"Indeed, aunt Flora, you must go to rest; you look so pale and ill, you almost frighten me," said Lyddie.
The appearance of the girl was much changed. She still looked sickly, from the effects of her own recent illness, and from her hair having been close cut during her fever; but the once wild neglected weed had not been cultivated in vain. Thought and sense were expressed in the large dark eyes beyond what might have been expected in a girl scarcely twelve years of age. All the latent tenderness of Lyddie's nature had been called out by Mrs. Vernon; grateful affection to an earthly benefactor had become a ruling motive in the orphan's heart, already strengthened rather than replaced by a motive yet more high and holy. The task which Flora had deemed hopeless another had performed; the once wild, wilful, untamed girl, had been brought to the feet of the Saviour.
"I cannot rest," replied Flora, sadly; "and you, Lyddie, you have been sitting up all the night!"
"No, I have been sleeping on the couch at the foot of the bed, while Ann watched by dear grandmamma. I could not bear to be far away. Now Ann is resting for a little on the couch; she has had no sleep these two nights, you know, and I am ready to call her up in a moment, if grandmamma should stir ever so little."
"Is my precious mother then sleeping?"
"Yes, she is sleeping now; isn't it a comfort?--she has been so restless, as if she were in pain; but she is quite peaceful now--so very peaceful!"
"Oh that I could but look at her!" faltered Flora.
"I think that you might, if you crept in very softly."
"If I were to awaken her!"
"Oh! she does not look as if she would awake!"
The simple words of the child sent a sudden, strange thrill of terror through Flora's heart! What if that deep sleep were a sleep which could never be broken! Lady Legrange entered the silent apartment chilled with the cold, faint and dizzy with watching, her trembling limbs scarcely able to support her. The early gleam of morning, dimly seen through the half-closed shutter, mingled its light with that of the flickering, expiring night-lamp. The curtains of the invalid's bed were drawn back to give her air--Lady Legrange again beheld her mother. She looked on the dear face, which she had not seen for years--ah! what a change time, sorrow, and sickness, had wrought there! Yet still beautiful it lay in its perfect stillness, white as the pillow on which it reclined. Every feature appeared sculptured in marble, in its calm, unearthly serenity. The lips did not move, the bosom did not heave, there was no quiver in the closed eyelids! Flora bent to listen: she could not distinguish the slightest sound--oh! the relief that even a moan would have brought to her then!
A little feather lay on the crimson coverlet; Flora raised it with a trembling hand, placed it almost close to the lips of her mother, and then watched it as a perishing castaway might watch a distant sail, the one dim speck of hope on the dark waste of waters. It moved!--yes, yes--it moved! It was not the morning breeze that stirred the down; the breath of life had not passed away from those pallid lips; they might yet speak a blessing--they were not closed for ever!
Flora retired from the room with noiseless step, shedding silent tears of thankfulness and joy.
The doctor came, but would not disturb the sleeper. Every hour of quiet repose, he said, would do more to restore the sufferer than all the remedies which art could devise. He believed, he trusted, that the crisis was past. Should this slumber continue every hope might be indulged; but the house must be kept perfectly quiet.
And perfectly quiet it was kept. Even the sound of children's voices was hushed, and little feet crept noiselessly down stairs. Johnny took off his shoes ere he passed his grandmother's room. Flora still continued at her melancholy post--watching at the door which she feared to enter, weeping, praying, and reviewing her past life with deep humility and contrition.
The sun had reached his noonday height, though remaining invisible behind the clouds, which had been ceaselessly pouring down their white, flaky showers upon the earth, when, with a rapid step and flushed countenance, Johnny hurried towards Lady Legrange. He needed not the gesture of her finger on her lip; he uttered not a word, spoke not a question, but he thrust into her hand an open paper which had just been brought from the telegraph office. Flora felt dizzy and confused; she passed her hand across her eyes before she could read the paper, and when she had read it every object appeared swimming around her. It was brief, as such messages always are, but how terrible in its stern brevity,--
"Sir Amery has been thrown from his horse. Return home without delay, if you would find him alive."
That was all that was written, but it was enough--enough to wring the heart, to fill the cup of anguish to overflowing! Flora started from her seat--she was pale as death; but she uttered no cry--but one object was before her now. Oh! for the lightning's wing to fly back to her husband!
When the spirit is burning with an impatience which would make the swiftness of the eagle appear slow, how intolerable are the petty difficulties, the unavoidable delays which constantly interpose. Where was a conveyance to be found in Wingsdale to take Flora to the station, which was barely two miles distant? Johnny, a willing messenger, started off in the snow-storm; but though the boy exerted his utmost speed, it appeared a weary age to Flora before he returned. He came back heated and tired, with disappointment in his glowing face. The conveyance which Flora had employed on the previous day had returned to the town, ten miles distant; the doctor, who alone boasted a little carriage in Wingsdale, was out, and might not return before evening; the farmer's horse had fallen lame;--there was no vehicle of any kind to be procured.
"Then I will go on foot. Oh! that I had not delayed!" cried Flora, wringing her hands; "I might have been at the station by this time."
In vain the wondering maid of Lady Legrange ventured to expostulate with her mistress, pointed to the cloudy sky and the fast descending snow. No earthly persuasion could stay the wife, not even the anxieties of the daughter. These anxieties, indeed, had been in a certain measure relieved; Mrs. Vernon had awoke calm and refreshed, and had dictated to Lyddie a message of affection to be sent to her Flora, little dreaming that at that moment the same roof covered them both.
Flora, accompanied only by her maid, set out on her gloomy journey. The violence of the wind was so great, that umbrellas were left behind as useless, while the falling snow so obscured the view, that the travellers could see but a few yards before them. To Flora, however, the path was so well known that she could have found her way blindfold. The fields were one white level, save where, beside the glistening hedges, the wind had drifted the snow into heaps. Flora's feet sank into the white mass at each step, she toiled with difficulty along the path; yet urged on by love and fear, she paused not for a moment even to take breath, or to shake the snowflakes from her mantle. She thought not of weariness, she thought not of suffering;--her whole soul was wrapped up in her husband. Surely the road had lengthened since she last trod it--would she never arrive at the place of her destination!
At length--at length the station is in sight, the little red-brick building, standing alone where the telegraph posts, with their straight black wires, stand in sharp defined outline against the white back-ground. Ha! there is a sound! Flora starts with an exclamation of distress--it is the shrill scream of the railway whistle--a long black object is rolling away into the distance, swift and swifter! Flora gazes after it with straining eyes, then sinks exhausted on a snow-heap beside the road; no need to hasten on now--she has missed the train--she too late!
Slowly and sadly, conscious now of utter weariness and exhaustion, Flora made her way to the station. "When may the next train be expected?" was her eager question when she arrived there.
"The next? about three hours hence."
How sank Flora's heart at the reply! Those hours might have been spent beside her mother might be so still; but no, fainting nature refused the effort; not the smallest hazard must be run of missing the next--the latest train. Flora warmed her shivering frame at the fire in the one bare little waiting-room at the station, then seated herself by the small table, and leaning her arms upon it, bowed down upon them her drooping head. She remained so long in this position that her maid believed that she slept. Then Flora arose, and paced up and down like a caged leopard, looked at her watch again and again, and gazed impatiently out on the snow. The railway man was whistling an air; it struck painfully on the lady's ear; in her utter misery it seemed strange to Flora that any human being could be happy.
An express train rushed past with a roar like thunder, awakening for a moment a hope which vanished like itself into darkness. Flora sat long with her eyes fixed on the telegraph-paper, as though she could draw from the lines, which she knew by heart, the information which their brevity denied. Alas! her fears supplied its place too well.
The three hours passed--Time does move on, even when his wings are of lead--but still no sight of the longed-for train.
"It is late," said the railway official; "doubtless its progress has been delayed by the snow."
Flora could sit still no longer; she was in a fever of restless expectation, and sorely her patience was tried. The train was long behind time; night closed in before at length the welcome bell of preparation was heard. Lady Legrange felt something almost resembling joy when she found herself seated at last in the train with her maid. A gentleman, whose features she could scarcely distinguish in the gloom, was their only fellow-traveller in the carriage. He made some common-place observation on the weather, which Flora neither comprehended nor answered. Her thoughts were becoming a wild chaos: she could not collect them sufficiently even for prayer.
On, on through the darkness and gloom--surely never train moved on so slowly before!--surely never were so many vexatious delays! Flora wept no longer; her fount of tears appeared to be dried up. Her brow was throbbing with a burning pain; a band of iron seemed pressed across her temples She was scarcely conscious of what was passing around her, when the weary journey ended at last.
Bewildered and confused, the hapless Lady Legrange found herself in the midst of the bustle of an arrival in London at night. Friends and servants were there waiting for travellers; but, either from neglect on the part of her own household, or from her having been expected by the earlier train, no one was in waiting for Flora. In vain she strained her eyes to find some familiar face, to see some one who could relieve her agony of suspense, by giving her tidings of her husband. After some delay--and delay was torture--a conveyance was procured, in which the miserable wife was slowly jolted through narrow, gloomy streets, towards the home at which she yearned to arrive. The cab stopped at her own door; Flora sprang from it--herself rang the bell, gently, fearfully, for was not suffering within the dwelling? No answer! She rang the bell again, and, before the sound died away, the door was opened by a servant. He started at seeing his mistress; his face answered the question which she could not speak; he uttered but the sentence, "Too late!" and Flora sank senseless on the threshold.