The Angel of Death.
Through four long, weary days, and four long, weary nights, the brave
old soldier fought his last and hardest fight; and all the time Paddy
never left him.
When the others broke down under the strain, she was strong still;
strong and calm, as she felt he would have been had he been in her
place. She knew it was the last thing she could do for him to prove her
devotion, and the thought nerved her for a strain that might well have
vanquished older and stronger hearts. Never once did the dying man open
his eyes and look yearningly round without seeing the young, strong,
pitying face of his heart’s darling.
But when it was all over—and with a long-drawn sigh as of great content
the brave old General had passed away—she stood up and looked vaguely
round with a dazed air. Her eyes met Jack’s, and with a sudden low cry
she held out her arms to him. Then, as he hastened to her, she broke
down in a paroxysm of weeping, all the more terrible from the long
restraint.
With great tears in his own eyes he carried her to her own room, and
laid her down on her own little bed, while he tried to soothe her in
broken sentences; until little Miss Mary sent him away, saying softly
it was better she should cry unrestrainedly.
Four days later, in the presence of several hundred people, General
Adair was laid to rest in the little churchyard of Omeath. Every effort
had been made to keep the funeral quiet and simple, but so familiar and
beloved had he been, that from far and near young and old came to pay
their last tribute of love and respect. There was no uncalled-for
weeping and lamenting; a spirit of solemn farewell seemed to spread
over all, encouraged by the brave, white faces of the widow and her two
fatherless girls. The widow leaned on the arm of their only relative, a
brother of the General’s, Dr Adair, from London, and Eileen and Paddy
followed together. Jack and the two aunts came next, and that was all
the funeral procession.
It was one of those soft, sunny days that come sometimes in late
November, as if they had been left over from summer, and must be fitted
in somewhere; and early in the evening a young moon looked tenderly
down through the trees upon the bereaved home and the new-made grave
with the white wreaths spread all around.
The little waves of the Loch murmured tremulously against the beach, as
if they would fain be silent, but, since that was not possible, they
would make their rippling upon the shingle as gentle and soothing as
they could. The tall trees stood like sentinels; now and then a little
breathing whisper passed through their scanty leaves, but there was no
unseemly tossing or creaking to mar the solemn silence. In the
distance, all around, the Mourne Mountains reared their heads to the
starlit heavens in a sublimity of majestic steadfastness. It was,
indeed, an eve of surpassing loveliness that commenced the watch of
that first night around the flower-strewn grave, lulling with ineffable
sweetness the last, long sleep of the fine old warrior.
It crept with a tender soothing into Paddy’s aching heart also as she
silently threaded her way through the shrubs and gravestones to the
spot where the flowers lay. The peacefulness of it all, the sense of a
work well done and all Nature offering tribute—her sure and certain
hope that it was indeed well with her father—kept her eyes serene and
her face calm, although there was a drawn look about her mouth that
went to the aunties’ hearts.
When she reached the grave, she stopped and tenderly re-arranged the
flowers, freeing some that had become twisted or crushed, and giving
others more room to breathe.
“Daddy would not like any of you to get hurt through him,” she
whispered, “and you must just try and keep fresh as long as possible.”
When she had finished she stood up, and a sudden terrible sense of loss
enfolded her.
“Oh, daddy, perhaps you’ll be lonely in Heaven,” she whispered
brokenly. “It doesn’t seem possible you can be happy without mother and
Eileen and me. We’re so terribly lonely without you here. I’m so afraid
God won’t be able to comfort you without us up there. Only, perhaps, in
some way, you are with us still. I expect you will be our guardian
angel now, and you’ll understand all the things that are so strange and
mysterious to us; and you’ll know about the glad meeting coming, and
how beautiful it will all be some day. I know you won’t forget or
change, daddy, and I’m glad we should have the pain instead of you;
yet, how I’d love you just to come and tell me that it’s all beautiful,
and you’re not lost and lonely among so many strange angels.
“I know it’s all right, daddy, I mustn’t talk like this, and you’re not
really far away at all. I can feel you quite close, only I can’t see
you. Daddy! daddy! how shall I bear to live for years and years without
seeing your dear face,” and she broke down into low, pitiful weeping.
In the moonlight another form could be seen approaching, but Paddy was
not aware of it until an arm was slipped through hers, and a big,
sunburnt hand closed over her small one. She knew at once that it was
Jack, but for some moments neither of them spoke. At last he cleared
his throat and said huskily:
“Your uncle has been asking for you, Paddy. I came to look for you.”
“What does he want?” she asked wonderingly. Jack hesitated a little. At
last he said: “I think it is something you have to be told. I’m a
little afraid it’s bad news.”
She started and turned a shade paler. Then she glanced down at the
flowers.
“It seems as this were surely enough,” she breathed half to herself.
“I wish I could help you, Paddy,” he burst out. “I wish I could help
you all. If you only knew how I hate and loathe myself for having
wasted all these years.”
“Poor Jack!” she said gently, and stroked the big brown hand.
“You must go now,” he said. “Your uncle is waiting in the library. Will
you come out again afterward?”
“Yes. Wait for me by the boat-house,” and she turned away and crossed
the churchyard.
In the library her uncle, a kindly, strong-faced man, was anxiously
looking for her, and when she entered he glanced keenly into her face.
He had been hearing a good deal about her from one and another during
the last two or three days, and it was because of a plan he had in his
mind that his glance held such searching interest.
“Did you want me, uncle?”
“Yes, dear.”
He hesitated, then went on: “You slipped away this afternoon the moment
I had finished reading your father’s will, didn’t you?”
“Yes, uncle. Ought I have stayed?”
“It did not make any difference, my child, except that I must explain
now what has passed since. You heard, I suppose, that your father lived
almost entirely on his pension, and that the greater part of that
ceased at his death?”
“Yes,” wonderingly.
“In fact, he seems to have had nothing left of his private property
except this house and grounds, and even upon this there is a mortgage.
At some period, though not within recent years, I think, with his usual
kind-heartedness, he has put his name to bills for one or two brother
officers, and they have not been met, and your father has had to pay.
In short, my dear, your father was a noble-hearted man, but he had no
business capacities, and what with one thing and another, you and your
mother and sister are left very badly off.”
A sudden fear seemed to seize Paddy, and with dread in her eyes, she
half whispered:
“Yes, uncle. Go on.”
The doctor cleared his throat and played nervously with his
watch-chain.
“There does not seem to be anything except your mother’s pension now,
and that is barely enough to support three.”
“And The Ghan House—!”
What was it in Paddy’s voice that made him turn away a moment and apply
his handkerchief vigorously to his nose? What was it in the aching
pause that opened those eyes, wont to brim over with fun and laughter,
wider and wider with dread? But nothing was to be gained by delay, and
at last the doctor said slowly:
“You will have to leave The Ghan House.”
Paddy sat as if she had been suddenly turned to stone. On the top of
all the rest, this last blow fell like a death-stroke. Her uncle gave
her a little time to recover, and then he sat down and, resting his
arms upon the table, leaned toward her.
“Paddy, my child, it’s terribly hard for you all,” he said in a gentle
voice, “but I’m so hoping you will help me to do the best for your
mother and sister.”
He had touched the right chord; no other method could have gone so
straight to Paddy’s heart. She gulped down the hard, dry sobs that
threatened to choke her, and looking up with an effort said:
“I promised daddy I would be a good son.”
“And I’m sure you will!” her uncle exclaimed. “You will prove yourself
a true Adair—your father’s own flesh and blood. You see,” he continued
more seriously, “what I am most troubled about is your future and
Eileen’s. While your mother lives there is the pension, such as it is,
but when she dies, you two little girls will have practically
nothing—except an old uncle who will always do what he can.”
Paddy looked up gratefully, but he gave her no opportunity to speak,
continuing immediately:
“If I were a rich man, you should none of you want _for_ anything, but
I am far from it. We Adairs have a fatal gift of getting through
money—a truly Irish trait—and a great part of my private means have
gone in medical research, and my practice is in a poor parish, where I
have to get what fees I can and leave the rest. As you know, your aunt
has a little money, but she has insisted upon giving Basil a most
expensive education, and now he is only half through his exams. He may
not pass his final for two or three years, and meanwhile he is a great
expense.”
He paused and there was a long silence, then Paddy looked up, and,
steadying her voice with an effort, said:
“I must earn money, uncle. I must do something at once.”
The doctor knit his forehead together. He knew only too well how, in
spite of the widening opportunities for women of earning a livelihood,
it is desperately hard for a young girl, fresh from the country, who
has done nothing but play most of her life, to gain any kind of a
footing in the ranks of women workers.
“It is difficult to begin,” he said, “and you have had no training.”
Paddy was silent.
“I think it will be better to go away from this neighbourhood first,”
he began, as if feeling his way a little.
“Oh, must we?” she cried. “I think I could teach or something. It would
break our hearts to go away from the mountains.”
The doctor shook his head.
“I have a plan,” he said, “and you must talk it over together and let
me know your answer in a week or two. Comparatively recently, it has
become usual for doctors to employ women, instead of men, as
dispensers. There is a certain amount of studying necessary and an
examination to be passed, but this once over, they are able to demand
very good salaries. You are a smart little woman, Paddy, and I have
been thinking it would be an excellent arrangement for you all to come
to London, and for you to fit yourself to be my dispenser. I would pay
you a hundred a year, and that would not only be a help to your mother,
but it would mean that you had something substantial to fall back upon
when she is gone.”
“A hundred a year!” Paddy half gasped. “Isn’t that a great deal?”
“Oh, no!” carelessly. “It is what most dispensers get.” He knew that it
was considerably above the salary of the average lady-dispenser, but he
did not want Paddy or her mother to know, and in any case he believed
she would be well worth it to him.
“You must just think it over well,” he said, “and let me know later
what you decide. If your mother does not approve, I will try to think
of something else, but if she does, there is no time to be lost. You
must begin to study in January, with a view to getting through in July,
and I will pay all the fees for you. I was obliged to speak to you
to-night, my dear, because I must return to London to-morrow, and I may
not have another opportunity. You are a brave girl. God will help you
to do the right,” and with a suspicious moisture in his eyes he stooped
and kissed her forehead, and went out leaving her alone.
Then it was that the flood-gates were opened, and throwing herself down
in the chair where her father had been wont to sit so often, she gave
way to hopeless, heart-broken weeping. She had said little enough to
her uncle, but in reality the news had been a terrible shock to her; it
had never entered her head for a moment that they must leave the old
home. Even now it seemed utterly impossible—as if it were better that
they should all three lie quietly in the churchyard beside their
beloved dead, than go away from the loch and the mountains and leave
him there in the churchyard alone!
When he weeping had spent itself, she remembered Jack and how he was
waiting for her at the boat-house, but just for the moment she felt too
exhausted to rise. Presently, however, she dragged herself up, and with
a long, sobbing breath, turned to the door and crept noiselessly
through the hall to the garden, and made her way down across the
railway track to the spot where she and Jack had met so often to go
upon one of their many madcap escapades. He was leaning against a post,
lost in thought, and he started a little when her light footstep
sounded on the shingle.
“Is that you Paddy!” he asked.
“Yes, Jack!” came the answer, and he felt vaguely that there were tears
in her voice.
He went forward with outstretched hands, and took her unresisting ones,
trying to see into her face.
“I thought you were never coming,” he said.
She gulped down a sob, and big tears splashed upon his hand.
“What is it!” he asked, feeling cold suddenly.
The little wavelets hushed their singing, a twittering bird stopped to
listen; over the majestic sleeping mountains, the shining stars, the
steadfast heavens, the sentinel trees, the shimmering, wistful loch,
there seemed to spread the hush of a spirit of pain, as he heard her
say in a trembling voice:
“We have to leave The Ghan House, and the mountains, and the loch, and
go and begin over again somewhere else.”
He said nothing—what was there to say! To both of them the words were
like a sentence of doom.