REST.
"FATHER, I expected you home nearly an hour ago," said Annie, meeting
Mr. Wilmot at the hall door.
"Yes—I could not come, dear."
"Mr. Page has been waiting ever so long in the study to see you."
There was an almost imperceptible sigh. "I should have been in time,
but I was stopped. One of the poor little Handcocks has been terribly
scalded. Of course I went at once to see."
"Oh, how dreadful! How was it?" asked Annie. She was watching anxiously
her father's face, even while keeping up in resolute style the cheerful
manner which she had cultivated of late.
"The mother out, of course, and the four infants locked indoors alone.
A kettle of water had been left on or close to the kitchen fire, and
the eldest child pulled it over, trying to lift it farther away. The
youngest child, crawling on the floor, narrowly escaped a complete
deluge. Bad enough as it is."
"Who helped the poor things?"
"Nancy Dunn. Her mother was out, and Nancy behaved admirably. Bess
Gardiner went off in search of Mrs. Mason."
"Bess Gardiner! Why, how was she not in the factory?"
"Some repairs going on in the machinery where she works. Annie, dear, I
think I must sit down."
"O father!" Annie's start was self-reproachful. "How wrong of me to
keep you here! Come to the drawing-room. Mr. Page is in the study."
"Better get that over. He has waited so long.
"I wish you would not. I am sure you ought to rest."
Mr. Wilmot stooped to kiss Annie.
"Nothing of consequence, I think," he said, as if answering her
unspoken fear. "We will have a quiet evening. Come to me when Mr. Page
goes."
But Mr. Page was sure to be long in going. Annie knew this well from
past experience. She saw her father disappear within the study door,
dragging one foot after the other. Then she busied herself in the
drawing-room as best she could, waiting for the welcome sound of
footsteps in the hall.
How Mr. Page's voice went on—on—on! Annie could seldom hear the sound
of her father's voice in response. Mr. Page seemed to have a large
amount to say; and he was very lengthy in the saying of it.
Suddenly a ring at the front door, and the opening of the study door.
Mr. Page appeared alone, not followed as was usual by Mr. Wilmot.
"Good evening, Miss Wilmot—good evening," said Mr. Page. "Fine day,
isn't it? Mr. Wilmot doesn't seem quite the thing, though—no, certainly
not quite the thing. He'll be getting away for a holiday soon, and
that'll set him up. I tell him, he wants a holiday, for he works too
hard—a great deal too hard. Never any rest, morning, noon, or night,
Sunday or week-day. Human nature wasn't made to stand it. I'm sorry
to have had to stay so long, but there was a lot of things to settle.
Good-bye, good-bye."
Mr. Page vanished, and a voice at the front door was requesting to "see
Mr. Wilmot." Annie waited to see who it might be, then glided into the
study.
The room was getting rather dark, and Mr. Wilmot had chosen a shady
position, leaning back in his easy-chair.
"Father, Mr. Page has been very long. Somebody else wants a word with
you now."
A pause, and then—"I think—I can do no more."
The voice was not entirely natural.
Annie bent over him, trying to see his face.
"Are you very tired, father?"
"Yes—strangely weary to-night."
He did not ask who had come. Annie had never before known such an
omission.
"I will settle it," she said, and she went to the maid, waiting outside
the study door.
"The man must come again to-morrow," she said. "My father is not well,
and he must be quiet this evening. And please go yourself at once for
Mr. Rawdon. If he is not in, leave a message, asking him to come as
soon as he possibly can."
Once more in the study, Annie sat down close beside her father,
watching him steadily in the dim light. He did not appear to notice
her, until she laid her hand on his, and then his fingers closed round
it.
"Father, have you any pain?" she asked.
"No, my child. Nothing, except weariness."
"When did that come on?"
He hesitated, as if to recall—then said only—"I don't know."
His head was drooping, as if he had not strength to hold it up. Annie
put her arms round him supportingly.
"Would you not like to lie down?"
No reply came.
"If you could get a little rest—"
"This is rest," he said dreamily.
Some minutes went slowly by. It was impossible that Mr. Rawdon should
arrive yet. Annie did not like the heavy silence. It filled her with a
nameless dread.
"Father, I think you want food. May I get something?"
"No, darling. I am very comfortable."
"Really comfortable? You don't feel ill? Is it only rest that you want?"
"Only—rest," he said.
Another prolonged silence.
"The depths of His mercy—" she heard at length whispered.
"Yes, father—"
But silence again.
Was that the front door bell? Had Mr. Rawdon come?
She could not move to ring or ask. Mr. Wilmot was leaning against her,
supported by her in a measure. It was as much as she could do to hold
him up.
Steps sounded in the hall, and at the same instant Mr. Wilmot stirred.
Annie was conscious of a slight start—was it from pain? She could not
tell. Two words fell from his lips with a singular distinctness, an
intonation of surprise and joy—
"READY—MASTER—"
Mr. Rawdon entered the study. He walked straight towards the arm chair,
took Mr. Wilmot's hand, dropped it, turned to the table, and struck a
light.
Annie noted first the changed look on Mr. Rawdon's face. Then, as he
relieved her of the weight she bore, she saw her father's face.
No signs of pain there, or even of weariness now. The eyes were lifted,
looking upward, far beyond the enclosing walls of that small room, and
the pale lips, smiling, said once more with exultant clearness—
"AYE—READY!"
Then he seemed to fall quietly asleep. It was a sleep from which no
earthly power, no human skill might awake him.