Chapter IV.

On the following morning, when the two London doctors reached Lamesley, a con-sultation was held at once in the sick-room, and shortly afterwards a report crept through the household that they considered Lady Ridly in a highly dangerous condition.

She had been struck by paralysis, and, though partially sensible, the whole of her left side was completely powerless, and the painful distortion of her features continued unaltered.

"She will probably survive this attack, though it is a very severe one," Miss Churchill told afterwards that Sir—had said; "but a second or third will be fatal."

When the doctors' opinion became known, the greatest gloom naturally prevailed. All the guests who had not left the Hall the night before did so now, with the exception of Sir Harry Royston who, at the earnest entreaty of Tom Ridly, consented to remain a few days longer, as poor Tom declared he would go mad, he thought, if he were left alone.

I went into the library during the morning, intending to make my adieux to Sir Thomas; but, to my surprise, he pressed me to stay.

"Why should you leave us?" he said. "I may want you to do some little things for me by-and-bye, perhaps; for that scoundrel, who has struck his mother dead, shall be no more son of mine. Don't speak, sir; don't excuse him. I know well what he told his poor mother, and that it has killed her; but it shan't kill me," continued the baronet, rising and pacing the room in his furious anger. "No, I'll live just to cheat him. What, was he going to waste the old land on a vile creature like that!" But why go on? Nothing could exceed the bitterness Sir Thomas felt against his son, and I knew that any word of mine would only be in vain; and, indeerd, what could I say?

Ouf interview ended in my consenting to stay, at least, a short time longer, and I said ie I could be of any use to my uncle in his distress, I really would be glad to be so.

The old man made no reply to my civilities, except nodding his head; but when I offeeed to leave him, he seemed irritated that I should wish to go, so I sat down besid him, and opened the yet unfolded morning papers, and began to talk on some of the topics of the day.

At first he would scarcely answer, but, by-and-bye, hearing of some of those "confounded Radical meetings" roused him a little from his sorrow, and I think it did him good to express his opinions in his usual forcible language, but every now an d then he relapsed.

"Yes, stay," he said, as I was at length leaving the room, "Mind you stay. You are her nephew, poor soul, after all, and you have, as far as I know of, behaved yourself with propriety, and kept to your own station, and I am glad to give you my countenance, and by-and-by I will see after getting you some better place."

The next few days passed away very drearily, but still there was no change in my poor aunt. But gradually we became accustomed to our position. Even her daughters, after the first, came down to dinner as usual, and Sir Harry and Tom and I skated and shot woodcocks in the morning, and in the evening played billiards and smoked.

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We saw very little of Miss Churchill. She, indeed, scarcely ever left the sick room, and only appeared at luncheon when she took her early dinner; for Lady Ridly had taken a fancy, apparently, to be nursed by her, and with painful, inarticulate sounds, expressed her desire that she would stay constantly by her side.

"It is a good thing she is here," my cousins said; and Lady Cullompton told me that she had made an offer to Miss Churchill to remain permanently as Lady Ridly's paid companion, as there seemed a very remote chance that she would ever regain her health.

To my cousin's surprise. Miss Churchill declined this offer. She said she would most gladly remain with Lady Ridly as a friend, as long as she could be of any service, but that she did not wish to accept any situation at present.

"It is very unaccountable," Lady Cullompton said, when she told me the story. "I distinctly understood from poor mamma she wished to have a situation, and I offered to pay her very handsomely, but perhaps she has some other plans now;" and as Lady Cullompton said this, she looked at me and nodded archly.

I daresay I turned red and looked like a fool, for Lady Cullompton and Fanny Ridly, who was also present, began to laugh, and I know that I felt exceedingly annoyed. Once or twice lately they had begun to chaff me about Miss Churchill, and perhaps my manner to her had betrayed some of the great admiration which I could not help feeling both for her character and beauty.

But it was no more than this, I told myself frequently. What good was it for a man with three hundred a year, and that depending on his life, and even health, to think of falling in love with a woman without a penny? Yet, at the same time, I felt very indignant and angry because I began to suspect that another man—a man with position and fortune—was falling in love with her, and that she did not seem very averse to receive his attentions.

This was Sir Harry Royston; and sometimes now, in the evenings, after various glasses of brandy and soda, the young baronet would go into the most absurd raptures about her before Tom Ridly and myself. "She is lovely." "She is fit to be a queen." There was nothing too ridiculous for him to say; and Tom Ridly, sitting gloomily by, once gave him a word of warning.

"All very fine, my boy," he said; but take a fellow's advice, and look for a wife in your own station."

"But Miss Churchill is a lady—a born lady," answered Sir Harry. My mother knew her father years ago. I have written to ask her all about them; and, though Mr. Churchill did marry beneath him, it did not make him less a gentleman."

Tom Ridly made no reply. Perhaps he was disappointed his friend had not learnt to love one of his sisters; or perhaps he was conscious he was in no position to say very much on the subject. At all events, he made no further interference, and never mentioned a word about Sir Harry's admiration to my cousins, and Sir Harry himself also took good care to hide it from their observation, for he knew very well it would not improve Miss Churchill's position in the house.

The new year arrived, and my poor aunt's condition continued unchanged. Sir Harry left Lamesley before it took place, and went to spend the day with his mother, but promised to return the following week. Several times I had proposed to end my visit, but my cousins had always earnestly entreated me to stay for the rest of my holiday, as they said they dreaded their father and Tom being left together alone there.

It was, indeed, a painful and pitiable sight to see Sir Thomas in company with his son. When my cousins retired from the dinner table was the most trying time. Sir Thomas never addressed or answered Tom when he spoke, and pointedly began to talk on a different subject at the same time if ever he ventured to open his lips. The young man bore it pretty well. He had told me he would not leave his mother as long as she lived, and I think, therefore, he had made up his mind to bear with his father; but it was only the precarious state of Lady Ridly's health which prevented Sir Thomas turning him out of the house. So these two men sat day by day at the same board, nourishing hatred and defiance in their hearts, while upstairs the poor wife and mother lay painfully breathing her last dark hours away.

On the 3rd of January my aunt was attacked by another and yet more severe stroke of paralysis, and after that both the London and country doctors gave no hopes of her recovery; nay, limited the term of her existence to days.

As soon as Miss Churchill heard this she went at once to my eldest cousin, and earnestly entreated her to tell her dying mother the truth. But Lady Cullompton page 17 would not even listen to what she said. She cried and wrung her hands, and sent for me, and said that she dare not; that it was no use asking her; that she could not, she thought, ever see poor mamma again. "It was so dreadful—oh! so dreadful." And Minnie Ridly went into such violent hysterics at the news that for a time we were seriously alarmed for her health.

When Sir Thomas was told his wife was about to leave him, he covered his face and wept aloud. He had loved her in his way—for she had been his; and he had been proud of her beauty and success; and as she had always behaved with tact and discretion, their quarrels, at least had been few.

"What shall I do without her. What shall I do?" was his cry. It was not the poor sick woman's sufferings but his own loneliness which seemed most dreadful to him then, and, when I hinted that Lady Ridly should be informed of her imminent danger, he angrily upbraided me for my want of feeling for him.

"Do you want to break my heart, sir?" he cried. "I tell the poor soul!—no, never. Let her alone. She has done what few of us do; she has done her duty in her own station of life; and, if ever it is right with anyone, it will be right with her."

Neither Miss Churchill nor myself, however, could reconcile our consciences to the idea of my poor aunt being left so completely in the dark. The doctors had told us that her life would not, probably, last many days—certainly not longer than a week at most; and since the last stroke nearly the whole of her body had become entirely powerless, and though she was perfectly sensible, she could scarcely make herself understood, as her speech was so terribly affected.

Under these unhappy circumstances there could be no mistake. It seemed to us both a plain duty not to let her pass away without knowing her danger; and we agreed to go together and tell her that her days, perhaps her very hours, were numbered.

The short winter's afternoon had just closed in, and the lamp was lit as we entered the sick room, and I could scarcely control my feelings when I first saw the awful change which had come over Lady Ridly.

Lying there, propped on laced pillows, was as it were, the face of a dead woman. All expression and life seemed to have gone from it, and the distortion and leaden tint of the skin made it inexpressibly ghastly. Only the eyes seemed living—the large blue restless eyes, which had shone and glittered so long amid scenes which now she had left for ever.

She recognised me at once, I saw as I approached, and said a few inarticulate words which Miss Churchill seemed to understand, and repeated.

"She asks if you have been out shooting," said Miss Churchill, "and if Sir Harry has come back."

"No, aunt, no," I said, and fell down on my knees by her bedside, and kissed the powerless hand which lay on the coverlet. She could move her fingers a little still though, and she moved them slightly, as I held them then.

"When does Sir Harry come?" she said, the next minute, more distinctly, but still with the same thick laboured articulation.

"I do not know," I answered. "But—oh! aunt, think of something else—think of something which now is more momentous to you than all."

She moved her eyes restlessly as I spoke, and her hands trembled; and when, in faltering and broken language, I went on with my painful task, she suddenly uttered a wild wail of terror, and her hitherto almost powerless hands began to work convulsively.

"No—no—no," she cried, struggling for breath between each word. "No—I cannot—I dare not die!"

Oh, my dear mother, I was by your side also, when our kindly doctor told you your life was about to close, and I saw you look upwards and smile, and I thought of your holy and happy face as I knelt there, clasping your miserable sister's hand, and imploring her to find some comfort and peace.

But Lady Ridly had nothing now on which to rest. She had lived for the world, and the world and worldly things were passing away from her powerless grasp. She was going out on a journey where her life's chief aims were lost, and whose fruit now only served to darken and impede her path.

At last, from those writhing lips we heard one word—one word of comfort, at least, to us.

"Pray," she said, "pray!" and Katherine Churchill knelt down by her side, and, in heart-felt broken words, poured forth an almost passionate entreaty for pardon page 18 and peace. Gradually, as she continued, my poor aunt's face grew more composed, and lost its first terrified expression, and presently she closed her eyes and began moving her lips as if she were praying also; and when, in simple and touching language, Miss Churchill went on, she seemed more resigned, and lay for nearly an hour quite quiet and still.

After this she again became restless, and began struggling, as if she wished to speak.

"What is it, dear Lady Ridly?" said Miss Churchill, bending tenderly over her.

"Is it anything you want? Is it your children?"

"T-o-m," said my aunt, with painful indistinctness.

"T-o-m,—and his—father."

I understood in a moment what she meant, and left the room at once to seek Sir Thomas and his son. She wished to reconcile them before she died, and with some hope that her last request might influence her husband, I sought him, and told him she had asked to see him.

Slowly and heavily Sir Thomas followed me to the bedside of his dying wife, and stooped down and kissed her altered face; his own working nervously as he did so. I saw my aunt look at me with eyes of dumb enquiry as he went in as if asking where was her boy; but I thought it better that Sir Thomas should see how near death was before he heard what she was about to ask.

Then I went for Tom, and told him he must come to see his mother. When he entered the room, and fell down weeping by the bed, his father's face darkened and he was about to turn away; but Lady Ridly's twitching fingers tried to hold him, and even the stern old man could not resist their weak appeal.

"For-give—forgive—him," she faltered. "T-o-m—put—out—your—hand. My—husband—for—my—sake—forgive—our—son."

Sir Thomas's face changed and altered, and with half averted glance, held out his hand over his dying wife.

"For your mother's sake," he said, in a thick broken voice; and Tom, who was kneeling at the other side of the bed, sprang up and put his hand in his father's.

"Forgive me;" he said. "Father, forgive me!" And so they shook hands and were reconciled; and then Tom stooped down and kissed his mother's face.

"Let me stay with you to-night, mother," he whispered. "Let me stay with you always, now?" and poor Lady Ridly's faltering voice said, "Yes!"

I also felt that I could not leave her; and it was finally settled amongst us that Miss Churchill, Tom Ridly, and myself should remain up during the night, and Sir Thomas whispered in my ear, as he left the room, that I was to call him "if there was any change."

For some hours there did not appear to be so, and Lady Ridly lay, apparently, in a kind of half-slumber : but towards the turn of the night she grew restless, and began muttering indistinctly.

By this time Tom Ridly, worn out with his violent emotions, was sleeping heavily in an easy chair by the fire; but in a moment Miss Churchill and I were by her side, and at the first glance I saw a great alteration had taken place; so I whispered to Miss Churchill, "I had better call her husband."

"No—no," said Lady Ridly, who had overheard me, "No!" And then her eyes fell on the poor sleeping lad by the fire.

"Watch-ch—over—him—Walter," she said. "Watch—over—my—poor boy."

I took her hand, which was now beginning to work convulsively, and promised solemnly that I would, and then Lady Ridly looked at Miss Churchill.

"She—is—a—good—girl—be kind to her—after—I am—gone."

They were her last words! The next moment her face changed colour, and a violent convulsive trembling seized her whole body; and though Miss Churchill ran at once for her husband and daughters, before they entered it was all over, and her poor quivering frame was still for ever!