were as usual. But suppose she should be to blame, where would now be the gentle discipline? Poor Ethel’s feelings were not such as to deserve the imputation of levity, when this thought came over her; but her buoyant mind, always seeking for consolation, recurred to Margaret’s improvement, and she fixed her hopes on her.
Margaret was more alive to surrounding objects, and, when roused, she knew them all, answered clearly when addressed, had even, more than once, spoken of her own accord, and shown solicitude at the sight of her father’s bandaged, helpless arm, but he soon soothed this away. He was more than ever watchful over her, and could scarcely be persuaded to leave her for one moment, in his anxiety to be at hand to answer, when first she should speak of her mother, a moment apprehended by all the rest, almost as much for his sake as for hers.
So clear had her perceptions been, and so much more awake did she appear, on this evening, that he expected the inquiry to come every moment, and lingered in her room; till she asked the hour, and begged him to go to bed.
As he bent over her, she looked up in his face, and said softly, “Dear papa.”
There was that in her tone which showed she perceived the truth, and he knelt by her side kissing her, but not daring to relax his restraint of feeling.
“Dear papa,” she said again, “I hope I shall soon be better, and be some comfort to you.”
“My best—my own—my comfort,” he murmured, all he could say without giving way.
“Baby—is she well?”
“Yes, thank Heaven, she has not suffered at all.”
“I heard her this morning, I must see her to-morrow. But don’t stay, dear, dear papa, it is late, and I am sure you are not at all well. Your arm—is it very much hurt?”
“It is nothing you need think about, my dear. I am much better than I could have imagined possible.”
“And you have been nursing me all the time! Papa, you must let me take care of you now. Do pray go to bed at once, and get up late. Nurse will take good care of me. Good-night, dear papa.”
When Dr. May had left her, and tried to tell Richard how it had been, the tears cut him short, and had their free course; but there was much of thankfulness, for it might be looked on as the restoration of his daughter; the worst was over, and the next day he was able to think of other things, had more attention to spare for the rest, and when the surgeon came, took some professional interest in the condition of his own arm, inquired after his patients, and even talked of visiting them.
In the meantime, Margaret sent for her eldest brother, begging him to tell her the whole, and it was heard as calmly and firmly as it was told. Her bodily state lulled her mind; and besides it was not new; she had observed much while her faculties were still too much benumbed for her to understand all, or to express her feelings. Her thoughts seemed chiefly occupied with her father. She made Richard explain to her the injury he had suffered, and begged to know whether his constant attendance on her could do him harm. She was much rejoiced when her brother assured her that nothing could be better for him, and she began to say, with a smile, that very likely her being hurt had been fortunate. She asked who had taken care of him before Richard’s arrival, and was pleased to hear that it was Mr. Ernescliffe. A visit from the little Gertrude Margaret was happily accomplished, and, on the whole, the day was most satisfactory—she herself declaring that she could not see that there was anything the matter with her, except that she felt lazy, and did not seem able to move.
Thus the next Sunday morning dawned with more cheerfulness. Dr. May came downstairs for the first time, in order to go to church with his whole flock, except the two Margarets. He looked very wan and shattered, but they clustered gladly round him, when he once more stood among them, little Blanche securing his hand, and nodding triumphantly to Mr. Ernescliffe, as much as to say, “Now I have him, I don’t want you.”
Norman alone was missing; but he was in his place at church among the boys. Again, in returning, he slipped out of the party, and was at home the first, and when this recurred in the afternoon Ethel began to understand his motive. The High Street led past the spot where the accident had taken place, though neither she nor any of the others knew exactly where it was, except Norman, on whose mind the scene was branded indelibly; she guessed that it was to avoid it that he went along what was called Randall’s Alley, his usual short cut to school.
The Sunday brought back to the children that there was no one to hear their hymns; but Richard was a great comfort, watching over the little ones more like a sister than a brother. Ethel was ashamed of herself when she saw him taking thought for them, tying Blanche’s bonnet, putting Aubrey’s gloves on, teaching them to put away their Sunday toys, as if he meant them to be as neat and precise as himself.
Dr. May did not encounter the family dinner, nor attempt a second going to church; but Blanche was very glorious as she led him down to drink tea, and, before going up again, he had a conversation with Alan Ernescliffe, who felt himself obliged to leave Stoneborough early on the morrow.
“I can endure better to go now,” said he, “and I shall hear of you often; Hector will let me know, and Richard has promised to write.”
“Ay, you must let us often have a line. I should guess you were a letter-writing man.”
“I have hitherto had too few friends who cared to hear of me to write much, but the pleasure of knowing that any interest is taken in me here—”
“Well,” said the doctor, “mind that a letter will always be welcome, and when you are coming southwards, here are your old quarters. We cannot lose sight of you anyway, especially”—and his voice quivered—“after the help you gave my poor boys and girls in their distress.”
“It would be the utmost satisfaction to think I had been of the smallest use,” said Alan, hiding much under these commonplace words.
“More than I know,” said Dr. May; “too much to speak of. Well, we shall see you again, though it is a changed place, and you must come and see your god-daughter—poor child—may she only be brought up as her sisters were! They will do their best, poor things, and so must I, but it is sad work!”
Both were too much overcome for words, but the doctor was the first to continue, as he took off his dimmed spectacles. He seemed to wish to excuse himself for giving way; saying, with a look that would fain have been a smile, “The world has run so light and easy with me hitherto, that you see I don’t know how to bear with trouble. All thinking and managing fell to my Maggie’s share, and I had as little care on my hands as one of my own boys—poor fellows. I don’t know how it is to turn out, but of all the men on earth to be left with eleven children, I should choose myself as the worst.”
Alan tried to say somewhat of “Confidence—affection—daughters,” and broke down, but it did as well as if it had been connected.
“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, “they are good children every one of them. There’s much to be thankful for, if one could only pluck up heart to feel it.”
“And you are convinced that Marga—that Miss May is recovering.”
“She has made a great advance today. The head is right, at least,” but the doctor looked anxious and spoke low as he said, “I am not satisfied about her yet. That want of power over the limbs, is more than the mere shock and debility, as it seems to me, though Ward thinks otherwise, and I trust he is right, but I cannot tell yet as to the spine. If this should not soon mend I shall
