Hills of the Shatemuc Part 125

"Is there no friend you would like to have sent for?"

"No," said Elizabeth, -- "not one! not one here -- and not anywhere, that I should care to have with me."

"May I go up and see Mr. Haye now?" he said presently. "Which is the room?"

Elizabeth rose up to shew him.

"No," he said, gently motioning her back, -- "I am going alone.

You must stay here."

"But I must go too, Mr. Landholm! --"

"Not if I go," he said.

"But I am his daughter, -- I must."

"I am not his daughter -- so as far as that goes we are even.

And by your own confession you know nothing of the matter; and I do. No -- you must not go above this floor."

"Until when, Mr. Landholm?" said Elizabeth looking terrified.

"Until new rules are made," he said quietly. "While you can do nothing in your father's room, both for him and for you it is much better that you should not be there."

"And can't I do anything?" said Elizabeth.

"If I think you are wanted, I will let you know. Meanwhile there is one thing that can be done everywhere."

He spoke, looking at her with a face of steady kind gravity.

Elizabeth could not meet it; she trembled with the effort she made to control herself.

"It is the thing of all others that I cannot do, Mr.

Landholm."

"Learn it now, then. Which is the room?"

Elizabeth told him, without raising her eyes; and stood motionless on the floor where he left her, without stirring a finger, as long as she could hear the sound of his footsteps.

They went first to the front door, and she heard him turn the key; then they went up the stairs.

The locking of that door went to her heart, with a sense of comfort, of dependence, of unbounded trust in the hand, the heart, the head, that had done it. It roused, or the taking off of restraint roused again, all the tumult of pa.s.sions that had raged after her first coming in. She dropped on her knees by the sofa and wrapping her arms round the cus.h.i.+on as she had done before, she laid her head down on it, and to all feeling laid her heart down too; such bitter and deep and long sobs shook and racked her breast.

She was alive to nothing but feeling and the indulgence of it, and careless how much time the indulgence of it might take. It was pa.s.sion's time. She was startled when two hands took hold of her and a grave voice said,

"If you do in this way, I shall have two patients instead of one, Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth suffered herself to be lifted up and placed on the sofa, and sat down like a child. Even at the instant came a flash of recollection bringing back the time, long past, when Winthrop had lifted her out of the rattlesnake's way. She felt ashamed and rebuked.

"This is not the lesson I set you," he said gently.

Elizabeth's head drooped lower. She felt that he _had_ two patients -- if he had only known it!

"You might set me a great many lessons that I should be slow to learn, Mr. Landholm," she said sadly.

"I hope not," he said in his usual tone. "There is no present occasion for this distress. I cannot see that Mr. Haye'

symptoms are particularly unfavourable."

Elizabeth could have answered a great deal to that; but she only said, tearfully,

"How good you are to take care of him!"

"I will be as good as I can," said he smiling a little. "I should like to have you promise to do as much."

"That would be to promise a great deal, Mr. Landholm," said Elizabeth looking up earnestly.

"What then?"

Elizabeth looked down and was silent, but musing much to herself.

"Is it too much of a promise to make?" said he gravely.

"No --" said Elizabeth slowly, -- "but more than I am ready to make."

"Why is that?"

"Because, Mr. Landholm," said she looking up again at him, "I don't believe I should keep it if I made it."

"You expect me to say, in that case you are quite right not to make it. No, -- you are quite wrong."

He waited a little; but said no more, and Elizabeth could not.

Then he left the room and she heard him going _down stairs!_ Her first thought was to spring up and go after to help him to whatever he wanted; then she remembered that he and Clam could manage it without her, and that he would certainly choose to have it so. She curled herself up on her sofa and laying her head on the cus.h.i.+on in more quiet wise, she went off into a long fit of musing; for Winthrop's steps, when they came from down stairs went straight up stairs again, without turning into the parlour. She mused, on her duty, her danger, her sorrow and her joy. There was something akin to joy in the enormous comfort, rest, and pleasure she felt in Winthrop's presence. But it was very grave musing after all; for her duty, or the image of it, she shrank from; her danger she shrank from more unequivocally; and joy and sorrow could but hold a mixed and miserable reign. The loss of her father could not be to Elizabeth what the loss of his mother had been to Winthrop. Mr. Haye had never made himself a part of his daughter's daily inner life; to her his death could be only the breaking of the old name and tie and a.s.sociations, which of late years had become far less dear than they used to be.

Yet to Elizabeth, who had nothing else, they were very much; and she looked to the possible loss of them as to a wild and dreary setting adrift upon the sea of life without harbour or sh.o.r.e to make anywhere. And then rose the shadowy image of a fair port and land of safety, which conscience whispered she could gain if she would. But sailing was necessary for that; and chart-studying; and watchful care of the s.h.i.+p, and many an observation taken by heavenly lights; and Elizabeth had not even begun to be a sailor. She turned these things over and over in her mind a hundred times, one after another, like the visions of a dream, while the hours of the day stole away noiselessly.

The afternoon waned; the doctor came. Elizabeth sprang out to meet him, referred him to her coadjutor up stairs, and then waited for his coming down again. But the doctor when he came could tell her nothing; there was no declarative symptom as yet; he knew no more than she did; she must wait. She went back to her sofa and her musing.

The windows were open, but with the sultry breath of August little din of business came into the room; the place was very quiet. The house was empty and still; seldom a footfall could be heard overhead. Clam was busy, up stairs and down, but she went with a light step when she pleased, and she pleased it now. It was a relief to have the change of falling night; and then the breeze from the sea began to come in at the windows and freshen the hot rooms; and twilight deepened. Elizabeth wished for a light then, but for once in her life hesitated about ringing the bell; for she had heard Clam going up and down and feared she might be busied for some one else. And she thought, with a heart full, how dismal this coming on of night would have been, but for the friend up stairs. Elizabeth wished bitterly she could follow his advice.

She sat looking out of the open window into the duskiness, and at the yellow lights of the street lamps which by this time spotted it; thinking so, and feeling very miserable. By and by Clam came in with a candle and began to let down the blinds.

"What are you going to do?" said her mistress. "You needn't pull those down."

"Folks'll see in," said Clam.

"No they won't -- there's no light here."

"There's goin' to be, though," said Clam. "Things is goin'

straight in this house, as two folks can make 'em."

"I don't want anything -- you may let the lamps alone, Clam."