Paddy The Next Best Thing Part 23

There were moments when she could not understand, when even her mountains and sky and sea could do nothing to soothe the whirlpool of conflicting emotions in her heart.

"Why?--why?--why?"--she asked, and raised despairing eyes to the heavens that only seemed to smile mockingly down.

She could not vent her feelings in anger like Paddy--least of all anger with Lawrence--so in her misery she became a prey to those questionings and reasonings which torment each soul confronted suddenly by some strange enigma of existence. Questions of faith, questions of doubt, all the boundless "why and wherefore" of daily being thronged round and hammered unceasingly at her brain, stealing the delicate colour from her cheeks, the light from her eyes, and the elasticity from her steps.

In those first troubled days it was curious how Jack and Eileen both turned to the mountains, the one for their companions.h.i.+p, and the other for air. Jack's troubled horizon made him feel as if he could not breathe--it was like something gripping at his throat; so he strode off up the mountain, where he felt there was more air and a wider sense of freedom. It was torture to him to see Eileen's white face and flagging health, and not be able to do anything; and ever since Paddy's outburst he had been ravaged by the thought that had he accepted a man's responsibilities sooner, instead of frittering away his life, he might possibly have been in a position to oust Lawrence before matters had grown serious.

Paddy watched the two of them, and the ache in her heart deepened also; the ache for herself, the ache for Eileen, the ache for him. And with it widened and deepened also her bitterness toward Lawrence.

Suddenly in the midst of their joyous life, it was as though a cloud of darkest menace had descended, and she blamed him entirely. Hopeful by nature, she still cherished the belief that things would come all right by and by, and meanwhile she spent nearly all her time with the General.

In some way he seemed ailing, and one or two spasms, like heart seizures, had given them all a fright. Mrs Adair did not like him to go about too much alone for fear of another attack, so, as she was not strong enough to walk far herself, Paddy quickly fell into the habit of going with him every day. Eileen would gladly have gone, but she could not chatter like Paddy, and she knew, without feeling the smallest pang of jealousy, which of them the father liked best for a companion. It only seemed natural to her that it should be so, for she had such an admiration for Paddy's brightness that she felt everyone must in their hearts prefer her.

So while sorrow drew Eileen and her mother closer together, failing health did the same for Paddy and her father. Day after day, in any weather, the pair might be seen pacing the road either to Carlingford or Newry--the grey-haired, soldierly man, somewhat bent now, leaning on Paddy's arm, and the bright-eyed girl chattering briskly all the time about anything or nothing.

Sometimes the General would tell her about his campaigns, of which she never wearied, or he would go further back still and tell her of the old days at Sandhurst and Aldershot and all the wild things he had done then. Once he brought the quick tears to her eyes by saying:

"Ah, Paddy! they were grand times, and I'd have liked you to go through them; yet where would I have been for a walking stick now? I expect the Almighty knew best. I married too late in life to be trusted with a son. Boys want a father who can be a boy with them, and not a crotchety old man who needs caring for like a child. It's hard, enough on the girls--eh, Paddy!--a father who's too old and decrepit to take them anywhere or be anything but a burden!"

Paddy stood still suddenly. There were tears in her eyes, but she frowned like some ferocious Medusa.

"How dare you!" she said sternly. "How dare you speak to me like that!

If you ever say anything of the kind again, you bad, wicked daddy, I shall just march you back home and not speak to you for a week."

The General smiled tenderly.

"Do you now, Paddy," he said a little wistfully, "before you came, I used sometimes to think I'd done the wrong thing in persuading your mother to many me. You see, I loved her so; I was certain I could soon make her forget and love again. But women's hearts are wonderful things. I'm thinking G.o.d didn't make anything else quite as wonderful, and it wasn't her fault that she couldn't forget. But she was always just goodness itself to me, and there was no sacrifice she would not have made willingly to please me; but after a time I found it wasn't any good, for I still felt she was mourning secretly. I couldn't bear her to be unhappy, you see, and feel I couldn't help it. At first I thought if she would only come to me, and let me have the right to take care of her always, that in itself would be a world of happiness. Afterward I found it wasn't enough. I wanted more of her love. When Eileen was born she was brighter and happier altogether, and at first I was content. Then I began to feel a little jealous of the newcomer who had succeeded where I had failed, and to feel a new sense of loneliness."

"Poor daddy," Paddy said lovingly. "I expect G.o.d said to Himself, 'I must send him something now that won't leave him time to think--the very naughtiest, unmanageable child that can possibly live; and I'll make it a girl instead of a boy, so that she'll be a good walking stick later on.' And behold! there was Paddy."

"Yes, yes, that's just it," he exclaimed delightedly, "the naughtiest, unmanageable child imaginable--that's just what you were--and Lord! how I revelled in it! The first time I saw your bright, blinking brown eyes, and your ugly little face--for you were a very ugly baby, Paddy-- my heart just went straight out to you, for I felt you at least were absolutely my own. Eileen was afraid of me; she wouldn't leave her mother if she could help it, but you seemed to like the old man the best from the start. You would lie in my arms and stare up at me with the sauciest expression, as much as to say, 'Just wait till I'm a bit bigger, I'll lead you a dance.' Then you would grab at my moustache and hang on like grim death; or you would start kicking out of pure mischief, and land out right and left like a little demon, till I was afraid I'd drop you. When you could toddle I was little better than a nursemaid, for there wasn't a dangerous spot you wouldn't immediately make for. The moment anyone's back was turned you were missing, and it was a dead certainty you had found your way on to the quay, or taken a stroll along the railway, or tumbled into the cuc.u.mber frame. I couldn't bear to go far for fear you would get into danger, and there'd be no one at hand to save you, so I just hung round the grounds all the time; and ever since then, Paddy, I've been as happy as a man need be, for somehow things drew your mother and me closer together."

"Then we've all been happy, daddy, and that's good, isn't it? The aunties, and Jack, and you and mother, and Eileen and me, just the jolliest family party in the world."

The General was silent a few moments, then he said, with a little tremor in his voice, "I'm thinking it can't go on, Paddy."

"Can't go on!" with a sharp spasm of unknown dread. "Why not?--O why not?"

The old man did not answer. Instead, after another pause, he continued:

"When anything happens to me, Paddy, you'll try and look after your mother just as if you were a son, won't you? It will be hard on you, but you're so plucky. I know you'll do your best. You'll always remember your old daddy wors.h.i.+pped her, and nothing'll be too hard then for a brave girl like you."

"Daddy, you are not to talk like this," laughing that she might not cry.

"We'll be all together years and years yet."

"I hope so, Paddy--I hope so, but I'm an old man and there's no making the old young again in this world. You'll remember about being a good son, eh!"

"Of course I will, daddy. I'll just work like a slave to give her everything she wants, but we won't talk about it now," and she cleverly changed the subject.

That evening a third seizure took the General, and Jack was called in hurriedly to help to get him upstairs to his bed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

Through four long, weary days, and four long, weary nights, the brave old soldier fought his last and hardest fight; and all the time Paddy never left him.

When the others broke down under the strain, she was strong still; strong and calm, as she felt he would have been had he been in her place. She knew it was the last thing she could do for him to prove her devotion, and the thought nerved her for a strain that might well have vanquished older and stronger hearts. Never once did the dying man open his eyes and look yearningly round without seeing the young, strong, pitying face of his heart's darling.

But when it was all over--and with a long-drawn sigh as of great content the brave old General had pa.s.sed away--she stood up and looked vaguely round with a dazed air. Her eyes met Jack's, and with a sudden low cry she held out her arms to him. Then, as he hastened to her, she broke down in a paroxysm of weeping, all the more terrible from the long restraint.

With great tears in his own eyes he carried her to her own room, and laid her down on her own little bed, while he tried to soothe her in broken sentences; until little Miss Mary sent him away, saying softly it was better she should cry unrestrainedly.

Four days later, in the presence of several hundred people, General Adair was laid to rest in the little churchyard of Omeath. Every effort had been made to keep the funeral quiet and simple, but so familiar and beloved had he been, that from far and near young and old came to pay their last tribute of love and respect. There was no uncalled-for weeping and lamenting; a spirit of solemn farewell seemed to spread over all, encouraged by the brave, white faces of the widow and her two fatherless girls. The widow leaned on the arm of their only relative, a brother of the General's, Dr Adair, from London, and Eileen and Paddy followed together. Jack and the two aunts came next, and that was all the funeral procession.

It was one of those soft, sunny days that come sometimes in late November, as if they had been left over from summer, and must be fitted in somewhere; and early in the evening a young moon looked tenderly down through the trees upon the bereaved home and the new-made grave with the white wreaths spread all around.

The little waves of the Loch murmured tremulously against the beach, as if they would fain be silent, but, since that was not possible, they would make their rippling upon the s.h.i.+ngle as gentle and soothing as they could. The tall trees stood like sentinels; now and then a little breathing whisper pa.s.sed through their scanty leaves, but there was no unseemly tossing or creaking to mar the solemn silence. In the distance, all around, the Mourne Mountains reared their heads to the starlit heavens in a sublimity of majestic steadfastness. It was, indeed, an eve of surpa.s.sing loveliness that commenced the watch of that first night around the flower-strewn grave, lulling with ineffable sweetness the last, long sleep of the fine old warrior.

It crept with a tender soothing into Paddy's aching heart also as she silently threaded her way through the shrubs and gravestones to the spot where the flowers lay. The peacefulness of it all, the sense of a work well done and all Nature offering tribute--her sure and certain hope that it was indeed well with her father--kept her eyes serene and her face calm, although there was a drawn look about her mouth that went to the aunties' hearts.

When she reached the grave, she stopped and tenderly re-arranged the flowers, freeing some that had become twisted or crushed, and giving others more room to breathe.

"Daddy would not like any of you to get hurt through him," she whispered, "and you must just try and keep fresh as long as possible."

When she had finished she stood up, and a sudden terrible sense of loss enfolded her.

"Oh, daddy, perhaps you'll be lonely in Heaven," she whispered brokenly.

"It doesn't seem possible you can be happy without mother and Eileen and me. We're so terribly lonely without you here. I'm so afraid G.o.d won't be able to comfort you without us up there. Only, perhaps, in some way, you are with us still. I expect you will be our guardian angel now, and you'll understand all the things that are so strange and mysterious to us; and you'll know about the glad meeting coming, and how beautiful it will all be some day. I know you won't forget or change, daddy, and I'm glad we should have the pain instead of you; yet, how I'd love you just to come and tell me that it's all beautiful, and you're not lost and lonely among so many strange angels.

"I know it's all right, daddy, I mustn't talk like this, and you're not really far away at all. I can feel you quite close, only I can't see you. Daddy! daddy! how shall I bear to live for years and years without seeing your dear face," and she broke down into low, pitiful weeping.

In the moonlight another form could be seen approaching, but Paddy was not aware of it until an arm was slipped through hers, and a big, sunburnt hand closed over her small one. She knew at once that it was Jack, but for some moments neither of them spoke. At last he cleared his throat and said huskily:

"Your uncle has been asking for you, Paddy. I came to look for you."

"What does he want?" she asked wonderingly. Jack hesitated a little.

At last he said: "I think it is something you have to be told. I'm a little afraid it's bad news."

She started and turned a shade paler. Then she glanced down at the flowers.

"It seems as this were surely enough," she breathed half to herself.

"I wish I could help you, Paddy," he burst out. "I wish I could help you all. If you only knew how I hate and loathe myself for having wasted all these years."

"Poor Jack!" she said gently, and stroked the big brown hand.

"You must go now," he said. "Your uncle is waiting in the library.

Will you come out again afterward?"