and lifted her father's head on to her knee. He tried to smile
encouragement into the ashen face.
"It might have been worse, dear! She threw me clear of the water, and
I've no pain. I shall be all right when I get home, and have a rest."
"Yes, darling, yes. Of course you will," answered Esmeralda bravely.
Accidents in the hunting-field were unfortunately no new thing to her,
and her heart died within her as she looked at the helpless limbs, and
heard her father's words. Over and over again had she heard old
huntsmen marvel at the unconsciousness of those who were most mortally
injured. Absence of pain, combined with loss of power in the limbs,
meant serious injury to the spine, yet it seemed as if, with the
comparative comfort of the body, there must be a dulling of the mental
powers, since the victim frequently congratulated himself on his escape,
and seemed to forget the experiences of others!
As Esmeralda sat holding her father's head on her knee, the future
stretched before her, transformed by the accident of a moment. The
Major would never again ride by her side, never again mount his horse
and gallop over the wide green land; while he lived he must lie even as
he lay now, still and straight, a child in the hands of his nurses!
Poor father! oh, poor, poor father! what a death in life, to one of his
restless nature! what grief, what agony to see his sufferings! The
spring would come, and the summer, and the autumn, but there would be no
sunshine at Knock Castle, nothing but clouds and darkness, and dull,
settled gloom. Esmeralda had been her father's darling, and had
returned his love with all the fervour of a passionate Irish heart, so
that the sight of him in his helplessness hurt like a physical pain, and
the moments seemed endless until Hilliard returned accompanied by the
farmer and three of his men.
An hour later the Major was carried upstairs to his own room in the
Castle, and laid gently upon the old four-poster bed. Hilliard had
ridden on in advance to prepare the young mistress, and there she stood
at the doorway, white to the lips, but smiling still, a smile of almost
motherly tenderness as she bent over the prostrate form.
"More trouble to ye, Bridgie!" murmured the Major faintly. "A little
rest--that's all I need; but that poor beast! Tell Dennis to go and put
her out of her misery." He shut his eyes and remained silent until the
doctor arrived, galloping up to the door on Hilliard's horse, which he
had lent to save time, and tearing up the staircase to the sick-room
with the unprofessional speed of an old and devoted friend.
The examination was soon over, and fortunately the patient asked no
questions; he was tired and inclined for sleep, unperturbed on his own
account, but greatly distressed for the noble animal for whose agony he
held himself responsible. He was soothed by the assurance that
everything possible should be done to cure, or, if that were impossible,
to end its sufferings, and was then left to rest, while the doctor
returned to the morning-room, to face the sisters with what courage he
might. Bridgie lay back in a deep, old-fashioned chair, a slight,
almost childlike figure, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders
bowed as by too heavy a burden--the burden of all those five
motherless,--it might soon be fatherless?--children. Esmeralda,
straight and defiant by the fireplace, her stormy eyes challenging his
face.
"I--I--there is very little to say!" The doctor passed his hands
helplessly through his grey locks and wished himself at the other end of
the county. "I didn't want to fatigue him to-day, but to-morrow we can
have a better examination. Perhaps Trevor would come over in
consultation. He seems quite easy--quite easy and comfortable. I think
he will sleep. You must keep up your hearts, and not let him think you
are anxious. A great thing to keep up the spirits!"
"Why do you talk like that? Why do you try to deceive us? My father
will never get better. You know perfectly well that it is hopeless!"
Esmeralda's voice sounded clear and cold as falling water; her lips did
not tremble, she looked the doctor full in the face with hard, defiant
eyes. "I have seen other accidents before this, and know what it means.
It is useless to pretend. He has no pain because his spine is too much
injured. If he suffered, there might be some hope; as it is, there is
none. He will lie there days, weeks, months, whichever it may be, but
he will never move out of that room. He is dead already, my father, the
father I love, and it will be cruel and wicked of you if you try to keep
him alive!"
"Joan, Joan! Oh, darling, don't! Think what you are saying!"
Tender-hearted Bridgie burst into tears, but Esmeralda would not be
restrained. She turned to her sister ablaze with righteous anger.
"What! You too? Would you keep him here, existing--merely existing--
not able to do anything--he who has been so active all his life! It's
cruel, I tell you--cruel and selfish! You ought not even to wish such a
thing!"
"My child, the issues of life and death are not in our hands!" The
voice of the old man sounded solemn and deep after the girl's heated
accents, and she caught her breath as she listened. "It is not for you
to decide what is best. If your father lingers in helplessness, it will
be for some wise purpose, and you will see that it will be less trying
than you expect. Nature herself will work in his favour, for, when
paralysis comes, on the brain is mercifully deadened against the worst.
He will not suffer, and in all probability he will be patient and
resigned. Is not that something for which to be thankful?"
Bridgie covered her face with a low, heart-broken cry, for the doctor's
silent assent to Esmeralda's verdict--the undisguised conviction that
the case was hopeless--came to her with a shock of surprise before which
her courage wavered.
"Mother dead--father dead! All those children alone in the world, and
no money for them, and only me--only me--" Her heart swelled with a
great wave of protecting love; she held out her arms and cried brokenly,
"Esmeralda, come--come to me. Darling, if we are to be alone, we must
help each other, we must love each other more! Oh, Esmeralda, be brave,
for I am frightened--I can't do everything alone!" And at that
Esmeralda gave a great cry and rushed across the room, and the old
doctor groped his way downstairs, leaving the sisters sobbing in each
other's arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
THE SENTENCE.
That afternoon and the next day passed away like a nightmare, and still
the Major lay in the same helpless calm. Mr Hilliard had gone over to
Dublin on his own responsibility, and had come back late at night,
bringing with him a trained nurse, at the sight of whom Bridgie shed
tears of thankfulness; but during the daytime the sisters took it in
turns to watch by the bedside, while Mademoiselle seemed to act the part
of guardian angel to the whole household in turns. She soothed the
excited servants and roused them to a sense of their duty. She cooked
dainty little dishes for the nurses, and ministered to them when they
were off duty. She interviewed callers, and, last and best of all, took
Pixie in hand, and kept her interested and content. It was the strong
wish of her brothers and sisters that Pixie should not suspect the
dangerous nature of her father's illness, for they knew her excitable
nature, and trembled for the effect on the invalid of one of her
passionate bursts of lamentation.
"Besides, what's the use? Let her be happy as long as she can! I want
her to be happy!" cried Bridgie pathetically; and Mademoiselle assented,
knowing full well that the very effort of keeping up before the child
would be good for the rest of the household. There was no preventing
one interview, however, for the Major was as much set on seeing his
piccaninny as she was determined to see him; so on the evening of the
second day Bridgie led her cautiously into the room, and the sick man
moved his eyes--the only part of him that seemed able to move--and
looked wistfully into the eager face.
"Well, my Pixie, I've been getting into trouble, you see!"
"Does it hurt ye, father? Have you got a pain?"
"Never a bit, Pixie. I'm just numb. I feel as if I can't move!"
"I've felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at
school when the gong rings and I'm made to get up. It's the same as
being lazy."
The Major smiled for the first time since his return home. He never
could resist Pixie's quaint speeches, and Bridgie watched with delight
his brightening glance.
"Is it, piccaninny? That doesn't sound very serious. You'll have to
tell the doctor to be stern with me. What have you been doing with
yourself all day?"
"Fretting for you, but Mademoiselle's going to play games with me, and
I'll enjoy them now that you're comfortable. You've got on the very
best pillow-cases, father. You do look smart! Are you tired now? Do
you want to go to sleep? Will I sing to you awhile, the hymn you liked
so much at church last Sunday?"
Bridgie looked dismayed at the suggestion, but it appeared that Pixie
knew best what would please her father, for once more his face
brightened, and the eyes flashed an assent. On Sunday evenings in
winter, when the long dark walk made it difficult to get to church, the
O'Shaughnessys had been accustomed to sing hymns together, not in the
drawling, slipshod method in which such singing is too often done, but
with at least as much care and finish as they would have bestowed on
secular music, the different parts being accurately represented, and due
attention given to time and expression. In this way delightful hours
had been spent, and many beautiful hymns imprinted on the memory, so
that in this instance Pixie had no need to consult a book. She merely
leant against the bed-post, clasped her hands together, and, opening her
lips, began at once to sing, with clear, full-throated sweetness--
"`Come unto Me, ye weary,
And I will give you rest!'"
The beautiful old words seemed to take upon themselves an added
significance in the shaded room, with the motionless figure lying upon
the bed. The Major shut his eyes, and Bridgie turned aside with
quivering face, but the flute-like voice went on without a tremor--
"`Come unto Me, ye fainting,
And I will give you life!'
O cheering voice of Jesus,
Which comes to end our strife.
The foe is stern and eager,
The fight is fierce and long,
But He has made us mighty,
And stronger than the strong."
There was a slight quickening of time in the last two lines, a clearer,
stronger tone, as the singer's emotional nature caught the triumph in
the words, but the last verse was soft as an echo.
"`And whosoever cometh
I will not cast him out.'
O welcome voice of Jesus,
Which drives away our doubt;
Which calls us very sinners,
Unworthy though we be
Of love so free and boundless,
To come, dear Lord, to Thee!"
The Major's face was in shadow, but Bridgie saw the big tears rolling
down his cheeks, and hurried the little sister from the room.
"You sang beautifully, darling. It was sweet of you to think of it, but
now we must let him be quiet. I think perhaps he will go to sleep."
"Yes, he says he feels lazy! The Major was always fond of his bed!"
cried Pixie, skipping blithely down the staircase; but when Bridgie went
back to the sick-room her father's eyes were fixed eagerly on the
doorway, and he said in urgent tones--
"Bride, I'm wanting to see O'Brien! Send down for him at once, and when
he arrives, let him come up alone. I want to have a talk!"
Bridgie obeyed, in fear and trembling. Had something in the sweet
though solemn words of the hymn arrested the sick man's attention and
given him a conviction of his own danger? She sent the faithful Dennis
in search of the doctor, and in less than an hour's time the two old
friends were once more face to face.
"O'Brien," said the Major clearly, "I want you to answer me a question
before I sleep. Shall I ever hunt again?" And at this the doctor
heaved a sigh of relief, for he had feared a more direct inquiry, and
consequently one more difficult to answer.
"Not this season, my boy; you must make up your mind to that. A spill
like yours takes a little time to recover. You must be easy, and make
yourself happy at home."
"O'Brien, shall I ever hunt again?"
The doctor put his hand to his head in miserable embarrassment. He had
known handsome Jack O'Shaughnessy since he was a boy in knickerbockers.
It was more than he could stand to look him in the face and give him his
death-warrant.
"Now--now--now," he cried impatiently, "it isn't like you, Major, to be
worrying your head about what is going to happen next year! Keep still,
and be thankful you've a comfortable bed to lie on and two of the
prettiest daughters in Ireland to wait upon you! When next season comes
it will answer for itself, but I'm not a prophet--I can't foretell the
future."
The Major looked in his face with bright, steady eyes.
"You foolish fellow!" he cried. "You foolish fellow! You were always a
bad hand at deception, and you are no cleverer than usual this evening.
What are you afraid of, man? I'm not a coward! If my time's come, I
can face it calmly. Back injured, eh? That's why I felt no pain, but
it's difficult to realise that an injury is hopeless, when one is so
comparatively comfortable. How long will it be?"
He was perfectly calm, but the doctor was trembling with emotion, and
his voice was rough with tears.
"I can't say. You are very ill, old man--I won't deceive you--but while
there is life there is hope. We are going to have a man from Dublin; we
will try every means, and you must help us by keeping up your heart.
One never knows what changes may take place." But the Major only looked
at him the more steadily and repeated his question.
"How long will it be? I ought to know, so that I may do what I can for
the children. I haven't been the best of fathers to them, and the
estate is in a rare muddle. And Jack! What about Jack? I'd like to
see him again, but if it's not imminent, I won't bring him back just
yet. The boy is doing well, but he is not his own master, and has just
had a holiday. I must be unselfish in my last days, but you must
promise, doctor, not to let me go without seeing Jack!"
"My dear fellow, it's not a question of days! At the worst it will be
weeks, possibly months. My own opinion is two or three months, but we
shall know better after Barrett has been down. I wish you had not asked
me. It's the hardest work I've ever had to do, to tell you this; but
for the children's sake--If there is anything to be done, you ought not
to waste time!"
"I understand!" said the Major quietly, then suddenly a light flashed
across his face, and his eyes sparkled as with joy. "I shall die at
Knock!" he cried. "I shall not have to turn out after all! It was that
that drove me mad, O'Brien--the thought of leaving the old place where I
was born, and all my people before me! I had bad news from the bank,
and it seemed as if the end had come at last, and all the time I was
riding I was feeling desperate--driven into a corner. The poor beast
tried to save me, she knew the jump was too much for her, but I was too
reckless to care. I felt that I could face death sooner than leave the
old place, and now it has come to that after all. I shall die at Knock!
Thank God for that! Go downstairs, O'Brien, and tell the girls that I
know the truth, and am quite happy. You needn't mind leaving me. I
shall sleep now!"
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
ESMERALDA'S SOLACE.
The Dublin specialist came down in due course, and entirely agreed with
Dr O'Brien's diagnosis. There was no chance of the Major's recovery,
and though there was no immediate danger, it was not likely that life
would be prolonged for more than two or three months at most. He would
not suffer physically nor mentally, for the brain power would become
more and more dulled, so that he would hardly realise his condition.
The thought of watching him die by inches, as it were, was an even
harder trial to Esmeralda's impetuous nature than the shock of a sudden
death, but Bridgie was thankful for every day as it came, for every
opportunity of ministering to his needs. And he was so sweet, so
gentle; all his former indifference and selfishness had fallen from him
like a cloak, and his one thought was for his children, his one anxiety
on their behalf. When Bridgie saw how devoted he was to his piccaninny,
and how she could always succeed in raising a smile, she proposed that
the child should not return to school for the next term at least; but
the Major would not listen to the suggestion.
"No, no! I promised Molly that she should have her chance, and I won't
have her distressed. If she stayed on she would find out--and she would
cry, and I never could endure to see her cry. It would be delightful to
have her, but it will count for one real unselfish thing I've done in my
life if I do without her for these last weeks."
So it was arranged that Pixie should return at the proper date, and
Mademoiselle sat in the morning-room stitching away at the pile of
shabby little garments, mending, and darning, putting in "elegant"
little patches at the elbows, and turning and pressing the frayed silk
cuffs. Neither of the sisters had time to help, and indeed seemed to
think It unnecessary to spend so much trouble on a child's outfit, but
Mademoiselle set her lips and went steadily on with her task. She knew,
if they did not, that it is not too pleasant for a girl to be noticeably
shabby at a fashionable school, and many a dainty piece of ribbon and
lace found its way from her box to refresh hat or dress, and give an
appearance of freshness to the well-worn background. When the last
night came, and Bridgie tried to thank her for her help, she shook her
head and refused to listen.
"I was a stranger to you, and you welcomed me among you as if I had been
your own. You were more than kind, you seemed to love me, and never let
me feel for one moment that I was one apart. That means a great deal to
a woman who is alone in a strange land, and I could not be more happy
than to find something to do for you in return. What is a little
sewing? Bah! I tell you, my friend, it is much more than that I intend
to do for your Pixie. You say that you will not long be able to send
her to school, but I can do better for her than school. At the end of
this year I must go 'ome, for my sister is _fiancee_, and when she is
married I must be there to look after the old father. Lend Pixie to me,
and she shall learn to speak French, the proper French, not that
dreadful language of Holly House, and I will take her myself to the
Conservatoire--there is no better place in the world to learn music than
the Conservatoire in Paris--and she shall learn to sing and make use of
that lovely voice. _Voila, ma chere_, at the end of a few years she
comes back to you, and you will not know her! A young woman, with
grace, with charm, with--what shall I say?--an air such as your English
girls do not know how to possess, and everyone shall say, `How she is
accomplished, that Pixie! How she is clever and _chic_!'"
The tears had risen in Bridgie's eyes, but now she was obliged to laugh
at the same time, for it was so droll to think of Pixie as a young lady
"with an air!" She laid her hand on Mademoiselle's arm, with one of her
pretty caressing gestures.
"You are a dear, kind Therese, and it all sounds too charming, but I am
afraid it cannot be done. We shall be very poor, dear father's pension
will die with him, and if we cannot afford school, we could not pay you
properly for all your trouble. You are a darling for thinking of it,
but--"
She stopped short in dismay, for Mademoiselle had straightened her back
until it was as stiff as a poker, and was glaring at her with the air of
an offended Fury.
"Did you ask me for money when I came here? Did you expect me to pay
when you asked me to your house? Am I a pauper, then, that you insult
me with such an idea? It is the first time, I must say, that I have
invited a guest, and been offered a payment."
"Oh! oh! oh! What will I do? Don't glare at me like that, Therese, or
I'll expire with fright! I never offered you a payment, my dear; I said
I couldn't pay. I don't know what I said, but I never meant to make you
angry! If you don't forgive me this instant, I'll cry, and if I once
start crying, I shall go on till to-morrow, and so I warn you!
_Please_, Therese!"
She held out her hand appealingly, but Mademoiselle still tilted her
head, and kept up an air of offence.
"My feelings are 'urt," she said with dignity, "and they can only be
appeased if you withdraw your remarks, and promise that Pixie shall
come. You can pay for the lessons she takes, and the Paris
Conservatoire will not ruin you, my dear, I can tell you that; but for
the rest, do you suppose Pixie will do nothing for me in return for her
board? It is not too lively, a house with an invalid and an old maid,
and they may perhaps be glad to have a young thing about; to be made to
laugh sometimes and have some interest in life beyond rheumatism and
asthma! Do not disturb yourself; if you are too proud to accept help
from me, be assured that I shall make the child useful. She shall work
for her living!"
"You are pretending to be cross, to make me say `Yes,' but you needn't
keep it up any longer, dear. I'll say it with thankfulness this minute,
if it is indeed a pleasure to you too. I don't feel at all too proud to
accept a favour from you, and besides, it seems as if Providence meant
it to be so, and just the most wonderful and beautiful reason for your
coming here, which seemed at first so extraordinary. If you will really
let us pay for her lessons and make her as useful as if she were your
own little sister, why, then, thank you a thousand times, and a thousand
times more for lifting a weight off my mind. I was worrying myself
about her future, and now I shall worry no more, and father will be so
relieved, so happy! Are you sufficiently appeased to let me kiss you,
you haughty Mademoiselle?"
"With pleasure; yes! but my feelings are still sensitive. With the
slightest irritation I should have a relapse!" said Mademoiselle
stiffly; for it would not do to indulge in sentiment to-day, and
Bridgie's tears were dangerously near the surface.
The time for parting came at last, and the Major nerved himself to bid
adieu to his piccaninny with a composure which should leave her
unsuspicious of its final nature. He was very white, but Pixie had
grown accustomed to his pallor, and mingling with her grief at leaving
home was a keen pleasure at the thought of returning to her school
companions, of seeing Margaret and Ethel, of hearing Flora's fat,
contented chuckle, and seeing poor Lottie, and hearing how she had fared
at home. It was all very interesting and exciting, and somehow or other
home had been unusually dull during the last fortnight. Even Esmeralda
had turned quiet and mild, and Pat abandoned practical joking, and for
once been as good as he looked. The longing for some of the old
mischievous days made Pixie listen to her father's precepts with a
decided lack of enthusiasm.
"You will be a good child now, piccaninny, and work hard at your tasks.
Remember what I say to you, that you couldn't please me more than by
being good and industrious, and obedient to your teachers. I let you
run wild too long, and that's made you behind other girls of your age,
but you'll promise me that you will settle down, and make the most of
your opportunities?"
"I don't feel as if I wanted to `settle down.' It sounds so dull! Ye
can work without being so awfully proper, can't you, father? I can be a
little mischievous sometimes, can't I--especially on half-holidays?
I'll work all the better for it afterwards. And the girls would be so
disappointed if I were proper. You wouldn't believe how I liven them
up. Ye wouldn't like it yourself, now, Major, if ye never saw any more
of my pranks!"
He winced at that, but smiled bravely, his eye resting longingly upon
the thin little figure wriggling to and fro in the earnestness of its
appeal. With the remembrance of all that her brightness had been to
him, he could not bring himself to forbid it to others.
"Be as happy as you can, darling, and make other people happy too. So
long as you consider their feelings, and are careful not to go too far,
you will do no harm. Good-bye, my piccaninny! God bless you! Never
mind if you are not clever. Go on loving and making sunshine, and you
will do a great work in the world. Remember your old father when you
get back among your new friends!"