"Let me go;" said Leo, darting forward.
She was nimbler of foot than Maud--but Maud went also.
"Hey, what? Where are they all off to?" With an effort General Boldero straightened himself and made a pitiful effort to compose a face already distorted. "Where--are they going?"--the next minute he fell in a heap upon the floor.
And by the time Dr. Craig, imperatively summoned, dashed through the doorway which stood open awaiting him, all need of his presence was at an end.
"It could not have been averted, my dear Miss Sue;" in moments such as this the doctor invariably said "Miss Sue". "I have had my eye on your--your poor father for a while back. I kind of opined he was breaking. But it must have been a terrible shock for you all;"--and he shook a sympathetic head to and fro.
"Oh, Dr. Craig!"
"Aye, aye!" He patted her shoulder. "Aye, aye!"
"We were so unprepared."
"Prepared or unprepared, my dear lady, it"s all the same when it comes.
And it was a peaceful end--not a long, tormenting illness. Now then, who have you got to come and look after you all?"
The practical accents smote almost brutally upon her ear, and she lifted her tear-stained face to his in helpless appeal.
"You must have someone, some man, to look after things. You can"t wrestle with them alone. There"s that cousin of yours, the--" it was on the tip of his tongue to say, "tha heir"; for he was acquainted with all the Boldero family circ.u.mstances--but he caught himself up in time. He recalled that he had never seen the heir at the Abbey.
"Not for worlds, if you mean our cousin Anthony," said Sue, with a decision that confirmed his prudence. "He has never--we have never been on any but the most formal terms with him." (An exchange of venison and pheasants once a year had indeed been their limit, and the doctor guessed as much.)
"But he will have to come, my dear lady; and for the sake of appearances----"
"Not yet. Oh, not yet."
("Aye, it will be a bitter pill to you, poor thing, and to all of you, to have to bundle out neck and crop," inwardly cogitated the doctor)--and as he hesitated what further counsel to offer, she made her own suggestion.
"Paul would come to us, I know. He only left this morning. Oh, how little we thought when he left--but Maud knows where he is."
"Let him be sent for, then. The telegraph-office will be shut, but I daresay I could get them to open it if I went myself. Is Major Foster in London? If he is in the country, we shall have to wait till morning, I doubt."
Maud however testified that Paul was in London, and the telegram was sent.
And next day ensued a scene familiar, alas! to many. Scared looks, noiseless footsteps, m.u.f.fled whispers--strangeness, dreariness, everywhere. And there were questions that could not be asked, and anxious thoughts that must not appear,--and with the future knocking at the door, the present must be all-in-all.
The present, however, with its multifarious demands, brought the relief of occupation to every member of the family except Leonore.
She was indeed willing, more than willing to do her part; but the elder three had been so long habituated to thinking of her as a childish, inconsequent creature, not yet out of leading strings, that each severally rejected her overtures, and she could only wander aimlessly from room to room, and gaze from the windows--from one window in particular.
"You will catch cold, Leo, if you stand in that draught," said Maud, pa.s.sing along the corridor, where a chill current of air made itself felt. "Go into the library, child; a good fire is wasting itself upon n.o.body there."
But Leo did not go into the library. The library was snug and comfortable--the most comfortable room in the house,--but it commanded no view. The high trees of the shrubbery shut out the park beyond; and the short, straight road to the village, the road by which every one was coming and going now, was also entirely hidden.
When Maud reappeared, the watcher was still at her post,--but as she was in the act of putting down the open window--(perhaps she had heard an approaching step?)--remonstrance was not renewed. Instead, Maud came and looked herself.
"It is very strange of Paul;" she mused aloud.
No word from Paul had yet come, and now we can guess why Leo stood where she did.
"He mayn"t have got the telegram;" she adventured.
"It would have been returned if he had not. Besides, Dr. Craig said it would be delivered last night, and Paul was not likely to be out at night."
Still the hours pa.s.sed, and no answer came.
Nor did any come the next day, and the next.
"You are sure about the address, I suppose?" queried Sue, at last. She had not liked to make the suggestion before, since Maud, correct to a degree, was apt to resent any suspicion of carelessness or inaccuracy,--but the outlook was growing serious. A fresh telegram had been despatched, and Paul had also been written to,--it was inexplicable that he should remain silent, unless a mistake had been made somewhere.
"I am quite sure;" replied Maud briefly, and no more was said.
It was the evening of the third day, and darkness was falling outside.
Leo, who had been waiting for this, had stolen outside, permitted, even urged thereto, by Sue, touched and consoled by what she took for a reflex of her own grief upon her young sister"s face--and she had got some way from the house, when, in the deepening shadows beyond, she saw Paul coming.
Her first impulse was as usual to fly, but a second brought her swiftly to his side. She must see, must hear, must know at once--a maddening curiosity prevailed over every other feeling.
And it was immediately, if superficially met. He was eager to explain--while looking back on it she could not see that he had explained anything. He had received no communication, he had heard no tidings till the same day at noon, and had started by the first train, which he had barely had time to catch.
So far all was clear, but the how or the why was left untouched,--and he was hurriedly asking _her_ to speak, begging for information, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. expressions of sympathy, and reiterating regrets all the way back to the house, as if he found it impossible to take in all the sad details, for she was asked the same questions over and over again.
It was not till Leo was alone that she had a moment wherein to ask herself--Was she glad--was she sorry--was she relieved or bitterly disappointed that there was no trace of that mystery secretly conjured up during the past dreadful days? She had pondered, and fancied--oh, how cruel she had been, forever dwelling on the possibility that she might never need to see Paul Foster again;--yet now the joy of it--the pain of it--the bliss of it--the misery of it,--every throb of her veins was at once ecstasy and torture.
Paul was here--to be avoided; he must be met--and shunned; his voice would soothe--and stab; his touch would heal--and burn.
How had she ever borne the blank without him? The dreary vacuum which nothing could fill? The hopelessness, the emptiness of it all?
He was here, but looking ill--thinner than before--with a drawn, haggard countenance, and restless eyes. She could not but say to herself that even a kind heart, suffering for the sufferings of others, hardly accounted for such manifestations of grief. It was not to be supposed that General Boldero had during a few weeks" acquaintance so endeared himself to his future son-in-law that his death, however sudden and unexpected, was more than a shock. Leonore was tolerably sure that if her father had not been also Maud"s father, he would not even have been acceptable to Paul as a friend. He could not be; the two were dissimilar throughout,--even Valentine Purcell, less intelligent than other people, had discovered as much.
Yet in four days--for it was but four days since the departing traveller had been gaily ushered forth from the doorstep on which he now stood, he had changed so visibly that--Where had he been during those four days?
she found herself asking of herself anew.
CHAPTER XV.
"YOU"VE BROKEN MY HEART, I THINK."
The funeral was over, and it was now decent to talk about the marriage.
When and where could the marriage take place?
Boldero Abbey, with all the landed estate, was virtually in other hands already, and it did not need the opening of the will to announce to the bereaved family that with the loss of a father there followed that of a home.
All their lives they had known that this must be so, but the subject was so grievous that it was hardly ever alluded to, and in a manner was lost sight of.