The piteous sound of the baby’s wailing almost broke their hearts. Norman walked about the room in the dark, and said he should go down, he could not bear it; but he could not make up his mind to go, and after about a quarter of an hour, to their great relief, it ceased.
Next Mary opened the door, saying, “Norman, here’s Mr. Wilmot come to ask if he can do anything—Miss Winter sent word that you had better go to him.”
“How is baby?” asked Harry.
“Nurse has fed her, and is putting her to bed; she is quiet now,” said Mary; “will you go down, Norman?”
“Where is he?”
“In the drawing-room.”
Norman paused to ask what he was to say.
“Nothing,” said Mary, “nobody can do anything. Make haste. Don’t you want a candle?”
“No, thank you, I had rather be in the dark. Come up as soon as you have seen him,” said Etheldred.
Norman went slowly down, with failing knees, hardly able to conquer the shudder that came over him, as he passed those rooms. There were voices in the drawing-room, and he found a sort of council there, Alan Ernescliffe, the surgeon, and Mr. Wilmot. They turned as he came in, and Mr. Wilmot held out his hand with a look of affection and kindness that went to his heart, making room for him on the sofa, while going on with what he was saying. “Then you think it would be better for me not to sit up with him.”
“I should decidedly say so,” replied Mr. Ward. “He has recognised Mr. Ernescliffe, and any change might excite him, and lead him to ask questions. The moment of his full consciousness is especially to be dreaded.”
“But you do not call him insensible?”
“No, but he seems stunned—stupified by the shock, and by pain. He spoke to Miss Flora when she brought him some tea.”
“And admirably she managed,” said Alan Ernescliffe. “I was much afraid of some answer that would rouse him, but she kept her self-possession beautifully, and seemed to compose him in a moment.”
“She is valuable indeed—so much judgment and activity,” said Mr. Ward. “I don’t know what we should have done without her. But we ought to have Mr. Richard—has no one sent to him?”
Alan Ernescliffe and Norman looked at each other.
“Is he at Oxford, or at his tutor’s?” asked Mr. Wilmot.
“At Oxford; he was to be there to-day, was he not, Norman?”
“What o’clock is it? Is the post gone—seven—no; it is all safe,” said Mr. Ward.
Poor Norman! he knew he was the one who ought to write, but his icy trembling hand seemed to shake more helplessly than ever, and a piteous glance fell upon Mr. Wilmot.
“The best plan would be,” said Mr. Wilmot, “for me to go to him at once and bring him home. If I go by the mail-train, I shall get to him sooner than a letter could.”
“And it will be better for him,” said Mr. Ward. “He will feel it dreadfully, poor boy. But we shall all do better when we have him. You can get back to-morrow evening.”
“Sunday,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I believe there is a train at four.”
“Oh! thank you, sir,” said Norman.
“Since that is settled, perhaps I had better go up to the doctor,” said Alan; “I don’t like leaving Flora alone with him,” and he was gone.
“How fortunate that that youth is here,” said Mr. Wilmot—“he seems to be quite taking Richard’s place.”
“And to feel it as much,” said Mr. Ward. “He has been invaluable with his sailor’s resources and handiness.”
“Well, what shall I tell poor Richard?” asked Mr. Wilmot.
“Tell him there is no reason his father should not do very well, if we can keep him from agitation—but there’s the point. He is of so excitable a constitution, that his faculties being so far confused is the best thing, perhaps, that could be. Mr. Ernescliffe manages him very well—used to illness on that African coast, and the doctor is very fond of him. As to Miss May, one can’t tell what to say about her yet—there’s no fracture, at least—it must be a work of time to judge.”
Flora at that moment half-opened the door, and called Mr. Ward, stopping for a moment to say it was for nothing of any consequence. Mr. Wilmot and Norman were left together. Norman put his hands over his face and groaned—his master looked at him with kind anxiety, but did not feel as if it were yet time to speak of consolation.
“God bless and support you, and turn this to your good, my dear boy,” said he affectionately, as he pressed his hand; “I hope to bring your brother to-morrow.”
“Thank you, sir,” was all Norman could say; and as Mr. Wilmot went out by the front door, he slowly went up again, and, lingering on the landing-place, was met by Mr. Ward, who told him to his relief—for the mere thinking of it renewed the faint sensation—that he had better not go to his father’s room.
There was nothing to be done but to return to Ethel and Harry, and tell them all; with some humiliation at being helpless, where Flora was doing so much, and to leave their father to be watched by a stranger. If he had been wanted, Norman might have made the effort, but being told that he would be worse than useless, there was nothing for him but to give way.
They sat together in Ethel’s room till somewhere between eight and nine o’clock, when good old nurse, having put her younger ones to bed, came in search of them. “Dear, dear! poor darlings,” said she, as she found them sitting in the dark; she felt their cold hands, and made them all come into the nursery, where Mary was already, and, fondling them, one by one, as they passively obeyed her, she set them down on their little old stools round the fire, took away the high fender, and gave them each a cup of tea. Harry and Mary ate enough to satisfy her, from a weary craving feeling, and for want of employment; Norman sat with his elbow on his knee, and a very aching head resting on his hand, glad of drink, but unable to eat; Ethel could be persuaded to do neither, till she found old nurse would let her have no peace.
The nurse sent them all to bed, taking the two girls to their own room, undressing them, and never leaving them until Mary was in a fair way of crying herself to sleep—for saying her prayers had brought the tears; while Ethel lay so wide awake that it was of no use to wait for her, and then she went to the boys, tucked them each in, as when they were little children, and saying, “Bless your dear hearts!” bestowed on each of them a kiss which came gratefully to Norman’s burning brow, and which even Harry’s boyish manliness could not resist.
Flora was in Margaret’s room, too useful to be spared.
So ended that dreadful Saturday.
CHAPTER IV.
They may not mar the deep repose
Of that immortal flower:
Though only broken hearts are found
To watch her cradle by,