And armed with the cordial he had prepared, Ethel hunted up her brother, and persuaded him, after scolding her a little, to swallow it, and take a turn in the garden; after which he made a more successful attempt at visiting his father.
There was another room whither both Norman and Etheldred wished to go, though they dared not hint at their desire. At last Richard came to them, as they were wandering in the garden, and, with his usual stillness of manner, shaded with additional seriousness, said, “Would you like to come into the study?”
Etheldred put one hand into his, Norman took the other, and soon they stood in that calm presence. Fair, cold, white, and intensely still—that face brought home to them the full certainty that the warm brightening look would never beam on them, the soft blue eyes never guide, check, and watch them, the smile never approve or welcome them. To see her unconscious of their presence was too strange and sad, and all were silent, till, as they left the room, Ethel looked out at Blanche and Aubrey in the garden. “They will never remember her! Oh! why should it be?”
Richard would fain have moralised and comforted, but she felt as if she knew it all before, and heard with languid attention. She had rather read than talk, and he sat down to write letters.
There were no near relations to be sent for. Dr. May was an only son, and his wife’s sister, Mrs. Arnott, was in New Zealand; her brother had long been dead, and his widow, who lived in Edinburgh, was scarcely known to the May family. Of friends there were many, fast bound by affection and gratitude, and notes, inquiries, condolences, and offers of service came in thickly, and gave much occupation to Flora, Richard, and Alan Ernescliffe, in turn. No one from without could do anything for them—they had all the help they wanted in Miss Winter and in Alan, who was invaluable in sharing with Richard the care of the doctor, as well as in giving him the benefit of his few additional years’ experience, and relieving him of some of his tasks. He was indeed like one of themselves, and a most valuable help and comforter. Mr. Wilmot gave them all the time he could, and on this day saw the doctor, who seemed to find some solace in his visit, though saying very little.
On this day the baby was to be baptized. The usual Stoneborough fashion was to collect all the christenings for the month into one Sunday, except those for such persons as thought themselves too refined to see their children christened before the congregation, and who preferred an empty church and a week-day. The little one had waited till she was nearly six weeks old for “a Christening Sunday,” and since that had been missed, she could not be kept unbaptized for another month; so, late in the day, she was carried to church.
Richard had extremely gratified old nurse, by asking her to represent poor Margaret; Mrs. Hoxton stood for the other godmother, and Alan Ernescliffe was desired to consider himself absolutely her sponsor, not merely a proxy. The younger children alone were to go with them: it was too far off, and the way lay too much through the town for it to be thought proper for the others to go. Ethel wished it very much, and thought it nonsense to care whether people looked at her; and in spite of Miss Winter’s seeming shocked at her proposing it, had a great mind to persist. She would even have appealed to her papa, if Flora had not stopped her, exclaiming, “Really, Ethel, I think there never was a person so entirely without consideration as you are.”
Much abashed, Ethel humbly promised that if she might go into papa’s room, she would not say one word about the christening, unless he should begin, and, to her great satisfaction, he presently asked her to read the service to him. Flora came to the doorway of Margaret’s room, and listened; when she had finished, all were silent.
“How shall we, how can we virtuously bring up our motherless little sister?” was the thought with each of the girls. The answers were, in one mind, “I trust we shall do well by her, dear little thing. I see, on an emergency, that I know how to act. I never thought I was capable of being of so much use, thanks to dear, dear mamma’s training. I shall manage, I am sure, and so they will all depend on me, and look up to me. How nice it was to hear dear papa say what he did about the comfort of my being able to look after Margaret.”
In the other, “Poor darling, it is saddest of all for her, because she knows nothing, and will never remember her mamma! But if Margaret is but better, she will take care of her, and oh how we ought to try—and I, such a naughty wild thing—if I should hurt the dear little ones by carelessness, or by my bad example! Oh! what shall I do, for want of some one to keep me in order? If I should vex papa by any of my wrong ways!”
They heard the return of the others, and the sisters both sprang up, “May we bring her to you?” said Flora.
“Yes, do, my dears.”
The sisters all came down together with the little one, and Flora put her down within the arm her father stretched out for her. He gazed into the baby face, which, in its expressionless placidity, almost recalled her mother’s tranquil sweetness.
“Gertrude Margaret,” said Flora, and with a look that had more of tenderness than grief, he murmured, “My Daisy blossom, my little Maggie.”
“Might we?” said Ethel, when Flora took her again, “might we take her to her godmother to see if she would notice her?”
He looked as if he wished it; but said, “No, I think not, better not rouse her,” and sighed heavily; then, as they stood round his bed, unwilling to go, he added, “Girls, we must learn carefulness and thoughtfulness. We have no one to take thought for us now.”
Flora pressed the babe in her arms, Ethel’s two reluctant tears stood on her cheeks, Mary exclaimed, “I’ll try not to be naughty;” and Blanche climbed up to kiss him, saying, “I will be always good papa.”
“Daisy—papa’s Daisy—your vows are made,” whispered Ethel, gaining sole possession of the babe for a minute. “You have promised to be good and holy. We have the keeping of you, mamma’s precious flower, her pearl of truth! Oh, may God guard you to be an unstained jewel, till you come back to her again—and a blooming flower, till you are gathered into the wreath that never fades—my own sweet poor little motherless Daisy!”
CHAPTER V.
“Through lawless camp, through ocean wild,
Her prophet eye pursues her child;
Scans mournfully her poet’s strain,
Fears for her merchant, loss alike and gain.”
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.
Dr. May took the management of himself into his own hands, and paid so little attention to Mr. Ward’s recommendations that his sons and daughters were in continual dread of his choosing to do something that might cause injurious agitation.
However, he did not go further than Margaret’s bedroom where he sat hour after hour his eyes fixed upon her, as she continued in a state bordering on insensibility. He took little notice of anything else, and hardly spoke. There were heavy sighs now and then, but Richard and Flora, one or other of whom were always watching him, could hardly tell whether to ascribe them to the oppression of sorrow or of suffering. Their great fear was of his insisting on seeing his wife’s face, and it was a great relief that he never alluded to her, except once, to desire Richard to bring him her ring. Richard silently obeyed, and, without a word, he placed it on his little finger. Richard used to read the Psalms to him in the morning, before he was up, and Flora would bring little Daisy and lay her by his side.
To the last moment they dreaded his choosing to attend the funeral, and Flora had decided on remaining at home,