Harry’s boyish manliness could not resist.
Flora was in Margaret’s room, too useful to be spared.
So ended that dreadful Saturday.
CHAPTER IV.
They may not mar the deep repose
Of that immortal flower:
Though only broken hearts are found
To watch her cradle by,
No blight is on her slumbers found,
No touch of harmful eye.
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.
Such a strange sad Sunday! No going to church, but all the poor children moving in awe and oppression about the house, speaking under their breath, as they gathered in the drawing-room. Into the study they might not go, and when Blanche would have asked why, Tom pressed her hand and shuddered.
Etheldred was allowed to come and look at Margaret, and even to sit in the room for a little while, to take the place of Miss Winter; but she was not sensible of sufficient usefulness to relieve the burden of fear and bewilderment in the presence of that still, pale form; and, what was almost worse, the sight of the familiar objects, the chair by the fire, the sofa, the books, the work-basket, the letter-case, the dressing things, all these were too oppressive. She sat crouched up, with her face hidden in her hands, and the instant she was released, hastened back to Norman. She was to tell him that he might go into the room, but he did not move, and Mary alone went in and out with messages.
Dr. May was not to be visited, for he was in the same half-conscious state, apparently sensible only of bodily suffering, though he answered when addressed, and no one was trusted to speak to him but Flora and Ernescliffe.
The rest wore through the day as best they might. Harry slept a good deal, Ethel read to herself, and tried to get Norman to look at passages which she liked, Mary kept the little ones from being troublesome, and at last took them to peep behind the school-room blinds for Richard’s coming.
There was a simultaneous shout when, at four o’clock, they caught sight of him, and though, at Ethel’s exclamation of wonder, Mary and Tom hung their heads at having forgotten themselves, the association of gladness in seeing Richard was refreshing; the sense of being desolate and forsaken was relieved, and they knew that now they had one to rely on and to comfort them.
Harry hastened to open the front door, and Richard, with his small trim figure, and fresh, fair young face, flushed, though not otherwise agitated, was among them, almost devoured by the younger ones, and dealing out quiet caresses to them, as he caught from the words and looks of the others that at least his father and sister were no worse. Mr. Wilmot had come with him, but only stayed to hear the tidings.
“Can I see papa?” were Richard’s first audible words—all the rest had been almost dumb show.
Ethel thought not, but took him to Margaret’s room, where he stood for many minutes without speaking; then whispered to Flora that he must go to the others, she should call him if—and went down, followed by Ethel.
Tom and Blanche had fallen into teasing tricks, a sort of melancholy play to relieve the tedium. They grew cross. Norman was roused to reprove sharply, and Blanche was beginning to cry. But Richard’s entrance set all at peace—he sat down among them, and, with soft voice and arm round Blanche, as she leaned against him, made her good in a moment; and she listened while he talked over with Norman and Ethel all they could bear to speak of.
Late in the day Flora came into her father’s room, and stood gazing at him, as he lay with eyes closed, breathing heavily, and his brows contracted by pain. She watched him with piteous looks, as if imploring him to return to his children. Poor girl, to-day’s quiet, after the last evening’s bustle, was hard to bear. She had then been distracted from thought by the necessity of exertion, but it now repaid itself, and she knew not how to submit to do nothing but wait and watch.
“No change?” enquired Alan Ernescliffe; looking kindly in her face.
“No,” replied she in a low, mournful tone. “She only once said, thank you.”
A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, “Margaret?” and her heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as she saw her father’s eyes intently fixed on her. “Did you speak of her?” he repeated.
“Yes, dear papa,” said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in extreme fear of what the next question might be. “She is quiet and comfortable, so don’t be uneasy, pray.”
“Let me hear,” he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be entirely roused. “There is injury? What is it—”
He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain her sister’s condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would get up and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to think of it, and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he would at least wait for Mr. Ward; but the doctor would not relinquish his purpose, and sent her to give notice that he was coming.
Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console her, as she looked at him in despair.
“You see he is quite himself, quite collected,” he said; “you heard now clear and coherent his questions were.”
“Can’t it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr. Ward.”
“I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I do, upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more likely to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really think you need not be alarmed.”
“But you know,” said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she whispered and signed towards the door, “she is there—it is mamma’s room, that will tell all.”
“I believe he knows,” said Alan. “It was that which made him faint after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was afraid to hear about her—your sister, so that our mention of her was a great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. Only go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.”
Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward, and hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking perhaps from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to have seen her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting him. When she had sent her message, and told her brothers what was passing, she went and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for tidings. After what seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened to the nursery, giving her intelligence on the way.
“Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and was quite calm and composed. Oh! if this will not hurt him, if the seeing baby was but over!”
“Does he want her?”
“Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let him. Nurse,
