MR. HARDIE found his daughter lying ashy pale on a little bed in the
drawing-room of Albion Villa. She was now scarce conscious. The old
doctor sat at her head looking very grave; and Julia kneeled over her
beloved friend, pale as herself; with hands clasped convulsively, and
great eyes of terror and grief.
That vivid young face, full of foreboding and woe, struck Mr. Hardie the
moment he entered, and froze his very heart. The strong man quivered and
sank slowly like a felled tree by the bedside; and his face and the poor
girl's, whose earthly happiness he had coldly destroyed, nearly met over
his crushed daughter.
“Jane, my child,” he gasped; “my poor little Jane!”
“Oh let me sleep,” she moaned feebly.
“Darling, it's your own papa,” said Julia softly.
“Poor papa!” said she, turning rather to Julia than to him. “Let me
sleep.”
She was in a half lethargic state.
Mr. Hardie asked the doctor in an agitated whisper if he might move her
home. The doctor shook his head: “Not by my advice; her pulse is scarce
perceptible. We must not move her nor excite her, nor yet let her sink
into lethargy. She is in great danger, very great.”
At these terrible words Mr. Hardie groaned: and they all began to speak
below the breath.
“Edward,” murmured Mrs. Dodd hurriedly, “run and put off the auction:
put it off altogether; then go to the railway; nothing must come here to
make a noise, and get straw put down directly. Do that first, dear.”
“You are kinder to me than I deserve,” muttered Mr. Hardie humbly, quite
cowed by the blow that had fallen on him. The words agitated Mrs. Dodd
with many thoughts, but she whispered as calmly as she could, “Let us
think of nothing now but this precious life.”
Mr. Hardie begged to see the extent of the injury.
Mrs. Dodd dissuaded him, but he persisted. Then the doctor showed her
poor head.
At that the father uttered a scream and sat quivering. Julia buried
her face in the bed-clothes directly, and sobbed vehemently. It passed
faintly across the benumbed and shuddering father, “How she loves my
child; they all love her,” but the thought made little impression at the
time; the mind was too full of terror and woe. The doctor now asked for
brandy in a whisper. Mrs. Dodd left the room with stealthy foot, and
brought it. He asked for a quill. Julia went with swift, stealthy foot,
and brought it. With adroit and tender hands they aided the doctor,
and trickled stimulants down her throat. Then sat like statues of grief
about the bed; only every now and then eye sought eye, and endeavoured
to read what the other thought. Was there hope? Was there none? And
by-and-bye, so roving is the mind, especially when the body is still,
these statues began to thrill with thoughts of the past as well as the
absorbing present.
Ay, here were met a strange party; a stranger, for its size, methinks,
never yet met on earth, to mingle their hearts together in one grief.
Just think! Of him who sat there with his face hidden in his hands, and
his frame shuddering, all the others were the victims.
Yet the lady, whose husband he had robbed and driven mad, pitied and
sympathised with him, and he saw it; the lady, whom he had insulted at
the altar and blighted her young heart and life, pitied and sympathised
with him; the poor old doctor pitied and sympathised, and was more like
an anxious father than a physician.
Even Jane was one of his victims; for she fell by the hand of a man he
had dishonestly ruined and driven out of his senses.
Thinking of all he had done, and this the end of it, he was at once
crushed and melted.
He saw with awe that a mightier hand than man's was upon him; it had
tossed him and his daughter into the house and the arms of the injured
Dodds, in defiance of all human calculation; and he felt himself a straw
in that hand: so he was, and the great globe itself. Oh, if Jane should
die! the one creature he loved, the one creature, bereaved of whom he
could get no joy even from riches.
What would he not give to recall the past, since all his schemes had but
ended in this. Thus stricken by terror of the divine wrath, and touched
by the goodness and kindness of those he had cruelly wronged, all the
man was broken with remorse. Then he vowed to undo his own work as far
as possible: he would do anything, everything, if Heaven would spare him
his child.
Now it did so happen that these resolves, earnest and sincere but
somewhat vague, were soon put to the test; and, as often occurs, what he
was called on to do first was that which he would rather have done last.
Thus it was: about five o'clock in the afternoon Jane Hardie opened her
eyes and looked about her.
It was a moment of intense anxiety. They all made signals, but held
their breath. She smiled at sight of Mr. Hardie, and said, “Papa! dear
papa!”
There was great joy: silent on the part of Mrs. Dodd and Julia; but Mr.
Hardie, who saw in this a good omen, Heaven recognising his penitence,
burst out: “She knows me; she speaks; she will live. How good God is!
Yes, my darling child, it is your own father. You will be brave and get
well, for my sake.”
Jane did not seem to pay much heed to these words: she looked straight
before her like one occupied with her own thought, and said distinctly
and solemnly, “Papa--send for Alfred.”
It fell on all three like a clap of thunder, those gentle but decided
tones, those simple natural words.
Julia's eyes flashed into her mother's, and then sought the ground
directly.
There was a dead silence.
Mr. Hardie was the one to speak “Why for him, dear? Those who love you
best are all here.”
“For Heaven's sake, don't thwart her, sir,” said the doctor, in alarm.
“This is no time to refuse her anything in your power. Sometimes the
very expectation of a beloved person coming keeps them alive; stimulates
the powers.”
Mr. Hardie was sore perplexed. He recoiled from the sudden exposure
that might take place, if Alfred without any preparation or previous
conciliatory measures were allowed to burst in upon them. And while his
mind was whirling within him in doubt and perplexity, Jane spoke again;
but no longer calmly and connectedly; she was beginning to wander.
Presently in her wandering she spoke of Edward; called him dear Edward.
Mrs. Dodd rose hastily, and her first impulse was to ask both gentlemen
to retire: so instinctively does a good woman protect her own sex
against the other. But, reflecting that this was the father, she made
an excuse and retired herself instead, followed by Julia. The doctor
divined, and went to the window. The father sat by the bed, and soon
gathered his daughter loved Edward Dodd.
The time was gone by when this would have greatly pained him.
He sighed like one overmatched by fate; but said, “You shall have him,
my darling; he is a good young man, he shall be your husband, you
shall be happy. Only live for my sake, for all our sakes.” She paid no
attention and wandered on a little; but her mind gradually cleared, and
by-and-bye she asked quietly for a glass of water. Mr. Hardie gave it
her. She sipped, and he took it from her. She looked at him close, and
said distinctly, “Have you sent for Alfred?”
“No, love, not yet.”
“Not yet? There is no time to lose,” she said gravely.
Mr. Hardie trembled. Then, being alone with her, the miserable man
unable to say no, unwilling to say yes, tried to persuade her not to ask
for Alfred. “My dear,” he whispered, “I will not refuse you: but I have
a secret to confide to you. Will you keep it?”
“Yes, papa, faithfully.”
“Poor Alfred is not himself. He has delusions: he is partly insane. My
brother Thomas has thought it best for us all to put him under gentle
restraint for a time. It would retard his cure to have him down here and
subject him to excitement.”
“Papa,” said Jane, “are you deceiving me, or are you imposed upon?
Alfred insane! It is a falsehood. He came to me the night before the
wedding that was to be. Oh, my brother, my darling brother, how dare
they say you are insane! That letter you showed me then was a falsehood?
Oh, papa!”
“I feared to frighten you,” said Mr. Hardie, and hung his head.
“I see it all,” she cried “those wicked men with their dark words have
imposed on you. Bring him to me that I may reconcile you all, and end
all this misery ere I go hence and be no more seen.”
“Oh, my child, don't talk so,” cried Mr. Hardie, trembling. “Think of
your poor father.”
“I do,” she cried, “I do. Oh, papa, I lie here between two worlds, and
see them both so clear. Trust to me: and, if you love me----”
“If I love you, Jane? Better than all the world twice told.”
“Then don't refuse me this one favour: the last, perhaps, I shall ever
ask you. I want my brother here before it is too late. Tell him he must
come to his little sister, who loves him dearly, and--is dying.
“Oh no! no! no!” cried the agonised father, casting everything to the
winds. “I will. He shall be here in twelve hours. Only promise me to
bear up. Have a strong will; have courage. You shall have Alfred, you
shall have anything you like on earth, anything that money can get you.
What am I saying? I have no money; it is all gone. But I have a father's
heart. Madam, Mrs. Dodd!” She came directly.
“Can you give me paper? No, I won't trust to a letter. I'll send off a
special messenger this moment. It is for my son, madam. He will be here
to-morrow morning. God knows how it will all end. But how can I refuse
my dying child? Oh, madam, you are good, kind, forgiving; keep my poor
girl alive for me: keep telling her Alfred is coming; she cares more for
him than for her poor heart-broken father.”
And the miserable man rushed out, leaving Mrs. Dodd in tears for him.
He was no sooner gone than Julia came in; and clasped her mother,
and trembled on her bosom. Then Mrs. Dodd knew she had overheard Mr.
Hardie's last words.
Jane Hardie, too, though much exhausted by the scene with her father,
put out her hand to Julia, and took hers, and said feebly, but with a
sweet smile, “He is coming, love; all shall be well.” Then to herself as
it were, and looking up with a gentle rapture in her pale face--
“Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of
God.”
On this thought she seemed to feed with innocent joy; but for a long
time was too weak to speak again.
Mr. Hardie, rushing from the house, found Edward at work outside; he was
crying undisguisedly, and with his coat off, working harder at spreading
the straw than both the two men together he had got to help him. Mr.
Hardie took his hand and wrung it, but could not speak.
In half an hour a trusty agent he had often employed was at the station
waiting for the up train, nearly due.
He came back to Albion Villa. Julia met him on the stairs with her
fingers to her lips. “She is sleeping; the doctor has hopes. Oh, sir,
let us all pray for her day and night.”
Mr. Hardie blessed her; it seemed the face of an angel, so earnest, so
lovely, so pious. He went home: and at the door of his own house Peggy
met him with anxious looks. He told her what he had done.
“Good Heavens!” said she; “have you forgotten? He says he will kill you
the first day he gets out. You told me so yourself.”
“Yes, Baker said so. I can't help it. I don't care what becomes of me; I
care only for my child. Leave me, Peggy; there, go, go.”
He was no sooner alone than he fell upon his knees, and offered the
Great Author of life and death--a bargain. “O God,” he cried, “I own my
sins, and I repent them. Spare but my child, who never sinned against
Thee, and I will undo all I have done amiss in Thy sight. I will refund
that money on which Thy curse lies. I will throw myself on their mercy.
I will set my son free. I will live on a pittance. I will part with
Peggy. I will serve Mammon no more. I will attend Thine ordinances. I
will live soberly, honestly, and godly all the remainder of my days;
only do Thou spare my child. She is Thy servant, and does Thy work on
earth, and there is nothing on earth I love but her.”
And now the whistle sounded, the train moved, and his messenger was
flying fast to London, with a note to Dr. Wycherley:
“DEAR SIR,--My poor daughter lies dangerously wounded, and perhaps at
the point of death. She cries for her brother. He must come down to us
instantly with the bearer of this. Send one of your people with him if
you like. But it is not necessary. I enclose a blank cheque, signed,
which please fill at your discretion.--I am, with thanks, yours in deep
distress,
“RICHARD HARDIE”