Heriot's Choice Part 90

Could she ever forget the angry storm that followed? Surely he must have been beside himself to have spoken such words! How was it that she had been accused of jilting Mr. Cathcart, of refusing his renewed overtures, merely from obstinacy, and the desire of opposition; that she should hear herself branded as her father's worst enemy?

'You and your pride have done for me!' he had said, las.h.i.+ng himself up to fresh fury with the remembrance of past mortification. 'You have taken from me all that would make life desirable. You have been a bad daughter to me, Ethel. You have spoiled the work of a lifetime.'

'Papa, papa, I have only acted rightly. How could I have done this evil thing, even for your sake?' she had cried, but he had not listened to her.

'You have jilted the man you fancied out of pride, and now the mischief will lie on your own head,' he had answered, angrily, and then he had turned to leave the room.

Half an hour afterwards the heavy thud of a fall had been heard, and the man had come to her with a white face to summon her to her father's bedside.

She knew then what had come upon them. At the first sight of that motionless figure, speechless, inert, struck down with unerring force, in the very prime and strength of life, she knew how it would be with them both.

'Oh, my dear, my dear, forgive me,' she had cried, falling on her knees beside the bed, and raining tears over the rigid hands; and yet what was there to forgive? Was it not rather she who had been sinned against?

What words were those the paralysed tongue refused to speak? What was the meaning of those awful questioning eyes that rested on her day and night, when partial consciousness returned? Could it be that he would have entreated her forgiveness?

'Papa, papa, do not look so,' she would say in a voice that went to Richard's heart. 'Don't you know me? I am Ethel, your own, only child. I will love you and take care of you, papa. Do you hear me, dear? There is nothing to forgive--nothing--nothing.'

During the strain of those first terrible days Richard was everything to her; without him she would literally have sunk under her misery.

'Oh, Richard, have I killed my father? Am I his murderess?' she cried once almost hysterically when they were left alone together. 'Oh, poor papa--poor papa!'

'Dear Ethel, you have done no wrong,' he replied, taking her unresisting hand; 'it is no fault of yours, dearest; you have been the truest, the most patient of daughters. He has brought it on himself.'

'Ah, but it was through me that this happened,' she returned, shuddering through every nerve. 'If I had married Mr. Cathcart, he would not have lost his seat, and then he would not have fretted himself ill.'

'Ought we to do evil that good may come, Ethel?' replied Richard, gravely. 'Are children responsible for the wrongdoing of their parents?

If there be sin, it lies at your father's door, not yours; it is you to forgive, not he.'

'Richard, how can you be so hard?' she demanded, with a flash of her old spirit through her sobs; but it died away miserably.

'I am not hard to him--G.o.d forbid! Am I likely to be hard to your father, Ethel, and now especially?' he said, somewhat reproachfully, but speaking with the quiet decision that soothed her even then. 'I cannot have you unfitting yourself for your duties by indulging these morbid ideas; no one blames you--you have done right; another time you will be ready to acknowledge it yourself; you have enough to suffer, without adding to your burden. I entreat you to banish these fancies, once and for ever. Ethel, promise me you will try to do so.'

'Yes, yes, I know you are right,' she returned, weeping bitterly; 'only it breaks my heart to see him like this.'

'You are spent and weary,' he replied, gently; 'to-morrow you will look at these things in a different light. It has been such an awful shock to you, you see,' and then he brought her wine, and compelled her to drink it, and with much persuasion induced her to seek an hour or two's repose before returning to the sickroom.

What would she have done without him, she thought, as she closed her heavy eyes. Unconsciously they seemed to have resumed their old relations towards each other; it was Richard and Ethel now. Richard's caressing manner had returned; no brother could have watched over her more devotedly, more reverently; and yet he had never loved her so well as when, all her imperiousness gone, and with her brave spirit well-nigh broken, she seemed all the more dependent on his sympathy and care.

But the first smile that crossed her face was for Mildred, when Dr.

Heriot brought her up to Kirkleatham the first evening after their arrival. Mildred almost cried over her when she took her in her arms; the contrast to her own happiness was so great.

'Oh, Ethel, Ethel,' was all she could say, 'my poor girl!'

'Yes, I am that and much more,' she returned, yielding to her friend's embrace; 'utterly poor and wretched. Has he--has Dr. Heriot told you all he feared?'

'That there can only be partial recovery? Yes, I know he fears that; but then one cannot tell in these cases; you may have him still for years.'

'Ah, but if he should have another stroke? I know what Dr. Heriot thinks--it is a bad case; he has said so to Richard.'

'Poor child! it is so hard not to be able to comfort you.'

'No one can do that so long as I have him before my eyes in this state.

Mildred, you cannot conceive what a wreck he is; no power of speech, only those inarticulate sounds.'

'I am glad Cardie is able to be so much with you.'

A sensitive colour overspread Ethel's worn face.

'I do not know what I should have done without him,' she returned, in a low voice. 'If he had been my own brother he could not have done more for me; we fancy papa likes to have him, he is so strong and quiet, and always sees what is the right thing to be done.'

'I found out Cardie's value long ago; he was my right hand during Olive's illness.'

'He is every one's right hand, I think,' was the quiet answer. 'He was the first to suggest telegraphing for Dr. Heriot. I could not bear breaking in upon your holiday, but it could not be helped.'

'Do you think we could have stayed away?'

'All the same it is a sad welcome to your new home; but you are a doctor's wife now. Mildred, if you knew what it was to me to see your dear face near me again.'

'I am so thankful John brought me.'

'Ah, but he will take you away again. I can hear his step now.'

'Poor girl! her work is cut out for her,' observed Dr. Heriot, thoughtfully, as they walked homewards through the crofts. 'It will be a sad, lingering case, and I fear that the brain is greatly affected from what they tell me. He must have had a slight stroke many years ago.'

'Poor, poor Ethel,' replied Mildred, sorrowfully. 'I must be with her as much as possible; but Richard seems her greatest comfort.'

'Perhaps good may come out of evil. You see, I can guess at your thought, Milly darling,' and then their talk flowed into a less sad channel.

But not all Mildred's sympathy, or Richard's goodness, could avail to make those long weeks and months of misery otherwise than dreary; and n.o.bly as Ethel Trelawny performed her duty, there were times when her young heart sickened and grew heavy with pain in the oppressive atmosphere of that weary sickroom.

To her healthy vitality, the spectacle of her father's helplessness was simply terrible; the inertness of the fettered limbs, the indistinct utterance of the tied and faltering tongue, the confusion of the benumbed brain, oppressed her like a nightmare. There were times when her pity for him was so great, that she would have willingly laid down all her chances of happiness in this life if she could have restored to him the prospect of health.

It was now that the real womanhood of Ethel Trelawny rose to the surface. Richard's heart ached with its fulness of love when he saw her day after day so meekly and patiently tending her afflicted father; the worn, pale face and eyes heavy with trouble and want of sleep were far more beautiful to him now; but he hid his feelings with his usual self-control. She had learned to depend upon him and trust him, and this state of things was too precious to be disturbed.

Richard was his father's sole curate now. Towards the end of October, Hugh Marsden had finished his preparations, and had bidden good-bye to his friends at the vicarage.

Mildred, who saw him last, was struck with the change in the young man's manner; his cheerful serenity had vanished--he looked subdued, almost agitated.

She was sitting at work in the little gla.s.s room; a tame canary was skimming among the flowers, Dr. Heriot's voice was heard cheerfully whistling from an inner room, some late blooming roses lay beside Mildred, her husband's morning gift, the book from which he had been reading to her was still open on the table; the little domestic picture smote the young man's heart with a dull pain.

'I am come to say good-bye, Mrs. Heriot,' he said, in a sadder voice than she had ever heard from him before; 'and it has come to this, that I would sooner say any other word.'

'We shall miss you dreadfully, Mr. Marsden,' replied Mildred, looking regretfully up at the plain honest face. Hugh Marsden had always been a favourite with her, and she was loath to say good-bye to him.

'Others have been kind enough to tell me so,' he rejoined, twirling his shabby felt hat between his fingers. 'Miss Olive, Miss Lambert I mean, said so just now. Somehow, I had hoped--but no, she has decided rightly.'

Mildred looked up in surprise. Incoherence was new in Hugh Marsden; but just now his clumsy eloquence seemed to have deserted him.

'What has Olive decided?' she asked, with a sudden spasm of curiosity; and then she added kindly, 'Sit down, Mr. Marsden, you do not seem quite yourself; all this leave-taking has tired you.'