AT REVELSTOKE AGAIN.
Meanwhile sore trouble had come upon Dulcie Carlyon in her Devonshire
home.
Her father had been dull and gloomy of late, and had more than once
laid his hand affectionately on her ruddy golden hair, and said in a
prayerful way that 'he hoped he might soon see her well married, and
that she might never be left friendless!'
'Why such thoughts, dear papa?' she would reply.
Dulcie had felt a sense of apprehension for some time past. Was it
born of her father's forebodings, or of the presentiment about which
she had conversed with Florian? A depression hung over her--an
undefinable dread of some great calamity about to happen. At night
her sleep was restless and broken, and by day a vague fear haunted
her.
The evil boded was to happen soon now.
With these oppressive thoughts mingled the memory of the tall and
handsome dark-eyed lad she loved--it seemed so long ago, and she
longed to hear his voice again, and for his breast to lay her head
upon. But where was Florian now? Months had passed without her
hearing of him, and she might never hear again!
Little could she have conceived the foul trick that Shafto had played
them both in the matter of the locket; but, unfortunately for
herself, she had not seen the last of that enterprising young
gentleman.
She felt miserably that her heart was lonely and heavy, and that,
young as she was, light and joy, with the absence and ruin of
Florian, had gone out of her life. She was alone always with her
great sorrow, and longed much for tears; but as her past life had
been a happy and joyous one, Dulcie Carlyon had been little--if at
all--given to them.
One morning her father did not appear at breakfast as usual. As yet
undressed her red-golden hair, that the old man loved to stroke and
caress, was floating in a great loose mass on her back and shoulders,
and her blue eyes looked bright and clear, if thoughtful.
She had, as was her daily wont, arranged his letters, cut and aired
the morning papers for him, adjusted a vase of fresh flowers on the
table, with a basket of delicate peaches, which she knew he liked,
from the famous south wall of the garden, with green fig leaves round
them, for Dulcie did everything prettily and tastefully, however
trivial. Then she cut and buttered his bread, poured out his tea,
and waited.
Still he did not appear. She knocked on his bedroom door, but
received no answer, and saw, with surprise, that his boots were still
on the mat outside.
She peeped in and called on him--'Papa, papa!' but there was no
response.
The room was empty, and the morning sun streamed through the
uncurtained window. The bed had not been slept in! Again she called
his name, and rushed downstairs in alarm and affright.
The gas was burning in his writing-room; the window was still closed
as it had been overnight; and there, in his easy chair, with his
hands and arms stretched out on the table, sat Llewellen Carlyon,
with his head bent forward, asleep as Dulcie thought when she saw him.
'Poor papa,' she murmured; 'he has actually gone to sleep over his
horrid weary work.'
She leaned over his chair; wound her soft arms round his neck and
bowed grey head--her lovely blue eyes melting with tenderness, her
sweet face radiant with filial love, till, as she laid her cheek upon
it, a mortal chill struck her, and a low cry of awful dismay escaped
her.
'What is this--papa?'
She failed to rouse him, for his sleep was the sleep of death!
It was disease of the heart, the doctors said, and he had thus passed
away--died in harness; a pen was yet clutched in his right hand, and
an unfinished legal document lay beneath it.
Dulcie fainted, and was borne away by the servants to her own
room--they were old and affectionate country folks, who had been long
with Llewellen Carlyon, and loved him and his daughter well.
Poor Dulcie remained long unconscious, the sudden shock was so
dreadful to her, and when she woke from it, the old curate, Mr.
Pentreath, who had baptized Florian and herself, was standing near
her bed.
'My poor bruised lamb,' said he, kindly and tenderly, as he passed
his wrinkled hand over her rich and now dishevelled tresses.
'What has happened?' she asked wildly.
'You fainted, Dulcie.'
'Why--I never fainted before.'
'She don't seem to remember, sir,' whispered an old servant, who saw
the vague and wild inquiring expression of her eyes.
'Drink this, child, and try to eat a morsel,' said the curate,
putting a cup of coffee and piece of toast before her.
'Something happened--something dreadful--what was it--oh, what was
it?' asked Dulcie, putting her hands to her throbbing temples.
'Drink, dear,' said the curate again.
She drank of the coffee thirstily; but declined the bread.
'I beat up an egg in the coffee,' said he; 'I feared you might be
unable to eat yet.'
Her blue eyes began to lose their wandering and troubled look, and to
become less wild and wistful; then suddenly a shrill cry escaped her,
and she said, with a calmness more terrible and painful than fainting
or hysterics:
'Oh, I remember now--papa--poor papa--dead! Found dead! Oh, my God!
help me to bear it, or take me too--take me too!'
'Do not speak thus, child,' said Mr. Pentreath gently.
'How long ago was it--yesterday--a month ago, or when? I seem--I
feel as if I had grown quite old, yet you all look just the
same--just the same; how is this?'
'My child,' said the curate, with dim eyes, 'your dire calamity
happened but a short time ago--little more than an hour since.'
Her response was a deep and heavy sob, that seemed to come from her
overcharged heart rather than her slender throat, and which was the
result of the unnatural tension of her mind.
'Come to my house with me,' said the kind old curate; but Dulcie
shook her head.
'I cannot leave papa, dead or alive. I wish to be with him, and
alone.'
'I shall not leave you so; it is a mistake in grief to avoid contact
with the world. The mind only gets sadder and deeper into its gloom
of melancholy. If you could but sleep, child, a little.'
'Sleep--I feel as if I had been asleep for years; and it was this
morning, you tell me--only this morning I had my arms round his
neck--dead--my darling papa dead!'
She started to her feet as if to go where the body lay under the now
useless hands of the doctor, but would have fallen had she not
clutched for support at Mr. Pentreath, who upheld and restrained her.
The awful thought of her future loneliness now that she had thus
suddenly lost her father, as she had not another relation in the
world, haunted the unhappy Dulcie, and deprived her of the power of
taking food or obtaining sleep.
In vain her old servants, who had known her from infancy, coaxed her
to attempt both, but sleep would not come, and the food remained
untasted before her.
'A little water,' she would say; 'give me a little water, for thirst
parches me.'
All that passed subsequently seemed like one long and terrible dream
to Dulcie. She was alone in the world, and when her father was laid
in his last home at Revelstoke, within sound of the tumbling waves,
in addition to being alone she found herself well-nigh penniless, for
her father had nothing to leave her but the old furniture of the
house they had inhabited.
That was sold, and she was to remain with the family of the curate
till some situation could be procured for her.
She had long since ceased to expect any letter from or tidings of
Florian. She began to think that perhaps, amid the splendour of his
new relations, he had forgotten her. Well, it was the way of the
world.
Never would she forget the day she quitted her old home. Her
father's hat, his coat and cane were in the hall; all that he had
used and that belonged to him were still there, to bring his presence
before her with fresh poignancy, and to impress upon her that she was
fatherless, all but friendless, and an orphan.
The superstitious people about Revelstoke now remembered that in
Lawyer Carlyon's garden, blossom and fruit had at the same time
appeared on more than one of his apple-trees, a certain sign of
coming death to one of his household. But who can tell in this
ever-shifting world what a day may bring forth!
One evening--she never forgot it--she had been visiting her father's
grave, and was slowly quitting the secluded burial-ground, when a man
like a soldier approached her in haste.
'Florian!' She attempted to utter his name, but it died away on her
bloodless lips.