Heriot's Choice Part 93

But the sentence was never finished.

He had seemed drowsy after that, and she rang for the servant to wheel him into his own room. He was still heavy when she drew the curtains round him and wished him good-night; he looked placid and beautiful, she thought, as she leant over him for a last kiss; but he only smiled at her, and pressed her hand feebly.

That smile, how she treasured it! It was still on his lips when the servant who slept in his room, surprised at his master's long rest, undrew the curtains and found him lying as they left him last night--dead!'

'You have been a good daughter to me--better than I deserved. I shall tell your mother so when----'

'Oh, Ethel, he has told her now! be comforted, darling,' cried Mildred, when Ethel had thrown herself dry-eyed on her friend's bosom. 'G.o.d do so to me and mine, as you have dealt with him in his trouble.'

But for a long time the afflicted girl refused to be comforted.

Richard was smitten with dismay when he saw her for the first time after her father's death. Her paleness, her a.s.sumed calmness, filled him with foreboding trouble. Mildred had told him she had scarcely slept or eaten since the shock of her bereavement had come upon her.

She had come to him at once, and stood before him in her black dress; the touch of her hand was so cold, that he had started at its clamminess; the uncomplaining sadness of her aspect brought the mist to his eyes.

'Dear Ethel, it has been sudden--awfully sudden,' he said, at last, almost fearing to graze the edge of that dreary pause.

'Ah! that it has.'

'That afternoon we had both been sitting with him. Do you remember he had complained of weariness, and yet he would not suffer us to wheel him in? Who would have thought his weariness would have been so soon at an end!'

She made no answer, only her bosom heaved a little. Yes, his weariness was over, but hers had begun; her filial work was taken from her, and her heart was sick with the sudden void in life. For months he had been her first waking and her last sleeping thoughts; his helplessness had brought out the latent devotion of her nature, and now she was alone!

'Will you let me see him?' whispered Richard, not daring to break on this sacred reserve of grief, and yet longing to speak some word of comfort to her stricken heart; and she had turned noiselessly and led him to the chamber of death.

There her fort.i.tude had given way a little, and Richard was relieved to see her quiet tears coursing slowly down her cheeks, as they stood side by side looking on the still face with its changeless smile.

'Ethel, I am glad you have allowed me to see him,' he said, at last; 'he looks so calm and peaceful, all marks of age and suffering gone. Who could have the heart to break that rest?'

Then the pent-up pain found utterance.

'Oh, Richard, think, never to have bidden him good-bye!'

'Did you wish him good-night, dear? I thought you told me you always went to his bedside the last thing before you slept?'

'Yes--but I did not know,' the tears flowing still more freely.

'No--you only wished him good-night, and bade G.o.d bless him. Well, has He not blessed him?'

A sob was her only reply.

'Has He not given him the "blessing of peace"? Is not His very seal of peace there stamped on that quiet brow? Dear Ethel, those words, "He is not, for G.o.d took him," always seem to me to apply so wonderfully to sudden death. You know,' dropping his voice, and coming more closely, 'some men, good men, even, have such a horror of death.'

'He had,' in a tone almost inaudible.

'So I always understood. Think of the mercy shown to his weakness then, literally falling asleep; no slow approach of the enemy he feared; no deadly combat with the struggling flesh; only sleep, untroubled as a child; a waking, not here, but in another world.'

Ethel still wept, but she felt less oppressed; no one could comfort her like Richard, not even Mildred.

As the days went on, Richard felt almost embarra.s.sed by the trust she reposed in him. Ethel, who had always been singularly unconventional in her ideas, and was still in worldly matters as simple as a child, could see no reason why Richard should not manage things wholly for her.

Richard in his perplexity was obliged to appeal to Dr. Heriot.

'She is ill, and shrinks from business; she wants me to see the lawyer.

Surely you can explain to her how impossible it is for me to interfere with such matters? She treats the man who aspires to be her husband exactly like her brother,' continued the young man, in a vexed, shamefaced way.

Dr. Heriot could hardly forbear a smile.

The master of Kirkleatham had been lying in his grave for weeks, but his faithful daughter still refused to be comforted. She moped piteously; all business fretted her; a quiet talk with Mildred or Richard was all of which her hara.s.sed nerves seemed capable.

'What can you expect?' he said, at last; 'her long nursing has broken her down. She has a fine const.i.tution, but the wear and tear of these months have been enough to wear out any woman. Leave her quiet for a little while to cry her heart out for her father.'

'In the meantime, Mr. Grantham is waiting to have those papers signed, and to know if those leases are to be renewed,' returned Richard, impatiently.

With her his gentleness and sympathy had been unfailing, but it was not to be denied that his present position fretted him. To be treated as a brother, and to be no brother; to be the rejected suitor of an heiress, and yet to be told he was her right hand! No wonder Richard's heart was sore; he was even aggrieved with Dr. Heriot for not perceiving more quickly the difficulties of his situation.

'If my father were in better health, she would go to him; she has said so more than once,' he went on, more quietly. 'It is easy to see that she does not understand my hints; and under the present circ.u.mstances it is impossible to speak more plainly. She wanted me to see Mr. Grantham, and when I refused she looked almost hurt.'

'Yes, I see, she must be roused to do things herself. Don't be vexed about it, Richard, it will all come right, and you cannot expect her to see things as we do. I will have a little talk with her myself; if it comes to the worst I must const.i.tute myself her man of business for the present,' and Richard withdrew more satisfied.

Things were at a low ebb just now with Richard. Ethel's heiress-s.h.i.+p lay on him like a positive burden. The riches he despised rose up like a golden wall between him and his love. Oh, that she had been some poor orphaned girl, that in her loneliness he might have taken her to his heart and his father's home! What did either he or she want with these riches? He knew her well enough to be sure how she would dread the added responsibility they would bring. How often she had said to him during the last few weeks, 'Oh, Richard, it is too much! it oppresses me terribly. What am I to do with it all, and with myself!' and he had not answered her a word.

Dr. Heriot found his task easier than he had expected. Ethel was unhappy enough to be slightly unreasonable. She felt herself aggrieved with Richard, and had misunderstood him.

'I suppose he has sent you to tell me that I must rouse myself,' she said, with languid displeasure, when he had unfolded his errand. 'He need not have troubled either himself or you. I have seen Mr. Grantham; he went away by the 2.50 train.'

'I must say that I think you have done wisely,' returned Dr. Heriot, much pleased. 'No one, not even Richard, has a right to interfere in these matters. The will is left so that your trustees will expect you to exert yourself. It seems a pity that you cannot refer to them!'

'You know Mr. Molloy is dead.'

'Yes, and Sir William still in Canada. Yet, with an honest, straightforward man like Grantham, I think you might settle things without reference to any one. Richard is only sorry his father is so ailing.'

'No, I could not trouble Mr. Lambert.'

'Richard has been so much about the house during your father's illness, that it seems natural to refer to him. Well, he has an older head than many of us; but all the same you must understand his scruples.'

'They have seemed to me far-fetched.'

But, nevertheless, Ethel blushed a little as she spoke. A dim sense of Dr. Heriot's meaning had been dawning on her slowly, but she was unwilling to confess it. She changed the subject somewhat hastily, by asking after Mildred and the baby, and loading Dr. Heriot with loving messages. Nothing more was said about Richard until the close of the visit, when Dr. Heriot somewhat incautiously mentioned him again; but, as he told Mildred afterwards, he spoke advisedly.

'You will not let Richard think he is misunderstood?' he said, as he rose to take leave. 'You know he is the last one to spare himself trouble, but he feels in your position that he must do nothing to compromise you.'

'He will not have the opportunity,' she returned, with brief haughtiness, and turning suddenly very crimson; but as she met Dr.

Heriot's look of mild reproach, she melted.

'No--he is right, you are all of you quite right. I must exert myself, and try and care for the things that belonged to my darling father, only I shall be so lonely--so very lonely,' and she covered her face with her hands.

Ethel met Richard with more than her usual kindness when she saw him next; her sweet deprecating glance gave the young man a sorrowful pang.