It was sadly changed times with all of us when Ida fell ill.
Her illness was a very severe one, and for many weeks she literally
hovered 'twixt death and life. Her spirit seemed like some beautiful
bird of migration, that meditates quitting these cold intemperate shores
and flying away to sunnier climes, but yet is loath to leave old
associations and everything dear to it.
There was little done during these weeks, save attending to Ida's
comforts, little thought about save the child.
Even the dogs missed their playmate. The terriers went away to the
woods every day by themselves. Eily, the collie, being told that she
must make no noise, refrained from barking even at the butcher, or
jumping up and shaking the baker by his basket, as had been her wont.
Poor Aileen Aroon went about with her great head lower than usual, and
with a very apologetic look about her, a look that, beginning in her
face, seemed to extend all the way to the point of her tail, which she
wagged in quite a doleful manner.
Nero and she took turn and turn about at keeping watch outside Ida's
room door.
Ida's favourite cat seldom left her little mistress's bedside, and
indeed she was as often in the bed as out of it.
It was winter--a green winter. Too green, Frank said, to be healthy;
and the dear old man used to pray to see the snow come.
"A bit of a frost would fetch her round," he said. "I'd give ten years
of my life, if it is worth as much, to see the snow on the ground."
The trees were all leafless and bare, but tiny flowers and things kept
growing in under the shrubs in quite an unnatural way.
But Frank came in joyfully one evening, crying, "It's coming, Gordon,
it's coming; the stars are unspeakably bright; there is a steel-blue
glitter in the sky that I like. It's coming; we'll have the snow, and
we'll have Ida up again in a month."
I had not quite so much faith in the snow myself, but I went out to have
a look at the prospect. It was all as Frank had said; the weird
gigantic poplars were pointing with leafless fingers up into a sky of
frosty blue, up to stars that shone with unusual radiance; and as I
walked along, the gravel on the path resounded to my tread.
"I'll be right; you'll see, I'll be right," cried Frank, exultant. "I'm
an older man than you, Gordon, doctor and all though you be."
Frank _was_ right. He was right about the snow, to begin with. It came
on next morning; not all at once in great flakes. No, big storms never
begin like that, but in grains like millet-seed. This for an hour; then
mingling with the millet-seed came little flakes, and finally an
infinity of large ones, as big as butterflies' wings. It was a treat to
gaze upwards, and watch them coming dancing downwards in a dazzling and
interminable maze.
It was beautiful!
It wanted but one thing at that moment to make me happy. That was the
presence of our bright-faced, blue-eyed little pet, standing on the
doorstep as she used to, gazing upwards, with apron outstretched to
catch the falling flakes.
Frank was so overjoyed, he must needs go out and walk about in the snow
for nearly an hour. I was in the kitchen engaged in some mysterious
invalid culinary operation when Frank came in. He always came in
through the kitchen now, instead of the hall, lest he might disturb the
child.
Frank's face was a treat to look at; it was redder, and appeared rounder
than usual, and jollier.
"There's three inches of snow on the ground already," he remarked,
joyfully. "Mary, bring the besom, my girl, to brush the snow off my
boots. That's the style."
Strange as it may appear, from that very morning our little patient
began to mend, and ere the storm had shown signs of abatement--in less
than a week, in fact--Ida was able to sit up in bed.
Thin was her face, transparent were her hands; yet I could see signs of
improvement; the white of her skin was a more healthful white; her
great, round eyes lost the longing, wistful look they had before.
I was delighted when she asked me to play to her. She would choose the
music, and I must play soft and low and sweet. Her fingers would deftly
turn the pages of the book till her eyes rested on something she loved,
and she would say, with tears in her eyes--
"Play, oh, play this! I do love it."
I managed to find flowers for her even in the snowstorm, for the
glass-houses at the Manor of D--are as large as any in the country, and
the owner was my friend.
I think she liked to look at the hothouse fruit we brought her, better
than to eat them.
The dogs were now often admitted. Even Gael and Broom were not entirely
banished.
My wife used to sew in the room, and sometimes read to Ida, and Frank
used to come in and sit at the window and twirl his thumbs. His
presence seemed to comfort the child.