They may not mar the deep repose
Of that immortal flower:
Though only broken hearts are found
To watch her cradle by,
No blight is on her slumbers found,
No touch of harmful eye.
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.
Such a strange sad Sunday! No going to church, but all the poor children
moving in awe and oppression about the house, speaking under their
breath, as they gathered in the drawing-room. Into the study they might
not go, and when Blanche would have asked why, Tom pressed her hand and
shuddered.
Etheldred was allowed to come and look at Margaret, and even to sit in
the room for a little while, to take the place of Miss Winter; but she
was not sensible of sufficient usefulness to relieve the burden of fear
and bewilderment in the presence of that still, pale form; and, what was
almost worse, the sight of the familiar objects, the chair by the fire,
the sofa, the books, the work-basket, the letter-case, the dressing
things, all these were too oppressive. She sat crouched up, with her
face hidden in her hands, and the instant she was released, hastened
back to Norman. She was to tell him that he might go into the room, but
he did not move, and Mary alone went in and out with messages.
Dr. May was not to be visited, for he was in the same half-conscious
state, apparently sensible only of bodily suffering, though he answered
when addressed, and no one was trusted to speak to him but Flora and
Ernescliffe.
The rest wore through the day as best they might. Harry slept a good
deal, Ethel read to herself, and tried to get Norman to look at passages
which she liked, Mary kept the little ones from being troublesome, and
at last took them to peep behind the school-room blinds for Richard’s
coming.
There was a simultaneous shout when, at four o’clock, they caught sight
of him, and though, at Ethel’s exclamation of wonder, Mary and Tom hung
their heads at having forgotten themselves, the association of gladness
in seeing Richard was refreshing; the sense of being desolate and
forsaken was relieved, and they knew that now they had one to rely on
and to comfort them.
Harry hastened to open the front door, and Richard, with his small
trim figure, and fresh, fair young face, flushed, though not otherwise
agitated, was among them, almost devoured by the younger ones, and
dealing out quiet caresses to them, as he caught from the words and
looks of the others that at least his father and sister were no worse.
Mr. Wilmot had come with him, but only stayed to hear the tidings.
“Can I see papa?” were Richard’s first audible words--all the rest had
been almost dumb show.
Ethel thought not, but took him to Margaret’s room, where he stood for
many minutes without speaking; then whispered to Flora that he must go
to the others, she should call him if--and went down, followed by Ethel.
Tom and Blanche had fallen into teasing tricks, a sort of melancholy
play to relieve the tedium. They grew cross. Norman was roused to
reprove sharply, and Blanche was beginning to cry. But Richard’s
entrance set all at peace--he sat down among them, and, with soft voice
and arm round Blanche, as she leaned against him, made her good in a
moment; and she listened while he talked over with Norman and Ethel all
they could bear to speak of.
Late in the day Flora came into her father’s room, and stood gazing
at him, as he lay with eyes closed, breathing heavily, and his brows
contracted by pain. She watched him with piteous looks, as if imploring
him to return to his children. Poor girl, to-day’s quiet, after the last
evening’s bustle, was hard to bear. She had then been distracted from
thought by the necessity of exertion, but it now repaid itself, and she
knew not how to submit to do nothing but wait and watch.
“No change?” enquired Alan Ernescliffe; looking kindly in her face.
“No,” replied she in a low, mournful tone. “She only once said, thank
you.”
A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, “Margaret?” and her
heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as she saw her father’s
eyes intently fixed on her. “Did you speak of her?” he repeated.
“Yes, dear papa,” said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in
extreme fear of what the next question might be. “She is quiet and
comfortable, so don’t be uneasy, pray.”
“Let me hear,” he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be
entirely roused. “There is injury? What is it--”
He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain her
sister’s condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would get up
and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to think of it,
and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he would at least
wait for Mr. Ward; but the doctor would not relinquish his purpose, and
sent her to give notice that he was coming.
Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console her,
as she looked at him in despair.
“You see he is quite himself, quite collected,” he said; “you heard now
clear and coherent his questions were.”
“Can’t it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr. Ward.”
“I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I do,
upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more likely
to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really think you need
not be alarmed.”
“But you know,” said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she
whispered and signed towards the door, “she is there--it is mamma’s
room, that will tell all.”
“I believe he knows,” said Alan. “It was that which made him faint
after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have
suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think
he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was
afraid to hear about her--your sister, so that our mention of her was a
great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. Only
go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.”
Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward, and
hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking perhaps
from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to have seen
her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting him. When she
had sent her message, and told her brothers what was passing, she went
and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for tidings. After what
seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened to the nursery, giving
her intelligence on the way.
“Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and was
quite calm and composed. Oh! if this will not hurt him, if the seeing
baby was but over!”
“Does he want her?”
“Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let him.
Nurse, do you hear? Papa wants baby; let me have her.”
“Bless me, Miss Flora, you can’t hold her while you are all of a
tremble! And he has been to Miss Margaret?”
“Yes, nurse, and he was only rather stiff and lame.”
“Did Margaret seem to know him?” said Ethel.
“She just answered in that dreamy way when he spoke to her. He says
he thinks it is as Mr. Ward believes, and that she will soon come to
herself. He is quite able to consider--”
“And he knows all?”
“I am sure he does. He desired to see baby, and he wants you, nurse.
Only mind you command yourself--don’t say a word you can help--do
nothing to agitate him.”
Nurse promised, but the tears came so fast, and sobs with them, as
she approached her master’s room, that Flora saw no composure could
be expected from her; and taking the infant from her, carried it in,
leaving the door open for her to follow when wanted. Ethel stood by
listening. There was silence at first, then some sounds from the baby,
and her father’s voice soothing it, in his wonted caressing phrases and
tones, so familiar that they seemed to break the spell, drive away her
vague terrors, and restore her father. Her heart bounded, and a sudden
impulse carried her to the bedside, at once forgetting all dread of
seeing him, and chance of doing him harm. He lay, holding the babe close
to him, and his face was not altered, so that there was nothing in the
sight to impress her with the need of caution, and, to the consternation
of the anxious Flora, she exclaimed, abruptly and vehemently, “Papa!
should not she be christened?”
Dr. May looked up at Ethel, then at the infant; “Yes,” he said, “at
once.” Then added feebly and languidly, “Some one must see to it.”
There was a pause, while Flora looked reproachfully at her sister, and
Ethel became conscious of her imprudence, but in a few moments Dr. May
spoke again, first to the baby, and then asking, “Is Richard here?”
“Yes, papa.”
“Send him up presently. Where’s nurse?”
Ethel retreated, much alarmed at her rash measure, and when she related
it she saw that Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe both thought it had been a
great hazard.
“Papa wants you,” was a welcome sound to the ears of Richard, and
brought a pink glow into his face. He was never one who readily showed
his feelings, and there was no danger of his failing in self-command,
though grievously downcast, not only at the loss of the tender mother,
who had always stood between him and his father’s impatience, but by
the dread that he was too dull and insignificant to afford any help or
comfort in his father’s dire affliction.
Yet there was something in the gentle sad look that met him, and in the
low tone of the “How d’ye do, Ritchie?” that drove off a thought of not
being loved; and when Dr. May further added, “You’ll see about it all--I
am glad you are come,” he knew he was of use, and was encouraged and
cheered. That his father had full confidence and reliance in him, and
that his presence was a satisfaction and relief he could no longer
doubt; and this was a drop of balm beyond all his hopes; for loving
and admiring his father intensely, and with depressed spirits and a low
estimate of himself, he had begun to fancy himself incapable of being
anything but a vexation and burden.
He sat with his father nearly all the evening, and was to remain with
him at night. The rest were comforted by the assurance that Dr. May was
still calm, and did not seem to have been injured by what had passed.
Indeed, it seemed as if the violence and suddenness of the shock,
together with his state of suffering, had deadened his sensations; for
there was far less agitation about him than could have been thought
possible in a man of such strong, warm affections and sensitive
temperament.
Ethel and Norman went up arm-in-arm at bedtime.
“I am going to ask if I may wish papa good-night,” said Ethel. “Shall I
say anything about your coming?”
Norman hesitated, but his cheeks blanched; he shuddered, shook his head
without speaking, ran up after Harry, and waved her back when she would
have followed.
Richard told her that she might come in, and, as she slowly advanced,
she thought she had never seen anything so ineffably mournful as
the affectionate look on her father’s face. She held his hand and
ventured--for it was with difficulty she spoke--to hope he was not in
pain.
“Better than it was, thank you, my dear,” he said, in a soft weak tone:
then, as she bent down to kiss his brow; “you must take care of the
little ones.”
“Yes, papa,” she could hardly answer, and a large drop gathered slowly
in each eye, long in coming, as if the heart ached too much for them to
flow freely.
“Are they all well?”
“Yes, papa.”
“And good?” He held her hand, as if lengthening the interview.
“Yes, very good all day.”
A long deep sigh. Ethel’s two tears stood on her cheeks.
“My love to them all. I hope I shall see them to-morrow. God bless you,
my dear, good-night.”
Ethel went upstairs, saddened and yet soothed. The calm silent sorrow,
too deep for outward tokens, was so unlike her father’s usually
demonstrative habits, as to impress her all the more, yet those two
tears were followed by no more; there was much strangeness and confusion
in her mind in the newness of grief.
She found poor Flora, spent with exertion, under the reaction of all she
had undergone, lying on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break,
calling in gasps of irrepressible agony on “mamma! mamma!” yet with
her face pressed down on the pillow that she might not be heard. Ethel,
terrified and distressed, timidly implored her to be comforted, but it
seemed as if she were not even heard; she would have fetched some one,
but whom? Alas! alas! it brought back the sense that no mother would
ever soothe them--Margaret, papa, both so ill, nurse engaged with
Margaret! Ethel stood helpless and despairing, and Flora sobbed on, so
that Mary awakened to burst out in a loud frightened fit of crying; but
in a few moments a step was at the door, a knock, and Richard asked, “Is
anything the matter?”
He was in the room in a moment, caressing and saying affectionate things
with gentleness and fondling care, like his mother, and which recalled
the days when he had been proud to be left for a little while the small
nurse and guardian of the lesser ones. Mary was hushed in a moment, and
Flora’s exhausted weeping was gradually soothed, when she was able
to recollect that she was keeping him from her father; with kind
good-nights, he left Ethel to read to her till she could sleep. Long did
Ethel read, after both her sisters were slumbering soundly; she went on
in a sort of dreamy grief, almost devoid of pain, as if all this was too
terrible to be true: and she had imagined herself into a story, which
would give place at dawn to her ordinary life.
At last she went to bed, and slept till wakened by the return of Flora,
who had crept down in her dressing-gown to see how matters were going.
Margaret was in the same state, papa was asleep, after a restless
distressing night, with much pain and some fever; and whenever Richard
had begun to hope from his tranquillity, that he was falling asleep,
he was undeceived by hearing an almost unconsciously uttered sigh of
“Maggie, my Maggie!” and then the head turned wearily on the pillow,
as if worn out with the misery from which there was no escape. Towards
morning the pain had lessened, and, as he slept, he seemed much less
feverish than they could have ventured to expect.
Norman looked wan and wretched, and could taste no breakfast; indeed
Harry reported that he had been starting and talking in his sleep half
the night, and had proceeded to groaning and crying out till, when it
could be borne no longer, Harry waked him, and finished his night’s rest
in peace.
The children were kept in the drawing-room that morning, and there were
strange steps in the house; but only Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe knew
the reason. Happily there had been witnesses enough of the overturn to
spare any reference to Dr. May--the violent start of the horses had been
seen, and Adams and Mr. Ernescliffe agreed, under their breath, that the
new black one was not fit to drive, while the whole town was so used to
Dr. May’s headlong driving, that every one was recollecting their
own predictions of accidents. There needed little to account for the
disaster--the only wonder was that it had not happened sooner.
“I say,” announced Harry, soon after they were released again, “I’ve
been in to papa. His door was open, and he heard me, and called me. He
says he should like any of us to come in and see him. Hadn’t you better
go, Norman?”
Norman started up, and walked hastily out of the room, but his hand
shook so, that he could hardly open the door; and Ethel, seeing how it
was with him, followed him quickly, as he dashed, at full speed, up the
stairs. At the top, however, he was forced to cling to the rail, gasping
for breath, while the moisture started on his forehead.
“Dear Norman,” she said, “there’s nothing to mind. He looks just as
usual. You would not know there was anything the matter.” But he rested
his head on his hand, and looked as if he could not stir. “I see it
won’t do,” said Ethel--“don’t try--you will be better by-and-by, and he
has not asked for you in particular.”
“I won’t be beat by such stuff,” said Norman, stepping hastily forwards,
and opening the door suddenly. He got through the greeting pretty well,
there was no need for him to speak, he only gave his hand and looked
away, unable to bring himself to turn his eyes on his father, and afraid
of letting his own face be seen. Almost at the same moment, nurse
came to say something about Margaret, and he seized the opportunity of
withdrawing his hand, and hurrying away, in good time, for he was pale
as death, and was obliged to sit down on the head of the stairs, and
lean his head against Etheldred.
“What does make me so ridiculous?” he exclaimed faintly, but very
indignantly.
The first cure was the being forced to clear out of Mr. Ward’s way,
which he could not effect without being seen; and Ethel though she knew
that he would be annoyed, was not sorry to be obliged to remain, and
tell what was the matter with him. “Oh,” said Mr. Ward, turning and
proceeding to the dining-room, “I’ll set that to rights in a minute, if
you will ask for a tumbler of hot water Miss Ethel.”
And armed with the cordial he had prepared, Ethel hunted up her brother,
and persuaded him, after scolding her a little, to swallow it, and take
a turn in the garden; after which he made a more successful attempt at
visiting his father.
There was another room whither both Norman and Etheldred wished to go,
though they dared not hint at their desire. At last Richard came
to them, as they were wandering in the garden, and, with his usual
stillness of manner, shaded with additional seriousness, said, “Would
you like to come into the study?”
Etheldred put one hand into his, Norman took the other, and soon
they stood in that calm presence. Fair, cold, white, and intensely
still--that face brought home to them the full certainty that the warm
brightening look would never beam on them, the soft blue eyes never
guide, check, and watch them, the smile never approve or welcome them.
To see her unconscious of their presence was too strange and sad,
and all were silent, till, as they left the room, Ethel looked out at
Blanche and Aubrey in the garden. “They will never remember her! Oh! why
should it be?”
Richard would fain have moralised and comforted, but she felt as if she
knew it all before, and heard with languid attention. She had rather
read than talk, and he sat down to write letters.
There were no near relations to be sent for. Dr. May was an only son,
and his wife’s sister, Mrs. Arnott, was in New Zealand; her brother
had long been dead, and his widow, who lived in Edinburgh, was scarcely
known to the May family. Of friends there were many, fast bound by
affection and gratitude, and notes, inquiries, condolences, and offers
of service came in thickly, and gave much occupation to Flora, Richard,
and Alan Ernescliffe, in turn. No one from without could do anything for
them--they had all the help they wanted in Miss Winter and in Alan, who
was invaluable in sharing with Richard the care of the doctor, as well
as in giving him the benefit of his few additional years’ experience,
and relieving him of some of his tasks. He was indeed like one of
themselves, and a most valuable help and comforter. Mr. Wilmot gave them
all the time he could, and on this day saw the doctor, who seemed to
find some solace in his visit, though saying very little.
On this day the baby was to be baptized. The usual Stoneborough fashion
was to collect all the christenings for the month into one Sunday,
except those for such persons as thought themselves too refined to see
their children christened before the congregation, and who preferred
an empty church and a week-day. The little one had waited till she was
nearly six weeks old for “a Christening Sunday,” and since that had been
missed, she could not be kept unbaptized for another month; so, late in
the day, she was carried to church.
Richard had extremely gratified old nurse, by asking her to represent
poor Margaret; Mrs. Hoxton stood for the other godmother, and Alan
Ernescliffe was desired to consider himself absolutely her sponsor, not
merely a proxy. The younger children alone were to go with them: it
was too far off, and the way lay too much through the town for it to
be thought proper for the others to go. Ethel wished it very much, and
thought it nonsense to care whether people looked at her; and in spite
of Miss Winter’s seeming shocked at her proposing it, had a great mind
to persist. She would even have appealed to her papa, if Flora had
not stopped her, exclaiming, “Really, Ethel, I think there never was a
person so entirely without consideration as you are.”
Much abashed, Ethel humbly promised that if she might go into papa’s
room, she would not say one word about the christening, unless he should
begin, and, to her great satisfaction, he presently asked her to read
the service to him. Flora came to the doorway of Margaret’s room, and
listened; when she had finished, all were silent.
“How shall we, how can we virtuously bring up our motherless little
sister?” was the thought with each of the girls. The answers were, in
one mind, “I trust we shall do well by her, dear little thing. I see, on
an emergency, that I know how to act. I never thought I was capable of
being of so much use, thanks to dear, dear mamma’s training. I shall
manage, I am sure, and so they will all depend on me, and look up to me.
How nice it was to hear dear papa say what he did about the comfort of
my being able to look after Margaret.”
In the other, “Poor darling, it is saddest of all for her, because she
knows nothing, and will never remember her mamma! But if Margaret is but
better, she will take care of her, and oh how we ought to try--and I,
such a naughty wild thing--if I should hurt the dear little ones by
carelessness, or by my bad example! Oh! what shall I do, for want of
some one to keep me in order? If I should vex papa by any of my wrong
ways!”
They heard the return of the others, and the sisters both sprang up,
“May we bring her to you?” said Flora.
“Yes, do, my dears.”
The sisters all came down together with the little one, and Flora put
her down within the arm her father stretched out for her. He gazed into
the baby face, which, in its expressionless placidity, almost recalled
her mother’s tranquil sweetness.
“Gertrude Margaret,” said Flora, and with a look that had more of
tenderness than grief, he murmured, “My Daisy blossom, my little
Maggie.”
“Might we?” said Ethel, when Flora took her again, “might we take her to
her godmother to see if she would notice her?”
He looked as if he wished it; but said, “No, I think not, better not
rouse her,” and sighed heavily; then, as they stood round his bed,
unwilling to go, he added, “Girls, we must learn carefulness and
thoughtfulness. We have no one to take thought for us now.”
Flora pressed the babe in her arms, Ethel’s two reluctant tears stood
on her cheeks, Mary exclaimed, “I’ll try not to be naughty;” and Blanche
climbed up to kiss him, saying, “I will be always good papa.”
“Daisy--papa’s Daisy--your vows are made,” whispered Ethel, gaining sole
possession of the babe for a minute. “You have promised to be good and
holy. We have the keeping of you, mamma’s precious flower, her pearl
of truth! Oh, may God guard you to be an unstained jewel, till you come
back to her again--and a blooming flower, till you are gathered into the
wreath that never fades--my own sweet poor little motherless Daisy!”