FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
When Colonel Stanburne had removed Edith's picture, he carried it away
into the darkness. He could not endure the idea of having to explain his
action, and instinctively kept out of people's way. Still, he could not
leave it out of doors; he dreaded some injury that might happen to it.
Where could he put it? In one of the out-houses? A careless groom might
injure it in the hurry and excitement of the night. No; it would be safe
nowhere but at his mother's, and thither he would carry it.
There were two communications from the Hall to the cottage--a
carriage-drive and a little footpath. The drive curved about a little
under the old trees in the park, but the footpath was more direct, and
went through a dense shrubbery. On his way to the cottage the Colonel
met no one, but on his arrival there he met Lady Helena in the entrance.
His mother was there too. Late as it was, she had not yet gone to bed.
The sight of the Colonel, bareheaded, and carrying a great oil-picture
in his hands, greatly astonished both these ladies.
"What _are_ you doing with that picture, John?" said Lady Helena.
"I want it to be safe--it will be safe here;" and he reared it against
the wall. Then he said, "No, not here; it will be safer in the
drawing-room; open the door. Thank you."
When they got into the drawing-room, the Colonel deliberately took down
a portrait of himself and hung Edith's portrait in its place. His
manner was very strange, both the ladies thought; his action most
strange and eccentric. Lady Helena thought he had drunk too much wine;
Mrs. Stanburne dreaded insanity.
With that humoring tone which is often adopted towards persons not in
possession of their mental faculties, Mrs. Stanburne said, "Well, John,
I shall be glad to take care of Edith's picture for you, if you think
that it can be safer here than at the Hall."
"Yes, it will be safer--it will be safer."
This answer, and his strange wild look, confirmed poor old Mrs.
Stanburne's fears. She began to tremble visibly. "Helena, Helena," she
whispered, "poor John is--has"--
"No, mother, I'm not mad, and I'm not drunk either, Helena, but I've
brought this picture here because it's more valuable to me now than it
used to be, and--I don't want it to be burnt, you understand."
"No, I don't understand you at all," said her ladyship; "you are
unintelligible to-night. Better come home, I think, and not drink any
more wine. I never saw you like this before. It is disgraceful."
"Helena!" said the Colonel, in a very deep, hoarse voice, "Wenderholme
Hall is on fire, and my daughter Edith is burnt to death!"
Just as he finished speaking, a lurid light filled the sky, and shone
through the windows of the cottage. Lady Helena went suddenly to the
window, then she left the room, left the house, and went swiftly along
by the little path. John Stanburne was left alone with his mother.
She took him by the hand, and looked in his face anxiously. "My dear
boy," she said, "it's a pity about the house, you know; but our little
Edith"--
"What?"
"Is perfectly safe here, and fast asleep upstairs in her own little
bed!"
John Stanburne did not quite realize this at first. When it became clear
to him, he walked about the room in great agitation, not uttering a
word. Then he stopped suddenly, and folded his mother in his arms, and
kissed her. He kept her hand and knelt down before the sofa; she
understood the action, and knelt with him. Edith's picture was hanging
just above them, and as his lips moved in inaudible thanksgiving, his
eyes rose towards it and contemplated its sweet and innocent beauty. He
had had the courage to save it from the burning house, but not the
courage to let his eyes dwell upon it thus. Fair hair that hast not been
consumed in cruel flame! fair eyes that shall shine in the sunlight of
to-morrow! sweet lips whose dear language shall yet be heard in your
father's house!--your living beauty shall give him cheerfulness under
this calamity!
When they rose, his mother said, "Come and see;" and she took him up to
a little dainty room which Edith loved, and there, in a narrow bed
curtained with pale blue silk, she lay in perfect peace. The night was
warm, and there was a glow on the healthy cheek, and one little hand,
frilled with delicate lace, lay trying to cool itself upon the
counterpane.
"I'm afraid she's rather too warm," said her grandmother. But John
Stanburne thought of the fiery chamber at Wenderholme.