JOHN HERIOT'S WIFE
'Whose sweet voice
Should be the sweetest music to his ear,
Awaking all the chords of harmony;
Whose eye should speak a language to his soul
More eloquent than all that Greece or Rome
Could boast of in its best and happiest days;
Whose smile should be his rich reward for toil;
Whose pure transparent cheek pressed to his
Would calm the fever of his troubled thoughts,
And woo his spirits to those fields Elysian,
The Paradise which strong affection guards.'
Bethune.
And so when her youth was passed Mildred Lambert found the great
happiness of her life, and prepared herself to be a noble helpmeet to
the man to whom unconsciously she had long given her heart.
This time there were no grave looks, no dissentient voice questioning
the wisdom of Dr. Heriot's choice; a sense of fitness seemed to satisfy
the most fastidious taste; neither youth nor beauty were imperative in
such a case. Mildred's gentleness was the theme of every tongue. Her
tender, old-fashioned ways were discovered now to be wonderfully
attractive; a hundred instances of her goodness and unselfishness
reached her lover's ears.
'Every one seems to have fallen in love with you, Mildred,' he said to
her one sweet spring evening when he had crossed the market-place for
his accustomed evening visit. Mildred was alone as usual; the voices of
the young people sounded from the terrace; Olive and Richard were
talking together; Polly was leaning against the wall reading a letter
from Roy; the evening sun streamed through the window on Mildred's soft
brown hair and gray silk, on the great bowls of golden primroses, on the
gay tints of the china; a little green world lay beyond the bay window,
undulating waves of grass, a clear sparkle of water, dim blue mists and
lines of shadowy hills.
Mildred lifted her quiet eyes; their smiling depths seemed to hold a
question and reproof.
'Every one thinks it their duty to praise you to me,' he continued, in
the same amused tone; 'they are determined to enlighten me about the
goodness of my future wife. They do not believe how well I know that
already,' with a strange glistening in his eyes.
'Please do not talk so, John,' she whispered. 'I should not like you to
think too well of me, for fear I should, ever disappoint you.'
'Do you believe that would be possible?' he asked, reproachfully.
Then she gave him one of her lovely smiles.
'No, I do not,' she returned, simply; 'because, though we love each
other, we do not believe each other perfect. You have often called me
self-willed, John, and I daresay you are right.'
He laughed a little at that; her quaint gentleness had often amused him;
he knew he should always hear the truth from her. She would tell him of
her faults over and over again, and he would listen to them gravely and
pretend to believe them rather than wound her exquisite susceptibility;
but to himself he declared that she had no flaw--that she was the
dearest, the purest, a pearl among women. Mildred would have shrunk in
positive pain and humility if she had known the extravagant standard to
which he had raised her.
Sometimes he would crave to know her opinion of him in return. Like many
men, he was morbidly sensitive on this point, and was inclined to take
blame to himself where he did not deserve it, and she would point out
his errors to him in the simplest way, and so that the most delicate
self-consciousness could not have been hurt.
'What, all those faults, Mildred?' he would say, with a pretence at a
sigh. 'I thought love was blind.'
'I could never be blind about anything that concerns you, John,' she
would return, in the sweetest voice possible; 'our faults will only bind
us all the closer to each other. Is not that what helpmeet means?' she
went on, a soft gravity stealing over her words,--'that I should try to
help you in everything, even against yourself? I always see faults
clearest in those I love best,' she finished, somewhat shyly.
'The last is the saving clause,' he replied, with a look that made her
blush. 'In this case I shall have no objection to be told of my
wrong-doings every day of my life. What a blessing it is that you have
common sense enough for both. I am obliged to believe what you tell me
about yourself of course, and mean to act up to my part of our contract,
but at present I am unable to perceive the most distant glimmer of a
fault.'
'John!'
'Seriously and really, Mildred, I believe you to be as near perfection
as a living woman can be,' and when Dr. Heriot spoke in this tone
Mildred always gave up the argument with a sigh.
But with all her self-accusations Mildred promised to be a most
submissive wife. Already she proved herself docile to her lover's
slightest wish. She did not even remonstrate when Dr. Heriot pleaded
with her brother and herself that an early day should be fixed for the
marriage; for herself she could have wished a longer delay, but he was
lonely and wanted her, and that was enough.
Perhaps the decision was a little difficult when she thought of Olive,
but the time once fixed, there was no hesitation. She went about her
preparations with a quiet precision that made Dr. Heriot smile to
himself.
'One would think you are planning for somebody else's wedding, not your
own,' he said once, when she came down to him with her face full of
gentle bustle; 'come and sit down a little; at least I have the right to
take care of you now, you precious woman.'
'Yes; but, John, I am so busy; I have to think for them all, you know;
and Olive, poor girl, is so scared at the thought of her
responsibilities, and Richard is so occupied he cannot spare me time for
anything,' for Richard, now in deacon's orders, was working up the
parish under Hugh Marsden's supervision. Hugh had lost his mother, and
had finally yielded his great heart and strength to the South African
Mission.
'But there is Polly?' observed Dr. Heriot.
'Yes, there is Polly until Roy comes,' she returned, with a smile. 'She
is my right hand at present, until he monopolises her; but one has to
think for them all, and arrange things.'
'You shall have no one but yourself to consider by and by,' was his
lover-like reply.
'Oh, John, I shall only have time then to think of you!' was her quiet
answer.
And so one sweet June morning, when the swathes and lines of new-mown
hay lay in the crofts round Kirkby Stephen, and while the little
rush-bearers were weaving their crowns for St. Peter's Day, and the
hedges were thick with the pink and pearly bloom of brier roses, Mildred
Heriot stood leaning on her husband's arm in St. Stephen's porch.
Merrily the worn old bells were pealing out, the sunlight streamed
across the market-place, the churchyard paths, and the paved lanes, and
the windows of the houses abutting on the churchyard, were crowded with
sympathising faces.
Not young nor beautiful, save to those who loved her; yet as she stood
there in her soft-eyed graciousness, many owned that they had never seen
a sweeter-faced bride.
'My wife, is this an emblem of our future life?' whispered Dr. Heriot,
as he led her proudly down the path, almost hidden by the roses her
little scholars' hands had strewn; but Mildred's lip quivered, and the
pressure of her hand on his arm only answered him.
'How had she deserved such happiness?' the humble soul was asking
herself even at this supreme moment. Under her feet lay the fast-fading
roses, but above and around spread the pure arc of central blue--the
everlasting arms of a Father's providence about her everywhere. Before
them was the gray old vicarage, now no longer her home, the soft violet
hills circling round it; above it a heavy snow-white cloud drooped
heavily, like a guardian angel in mid-air; roses, and sunlight, and
God's heavenly blue.
'Oh, it is all so beautiful!--how is one to deserve such happiness?' she
thought; and then it came to her that this was a free gift, a loan, a
talent that the Father had given to be used for the Master's service,
and the slight trembling passed away, and the beautiful serene eyes
raised themselves to her husband's face with the meek trustfulness of
old.
Mildred was not too much engrossed even in her happiness to notice that
Olive held somewhat aloof from her through the day. Now and then she
caught a glimpse of a weary, abstracted face. Just as she had finished
her preparations for departure, and the travelling carriage had driven
into the courtyard, she sent Ethel and Polly down on some pretext, and
went in search of her favourite.
She found her in the lobby, sitting on the low window-seat, looking
absently at the scene below her. The courtyard of the vicarage looked
gay enough; the horses were champing their bits, and stamping on the
beck gravel; the narrow strip of daisy turf was crowded with moving
figures; Polly, in her pretty bridesmaid's dress, was talking to Roy;
Ethel stood near them, with Richard and Hugh Marsden; Dr. Heriot was in
the porch in earnest conversation with Mr. Lambert. Beyond lay the quiet
churchyard, shimmering in the sunlight; the white, crosses gleamed here
and there; the garlands of sweet-smelling flowers still strewed the
paths.
'Dear Olive, are you waiting for me? I wanted just to say a last word or
two;' and Mildred sat down beside her in her rich dress, and took the
girl's listless hand in hers. 'Promise me, my child, that you will do
the best for yourself and them.'
'It will be a poor best after you, Aunt Milly,' returned Olive, with a
grateful glance at the dear face that had been her comfort so long. It
touched her that even now she should be remembered; with an impulse that
was rare with her she put her arms round Mildred, and laid her face on
her shoulder. 'Aunt Milly, I never knew till to-day what you were to
me--to all of us.'
'Am I not to be Aunt Milly always, then?' for there was something
ineffably sad in the girl's voice.
'Yes, but we can no longer look to you for everything. We shall miss you
out of our daily life. I do not mean to be selfish, Aunt Milly. I love
to think of your happiness; but all the same I must feel as though
something has passed out of my life.'
'I understand, dear. You know I never think you selfish, Olive. Now I
want you to do something for me--a promise you must make me on my
wedding-day.'
A flickering smile crossed Olive's pale face. 'It must not be a hard
one, then.'
'It is one you can easily keep,--promise me to try to bear your failures
hopefully. You will have many; perhaps daily ones. I am leaving you
heavy responsibilities, my poor child; but who knows? They may be
blessings in disguise.'
An incredulous sigh answered her.
'It will be your own fault if they do not prove so. When you fail, when
things go wrong, think of your promise to me, and be patient with
yourself. Say to yourself, "It is only one of Olive's mistakes, and she
will try to do better next time." Do you understand me, my dear?'
'Yes, I will try, Aunt Milly.'
'I am leaving you, my darling, with a confidence that nothing can shake.
I do not fear your goodness to others, only to this weary self,' with a
light caressing touch on the girl's bowed head and shoulders. 'Hitherto
you have leaned on me; I have been your crutch, Olive. Now you will rely
on yourself. You see I do not make myself miserable about leaving you. I
think even this is ordered for the best.'
'Yes, I know. How dear of you to say all this! But I must not keep you.
Hark, they are calling you!'
Mildred rose with a blush; she knew the light agile step on the stairs.
In another moment Dr. Heriot's dark face appeared.
'They are waiting, Mildred; we have not a moment to lose. You must come,
my dear wife!'
'One moment, John'; and as she folded the girl in a long embrace, she
whispered, 'God bless my Olive!' and then suffered him to lead her away.
But when the last good-byes were said, and the carriage door was closed
by Richard, Mildred looked up and waved her hand towards the lobby
window. She could see the white dress and dusky halo of hair, the
drooping figure and tightly locked hands; but as the sound of the wheels
died away in the distance, Olive hid her face in her hands and prayed,
with a burst of tears, that the promise she had made might be faithfully
kept.
An hour later, Richard found her still sitting there, looking spent and
weary, and took her out to walk with him.
'The rest have all started for Podgill. We will follow them more
leisurely. The air will refresh us both, Olive;' stealing a glance at
the reddened eyelids, that told their own tale. Olive so seldom shed
tears, that the relief was almost a luxury to her. She felt less
oppressed now.
'But Ethel--where is she, Cardie?' unwilling to let him sacrifice
himself for her pleasure. She little knew that Richard was carrying out
Mildred's last injunctions.
'I leave Olive in your care; be good to her, Richard,' she had said as
he had closed the carriage door on her, and he had understood her and
given her an affirmative look.
'Ethel has a headache, and has gone home,' he replied. 'She feels this
as much as any of us; she did not like breaking up the party, but I saw
how much she needed quiet, and persuaded her. She wants you to go up
there to-morrow and talk to her.'
'But, Cardie,' stopping to look at him, 'I am sure you have a headache
too.'
'So I have, and it is pretty bad, but I thought a walk would do us both
good, and we might as well be miserable together, to tell you the
truth,' with an attempt at a laugh. 'I can't stand the house without
Aunt Milly, and I thought you were feeling the same.'
'Dear Cardie, how good of you to think of me at all,' returned Olive,
gratefully. Her brother's evident sympathy was already healing in its
effects. Just now she had felt so lonely, so forlorn, it made her better
to feel that he was missing Aunt Milly too.
She looked up at him in her mild affectionate way as he walked beside
her. She thought, as she had often thought before, how well the
straitly-cut clerical garb became him--its severe simplicity suiting so
well the grave young face. How handsome, how noble he must look in
Ethel's eyes!
'We are so used to have Aunt Milly thinking for us, that it will be hard
to think for ourselves,' she went on presently, when they were walking
down by the weir. 'You will have to put up with a great deal from me,
and to be very patient, though you are always that now, Cardie.'
'Am I?' he returned, touched by her earnestness. Olive had always been
loyal to him, even when he had most neglected her; and he had neglected
her somewhat of late, he thought. 'I will tell you what we must do,
Livy; we must try to help each other, and to be more to each other than
we have been. You see Rex has Polly, but I have no one, not even Aunt
Milly now; at least we cannot claim her so much now.'
'You have Ethel, Cardie.'
'Yes, but not in the way I want,' he returned, the sensitive colour
flitting over his face. He could never hear or speak her name unmoved;
she was far more to him now than she had ever been, when he thought of
her less as the youthful goddess he had adored in his boyish days, than
as the woman he desired to have as his wife. He no longer cast a glamour
of his own devising over her image--faulty as well as lovable he knew
her to be; but all the same he craved her for his own.
'Not one man in a hundred, not one in a thousand, would make her happy,'
he said more than once to himself; 'but it is because I believe myself
to be that man that I persevere. If I did not think this, I would take
her at her word and go on my way.'
Now, as he answered Olive, a sadness crossed his face, and she saw it.
Might it not be that she could help him even here? He had talked about
his trouble to Aunt Milly, she knew. Could she not win him to some,
confidence in herself? Here was a beginning of the work Aunt Milly had
left her.
'Dear Cardie, I should so like it if you would talk to me sometimes
about Ethel,' she said, hesitating, as though fearing how he would like
it. 'I know how often it makes you unhappy. I can always see just when
it is troubling you, but I never could speak of it before.'
'Why not, Livy?' not abruptly, but questioning.
'One is so afraid of saying the wrong things, and then you might not
have liked it,' stammering in her old way.
'I must always like to talk of what is so dear to me,' he replied,
gravely. 'I could as soon blot out my own individuality, as blot out the
hope of seeing Ethel my future wife; and in that case, it were strange
indeed if I did not love to talk of her.'
'Yes, and I have always felt as though it must come right in the end,'
interposed Olive, eagerly; 'her manner gives me that impression.'
'What impression?' he asked, startled by her earnestness.
'I can't help thinking she cares for you, though she does not know it;
at least she will not allow herself to know it. I have seen her draw
herself so proudly sometimes when you have left her. I am sure she is
hardening her heart against herself, Cardie.'
A faint smile rose to his lips. 'Livy, who would have thought you could
have said such comforting things, just when I was losing heart too?'
'You must never do that,' she returned, in an old-fashioned way that
amused him, and yet reminded him somehow of Mildred. 'Any one like you,
Cardie, ought never to lose courage.'
'Courage, Coeur-de-Lion!' he returned, mimicking her tone more gaily
as his spirits insensibly rose under the sisterly flattery. 'God bless
her! she is worth waiting for; there is no other woman in the world to
me. Who would have thought we should have got on this subject to-day, of
all days in the year? but you have done me no end of good, Livy.'
'Then I have done myself good,' she returned, simply; and indeed some
sweet hopeful influence seemed to have crept on her during the last
half-hour; she thought how Mildred's loving sympathy would have been
aroused if she could have told her how Richard and she had mutually
comforted themselves in their dulness. But something still stranger to
her experience happened that night before she slept.
She was lying awake later than usual, pondering over the events of the
day, when a stifled sound, strongly resembling a sob promptly swallowed
by a simulated yawn, reached her ear.
'Chrissy, dear, is there anything the matter?' she inquired, anxiously,
trying to grope her way to the huddled heap of bed-clothes.
'No, thank you,' returned Chriss, with dignity; 'what should be the
matter? good-night. I believe I am getting sleepy,' with another
artfully-constructed yawn which did not in the least deceive Olive.
Chrissy was crying, that was clear; and Olive's sympathy was wide-awake
as usual; but how was she with her clumsy, well-meaning efforts to
overcome the prickles?
Chriss was well known to have a soul above sympathy, which she generally
resented as impertinent; nevertheless Olive's voice grew aggravatingly
soft.
'I thought perhaps you might feel dull about Aunt Milly,' she began,
hesitating; 'we do--and so----'
'I don't know, I am sure, whom you mean by your aggravating we's,'
snapped Chriss; 'but it is very hard a person can't have their feelings
without coming down on them like a policeman and taking them in charge.'
'Well, then, I won't say another word, Chriss,' returned her sister,
good-humouredly.
But this did not mollify Chriss.
'Speaking won't hurt a person when they are sore all over,' she replied,
with her usual contradiction. 'I hate prying, of course, and it is a
pity one can't enjoy a comfortable little cry without being put through
one's catechism. But I do want Aunt Milly. There!' finished Chriss, with
another ominous shaking of the bed-clothes; 'and I want her more than
you do with all your mysterious we's.'
'I meant Cardie,' replied Olive, mildly, too much used to Chriss's
oddities to be repulsed by them. 'You have no idea how much he misses
her and all her nice quiet ways.'
Chriss stopped her ears decidedly.
'I don't want to hear anything about Aunt Milly; you and Richard made
her a sort of golden image. It is very unkind of you, Olive, to speak
about her now, when you know how horrid and disagreeable and cross and
altogether abominable I have always been to her,' and here honest tears
choked Chriss's utterance.
A warm thrill pervaded Olive's frame; here was another piece of work
left for her to do. She must gain influence over the cross-grained
warped little piece of human nature beside her; hitherto there had been
small sympathy between the sisters. Olive's dreamy susceptibilities and
Chriss's shrewdness had kept them apart. Chriss had always made it a
point of honour to contradict Olive in everything, and never until now
had she ever managed to insert the thinnest wedge between Chriss's
bristling self-esteem and general pugnacity.
'Oh, Chriss,' she cried, almost tremblingly, in her eagerness to impart
some consolation, 'there is not one of us who cannot blame ourselves in
some way. I am sure I have not been as nice as I might have been to Aunt
Milly.'
Chriss shook her shoulder pettishly.
'Dear me, that is so like you, Olive; you are the most
funnily-constructed person I ever saw--all poetry and conscience. When
you are not dreaming with your eyes open you are always reading yourself
a homily.'
'I wish I were nice for all your sakes,' replied Olive, meekly, not in
the least repudiating this personal attack.
'Oh, as to that, you are nice enough,' retorted Chriss, briskly. 'You
won't come up to Aunt Milly, so it is no use trying, but all the same I
mean to stick to you. I don't intend you to be quite drowned dead in
your responsibilities. If you say a thing, however stupid it is, I shall
think it my duty to back you up, so I warn you to be careful.'
'Dear Chriss, I am so much obliged to you,' replied Olive, with tears in
her eyes.
She perfectly understood by this somewhat vague sentence that Chriss was
entering into a solemn league and covenant with her, an alliance
aggressive and defensive for all future occasions.
'There is not another tolerably comfortable person in the house,'
grumbled Chriss; 'one might as well talk to a monk as to Richard; the
corners of his mouth are beginning to turn down already with
ultra-goodness, and now he has taken to the Noah's Ark style of dress
one has no comfort in contradicting him.'
'Chrissy, how can you say such things? Cardie has never been so dear and
good in his life.'
'And then there are Rex and Polly,' continued Chriss, ignoring this
interruption; 'the way they talk in corners and the foolish things they
say! I have made up my mind, Livy, never to be in love, not even if I
marry my professor. I will be kind to him and sew on his buttons once in
a way, and order him nice things for dinner; but if he sent me on
errands as Rex does Polly I would just march out of the room and never
see his face again. I am so glad that no one will think of marrying you,
Olive,' she finished, sleepily, disposing herself to rest; 'every family
ought to have an old maid, and a poetical one will be just the thing.'
Olive smiled; she always took these sort of speeches as a matter of
course. It never entered her head that any other scheme of life were
possible with her. She was far too humble-minded and aware of her
shortcomings to imagine that she could find favour in any man's eyes.
She lay with a lightened heart long after Chriss had fallen into a sweet
sleep, thinking how she could do her best for the froward young creature
beside her.
'I have begun work in earnest to-day,' she thought, 'first Cardie and
now Chriss. Oh, how hard I will try not to disappoint them!'
Dr. Heriot had hoped to secure some five weeks of freedom from work, but
before the month had fully elapsed he had an urgent recall home. Richard
had telegraphed to him that they were all in great anxiety about Mr.
Trelawny. There had been a paralytic seizure, and his daughter was in
deep distress. They had sent for a physician from Kendal, but as the
case required watching, Dr. Heriot knew how urgently his presence would
be desired.
He went in search of his wife immediately, and found her sitting in a
quiet nook in the Lowood Gardens overlooking Windermere.
The book they had been reading together lay unheeded in her lap.
Mildred's eyes were fixed on the shining lake and the hills, with purple
shadows stealing over them. Her husband's step on the turf failed to
rouse her, so engrossing was her reverie, till his hand was laid on her
shoulder.
'John, how you startled me!'
'I have been looking for you everywhere, Milly, darling,' he returned,
sitting down beside her. 'I have been watching you for ever so long; I
wanted to know what other people thought of my wife, and so for once I
resolved to be a disinterested spectator.'
'Hush, your wife does not like you to talk nonsense;' but all the same
Mildred blushed beautifully.
'Unfortunately she has to endure it,' he replied, coolly. 'After all I
think people will be satisfied. You are a young-looking woman, Milly,
especially since you have left off wearing gray.'
'As though I mind what people think,' she returned, smiling, well
pleased with his praise.
Was it not sufficient for her that she was fair in his eyes? Dr. Heriot
had a fastidious taste with regard to ladies' dress. In common with many
men, he preferred rich dark materials with a certain depth and softness
of colouring, and already, with the nicest tact, she contrived to
satisfy him. Mildred was beginning to lose the old-fashioned staidness
and precision that had once marked her style; others besides her husband
thought the quiet, restful face had a certain beauty of its own.
And he. There were some words written by the wise king of old which
often rose to his lips as he looked at her--'The heart of her husband
does safely trust in her; she will do him good and not evil all the days
of her life.' How had it ever come that he had won for himself this
blessing? There were times when he almost felt abashed before the purity
and goodness of this woman; the simplicity and truthfulness of her
words, the meekness with which she ever obeyed him. 'If I can only be
worthy of my Mildred's love, if I can be what she thinks me,' he often
said to himself. As he sat beside her now a feeling of regret crossed
him that this should be their last evening in this sweet place.
'Shall you be very much disappointed, my wife' (his favourite name for
her), 'if we return home a few days earlier than we planned?'
She looked up quickly.
'Disappointed--to go home, and with you, John! But why? is there
anything the matter?'
'Not at the vicarage, but Mr. Trelawny is very ill, and Richard has
telegraphed for me. What do you say, Mildred?'
'That we must go at once. Poor Ethel. Of course she will want you, she
always had such faith in you. Dr. Strong is no favourite at
Kirkleatham.'
'Yes, I think we ought to go,' he returned, slowly; 'you will be a
comfort to the poor girl, and of course I must be at my post. I am only
so sorry our pleasant trip must end.'
'Yes, and it was doing you so much good,' she replied, looking fondly at
the dark face, now no longer thin and wan. 'I should have liked you to
have had another week's rest before you began work.'
'Never mind,' he returned, cheerfully, 'we will not waste this lovely
evening with regrets. Where are your wraps, Mildred? I mean to fetch
them and row you on the lake; there will be a glorious moon this
evening.'
The next night as Richard crossed the market-place on his way from
Kirkleatham he saw lights in the window of the low gray house beside the
Bank, and the next minute Dr. Heriot came out, swinging the gate behind
him. Richard sprang to meet him.
'My telegram reached you then at Windermere? I am so thankful you have
come. Where is Aunt Milly?'
'There,' motioning to the house; 'do you think I should leave my wife
behind me? Let me hear a little about things, Richard. Are you going my
way; to Kirkleatham, I mean?'
'Yes, I will turn back with you. I have been up there most of the time.
He seems to like me, and no one else can lift him. It seemed hard
breaking into your holiday, Dr. Heriot, but what could I do? We are sure
he dislikes Dr. Strong, and then Ethel seemed so wretched.'
'Poor girl; the sudden seizure must have terrified her.'
'Oh, I must tell you about that; I promised her I would. You see he has
taken this affair of the election too much to heart; every one told him
he would fail, and he did not believe them. In his obstinacy he has
squandered large sums of money, and she believes this to be preying on
his mind.'
'That and the disappointment.'
'As to that his state was pitiable. He came back from Kendal looking as
ill as possible and full of bitterness against her. She has no want of
courage, but she owned she was almost terrified when she looked at him.
She does not say much, but one can tell what she has been through.'
Dr. Heriot nodded. Too well he understood the state of the case. Mr.
Trelawny's paroxysms of temper had latterly become almost
uncontrollable.
'He parted from her in anger, his last words being that she had ruined
her father, and then he went up to his dressing-room. Shortly after a
servant in an adjoining room heard a heavy fall, and alarmed the
household. They found him lying speechless and unable to move. Ethel
says when they had laid him on his bed and he had recovered
consciousness a little, his eyes followed her with a frightened,
questioning look that went to her heart, and which no soothing on her
part could remove. The whole of the right side is affected, and though
he has recovered speech, the articulation is very imperfect, impossible
to understand at present, which makes it very distressing.'
'Poor Miss Trelawny, I fear she has sad work before her.'
'She looks wretchedly ill over it; but what can one expect from such a
shock? She shows admirable self-command in the sickroom; she only breaks
down when she is away from him. I am so glad she will have Aunt Milly.
Now I must go back, as Marsden is away, and I have to copy some papers
for my father. I shall go back in a couple of hours to take the first
share of the night's nursing.'
'You will find me there,' was Dr. Heriot's reply as they shook hands and
parted.