’s wailing almost broke their hearts. Norman walked about the room in the dark, and said he should go down, he could not bear it; but he could not make up his mind to go, and after about a quarter of an hour, to their great relief, it ceased.
Next Mary opened the door, saying, “Norman, here’s Mr. Wilmot come to ask if he can do anything—Miss Winter sent word that you had better go to him.”
“How is baby?” asked Harry.
“Nurse has fed her, and is putting her to bed; she is quiet now,” said Mary; “will you go down, Norman?”
“Where is he?”
“In the drawing-room.”
Norman paused to ask what he was to say.
“Nothing,” said Mary, “nobody can do anything. Make haste. Don’t you want a candle?”
“No, thank you, I had rather be in the dark. Come up as soon as you have seen him,” said Etheldred.
Norman went slowly down, with failing knees, hardly able to conquer the shudder that came over him, as he passed those rooms. There were voices in the drawing-room, and he found a sort of council there, Alan Ernescliffe, the surgeon, and Mr. Wilmot. They turned as he came in, and Mr. Wilmot held out his hand with a look of affection and kindness that went to his heart, making room for him on the sofa, while going on with what he was saying. “Then you think it would be better for me not to sit up with him.”
“I should decidedly say so,” replied Mr. Ward. “He has recognised Mr. Ernescliffe, and any change might excite him, and lead him to ask questions. The moment of his full consciousness is especially to be dreaded.”
“But you do not call him insensible?”
“No, but he seems stunned—stupified by the shock, and by pain. He spoke to Miss Flora when she brought him some tea.”
“And admirably she managed,” said Alan Ernescliffe. “I was much afraid of some answer that would rouse him, but she kept her self-possession beautifully, and seemed to compose him in a moment.”
“She is valuable indeed—so much judgment and activity,” said Mr. Ward. “I don’t know what we should have done without her. But we ought to have Mr. Richard—has no one sent to him?”
Alan Ernescliffe and Norman looked at each other.
“Is he at Oxford, or at his tutor’s?” asked Mr. Wilmot.
“At Oxford; he was to be there to-day, was he not, Norman?”
“What o’clock is it? Is the post gone—seven—no; it is all safe,” said Mr. Ward.
Poor Norman! he knew he was the one who ought to write, but his icy trembling hand seemed to shake more helplessly than ever, and a piteous glance fell upon Mr. Wilmot.
“The best plan would be,” said Mr. Wilmot, “for me to go to him at once and bring him home. If I go by the mail-train, I shall get to him sooner than a letter could.”
“And it will be better for him,” said Mr. Ward. “He will feel it dreadfully, poor boy. But we shall all do better when we have him. You can get back to-morrow evening.”
“Sunday,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I believe there is a train at four.”
“Oh! thank you, sir,” said Norman.
“Since that is settled, perhaps I had better go up to the doctor,” said Alan; “I don’t like leaving Flora alone with him,” and he was gone.
“How fortunate that that youth is here,” said Mr. Wilmot—“he seems to be quite taking Richard’s place.”
“And to feel it as much,” said Mr. Ward. “He has been invaluable with his sailor’s resources and handiness.”
“Well, what shall I tell poor Richard?” asked Mr. Wilmot.
“Tell him there is no reason his father should not do very well, if we can keep him from agitation—but there’s the point. He is of so excitable a constitution, that his faculties being so far confused is the best thing, perhaps, that could be. Mr. Ernescliffe manages him very well—used to illness on that African coast, and the doctor is very fond of him. As to Miss May, one can’t tell what to say about her yet—there’s no fracture, at least—it must be a work of time to judge.”
Flora at that moment half-opened the door, and called Mr. Ward, stopping for a moment to say it was for nothing of any consequence. Mr. Wilmot and Norman were left together. Norman put his hands over his face and groaned—his master looked at him with kind anxiety, but did not feel as if it were yet time to speak of consolation.
“God bless and support you, and turn this to your good, my dear boy,” said he affectionately, as he pressed his hand; “I hope to bring your brother to-morrow.”
“Thank you, sir,” was all Norman could say; and as Mr. Wilmot went out by the front door, he slowly went up again, and, lingering on the landing-place, was met by Mr. Ward, who told him to his relief—for the mere thinking of it renewed the faint sensation—that he had better not go to his father’s room.
There was nothing to be done but to return to Ethel and Harry, and tell them all; with some humiliation at being helpless, where Flora was doing so much, and to leave their father to be watched by a stranger. If he had been wanted, Norman might have made the effort, but being told that he would be worse than useless, there was nothing for him but to give way.
They sat together in Ethel’s room till somewhere between eight and nine o’clock, when good old nurse, having put her younger ones to bed, came in search of them. “Dear, dear! poor darlings,” said she, as she found them sitting in the dark; she felt their cold hands, and made them all come into the nursery, where Mary was already, and, fondling them, one by one, as they passively obeyed her, she set them down on their little old stools round the fire, took away the high fender, and gave them each a cup of tea. Harry and Mary ate enough to satisfy her, from a weary craving feeling, and for want of employment; Norman sat with his elbow on his knee, and a very aching head resting on his hand, glad of drink, but unable to eat; Ethel could be persuaded to do neither, till she found old nurse would let her have no peace.
The nurse sent them all to bed, taking the two girls to their own room, undressing them, and never leaving them until Mary was in a fair way of crying herself to sleep—for saying her prayers had brought the tears; while Ethel lay so wide awake that it was of no use to wait for her, and then she went to the boys, tucked them each in, as when they were little children, and saying, “Bless your dear hearts!” bestowed on each of them a kiss which came gratefully to Norman’s burning brow, and which even Harry’s boyish manliness could not resist.
Flora was in Margaret’s room, too useful to be spared.
So ended that dreadful Saturday.
CHAPTER IV
They may not mar the deep repose
Of that immortal flower:
Though only broken hearts are found
To watch her cradle by,
No blight is on her slumbers found,
No touch of harmful eye.
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.
Such a strange sad Sunday! No going to church, but all the poor children moving in awe and oppression about the house, speaking under their breath, as they gathered in the drawing-room. Into the study they might not go, and when Blanche would have asked why, Tom pressed her hand and shuddered.
Etheldred was allowed to come and look at Margaret, and even to sit in the room for a little while, to take the place of Miss Winter; but she was not sensible of sufficient usefulness to relieve the burden of fear and bewilderment in the presence of that still, pale form; and, what was almost worse, the sight of the familiar objects, the chair by the fire, the sofa, the books, the work-basket, the letter-case, the dressing things, all these were too oppressive. She sat crouched up, with her face hidden in her hands, and the instant she was released, hastened back to Norman. She was to tell him that he might go into the room, but he did not move, and Mary alone went in and out with messages.
Dr. May was not to be visited, for he was in the same half-conscious state, apparently sensible only of bodily suffering, though he answered when addressed, and no one was trusted to speak to him but Flora and Ernescliffe.
The rest wore through the day as best they might. Harry slept a good deal, Ethel read to herself, and tried to get Norman to look at passages which she liked, Mary kept the little ones from being troublesome, and at last took them to peep behind the school-room blinds for Richard’s coming.
There was a simultaneous shout when, at four o’clock, they caught sight of him, and though, at Ethel’s exclamation of wonder, Mary and Tom hung their heads at having forgotten themselves, the association of gladness in seeing Richard was refreshing; the sense of being desolate and forsaken was relieved, and they knew that now they had one to rely on and to comfort them.
Harry hastened to open the front door, and Richard, with his small trim figure, and fresh, fair young face, flushed, though not otherwise agitated, was among them, almost devoured by the younger ones, and dealing out quiet caresses to them, as he caught from the words and looks of the others that at least his father and sister were no worse. Mr. Wilmot had come with him, but only stayed to hear the tidings.
“Can I see papa?” were Richard’s first audible words—all the rest had been almost dumb show.
Ethel thought not, but took him to Margaret’s room, where he stood for many minutes without speaking; then whispered to Flora that he must go to the others, she should call him if—and went down, followed by Ethel.
Tom and Blanche had fallen into teasing tricks, a sort of melancholy play to relieve the tedium. They grew cross. Norman was roused to reprove sharply, and Blanche was beginning to cry. But Richard’s entrance set all at peace—he sat down among them, and, with soft voice and arm round Blanche, as she leaned against him, made her good in a moment; and she listened while he talked over with Norman and Ethel all they could bear to speak of.
Late in the day Flora came into her father’s room, and stood gazing at him, as he lay with eyes closed, breathing heavily, and his brows contracted by pain. She watched him with piteous looks, as if imploring him to return to his children. Poor girl, to-day’s quiet, after the last evening’s bustle, was hard to bear. She had then been distracted from thought by the necessity of exertion, but it now repaid itself, and she knew not how to submit to do nothing but wait and watch.
“No change?” enquired Alan Ernescliffe; looking kindly in her face.
“No,” replied she in a low, mournful tone. “She only once said, thank you.”
A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, “Margaret?” and her heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as she saw her father’s eyes intently fixed on her. “Did you speak of her?” he repeated.
“Yes, dear papa,” said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in extreme fear of what the next question might be. “She is quiet and comfortable, so don’t be uneasy, pray.”
“Let me hear,” he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be entirely roused. “There is injury? What is it—”
He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain her sister’s condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would get up and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to think of it, and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he would at least wait for Mr. Ward; but the doctor would not relinquish his purpose, and sent her to give notice that he was coming.
Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console her, as she looked at him in despair.
“You see he is quite himself, quite collected,” he said; “you heard now clear and coherent his questions were.”
“Can’t it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr. Ward.”
“I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I do, upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more likely to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really think you need not be alarmed.”
“But you know,” said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she whispered and signed towards the door, “she is there—it is mamma’s room, that will tell all.”
“I believe he knows,” said Alan. “It was that which made him faint after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was afraid to hear about her—your sister, so that our mention of her was a great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. Only go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.”
Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward, and hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking perhaps from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to have seen her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting him. When she had sent her message, and told her brothers what was passing, she went and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for tidings. After what seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened to the nursery, giving her intelligence on the way.
“Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and was quite calm and composed. Oh! if this will not hurt him, if the seeing baby was but over!”
“Does he want her?”
“Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let him. Nurse, do you hear? Papa wants baby; let me have her.”
“Bless me, Miss Flora, you can’t hold her while you are all of a tremble! And he has been to Miss Margaret?”
“Yes, nurse, and he was only rather stiff and lame.”
“Did Margaret seem to know him?” said Ethel.
“She just answered in that dreamy way when he spoke to her. He says he thinks it is as Mr. Ward believes, and that she will soon come to herself. He is quite able to consider—”
“And he knows all?”
“I am sure he does. He desired to see baby, and he wants you, nurse. Only mind you command yourself—don’t say a word you can help—do nothing to agitate him.”
Nurse promised, but the tears came so fast, and sobs with them, as she approached her master’s room, that Flora saw no composure could be expected from her; and taking the infant from her, carried it in, leaving the door open for her to follow when wanted. Ethel stood by listening. There was silence at first, then some sounds from the baby, and her father’s voice soothing it, in his wonted caressing phrases and tones, so familiar that they seemed to break the spell, drive away her vague terrors, and restore her father. Her heart bounded, and a sudden impulse carried her to the bedside, at once forgetting all dread of seeing him, and chance of doing him harm. He lay, holding the babe close to him, and his face was not altered, so that there was nothing in the sight to impress her with the need of caution, and, to the consternation of the anxious Flora, she exclaimed, abruptly and vehemently, “Papa! should not she be christened?”
Dr. May looked up at Ethel, then at the infant; “Yes,” he said, “at once.” Then added feebly and languidly, “Some one must see to it.”
There was a pause, while Flora looked reproachfully at her sister, and Ethel became conscious of her imprudence, but in a few moments Dr. May spoke again, first to the baby, and then asking, “Is Richard here?”
“Yes, papa.”
“Send him up presently. Where’s nurse?”
Ethel retreated, much alarmed at her rash measure, and when she related it she saw that Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe both thought it had been a great hazard.
“Papa wants you,” was a welcome sound to the ears of Richard, and brought a pink glow into his face. He was never one who readily showed his feelings, and there was no danger of his failing in self-command, though grievously downcast, not only at the loss of the tender mother, who had always stood between him and his father’s impatience, but by the dread that he was too dull and insignificant to afford any help or comfort in his father’s dire affliction.
Yet there was something in the gentle sad look that met him, and in the low tone of the “How d’ye do, Ritchie?” that drove off a thought of not being loved; and when Dr. May further added, “You’ll see about it all—I am glad you are come,” he knew he was of use, and was encouraged and cheered. That his father had full confidence and reliance in him, and that his presence was a satisfaction and relief he could no longer doubt; and this was a drop of balm beyond all his hopes; for loving and admiring his father intensely, and with depressed spirits and a low estimate of himself, he had begun to fancy himself incapable of being anything but a vexation and burden.
He sat with his father nearly all the evening, and was to remain with him at night. The rest were comforted by the assurance that Dr. May was still calm, and did not seem to have been injured by what had passed. Indeed, it seemed as if the violence and suddenness of the shock, together with his state of suffering, had deadened his sensations; for there was far less agitation about him than could have been thought possible in a man of such strong, warm affections and sensitive temperament.
Ethel and Norman went up arm-in-arm at bedtime.
“I am going to ask if I may wish papa good-night,” said Ethel. “Shall I say anything about your coming?”
Norman hesitated, but his cheeks blanched; he shuddered, shook his head without speaking, ran up after Harry, and waved her back when she would have followed.
Richard told her that she might come in, and, as she slowly advanced, she thought she had never seen anything so ineffably mournful as the affectionate look on her father’s face. She held his hand and ventured—for it was with difficulty she spoke—to hope he was not in pain.
“Better than it was, thank you, my dear,” he said, in a soft weak tone: then, as she bent down to kiss his brow; “you must take care of the little ones.”
“Yes, papa,” she could hardly answer, and a large drop gathered slowly in each eye, long in coming, as if the heart ached too much for them to flow freely.
“Are they all well?”
“Yes, papa.”
“And good?” He held her hand, as if lengthening the interview.
“Yes, very good all day.”
A long deep sigh. Ethel’s two tears stood on her cheeks.
“My love to them all. I hope I shall see them to-morrow. God bless you, my dear, good-night.”
Ethel went upstairs, saddened and yet soothed. The calm silent sorrow, too deep for outward tokens, was so unlike her father’s usually demonstrative habits, as to impress her all the more, yet those two tears were followed by no more; there was much strangeness and confusion in her mind in the newness of grief.
