"I can and must; do let me, Mildred. I have often stayed up all night for my own pleasure."
"But you are so unused to illness--it cannot be thought of for a moment," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Richard in alarm.
"Women nurse by instinct. I should look at Mildred--she would soon teach me. Why do you all persist in treating me as though I were quite helpless? Papa is wrong; typhoid fever is not infectious, and if it were, what use am I to any one? My life is not of as much consequence as Mildred"s."
"There is always the risk of contagion, and--and--why will you always speak of yourself so recklessly, Miss Trelawny?" interposed Richard in a pained voice, "when you know how precious your life is to us all;" but Ethel turned from him impatiently.
"Mildred, you will let me come?"
"No, Ethel, indeed I cannot, though I am very grateful to you for wishing it. Your father is your first consideration, and his wishes should be your law."
"Papa is afraid of everything," she pleaded; "he will not let me go into the cottages where there is illness, and----"
"He is right to take care of his only child," replied Mildred, calmly.
Richard seemed relieved.
"I knew you would say so, Aunt Milly; we are grateful--more grateful than I can say, dear Miss Trelawny; but I knew it ought not to be."
"And you must not come here again without your father"s permission,"
continued Mildred, gently, and taking her hands; "we have to remember sometimes that to obey is better than sacrifice, dear Ethel. I am grieved to disappoint your generous impulse," as the girl turned silently away with the tears in her eyes.
"Dr. Heriot said I should have no chance, and Richard was as bad. Well, good-bye," trying to rally her spirits as she saw Mildred looked really pained. "I envy you your labour of love, Mildred; it is sweet--it must be sweet to be really useful to some one;" and the sigh that accompanied her words evidently came from a deep place in Ethel Trelawny"s heart.
CHAPTER XV
THE GATE AJAR
Oh, live!
So endeth faint the low pathetic cry Of love, whom death hath taught, love cannot die."
_Poems by the Author of "John Halifax."_
"His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap: More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved sleep."--E. B. Browning.
The fever had run its course,--never virulent or excessive, there had still been no abatement in the unfavourable symptoms, and, as the critical days approached, Mildred"s watchfulness detected an increased gravity in Dr. Heriot"s manner. Always a.s.siduous in his attentions, they now became almost unremitting; his morning and evening visits were supplemented by a noonday one; by and by every moment he could s.n.a.t.c.h from his other patients was spent by Olive"s bedside.
A silent oppression hung over the vicarage; anxious footsteps crept stealthily up to the front door at all hours, with low-whispered inquiries. Every morning and evening Mildred telegraphed signals to Roy and Polly as they stood on the other side of the beck in Hillsbottom, watching patiently for the white fluttering pendant that was to send them away in comparative tranquillity. Sometimes Roy would climb the low hill in Hillsbottom, and lie for hours, with his eyes fixed on the broad projecting window, on the chance of seeing Mildred steal there for a moment"s fresh air. Roy, contrary to his usual light-heartedness, had taken Olive"s illness greatly to heart; the remembrance of his hard words oppressed and tormented him. Chriss often kept him company--Chriss, who grew crosser day by day with suppressed unhappiness, and who vented her uncomfortable feelings in contradicting everything and everybody from morning to night.
One warm sunshiny afternoon, Mildred, who was sensible of unusual languor and oppression, had just stolen to the window to refresh her eyes with the soft green of the fellsides, when Dr. Heriot, who had been standing thoughtfully by the bedside, suddenly roused himself and followed her.
"Miss Lambert, do you know I am going to a.s.sert my authority?"
Mildred looked up inquiringly, but there was no answering smile on her pale face.
"I am going to forbid you this room for the next two hours. Indeed," as Mildred shook her head incredulously, "I am serious in what I say; you have just reached the limit of endurance, and an attack of faintness may possibly be the result, if you do not follow my advice. An hour"s fresh air will send you back fit for your work."
"But Olive! indeed I cannot leave Olive, Dr. Heriot."
"Not in my care?" very quietly. "Of course I shall remain here until you return."
"You are very kind; but indeed--no--I cannot go; please do not ask me, Dr. Heriot;" and Mildred turned very pale.
"I do not ask, I insist on it," in a voice Mildred never heard before from Dr. Heriot. "Can you not trust me?" he continued, relapsing into his ordinary gentle tone. "Believe me, I would not banish you but for your own good. You know"--he hesitated; but the calm, quiet face seemed to rea.s.sure him--"things can only go on like this for a few hours, and we may have a very trying night before us. You will want all your strength for the next day or two."
"You apprehend a change for the worse?" asked Mildred, drawing her breath more quickly, but speaking in a tone as low as his, for Richard was watching them anxiously from the other end of the room.
"I do not deny we have reason to fear it," he returned, evasively; "but there will be no change of any kind for some hours."
"I will go, then, if Richard will take me," she replied, quietly; and Richard rose reluctantly.
"You must not bring her back for two hours," was Dr. Heriot"s parting injunction, as Mildred paused by Olive"s bedside for a last lingering look. Olive still lay in the same heavy stupor, only broken from time to time by the imperfect muttering. The long hair had all been cut off, and only a dark lock or two escaped from under the wet cloths; the large hollow eyes looked fixed and brilliant, while the parched and blackened lips spoke of low, consuming fever. As Mildred turned away, she was startled by the look of anguish that crossed Richard"s face; but he followed her without a word.
It was a lovely afternoon in July, the air was full of the warm fragrance of new-mown hay, the distant fells lay in purple shadow. As they walked through Hillsbottom, Mildred"s eyes were almost dazzled by the soft waves of green upland shining in the sunshine. Cl.u.s.ters of pink briar roses hung on every hedge; down by the weir some children were wading among the shallow pools; farther on the beck widened, and flowed smoothly between its wooded banks. By and by they came to a rough footbridge, leading to a little lane, its hedgerows bordered with ferns, and gay with rose-campion and soft blue harebells, while trails of meadow-sweet scented the air; beyond, lay a beautiful meadow, belting Podgill, its green surface gemmed with the starry eyebright, and golden in parts with yellow trefoil and ragwort.
Mildred stooped to gather, half mechanically, the blue-eyed gentian that Richard was crushing under his foot; and then a specimen of the soft-tinted campanella attracted her, its cl.u.s.ter of bell-shaped blossoms towering over the other wildflowers.
"Shall we go down into Podgill, Aunt Milly, it is shadier than this lane?" and Mildred, who was revolving painful thoughts in her mind, followed him, still silent, through the low-hanging woods, with its winding beck and rough stepping-stones, until they came to a green slope, spanned by the viaduct.
"Let us sit down here, Richard; how quiet and cool it is!" and Mildred seated herself on the gra.s.s, while Richard threw himself down beside her.
"How silent we have been, Richard. I don"t think either of us cared to talk; but Dr. Heriot was right--I feel refreshed already."
"I am glad we came then, Aunt Milly."
"I never knew any one so thoughtful. Richard, I want to speak to you; did you ever find out that Olive wrote poetry?"
Richard raised himself in surprise.
"No, Aunt Milly."
"I want to show you this; it was written on a stray leaf, and I ventured to capture it; it may help you to understand that in her own way Olive has suffered."
Richard took the paper from her without a word; but Mildred noticed his hand shook. Was it cruel thus to call his hardness to remembrance? For a moment Mildred"s soft heart wavered over the task she had set for herself.
It was scrawled in Olive"s school-girl hand, and in some parts was hard to decipher, especially as now and then a blot of teardrops had rendered it illegible; but nevertheless Richard succeeded in reading it.
"How speed our lost in the Unknown Land, Our dear ones gone to that distant strand?
Do they know that our hearts are sore With longing for faces that never come, With longing to hear in our silent home The voices that sound no more?
There"s a desolate look by the old hearth-stone, That tells of some light of the household gone To dwell with the ransomed band; But none may follow their upward track, And never, ah! never, a word comes back To tell of the Unknown Land!
"We know by a gleam on the brow so pale, When the soul bursts forth from its mortal veil, And the gentle and good departs, That the dying ears caught the first faint ring Of the songs of praise that the angels sing; But back to our yearning hearts Comes never, ah! never, a word to tell That the purified spirit we love so well Is safe on the heavenly strand; That the Angel of Death has another gem To set in the star-decked diadem Of the King of the Unknown Land!
"How speed our lost in the realms of air We would ask--we would ask, Do they love us there?