Presently he said, still looking amazed and pale, for he was utterly unused to a woman's tears, and as much agitated now in a man's fashion as she was in hers,
"If I have spoken earlier in your widowhood than you approve, and it displeases you, I hope you will believe that I have always thought of you as a wife to be admired above any that I ever knew."
"My husband loved me," she answered, drying her eyes, now almost calmly. She could not say she was displeased on his account, and when she looked up she saw that John Mortimer had his hat in his hand. Their interview was nearly over.
"I cannot lose you as a friend," he said, and his voice faltered.
"Oh no; no, dear John."
"And my children are so fond of you."
"I love them; I always shall."
He looked at her for a moment, doubtful whether to hold out his hand. "Forget this, Emily, and let things be as they have been heretofore between us."
"Yes," she answered, and gave him her hand.
"Good-bye," he said, and stooped to kiss it, and was gone.
She stood quite still listening, and yet listening, till all possible chance was over of catching any longer the sound of his steps. No more tears; only a great aching emptiness. The unhoped-for chance had been hers, and she had lost it knowingly. What else could she have done?
She scarcely knew how long she remained motionless. A world and a lifetime of agitation, and thought, and passionate yearning seemed to stand between her and that brief interview, before, casting her eyes on the little velvet-covered table across which he had leaned to put it on her hand, she saw the splendid ring; sunbeams had found it out, and were playing on the diamond; he had forgotten it, and left it behind him, and there was the case on the floor. It seemed to be almost a respite.
"We are to dine with Giles and Dorothea to-day, and meet him. This morning's work, then, is not irretrievable. I can speak now to Dorothea, tell her what has occurred, and she will see that I have opportunity to return him this—and—-and things may end in his loving me a little, after all. Oh, if they could—if, indeed, he had not told me he did not. He did not look in the least angry,—only surprised and vexed when I rejected him. He cares so little about me."
She took up the ring, and in course of time went with her old aunt to dine at her brother's house. She knew John was aware that he was to meet her; she was therefore deeply disturbed, though perhaps she had no right to be surprised when Dorothea said—
"We are so much disappointed! John Mortimer has sent this note to excuse himself from coming back to dinner to-day—or, indeed, coming here at all to-night. He has to go out, it seems, for two or three days."
"Ay," said Miss Christie, "that's very awkward for him." Miss Christie had built certain hopes upon that morning's visit. "It seems to me," she continued, "that John Mortimer's affairs give him twice as much trouble as they used to do."
Emily was silent; she felt thatthiswas not letting things be as they had been heretofore. She took up the note. He did not affirm that he was obliged to go out. Even if he was, what should she do now? She was left in custody of the ring, and could neither see him nor write to him.
"On Sunday I shall see him. I shall have his hand for a moment; I shall give him this, after morning service."
But, no. Sunday came; the Mortimers were at church, but not theirfather. "Father had walked over to that little chapel-of-ease beyondWigfield, that Grand gave the money to build," they said. "He tookJohnnie with him to day."
"Yes," said Barbara, "and he promised next Sunday to take me."
"He will not meet me," thought Emily.
She waited another week, hoping she might meet him accidentally; hoping he might come to her, hoping and fearing she hardly knew what. But still John Mortimer made no sign, and she could not decide to write to him; every day that she retained the ring made it more difficult for her to return it, without breaking so the slender thread that seemed to hold her to him still. There was no promise in it of any future communication at all.
In the meantime curiosity, having been once excited about John Mortimer and his concerns, kept open eyes on him still, and soon the air was full of rumours which reached all ears but those of the two people most concerned. A likely thing, if there is the smallest evidence in the world for it, can easily get headway if nobody in authority can contradict it.
All Wigfield said that Mr. Mortimer had "proposed" to Mrs. Walker, and she had refused him. Brandon heard it with amazement, but could say nothing; Miss Christie heard it with yet more; but she, too, held her peace.
Johnnie Mortimer heard it, made furtive observations on his father, was pleased to think that he was dull, restless, pale—remembered his own letter to his sisters, and considered himself to be partly to blame. Then the twins heard it, took counsel with Johnnie, believed it also, were full of ruth and shame. "So dear papa loved Mrs. Walker, and she would not marry him. There could only be one reason; she knew she had nothing to expect but rebellion and rudeness and unkindness from them. No, papa was not at all like himself; he often sighed, and he looked as if his head ached. They had seen in the paper that he had lost a quantity of money by some shares and things; but they didn't think he cared about that, for he gave them a sovereign the next day to buy a birthday present for Janie. Father must not be made miserable on their account. What had they better do?"
Emily, in the meantime, felt her heart faint; this new trouble going down to the deepest part of her heart, woke up and raised again the half-appeased want and sorrow. Again she dreamed that she was folding her little child in her arms, and woke to find them empty. She could not stand against this, and decided, in sheer desperation, to quit the field. She would go on the Continent to Justina; rest and change would help her, and she would send back the ring, when all was arranged, by Aunt Christie.
She was still at her desk, having at last managed to write the note.
She was to start the next morning. Miss Christie was then on her way to John Mortimer with the ring, and tired with her own trouble and indecision, she was resting in a careless attitude when she heard a knock at the door.
"That tiresomeboyagain," she disrespectfully murmured, rousing up a little, and a half smile stealing out. "What am I to do with him?" She thought it was the new curate. "Why, Johnnie, is that you?" she exclaimed as Johnnie Mortimer produced himself in all his youthful awkwardness, and advanced, looking a good deal abashed.
Johnnie replied that it was a half-holiday, and so he thought he would come and call.
Emily said she was glad to see him; indeed, she felt refreshed by the sight of anything that belonged to John.
"I thought I should like to—to—in short, to come and call," repeated Johnnie, and he looked rather earnestly at his gloves, perhaps by way of occupation. They were such as a Harrow boy seldom wears, excepting on "speech day"—pale lilac. As a rule Johnnie scorned gloves. Emily observed that he was dressed with perfect propriety—like a gentleman, in fact; his hair brushed, his tie neat, his whole outer boy clean, and got up regardless of trouble and expense.
"Well, you could not have come at a better time, dear boy," said Emily, wondering what vagary he was indulging now, "for I have just got a present of a case of shells and birds from Ceylon, and you shall help me to unpack and arrange them, if you like."
"I should like to do anything you please," said Johnnie with alacrity. "That's what I meant, that's what I came to say." Thereupon he smoothed the nap on his "chimneypot" hat, and blushed furiously.
The case was set upon the floor, on a piece of matting; it had already been opened, and was filling the room with a smell of sandal-wood and camphor.
Emily had risen, and when she paused, arrested by surprise at the oddness of this speech, he added, taking to his lisp again, as if from sheer embarrassment, "Thome fellows are a great deal worse than they theem. No, I didn't mean that; I mean thome fellows are a great deal better than they theem."
"Now, Johnnie," said Emily, laughing, and remembering a late visit of apology, "if any piece of mischief has got the better of you, and your father has sent you to say you are sorry for it, I'll forgive you beforehand! What is it? Have you been rooting up my fences, or flooding my paddock?"
"It's a great deal worth than that," answered Johnnie, who by this time was kneeling beside the case, hauling out the birds and shells with more vigour than dexterity.
"Nothing to do with gunpowder, I hope," said Emily with her usualinsouciance.
"There are the girls; I hear them coming in the carriage," exclaimedJohnnie by way of answer, while Emily was placing the shells on a table."No, father didn't send me; he doesn't know."
"What is it, then?" she repeated, feeling more at liberty to investigate the matter, now she had been expressly told that John had nothing to do with it.
On this, instead of making a direct reply, he exclaimed, looking very red and indignant, "I told them it was no use at all my coming, and now you see it isn't. They thaid they wouldn't come unless I did. If you thought I should be rude, you might make me stop at school all the holidays, or at old Tikey's; I shouldn't thay a word."
Emily's hand was on the boy's shoulder as he knelt before the case. Surely she understood what he meant; but if so, where could he possibly have acquired the knowledge he seemed to possess? And even then he was the last person from whom she could have expected this blunt, embarrassed, promise of fealty.
The girls entered, and the two little ones. Emily met them, and while she gave each a kiss, Johnnie started up, and with a great war-whoop of defiance to his sisters, burst through the open window, and blushing hotly fled away.
Much the same thing over again. The girls were all in their best; they generally loved to parade the crofts and gardens clad in brown holland and shaded by flapping hats. The children scorned gloves and all fine clothes as much as they did the carriage; and here they were—little Hugh in his velvet suit, looking so fair and bright-haired; Anastasia dressed out in ribbons, and with a very large bouquet of hothouse flowers in her hand. The girls pushed her forward.
"It's for you," said the little girl, "and isn't it a grand one! And my love, and we're come to call."
"Thank you, my sweet," said Emily, accepting the bouquet, "I never saw such a beauty!" She was sitting on a sofa, and her young guests were all standing before her. She observed that little Hugh looked very sulky indeed. "It's extremely unfair," he presently burst out, "they made Swan cut the best flowers in the houses, and they gave them all to Nancy to give, and I haven't gotnone."
Barbara whispered to him, trying to soothe his outraged feelings, but he kept her off with his elbow till Emily drew him near, and observed that it was not her birthday, and therefore that one present was surely enough.
Barbara replied that Hughie had brought a present, but he was very cross because it was not so pretty as Anastasia's.
"Yes, I've brought this," said Hugh, his countenance clearing a little as he opened his small gloved hand, and disclosed a very bright five-shilling piece. "It's not so pretty, though, as Nannie's."
"But it will last much longer," said Emily; "and so you meant this for me, my sweet man. I'll take care of it for you, and look at it sometimes till you want to spend it; that will be a very nice present for me, and then you can have it back."
"Papa gave it him," said Anastasia; "it's a new one. And may we go now and look at our gardens?"
Hugh appeared to be cogitating over Emily's proposal; his little grave face was the image of his father's. "You may if Mrs. Nemily says so," answered Gladys. "You always want to do what Mrs. Nemily pleases, don't you?"
"Oh yes," said the sprite, dancing round the room; and off they set into the garden.
"And so do we all," said Barbara.
Gladys was sitting at Emily's feet now, and had a little covered basket in her hand, which rustled as if it contained some living thing.
"Janie and Bertie don't know—none of the little ones know," saidBarbara; "we thought we had better not tell them."
Emily did not ask what they meant; she thought she knew. It could make no difference now, yet it was inexpressibly sweet and consoling to her.
"We only said we were coming to call, and when Janie saw the bouquet she said she should send you a present too." Thereupon the basket was opened, and a small white kitten was placed on Emily's knee.
There seemed no part for her to play, but to be passive; she could not let them misunderstand; she knew John had not sent them. "We should be so glad if you came," whispered the one who held her hand. "Oh, Janie," thought Emily, "if you could only see your children now!"
"And when Johnnie wrote that, he didn't know it was you," pleaded the other.
"My darlings!" said Emily, "you must not say any more; and I have nothing to answer but that I love you all very, very much indeed."
"But we want you to love father too."
Unheard-of liberty! Emily had no answer ready; but now, as she had wondered what their mother would have felt, she wondered what John would have felt at this utter misunderstanding, this taking for granted that he loved her, and that she did not love him. A sensitive blush spread itself over her face. "Your father would not be pleased, my dears," she answered lovingly but firmly, "at your saying any more; he would think (though I am sure you do not mean it) that you were taking a great liberty."
"She's daft to refuse the laird of Cockpen."
Scotch Ballad.
And now John Mortimer had again possession of his ring. Emily had sent it, together with a little book that she had borrowed some time previously, and the whole was so done up in stiff paper that Miss Christie Grant supposed herself to be returning the book only.
"So you gave it to John, auntie," said Emily, when Miss Christie came back, "and told him I was going out, and he read the note?"
"Yes," answered Miss Christie curtly.
"Is he looking well?" asked Emily with a faint attempt at the tone of ordinary interest.
"I should say not at all; it would be queer if he was."
"Why, Aunt Christie?"
Miss Christie Grant paused. Confidence had not been reposed in her; to have surprised Emily into it would have given her no pleasure; it would have left her always suspicious that her niece would have withheld it if she could; besides, this rumour might after all be untrue. She answered, "Because, for one thing, he has had great, at least considerable, losses."
"Yes, I know," said Emily.
"But he aye reposed great confidence in me, as a friend should."
"Yes."
"And so I would have asked him several questions if I had known how to express myself; but bonds and debentures, and, above all, preference stock, were aye great stumbling-blocks to my understanding. Men have a way of despising a woman's notions of business matters; so I contented myself with asking if it was true that he was arranging to take a partner, and whether he would have to make any pecuniary sacrifice in order to effect this? He said 'Yes;' but I've been just thinking he meant that in confidence."
"You shouldn't tell it to me then."
"And then he told me (I don't know whether that was in confidence or not), but——"
"But what?"
"But I don't want to have any reservations with my own niece's child, that was always my favourite, any more than I suppose ye would have any with me."
Miss Christie here seemed to expect an answer, and waited long enough for Emily to make one, if she was so minded; but as Emily remained silent, she presently went on.
"I made the observation that I had heard he meant to sell his late father's house; but lest he should think I attached too much importance to his losses, I just added that I knew his children were very well provided for under the will. He said 'Yes.'"
"And that was all?" asked Emily, amused at the amount of John's confidence, and pleased to find that nothing but business had been talked or.
"Yes, that was all—so far as I know there was nothing more to tell; so I just said before I came away that I was well aware my knowledge of banking was but slender, which was reason enough for my not offering any advice. Well, if anybody had told me ye could laugh because John Mortimer was less prosperous than formerly, I would not have believed it!"
Emily made haste to look grave again. It was no secret at all that John Mortimer meant to take a partner; and as to his losses, she did not suppose they would affect his comfort much.
Johnnie Mortimer, however, on hearing of them was roused to a sense of responsibility toward his father, and as a practical proof that he and his sisters were willing to do what they could, proposed to them that they should give up half their weekly allowance of pocket-money. The twins assented with filial fervour, and Johnnie explained their views to his father, proposing that his own pony should be sold, and the money flung into the gap.
John was smoking a cigar in an arbour near the house when his heir unfolded to him these plans for retrenchment. He was surprised. The boy was so big, so clever with his lessons, and possessed so keen a sense of humour that sometimes the father forgot his actual age, and forgot that he was still simple in many respects, and more childlike than some other youths.
He did not instantly answer nor laugh (for Johnnie was exceedingly sensitive to ridicule from him); but after a pause, as if for thought, he assured his son that he was not in any want of money, and that therefore these plans, he was happy to say, were not necessary. "As you are old enough now," he added, "to take an intelligent interest in my affairs, I shall occasionally talk to you about them."
Johnnie, shoving his head hard against his father's shoulder, gave him an awkward hug. "You might depend on my never telling anybody," he said.
"I am sure of that, my boy. Your dear grandfather, a few months before his death, gave his name to an enterprise which, in my opinion, did not promise well. A good deal of money has been lost by it."
"Oh," said Johnnie, and again he reflected that, though not necessary, it would be only right and noble in him to give up his pony.
"But I dare say you think that I and mine have always lived in the enjoyment of every comfort, and of some luxuries."
"Oh, yes, father."
"Then if I tell you that I intend to continue living exactly in my present style, and that I expect to be always entitled to do so, you need perhaps hardly concern yourself to inquire how much I may hitherto have lived within my income."
Johnnie, who, quite unknown to himself, had just sustained the loss of many thousands hitherto placed to his name, replied with supreme indifference that he hoped he was not such a muff as to care about money that his father did not care about himself, and did not want. Whereupon John proceeded,—
"It is my wish, and in the course of a few years I hope that I shall be able, to retire."
"Oh," said Johnnie again, and he surprised his father to the point of making him refrain from any further communication, by adding, "And then you'll have plenty of time to rummage among those old Turanian verbs and things. But, father?"
"Yes, my boy."
John looked down into the clear eyes of the great, awkward, swarthy fellow, expecting the question, "Will this make much difference to my future prospects?" But, no, what he said was, "I should like to have agoat them too. And you said you would teach me Sanscrit, if ever you had leisure."
"So I did," said John, "and so I will."
To his own mind these buried roots, counted by the world so dry, proved, as it were, appetising and attractive food. How, then, should he be otherwise than pleased that his son should take delight in the thought of helping him to rake them up, and arguing with him over "the ninth meaning of a particle?" "The boy will learn to love money quite soon enough," he thought.
Johnnie then went his way. It was Saturday afternoon; he told his sisters that "it was all right," and thereupon resolving no longer to deny themselves the innocent pleasures of life, they sent little Bertram into the town for eighteenpennyworth of "rock."
"Where's the change?" he inquired, with the magisterial dignity belonging to his race, when his little brother came home.
Bertram replied with all humility that he had only, been tossing up the fourpenny piece a few times for fun, when it fell into the ditch. He couldn't help it; he was very sorry.
"Soufflezthe fourpenny piece," said Johnnie in a burst of reckless extravagance; "I forgive you this once. Produce the stuff."
He felt a lordly contempt for money just then; perhaps it was wrong, but prosperity was spoiling him. He was to retain his pony, and this amiable beast was dear to him.
In the meantime Valentine, established at Melcombe, had been enjoying the sweetness of a no less real prosperity.
From that moment, when the ghost story had melted into mist, he had flung aside all those uneasy doubts which had disturbed his first weeks of possession.
He soon surrounded himself with the luxury that was so congenial to him. All the neighbourhood called on him, and his naturally sociable temper, amiable, domestic ways, and good position enabled him, with hardly any effort, to be always among a posse of people who suited him perfectly.
There were more ladies than young men in the neighbourhood. Valentine was intimate with half-a-dozen of the former before he had been among them three weeks. He experienced the delights of feminine flattery, a thing almost new to him. Who so likely to receive it? He was eligible, he was handsome, and he was always in a good humour, for the place and the life pleased him, and all things smiled.
In a round of country gaieties, in which picnics and archery parties bore a far larger proportion than any young man would have cared for who was less devoted to the other sex, Valentine passed much of his time, laughing and making laugh wherever he went. His jokes were bandied about from house to house, till he felt the drawback in passing for a wit. He was expected to be always funny.
But a little real fun goes a long way in a dull neighbourhood, and he had learned just so much caution from his early escapade as to be willing to hail any view concerning himself that might be a corrective of the more true and likely one that he loved to flirt.
He was quite determined, as he thought, not to get into another scrape, and perhaps a very decided intention to make, in the end, an advantageous marriage, may have grown out of the fancy that his romance in life was over.
If he thought so, it was in no very consistent fashion, for he was always the slave (for the day) of the prettiest girl in every party he went to.
It was on a Saturday that John Mortimer received his son's proposal for retrenchment; on the Wednesday succeeding it Valentine, sitting at breakfast at Melcombe, opened the following letter, and was amused by the old-fashioned formality of its opening sentence:—
"Wigfield, June 15th, 18—.
"My dear Nephew,—It is not often that I take up my pen to address you, for I know there is little need, as my niece Emily writes weekly. Frequently have I wondered what she could find to write for; indeed, it was not the way in my youth for people to waste so much time saying little or nothing—which is not my case at the present time, for your sister being gone on the Continent, it devolves upon me, that is not used to long statements, to let ye know, what ye will be very sorry to hear. I only hope it may be no worse before it is over.
"Matthew, the coachman, came running over to me on Monday morning last, and said would I come to the house, for the servants did not know what to be at, and told me that Johnnie, who had been to go back to Harrow by the eleven o'clock train, had got leave to drive the pheaton to the Junction with the four girls in it, and Bertram, who, by ill luck—of I may use such a word (meaning no irreverence)—of this dispensation of Providence, had not gone back to Mr. Tikey's that morning. So far as I can make out, he thought he should be late, and so he turned those two spirited young horses down that steep sandy lane by the wood, to cut off a corner; and whether the woodman's children ran out and frightened them, or whether he was shouting and whooping himself, poor laddie—for I heard something of both—but Barbara was just sobbing her heart away when she told it, and he aye raised the echoes wherever he went; but the horses set off, running away, tearing down that rough road. Johnnie shouted to them all to sit still, and so they did, though they were almost jolted out; and if they had been let alone, there might have been no accident; but two men sprung out of a hedge and tried to stop them, and they turned on to the common, and sped away like the wind towards home, till they came to the sand bank by the small inn, the Loving Cup, and there they upset the carriage, and when the two men got up to it Johnnie and all of them were tossed out, and the carriage was almost kicked to pieces by the horse that was not down.
"This is a long tale, Valentine, and I seem to have hardly begun it. I must take another sheet of paper. When I got to the house, you never saw such a scene. Johnnie had been brought in quite stunned, and his face greatly bruised. There were two doctors already with them. Bertram had got a broken arm; he was calling out, poor little fellow, and Nancy was severely hurt, but I was grieved to see her so quiet. Gladys seemed at first to be only bruised and limping; but she and Barbara were faint and sick with fright. Janie was not present; she had been carried into the inn; but I may as well tell ye that in her case no bones were broken, poor lamb. She is doing very well, and in a day or two is to be brought home.
"It was a very affecting scene, as ye may suppose, and my first words were, 'Who is to tell this to Mr. Mortimer?' They said your brother has already gone to fetch him and prepare him. Well, I knew everything that was in the house, and where it was kept; so I'm thankful to think I was of use, and could help the new governess and the strange servants.
"Dorothea and Mrs. Henfrey soon came in, and by the time John arrived all the invalids had been carried up-stairs, and Johnnie had begun to show signs of consciousness.
"John was as white as chalk. He was rather strange at first; he said in a commanding, peremptory way, that he wouldn't be spoken to; he wouldn't hear a word; he was not ready. Everybody stood round, till Dorothea disobeyed him; she said, 'They are all living, dear Mr. Mortimer;' and then Giles got him to sit down, and they gave him some water to drink.
"He then noticed Dr. Limpsy, who had come down, and asked if any of them were in danger, and the doctor said yes—one. So he said he prayed God it was not his eldest son: he could bear anything but that. And yet when the doctor said he had every hope that Johnnie would do well, but he had great fears for the little Anastasia, he burst into tears, poor man, and said that of all his children she would be the hardest to spare. But I need not tell ye we did not remind him of the inconsistency, and were glad to think he was not to lose the one he set his heart most upon. And after that he was perfectly himself and more composed than anybody, which is a wonder, for such a catalogue of broken bones and sprains and contusions as came to light as the doctors examined further, was enough to disturb anybody's courage. Giles sat up with Johnnie all night; indeed nobody went to bed. John was by Nancy, and in the morning they spoke hopefully of her. Johnnie's first words were about his father; he couldn't bear his father near him, because now and then he was surprised into shouting out with pain, and he wouldn't have John distressed with his noise. He was nothing like so well as we had hoped this morning; but still the doctors say there is no danger. He got a kick from the horse when he was down, and he thinks he fainted with the pain. When John came down to get a little breakfast he was very much cheered to have a better account than he had expected of Nancy, and he made the remark that ye would be sorry to hear of this; so I said I would write, which I am doing, sitting beside little Bertram, who is asleep.—I am
"Your mother's affectionate aunt, and always affectionately yours,
Valentine read the letter, and thought that if it had not been for two or three picnic parties that he had on hand, he would have gone down to his old home, to see whether he could be of use to John Mortimer. He wrote to him, and resolved to wait a day or two; but he heard nothing till after the succeeding Sunday; then a telegram came from Emily:—"Two of John's children are extremely ill. I think your presence might be useful."
Emily had come home then.
Valentine set forth at once, and reached John Mortimer's house in the afternoon. A doctor's carriage stood at the door; a strange lady—evidently a nurse—passed through the hall; people were quietly moving about, but they seemed too anxious, and too much occupied to observe him.
At last Emily came down.
"Is Johnnie worse?" asked Valentine.
"Yes; but I wanted you to help us with John. Oh, such a disaster! On the third night after the accident, just before I arrived—for Dorothea had sent for me—every one in the house was greatly tired; but Johnnie and Anastasia were both thought better; so much better that the doctors said if there was no change during the night, they should consider dear little Nancy quite out of danger. Giles and Dorothea had gone home. The nurse sent for was not come. John knew how fatigued the whole household was, and all who were sitting up. He had not been able to take any sleep himself, and he was restlessly pacing up and down in the garden, watching and listening under the open windows. It was very hot.
"He fancied about three o'clock that there had been a long silence in Anastasia's room. She was to have nourishment frequently. He stole up-stairs, found the person with her asleep from fatigue, gave the child some jelly himself, and then finding her medicine, as he supposed, ready poured out in the wine-glass, he gave it to her, and discovered almost instantly a mistake. The sad imprudence had been committed of pouring the lotion for the child's temples into a wine-glass, to save the trouble of ringing for a saucer. The child was almost out of danger before that terrible night; but when I came home there was scarcely a hope of her life, and her father was almost distracted. I mean that, though he seems perfectly calm, never loses his self-control, he is very often not able to command his attention so as to answer when they speak to him, and he cannot rest a moment. He spent the whole of last night wandering up and down the garden, leaning on St. George's arm. He cannot eat nor occupy himself, and the doctors begin to be uneasy about him. Oh, it is such a misfortune!
"And Johnnie is very ill," continued Emily, tears glittering on her eyelashes; "but John seems to take it all with perfect composure. Everything else is swallowed up in his distress of mind for what he has unfortunately done. If the child dies, I really think he will not get over it."
Some one called Emily, and she passed up-stairs again. Valentine turned and saw John near him; he came forward, but attempted no greeting. "I thought I might be of use, John," he said, as if they had seen one another but the day before. "Is there anything I can do for you over at the town?"
Valentine was a little daunted at first at the sight of him; his face was so white and he showed so plainly the oppression that weighed down his soul by the look in his eyes; they were a little raised, and seemed as if they could not rest on anything near at hand.
Valentine repeated his words, and was relieved when John roused himself, and expressed surprise and pleasure at seeing him. He sent Valentine to one of his clerks for some papers to be signed, gave him other directions, and was evidently the better for his presence.
It was not without many strange sensations that Valentine found himself again in that room where he had spent such happy hours, and which was so connected with his recollections of his old uncle. The plunge he had taken into the sweet waters of prosperity and praise had made him oblivious of some things that now came before his thoughts again with startling distinctness; but on the whole he felt pleasure in going back to the life that he had elected to leave, and was very glad to forget John's face in doing what he could to help him.
When he returned to the house John had commenced his restless walk again. Swan was walking beside him, and he was slightly leaning his hand on the old man's shoulder, as if to steady himself.
Valentine drew near.
"And you are sure he said nothing more?" John was saying in the low inward tone of fatigue and exhaustion.
"No, sir. 'Tell Mr. Mortimer,' says he, 'that his son is considerable better,' and he told Mrs. Walker—I heard him say it—that the blessed little one was no worse, not a morsel worse."
Valentine paused and heard John speak again in that peculiar tone—"I have no hope, Swan."
"I wouldn't give up, sir, if I was you: allers hold on to hope, sir."
"I cannot stand the strain much longer," he continued, as if he had not listened, "but sometimes—my thoughts are often confused—but sometimes I feel some slight relief in prayer."
"Ay, sir," answered Swan, "the Scripture says, 'Knock, and it shall be opened to you,' and I've allers thought it was mighty easier for one that begs to go and knock there than anywhere else, for in that house the Master opens the door himself."
"Midsummer night, not dark, not light.Dusk all the scented air,I'll e'en go forth to one I love,And learn how he doth fare.O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me,The ring was a world too fine,I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,Or ever thou mad'st it mine.
"Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through,Where lone he sits apart,Would I might steal his grief awayTo hide in mine own heart.Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair,The sorrow that bows thy head,Then—I would gather it, to thee unaware,And break my heart in thy stead.
"That charmed flower, far from thy bower,I'd bear the long hours through,Thou should'st forget, and my sad breastThe sorrows twain should rue.O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me.The ring was a world too fine;And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,Ere the morn that made it mine."
Ten o'clock on the succeeding night. It seemed an age to John Mortimer since Valentine had met him in the hall, a night and a day that were almost a lifetime had come between; but his thoughts were not confused now. Something awful but fresh, breaking across his distracted mind, had diverted the torrent of his despairing fear lest his child should die through his mistake, and though he had bowed down his head and wept since the unexpected loss of another, those were healing tears, for with them came for a time escape from the rending strain that was breaking him down.
A sudden noise, when all was so quiet, and some one running down the garden, had startled him.
He tried to recall it. Valentine was with him, having just come back from the town, and one of the doctors was coming up; he took him by the hand. Other people were about him before he had time to think. Some of them were in tears. No, it was not Anastasia; he recollected how they kept telling him that it was not Anastasia, and then that they wished him to leave the house, though she was still in such imminent danger—leave the house and go to the inn. He could not receive a new thought suddenly. Why should he go to the inn? He was not anxious about his little Janie; he had not seen her for two or three days, but he could not leave the house now.
And yet he saw that he must do it. He was walking among the others to a carriage in the yard. He believed nothing; it was only as they drove along that he could understand the doctor's words—a change. They had feared that there might be an internal injury; he was to remember that they had mentioned to him some symptoms which should have made him aware of their solicitude. All very slowly, very cautiously said, but till he saw his child he did not believe a word of it.
The little face looked restless and troubled. Dorothea was sitting at her side fanning her. "Dear papa's come," she said, and then the child looked gravely satisfied, and for a long time she seemed to derive a quiet satisfaction from gazing at him. Then, by slow degrees, she fell into a deep sleep. He was so thankful to see it, and yet no one comforted him with any hopeful words. And it must have been a long time, for all the west was orange when some one woke him from an exhausted doze, his first dream since his great misfortune.
All his children were well again. They were all present but Janie. Anastasia was sitting on his knees, rosy and smiling. "Did she know," he seemed to ask her, "what her poor father had done to her?" and while he felt this peace and joy of recovering her, some one touched his arm, and the dream was gone. He started and woke. Janie, yes, little Janie was there. "Do you want me, my darling?" were his first words, before he had quite dismissed the delusive comfort of that dream.
A remarkable, a perfectly indescribable change had come over the little face, it looked so wise. "You'd better kiss me now," she said, with a wistful, quaint composure.
"Yes, my treasure."
"I can't say my prayers to-night, papa," she presently added, "I suppose you'll have to say them for me." And before he could believe that he must part with her she was gone.
Little Janie, his little Janie. As he sat in the dusk that night he repeated her name many, many times, and sometimes added that she was his favourite child, the only one who in character and mind resembled her mother.
She was a quaint, methodical little creature. She had kept an account-book, and he had found it, with all its pretty, and now most pathetic little entries. He had put it in his breast-pocket, and his hand sought it every few minutes as he sat in the long dusk of the midsummer night. This was the first gap in his healthy, beautiful family. He felt it keenly, but a man who has six children left does not break his heart when he has to give one of them back to God.
No; but he was aware that his heart was breaking, and that now and then there came intervals in his sleepless nights and days when he did not feel at all or think at all. Sometimes for a few minutes he could not see. After these intervals of dull, amazed quiescence, when he was stupid and cold even to the heart, there were terrible times when he seemed to rouse himself to almost preternatural consciousness of the things about him, when the despair of the situation roused up like a tiger, and took hold of him and shook him body and mind.
It was true, quite true, his carelessness (but then he had been so worn out with watching), his fatal mistake, his heartless mistake (and yet he would almost have given his own life for his children) had brought him down to this slough of despond. There was no hope, the doctors never told him of any, and he knew he could not bear this much longer.
There are times when some of us, left alone to pull out again our past, and look at it in the light of a present, made remorseless and cruel with the energy that comes of pain, are determined to blame ourselves not only for the present misfortune, but to go back and back, and see in everything that has gone wrong with us how, but for our own fault, perversity, cowardice, stupidity, we might have escaped almost all the ills under which we now groan.
How far are we right at such times? Most of us have passed through them, and how much harder misfortune is to bear when complicated with the bitterness of self-reproach and self-scorn!
It was not dark. John Mortimer remembered that this was Midsummer night. A few stars were out; the moon, like a little golden keel, had gone down. Quantities of white roses were out all over the place. He saw them as faint, milky globes of whiteness in the dusk.
There were lights in the opened rooms up-stairs. It was very hot; sometimes he saw the nurses passing about. Presently he saw Emily. She was to be one of the watchers that night with Anastasia.
The little creature a day or two after her accident, finding fault with every one about her, and scarcely conscious that her own pain was to blame because they could not please her, had peevishly complained that she wanted Mrs. Nemily. Mrs. Nemily was a kind lady, and could tell her much prettier stories, and not give her such nasty things to drink.
Emily was instantly made aware of this, but when she arrived her little charge was past noticing any one. And yet Emily was full of hope. Impassioned and confiding prayer sustained her courage. She had always loved the little one keenly, and desired now with indescribable longing that her father might be spared the anguish of parting with her thus.
Yes, there was Emily; John Mortimer saw her move toward the window, and derived some faint comfort from the knowledge that she would be with Anastasia for the night.
Lovely, pale, and calm, he saw and blessed her, but she could not see him; and as she retired she too was added to the measure of his self-reproaches. He had lost her, and that also he had but himself to thank for; he himself, and no other, was to blame for it all.
He loved her. Oh yes, he had soon found out that he loved her! Fool! to have believed that in the early prime of his life the deepest passions of humanity were never to wake up again and assert themselves, because for the moment they had fallen into a noonday sleep. Fool, doubly fool, to have prided himself on the thought that this was so; and more than all a fool, to have let his scorn of love appear and justify itself to such a woman as Emily. Lovely and loving, what had he asked of her? which was to be done without the reward of his love. To bring up for him another woman's children, to manage a troublesome household, to let him have leisure and leave to go away from her from time to time, that he might pursue his literary tastes and his political destiny, to be responsible, to be contented, and to be lost, name and ambition, in him and his.
All this had flashed across his mind, and amazed him with his own folly, before he reached the town on the morning that he left her. But that was nothing to the knowledge that so soon followed, the discovery that he loved her. For the first time in his life it seemed to be his part in creation to look up, and not to look down. He wrestled with himself, and fought with all his power against this hopeless passion; wondered whether he had done his cause irretrievable mischief by speaking too soon, as well as by speaking amiss; seldom hoped at all, for he had been refused even with indignation; and never was less able to withdraw his thoughts from Emily, even for a moment, than when he felt most strongly that there was no chance for him at all.
Still they went on and on now, his thoughts of her; they gave poignancy to all his other pain. The place, the arbour where he sat, had become familiar to him of late. He had become used to wander and pace the garden at night some time before this accident. Hour after hour, night after night, he had gone over the matter; he had hardly decided to go back to her, and implore her to give him a chance of retrieving his deplored mistake, when she sent him back his ring, and early the next morning was gone.
That was all his own fault, and but for it he now thought he should not have been so unobservant of things about him. Could he, but for such weary nights of sleepless wandering and watching, have let his darling boy drive those young horses, filling the carriage so full of his brothers and sisters that there was no room for any beside him whose hands were strong enough to hold them in? He was not sure. His clearer thought would not consent to admit that he could have foreseen the danger, and yet he had been so accustomed to hold things in hand, and keep them safe and secure, that he could hardly suppose they would not, but for his own state of mind, have been managed better.
It was midnight now; he had no intention of coming indoors, or taking any rest, and his thoughts went on and on. When the misfortune came, it was still his own perturbation of mind, which had worn and fretted him so that he could not meet it as he might have done. This woman, whom he loved as it seemed to him man had never loved before, had taken herself out of his reach, and another man would win her. How could he live out the rest of his days? What should he do?
It was because that trouble, heaped upon the other, had made it hard to give his mind to the situation, that he had not forced himself to take rest, and what sleep he could, instead of wasting his powers in restless watching, till his overwrought faculties and jaded eyes had led him to the fearful moment when he had all but killed his own child.
Emily had scarcely spoken to him since her arrival. All her thoughts were for her little favourite. Perhaps even, she saw little in this fatal carelessness at all out of keeping with his character, as she had lately thought of it. No, his best chances in this life were all brought to an end; the whole thing was irretrievable.
"Is that Valentine?" he asked as some one approached.
"Yes, it is past one o'clock. I am going to bed; I suppose you will too."
"No," he answered in the dull inward voice now become habitual with him."Why should I come in? Val, you know where my will is?"
"Yes," said Valentine, distressed to hear him say it.
"If you and Giles have to act, you will find everything in order."
"What is to be done for him?" thought Valentine. "Oh for a woman to talk to him now!—I cannot." He took to one of the commonplaces of admonition instead: "Dear John, you must try and submit yourself to the will of God."
"You have no need to tell me of that," he answered with the same dimness of speech. "I do not rebel, but I cannot bear it. I mean," he continued, with the calmest tone of conviction, "that this is killing me."
"If only the child might be taken," thought Valentine, "he would get over it. It is the long suspense that distracts him."
"They want you to come in and eat something," he urged, "there is supper spread in the dining-room."
"No, I cannot."
He meant, "I cannot rise from my seat." Valentine supposed him only to say as usual that he could not eat.
"My mind wanders," he presently added, in the same low dull tone; and then repeated what he had said to his old gardener, "But sometimes I find relief in prayer."
Valentine went in rather hastily; he was alarmed not so much at the words as at his own sudden conviction that there was a good deal in them. They might be true. He must find some one to console, to talk to him, some one that could exercise influence over him. He knew of no one but Emily who would be likely to know what to say to him, and he hung about on the stairs, watching for her, hoping she would come out of little Anastasia's room; but all was so quiet, that he hoped the little sufferer might be asleep, and he dared not run the least risk of waking her.
It was now two o'clock.
John Mortimer saw some one holding aside a dark dress, and moving down the rose-covered alley towards him. It was not dark, and yet everything looked dim and confused. The morning star was up, it seemed to tremble more than usual; he knew he should not see it set, it would go out in its place, because the dawn came so early.
He knew it was Emily. "Only one thing could have brought her," he said in his dull tone, and aloud. "The end is come."
But no, she was at his side. Oh what a sweet tone! So clear and thrilling, and not sad.
"The darling is just as usual, and I have brought you some coffee; drink it, dear John, and then come in and take some rest."
"No," he answered in a low tone, husky and despairing.
She made out that he was sitting on the wooden bench his boys had carved for him. It had only been placed there a few days, and was finished with an elbow, on which he was leaning his arm. It was too low to give him much support. She came to his side, the few trembling stars in the sky gave scarcely any light. Standing thus, and looking at the same view that was before him, she saw the lighted windows of the children, Johnnie's, little Bertram's, and Anastasia's. Three or four stars trembling near the horizon were southing fast. One especially bright and flickering was about, it was evident, in a few minutes to set; as far as she could see, John was gazing at it. She hoped he was not linking with it any thought of the little tender life so likely also to set. She spoke to him again in tones of gentle entreaty, "Take this cup, dear John."
"I cannot," he answered.
"Cannot!" she said, and she stooped nearer, but the dimness hid his face.
"No; and something within me seems to be failing."
There was that in the trembling frame and altered voice that impressed her strangely. What was failing? Had the springs of life been so strained by suffering that there was danger lest they should break?
Emily did not know; but everything seemed to change for her at that moment. It was little to her that he should discover her love for him now; but he would not, or, if he did, he was past caring, and he had been almost forgotten by those about him, though his danger was as great as that of any. He had been left to endure alone. She lifted the cup to his lips, and thought of nothing, and felt nothing, but the one supreme desire to console and strengthen.
"She will die, Emily," he found voice enough to say when the cup was empty; "and I cannot survive her."
"Yes, you can; but I hope she will not die, dear John. Why should she live so long, to die after all?"
She leaned toward him, and, putting her arms about him, supported his head on her shoulder, and held it there with her hand. At least that once her love demanded of her that she should draw near.Sheshould not die; perhaps there was a long life before her; perhaps this might be the only moment she might have to look back to, when she had consoled and satisfied her unheeded heart.
"Have you so soon forgotten hope?" she said as she withdrew her arms.
"I thought I had."
"They always say she is not worse; not to be worse is to be better."
"They never say that, and I shall not forgive myself."
"No?" she exclaimed, and sighed. There was, indeed, so little hope, and if the child died, what might not be feared for the father? "That is because, though you seem a reverent and sincere Christian, you do not believe with enough reality that the coming life is so much sweeter, happier, better, than this. Few of us can. If you did, this tragedy could not fold itself down so darkly over your head. You could not bring yourself almost to the point of dying of pity and self-blame, because your child is perhaps to taste immortal happiness the sooner for your deplored mistake. Oh! men and women are different."
"You do not think you could have outlived a misfortune so irreparable?"
"I do think so. And yet this is sad; sometimes I cannot bear to think of it. Often I can find in my heart to wish that I might have handed that glass in your stead. Even if it had broken my heart, I stand alone; no other lives depend on me for well-being, and perhaps for well-doing. Cannot you think of this, dear John, and try to bear it and overlive it for their sakes? Look, day begins to dawn, and the morning star flickers. Come in; cannot you rise?"
"I suppose not; I have tried. You will not go?"
"Yes; I may be wanted."
"You have no resentments, Emily?"
"Oh no," she answered, understanding him.
"Then give me one kiss."
"Yes." She stooped again toward him and gave it. "You are going to live, John, and serve and love God, and even thank Him in the end, whatever happens."
"You are helping me to live," he answered.
It seemed impossible to him to say a single word more, and she went back towards the house again, moving more quickly as she drew near, because the sound of wheels was audible. As for him, he watched in the solemn dawn her retiring figure with unutterable regret. His other despair, who had talked to him of hope and consoled him with a simple directness of tender humanity, given him a kiss because he asked it. He had often wanted a woman's caressing affection before, and gone without it. It promised nothing, he thought; he perceived that it was the extremity she saw in the situation that had prompted it. When she next met him she would not, he knew, be ashamed of her kiss. If she thought about it, she would be aware that he understood her, and would not presume on it.
The spots of milky whiteness resolved themselves again into blush roses; hundreds and hundreds of them scented the air. Overhead hung long wreaths of honeysuckle; colours began to show themselves; purple iris and tree peony started out in detached patches from the shade; birds began to be restless; here and there one fluttered forth with a few sudden, imperfect notes; and the cold curd-like creases in the sky took on faint lines of gold. And there was Emily—Emily coming down the garden again, and Giles Brandon with her. Something in both their faces gave him courage to speak.
"St. George, you are not come merely to help me in. I heard wheels."
Emily had moved a step forward; it was light enough now to show her face distinctly. The doctors had both paid a visit; they came together, she told him.
"It was very good of them; they are more than considerate," he answered, sure that the news could not be bad.
"They both saw Anastasia, and they agreed that there was a decided improvement."
"I thank God."
With the aid of hope and a strong arm he managed to get up and stagger towards the house; but having once reached his room, it was several days before he could leave it or rise, though every message told of slow improvement.
A strange week followed the return of hope. The weeds in the garden began to take courage after long persecution, while Mr. Swan might frequently be seen reading aloud by Johnnie's bedside, sometimes the Bible, sometimes the newspaper, Master A.J. Mortimer deriving in his intervals of ease a grave satisfaction from the old man's peculiar style and his quaint remarks.
"I'm allers a comfort to them boys," Swan was heard to remark in the middle of the night, when Valentine, who was refreshing himself with a short walk in the dark, chanced to be near him as he came on with his wife.
"And how do you get on, Maria?"
"Why, things seem going wrong, somehow. There's that new nurse feels herself unwell, and the jelly's melted, and Miss Christie was cross."
"That's awkward; but they're trifles. When the mud's up to your neck, you needn't trouble yourself because you've lost your pattens. You want a night's rest, my dear."
"Ay, I do; and don't you worrit, Swan, over Matthew being souglywith you."
"Certainly not," said Swan. "He's turned more civil too. Said he to me this morning, 'Misfortunes in this life is what we all hev to expect. They ought not to surprise us,' said he; 'they never surprise me, nor nothing does.' It's true too. And he's allers for making a sensible observation, as he thinks (that shows what a fool he is). No, if he was to meet a man with three heads, he wouldn't own as he was surprised; he'd merely say, 'You must find this here dispensation very expensive in hats.'"
John Mortimer, thanks to a strong frame and an excellent constitution, was soon able to rise. He stood by his little Janie when she was laid in the grave, and felt, when he could think about it, how completely he and his had been spared the natural sorrow they would have suffered by the overshadowing gloom of greater misfortunes.
There was no mother to make lamentation. It was above all things needful to keep up Johnnie's spirits, and not discourage him. He had gone through a harder struggle for his life than his father knew of; but the sight of his pinched features and bright, anxious eyes began only now to produce their natural effect. John always came into his room with a serene countenance, and if he could not command his voice so as to speak steadily and cheerfully, he sat near him, and was silent.
There was little sign of mourning about the place. Never did a beautiful little promising life slip away so unobserved. Anastasia did not even know that her companion was gone. She was still not out of danger, and she wanted a world of watching and comforting and amusing.
They all wanted that. John, as he passed from room to room, strangely grateful for the care and kindness that had come into his house almost unbidden, was sometimes relieved himself in listening to the talk that went on.
Only two of his children were quite unhurt; these were Barbara (and she found quite enough occupation in waiting on her twin sister) and little Hugh, who sometimes wandered about after his father almost as disconsolate as himself, and sometimes helped to amuse Bertram, showing him pictures, while Miss Christie told him tales. Master Bertram Mortimer, having reached the ripe age of nine years, had come to the conclusion that it wasmuffish—like acad, like a girl—to cry. So when his broken arm and other grievances got beyond his power of endurance, he used to call out instead, while his tender-hearted little brother did the crying for him, stuffing his bright head into the pillows and sobbing as if his heart would break.
On one of these occasions John drew the child away and took him downstairs. "I'm crying about Janie too," he said, creeping into his father's arms to be consoled, and not knowing the comfort this touch of natural sorrow had imparted to an over-strained heart.
The weather was unusually hot for the time of year, the doors and windows stood open, so that John could pass about as he pleased; he judged by the tone of voice in which each one spoke whether things were going well or not. After he had sent little Hugh to bed that evening he went upstairs and sat in a staircase window, in full view of Johnnie's room. Swan was talking by the boy's bedside, while Johnnie seemed well content to listen. Little notice was taken when he appeared, and the discourse went on with quiet gravity, and that air of conviction which Swan always imparted to his words.
"Ay, sir, Mr. Fergus will have it that the cottagers are obstinate because they wont try for the easy things as he wants them to. The common garden stuff they show has allers been disgraceful, and yet, sometimes they interfere with him and take a prize for flowers. 'That shows they know their own business,' says I; 'it don't follow that because my parrot can talk, my dog's obstinate because he won't learn his letters.' 'Mr. Swan,' says he, 'you're so smothered in illustrations, there's no argufying with you.' Master Johnnie, you was to drink your beef tea by this time."
"Not just yet. I hate it. Tell me the rest about Fergus."
"'Well,' he said, 'I mean no disrespect to you, Mr. Swan.' 'No?' says I. 'No,' said he, 'but you and I air that high among the competitors that if we didn't try against one another we could allers hev it our own way. Now, if you'll not show your piccatees this time, I'll promise you not to bring forrard so much as one pelagonium.'"
"The cheat!" exclaimed Johnnie. "Why we have none worth mentioning, and the piccatees are splendid, Swanny."
"That's it, sir. He'd like me to keep out of his way, and then, however hard it might be on the other gardeners, he'd have all the county prizes thrown open to the cottagers, that's to say, those he doesn't want himself. He's allers for being generous with what's not his. He said as much to me as that he wished this could be managed. He thought it would be handy for us, and good for the poor likewise. 'That,' I says, 'would be much the same as if a one-legged man should steal a pair of boots, and think to make it a righteous action by giving away the one he didn't want in charity.' As he was so fond of illustrations, I thought I'd give him enough of them. 'Mr. Swan,' says he, rather hot, 'this here is very plain speaking.' 'I paid for my pipe myself,' says I, 'and I shall smoke it which side my mouth I please.' So now you know why we quarrelled, sir. It's the talk of all the country round, and well it may be, for there's nobody fit to hold a candle to us two, and all the other gardeners know it."
"I'll drink the stuff now," said Johnnie. "Father, is that you?"
"Yes, my dearest boy."
"You can't think how well I feel tonight, father. Swanny, go down and have some supper, and mind you come again."
"Ay, to be sure, Mr. Johnnie."
"You're not going to sit up tonight, my good old friend," said John, passing into the room.
"Well, no, sir, Mr. Johnnie hev cheated the doctor to that extent that he's not to hev anybody by him this night, the nurse is to come in and give him a look pretty frequent, and that's all."
John came and sat by his boy, took his thin hand, and kissed him.
"It's a lark, having old Swanny," said the young invalid, "he's been reading me a review of Mr. Brandon's book. He told Val that Smiles at the post office had read it, and didn't think much of it, but that it showed Mr. Brandon had a kind heart. 'And so he has,' said Swan, 'and he couldn't hide that if he wished to. Why, he's as good as a knife that has pared onions, sir,—everything it touches relishes of 'em.'"
"You had better not repeat that to Mr. Brandon," said John, "he is rather touchy about his book. It has been very unfavourably reviewed."
"But Swan intended a compliment," answered Johnnie, "and he loves onions. I often see him at his tea, eating slices of them with the bread and butter. You are better now, dear father, are you not?"
"Yes, my boy. What made you think there was anything specially the matter with me?"
"Oh, I knew you must be dreadfully miserable, for you could hardly take any notice even of me."
A small shrill voice, thin and silvery, was heard across the passage.
"Nancy often talks now," said Johnnie; "she spoke several times this morning."
John rose softly and moved towards it. "And what did the robin say then," it asked. Emily's clear voice answered, "The robin said, 'No, my wings are too short, I cannot fly over the sea, but I can stop here and be very happy all the winter, for I've got a warm little scarlet waistcoat.' Then the nightingale said, 'What does winter mean? I never heard of such a thing. Is it nice to eat?"
"That was very silly of the nightingale," answered the little voice. The father thought it the sweetest and most consoling sound he had ever heard in his life. "But tell the story," it went on peremptorily in spite of its weakness, "and then did the robin tell him about the snow?"
"Oh yes; he said, 'Sometimes such a number of little cold white feathers fall down from the place where the sun and moon live, that they cover up all the nice seeds and berries, so that we can find hardly anything to eat. But,' the robin went on, 'we don't care very much about that. Do you see that large nest, a very great nest indeed, with a red top to it?' 'Yes,' the nightingale said he did. 'A nice little girl lives there,' said the robin. 'Her name is Nancy. Whenever the cold feathers come, she gives us such a number of crumbs.'"
"Father, look at me," said the little creature, catching sight of her father. "Come and look at me, I'm so grand." She turned her small white face on the pillow as he entered, and was all unconscious both how long it was since she had set her eyes on him, and the cause. Emily had been dressing a number of tiny dolls for her, with gauzy wings, and gay robes; they were pinned about the white curtains of her bed. "My little fairies," she said faintly; "tell it, Mrs. Nemily."
"The fairies are come to see if Nancy wants anything," said Emily. "Nancy is the little Queen. She is very much better this evening, dear John." John knelt by the child to bring her small face close to his, and blessed her; he had borne the strain of many miserable hours without a tear, but the sound of this tender little voice completely overpowered him.
Emily was the only person about him who was naturally and ardently hopeful, but she scarcely ever left the child. He was devoured by anxiety himself, but he learned during the next two days to bless the elastic spirits of youth, and could move about among his other children pleased to see them smile and sometimes to hear them laugh. They were all getting better; Valentine took care they should not want for amusement, and Crayshaw, who, to do him justice, had not yet heard of little Janie's death or of Nancy's extremely precarious state, did not fail to write often, and bestow upon them all the nonsense he could think of. After his short sojourn in Germany, he had been sent back to Harrow, and there finding letters from the Mortimers awaiting him, had answered one of them as follows:—