Heriot's Choice Part 37

Mildred sighed. Perhaps after all he was right. Her brother was certainly a little dreamy and wanting in concentration and energy just now; but little did Richard know the depth of his father's affection.

Just as the old war-horse will neigh at the sound of the battle, and be ready to rush into the midst of the glittering phalanx, so would Arnold Lambert have warred with the grisly phantoms of doubt and misbelief that were leagued against Richard's boyish faith, ready to lay down his life if need be for his boy; but as he sat hour after hour in his lonely study, the sadness closed more heavily round him--sadness for his lost love in heaven, his lost confidence on earth.

Dr. Heriot gave Mildred and Richard a searching glance as they re-entered the room. Both looked worn and pale, but a softened and subdued expression was on Richard's face as he stood by the bedside, looking down on his sister.

'No change,' whispered Mildred.

'None at present; but there may be a partial rally. Where is Mr.

Lambert, I want to speak to him;' and, as though to check further questioning, Dr. Heriot reiterated a few instructions, and left the room.

The hours pa.s.sed on. Richard, in spite of his aunt's whispered remonstrances, still kept watch beside her; and Mr. Lambert, who as usual had been praying by the side of his sick child, and had breathed over her unconsciousness his solemn benediction, had just left the room, when Mildred, who was giving her nourishment, noticed a slight change in Olive, a sudden gleam of consciousness in her eyes, perhaps called forth by her father's prayer, and she signed to Richard to bring him back.

Was this the rally of which Dr. Heriot spoke? the brief flicker of the expiring torch flaming up before it is extinguished? Olive seemed trying to concentrate her drowsy faculties, the indistinct muttering became painfully earnest, but the unhappy father, though he placed his ear to the lips of the sinking girl, could connect no meaning with the inarticulate sounds, until Mildred's greater calmness came to his help.

'Home. I think she said home, Arnold;' and then with a quick intuitive light that surprised herself, 'I think she wishes to know if G.o.d means to take her home.'

Olive's restlessness a little abated. This time the parched and blackened lips certainly articulated 'home' and 'mother.' They could almost fancy she smiled.

'Oh, do not leave me, my child,' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr. Lambert, stretching out his arms as though to keep her. 'G.o.d is good and merciful; He will not take away another of my darlings; stay a little longer with your poor father;' and Olive understood him, for the bright gleam faded away.

'Oh, father, she will surely stay if we ask her,' broke in Richard in an agitated voice, thrusting himself between them and speaking with a hoa.r.s.e sob; 'she is so good, and knows we all love her and want her. You will not break my heart, Livy, you will forgive me and stay with us a little?' and Richard flung himself on his knees and buried his head on the pillow.

Ah, the bright gleam had certainly faded now; there was a wandering, almost a terrified expression in the hollow, brilliant eyes. Were those gates closing on her? would they not let her go?

'Cardie, dear Cardie, hush, you are agitating her; look how her eyelids are quivering and she has no power to speak. Arnold, ask him to be calm,' and Mr. Lambert, still holding his seemingly dying child, laid his other hand on Richard's bent head.

'Hush, my son, we must not grieve a departing spirit. I was wrong. His will be done even in this. He has given, and He must take away; be silent while I bless my child again, my child whom I am giving back to Him and to her mother,' but as he lifted up his hands the same feeble articulation smote on their ear.

'Cardie wants me--poor Cardie--poor papa--not my will.'

Did Mildred really catch those words, struggling like broken breaths?--was it the cold sweat of the death-damp that gathered on the clammy brow?--were the fingers growing cold and nerveless on which Richard's hot lips were pressed?--were those dark eyes closing to earth for ever?

'Mildred--Richard--what is this?'

'"Lord, if he sleep he shall do well!" exclaimed the disciples.'

'Hush; thank G.o.d, this is sleep, natural sleep,--the crisis is pa.s.sed, we shall save her yet,' and Dr. Heriot, who had just entered, beckoned the father and brother gently from the room.

CHAPTER XVI

COMING BACK

'If Thou shouldst bring me back to life, More humble I should be, More wise, more strengthened for the strife More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate, Thus should I keep my vow, But, Lord! whatever be my fate, Oh, let me serve Thee now!'--Anne Bronte.

'This sickness is not unto death.'

The news that the crisis had pa.s.sed, and that the disease that had so long baffled the physician's skill had taken a favourable turn, soon spread over the town like wildfire; the shadow of death no longer lingered on the threshold of the vicarage; there were trembling voices raised in the _Te Deum_ the next morning; the vicar's long pause in the Thanksgiving was echoed by many a throbbing heart; Mildred's book was wet with her tears, and even Chrissy looked softened and subdued.

There were agitated greetings in the church porch afterwards. Olive's sick heart would have been satisfied with the knowledge that she was beloved if she had seen Roy's glistening eyes and the silent pressure of congratulation that pa.s.sed between her father and Richard.

'Heriot, we feel that under Providence we owe our girl's life to you.'

'You are equally beholden to her aunt's nursing; but indeed, Mr.

Lambert, I look upon your daughter's recovery as little less than a miracle. I certainly felt myself justified to prepare you for the worst last night; at one time she appeared to be sinking.'

'She has been given back to us from the confines of the grave,' was the solemn answer; and as he took his son's arm and they walked slowly down the churchyard, he said, half to himself--'and a gift given back is doubly precious.'

The same thought seemed in his mind when Richard entered the study late that night with the welcome tidings that Olive was again sleeping calmly.

'Oh, Cardie, last night we thought we should have lost our girl; after all, G.o.d has been good to me beyond my deserts.'

'We may all say that, father.'

'I have been thinking that we have none of us appreciated Olive as we ought; since she has been ill a hundred instances of her unselfishness have occurred to me; in our trouble, Cardie, she thought for others, not for herself. I never remember seeing her cry except once, and yet the dear child loved her mother.'

Richard's face paled a little, but he made no answer; he remembered but too well the time to which his father alluded--how, when in his jealous surveillance he had banished her from her father's room, he had found her haunting the pa.s.sages with her pale face and black dress, or sitting on the stairs, a mute image of patience.

No, there had been no evidence of her grief; others beside himself had marvelled at her changeless and monotonous calm; she had harped on her mother's name with a persistency that had driven him frantic, and he had silenced the sacred syllables in a fit of nervous exasperation; from the very first she had troubled and wearied him, she whom he was driven to confess was immeasurably his superior. Yes, the scales had fallen from his eyes, and as his father spoke a n.o.ble spirit pleaded in him, and the rankling confession at last found vent in the deep inward cry--

'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before Thee, in that I have offended one of Thy little ones,' and the _Deo gratias_ of an accepted repentance and possible atonement followed close upon the words.

'Father, I want to speak to you.'

'Well, Cardie.'

'I know how my silence has grieved you; Aunt Milly told me. I was wrong--I see it now.'

Richard's face was crimsoning with the effort, but the look in his father's eyes as he laid his thin hand on his arm was sufficient reward.

'Thank G.o.d for this, my boy, that you have spoken to me at last of your own accord; it has lifted a heavy burden from my heart.'

'I ought not to have refused my confidence; you were too good to me. I did not deserve it.'

'You thought you were strong enough to remove your own stumbling-blocks; it is the fault of the young generation, Cardie; it would fain walk by its own lights.'

'I must allow my motives were mixed with folly, but the fear of troubling you was predominant.'

'I know it, I know it well, my son, but all the same I have yearned to help you. I have myself to blame in this matter, but the thought that you would not allow me to share your trouble was a greater punishment than even I could bear; no, do not look so sorrowful, this moment has repaid me for all my pain.'

But it was not in Richard's nature to do anything by halves, and in his generous compunction he refused to spare himself; the barrier of his reserve once broken down, he made ample atonement for his past reticence, and Mr. Lambert more than once was forced to admit that he had misjudged his boy.

Late into the night they talked, and when they parted the basis of a perfect understanding was established between them; if his son's tardy confidence had soothed and gratified Mr. Lambert, Richard on his side was equally grateful for the patience and loving forbearance with which his father strove to disentangle the webs that insidious argument had woven in his clear young brain; there was much lurking mischief, much to clear away and remove, difficulties that only time and prayerful consideration could surmount; but however saddened Mr. Lambert might feel in seeing the noxious weeds in that goodly vineyard, he was not without hope that in time Richard's tarnished faith might gleam out brightly again.

During the weeks that ensued there were many opportunities for hours of quiet study and talk between the father and son; in his new earnestness Mr. Lambert became less vague, this fresh obstacle roused all his energy; there was something pathetic in the spectacle of the worn scholar and priest buckling on his ancient armour to do battle for his boy; the old flash came to his eye, the ready vigour and eloquence to his speech, gleams of sapient wisdom startled Richard into new reverence, causing the young doubter to shrink and feel abashed.