IN THE NIGHT.
"COULD you not save yourself, dear papa?" asked Nellie, looking up in
Dr. Arundel's grave face as he prepared to visit his patients the next
morning.
"No, my child; it would be no 'save' to me to know they were neglected
or troubled. I would rather go and see them."
Nellie still looked at him; but hardly liked to say more.
"I shall do very well, dear," he added; "do not be anxious about me."
On that second day Ada was ill. She begged to be allowed to stay in
bed, and her father had told her it would be the best place for her.
She lay hour after hour in hopeless grief. She wept till she seemed to
have no more tears, and her aching, throbbing head warned her that she
could bear no more thinking. And yet thought after thought came over
her, and again and again she wept, till her heart seemed broken.
Tom had asked to be in the drawing room all day, so as to be near
Nellie and Christina. He lay perfectly quiet, not crying or making any
complaint, his anxiety seeming to be to comfort the others, and be as
little trouble as possible.
Netta and Isabel brought their work downstairs, and sat in a corner
busying themselves over it, wonderfully comforted to think they could
be doing what would have pleased their mamma.
At times they would be overpowered by fits of weeping; but, as a rule,
there was more a subdued sense of loss and sorrow, than any outward
show of it.
Arthur only broke down once, and that was when he had first gone in to
see his mother's face. After that he was silent and thoughtful, and
only desirous of helping Nellie.
How sad were the details of the mourning and the funeral preparations.
Nellie was thankful that Ada was out of it all. She continued very
unwell, and would accept no one to wait on her but Christina, who went
in and out with the greatest kindness and consideration.
One morning after she had put Ada comfortable, and made all neat, she
stood by the bedside looking earnestly at her.
"What is it?" asked Ada, thinking she wished to say something.
"Ada, dear, I do not like to keep you in ignorance; but would you not
like to see your dear mamma before—"
Ada started, and sat up in bed, raising her heavy eyes in surprise.
"There is no hurry, dear," answered Christina tenderly; "but I knew
what I should have liked."
"Yes, yes; I have been so ill. I forgot she could not be here always."
Christina gave her her clothes, and Ada dressed, trembling in every
limb.
"Can you, dear?" asked Christina, with tears in her eyes.
"Oh, yes, please. I shall come back to bed after."
"Shall I come with you, or wait here?"
"If you would help me to the door? Oh, I'm so giddy."
Christina put her strong arm round her, and they went slowly
downstairs. When they came to the room, Ada kissed her, and, steadying
herself with a strong effort, entered and shut the door.
Long Christina waited, but not a sound came from within. At last with
beating heart she ventured to go in.
In the centre of the room was all that remained of the one they so
loved, and on the floor by it lay Ada, in a death-like swoon.
Christina was glad to hear Dr. Arundel's step behind her, and together
they lifted the poor child back to her bed, where she lay again hour
after hour, till grief should have time to spend its bitter force.
On the morning after the funeral, Dr. Arundel told them it would be
wise to take up their usual avocations.
"Let us remember your dear mother always, and speak of her to each
other whenever we like; but we will also do as she would wish, and that
will be to remember we have One higher than even her to please; that we
must go about our Father's business."
He kissed them all gravely and lovingly, and then, taking Nellie's
hand, led her into his study.
"My dear child," he said, "you must thank all in the house for their
consideration and love to me this week; I cannot. And to you, my dear,
I must now look to be my housekeeper, and comfort, and friend. You have
always been so, my child, next to dear mamma; and now I have only you."
He was too overcome to say more; and perhaps that day in which they
turned over a new leaf was the most hopelessly sad one they had passed.
In the evening, just as Nellie was coming down from their mamma's duty
of saying the little ones' prayers, she heard some one being shown into
the drawing room.
She waited till the door was shut, and then descending, met Simmons,
who told her Mr. Elliot had called, and had asked for her.
"Is papa in?" she said.
"He went out five minutes ago."
So Nellie went in, trying to be calm.
Wilmot Elliot came forward, and took her hand, and looked in her face;
and Nellie looked up in his in silence.
"I am so dreadfully sorry," he said, speaking in a hushed and altered
tone from any she had ever heard from him.
She was going to answer, but her lips quivered, and she hastily turned
away, and sat down with her face averted.
"I longed to come, if I might be permitted to try to comfort you or
help you; but yet I feared to intrude on you, and so I stayed away,
Miss Arundel."
"Oh, no!" said Nellie.
"But you will believe I have not forgotten you?"
"I am sure of that, thank you," she answered low.
"Could you bear to tell me a little about it?"
"Would you care to hear?"
"Indeed I should; I have felt so sorrowful for you all this time."
Nellie glanced up gratefully, but found it very difficult to open
afresh the wounds which were so slightly healed. She could not begin
yet.
"I hear that Hope is getting better," she said.
"At last; she was very ill after you left."
"I feared she was going to be, and I was so sorry I could not stay to
nurse her."
"She was very sorry to lose you; but our grief at all you came home to,
seemed to put poor Hope's illness quite in the background."
"What was the matter? I have never heard."
"It was almost rheumatic fever; but I am glad to say she escaped it.
But she is so happy, Miss Arundel."
"I am very glad to hear that," answered Nellie.
"And so am I. If for nothing else, I shall ever thank you for that."
He sat on talking for about half-an-hour; and Nellie told him the sad
story, feeling comforted by his sympathy. The time flew by quickly, and
just as he was rising to go, Dr. Arundel came in.
Wilmot did not, however, remain long, as he feared to intrude on the
bereaved family; and soon Nellie was free to go upstairs to see how Ada
was, and find Christina.
"Why did you not come down, dear?" she asked, bending over her future
sister, and giving her a kiss.
"I did not know he was here till just now, and anyhow I should not have
come."
"Why not?"
"He would not know me, and I think you would get on better alone this
first visit."
"Yes, it was very sad; so different from the pleasant call I thought he
would make when he would come to see dear mamma."
Nellie's eyes filled with tears at the thought, and Christina stood
by her with a hand on her shoulder, looking out into the twilight of
the square. That night, when Nellie knew Christina and Ada were fast
asleep, she tried to set her thoughts in order. How was it that things
looked less unutterably sad than they had done two or three hours ago?
What difference was there?
A few kind words, a little sympathy, a short friendly call.
Nellie's head was buried closer into her pillow. "He was so kind and
gentle," she thought; "he seemed to understand what I feel, and to
sympathize so much. It did me good, I suppose."
Then she began to review all the day, and her father's words came back
to her—
"Now I have only you."
"Only me," said Nellie to herself; "and I must be all he wants, and
stay with him always, and be his comfort. Dear, dear papa."
Long, long hours passed by before she slept. The streets got quieter
and quieter; only an occasional carriage or cab broke the stillness,
till the sound of the wheels died away in the distance, and all was
again silent.
Through her open window, she could hear Big Ben send forth its
thrilling sound as the hours went by, and when each one struck, it came
almost as a knell to her.
"I have left the best of life behind," she thought sadly; and then once
more she looked forward, not into the little life which was close to
her, but beyond that, above the mists of the valley at her feet, up to
the everlasting hills.
"In Thy presence is fulness of joy: at Thy right hand there are
pleasures for evermore."
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