Miss Maud, dear, I will send to please you, but it is all to no use. If only you saw him yourself you’d know that. Mary Quince, run you down and tell Thomas, Miss Maud desires he’ll go down this minute to the village for Dr. Elweys.”
Every minute of the interval seemed to me like an hour. I don’t know what I said, but I fancied that if he were not already dead, he would lose his life by the delay. I suppose I was speaking very wildly, for Mrs. Rusk said —
“My dear child, you ought to come in and see him; indeed but you should, Miss Maud. He’s quite dead an hour ago. You’d wonder all the blood that’s come from him — you would indeed; it’s soaked through the bed already.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t, Mrs. Rusk.”
“Will you come in and see him, just?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no!”
“Well, then, my dear, don’t of course, if you don’t like; there’s no need. Would not you like to lie down, Miss Maud? Mary Quince, attend to her. I must go into the room for a minute or two.”
I was walking up and down the room in distraction. It was a cool night; but I did not feel it. I could only cry:—“Oh, Mary, Mary! what shall I do? Oh, Mary Quince! what shall I do?”
It seemed to me it must be near daylight by the time the Doctor arrived. I had dressed myself. I dared not go into the room where my beloved father lay.
I had gone out of my room to the gallery, where I awaited Dr. Elweys, when I saw him walking briskly after the servant, his coat buttoned up to his chin, his hat in his hand, and his bald head shining. I felt myself grow cold as ice, and colder and colder, and with a sudden sten my heart seemed to stand still.
I heard him ask the maid who stood at the door, in that low, decisive, mysterious tone which doctors cultivate —
“In here?”
And then, with a nod, I saw him enter.
“Would not you like to see the Doctor, Miss Maud?” asked Mary Quince.
The question roused me a little.
“Thank you, Mary; yes, I must see him.”
And so, in a few minutes, I did. He was very respectful, very sad, semi-undertakerlike, in air and countenance, but quite explicit. I heard that my dear father “had died palpably from the rupture of some great vessel near the heart.” The disease had, no doubt, been “long established, and is in its nature incurable.” It is “consolatory in these cases that in the act of dissolution, which is instantaneous, there can be no suffering.” These, and a few more remarks, were all he had to offer; and having had his fee from Mrs. Rusk, he, with a respectful melancholy, vanished.
I returned to my room, and broke into paroxysms of grief, and after an hour or more grew more tranquil.
From Mrs. Rusk I learned that he had seemed very well — better than usual, indeed — that night, and that on her return from the study with the book he required, he was noting down, after his wont, some passages which illustrated the text on which he was employing himself. He took the book, detaining her in the room, and then mounting on a chair to take down another book from a shelf, he had fallen, with the dreadful crash I had heard, dead upon the floor. He fell across the door, which caused the difficulty in opening it. Mrs. Rusk found she had not strength to force it open. No wonder she had given way to terror. I think I should have almost lost my reason.
Everyone knows the reserved aspect and taciturn mood of the house, one of whose rooms is tenanted by that mysterious guest.
I do not know how those awful days, and more awful nights, passed over. The remembrance is repulsive. I hate to think of them. I was soon draped in the conventional black, with its heavy folds of crape. Lady Knollys came, and was very kind. She undertook the direction of all those details which were to me so inexpressibly dreadful. She wrote letters for me beside, and was really most kind and useful, and her society supported me indescribably. She was odd, but her eccentricity was leavened with strong common sense; and I have often thought since with admiration and gratitude of the tact with which she managed my grief.
There is no dealing with great sorrow as if it were under the control of our wills. It is a terrible phenomenon, whose laws we must study, and to whose conditions we must submit, if we would mitigate it. Cousin Monica talked a great deal of my father. This was easy to her, for her early recollections were full of him.
One of those terrible dislocations of our habits of mind respecting the dead is that our earthly future is robbed of them, and we thrown exclusively upon retrospect. From the long look forward they are removed, and every plan, imagination, and hope henceforth a silent and empty perspective. But in the past they are all they ever were. Now let me advise all who would comfort people in a new bereavement to talk to them, very freely, all they can, in this way of the dead. They will engage in it with interest, they will talk of their own recollections of the dead, and listen to yours, though they become sometimes pleasant, sometimes even laughable. I found it so. It robbed the calamity of something of its supernatural and horrible abruptness; it prevented that monotony of object which is to the mind what it is to the eye, and prepared the faculty for those mesmeric illusions that derange its sense.
Cousin Monica, I am sure, cheered me wonderfully. I grow to love her more and more, as I think of all her trouble, care, and kindness.
I had not forgotten my promise to dear papa about the key, concerning which he had evinced so great an anxiety. It was found in the pocket where he desired me to remember he always kept it, except when it was placed, while he slept, under his pillow.
“And so, my dear, that wicked woman was actually found picking the lock of your poor papa’s desk. I wonder he did not punish her — you know that is burglary.”
“Well, Lady Knollys, you know she is gone, and so I care no more about her — that is, I mean, I need not fear her.”
“No, my dear, but you must call me Monica — do you mind — I’m your cousin, and you call me Monica, unless you wish to vex me. No, of course, you need not be afraid of her. And she’s gone. But I’m an old thing, you know, and not so tender-hearted as you; and I confess I should have been very glad to hear that the wicked old witch had been sent to prison and hard labour — I should. And what do you suppose she was looking for — what did she want to steal? I think I can guess — what do you think?”
“To read the papers; maybe to take bank-notes — I’m not sure,” I answered.
“Well, I think most likely she wanted to get at your poor papa’s will — that’s my idea.
“There is nothing surprising in the supposition, dear,” she resumed. “Did not you read the curious trial at York, the other day? There is nothing so valuable to steal as a will, when a great deal of property is to be disposed of by it. Why, you would have given her ever so much money to get it back again. Suppose you go down, dear — I’ll go with you, and open the cabinet in the study.”
“I don’t think I can, for I promised to give the key to Dr. Bryerly, and the meaning was that he only should open it.”
Cousin Monica uttered an inarticulate “H’m!” of surprise or disapprobation.
“Has he been written to?”
“No,
