firm, before his only child fell ill. And, to tell the truth, he
himself looked burnt and scared with affliction. He had a startled look,
they said, as if he never could tell, after such experience, from which
side the awful proofs of the uncertainty of earth would appear, the
terrible phantoms of unforeseen dread. Both rich and poor, town and
country, sympathised with him. The rich cared not to press their claims,
or their business, at such a time; and only wondered, in their
superficial talk after dinner, how such a good fellow as Wilkins could
ever have been deceived by a man like Dunster. Even Sir Frank Holster
and his lady forgot their old quarrel, and came to inquire after Ellinor,
and sent her hothouse fruit by the bushel.
Mr. Corbet behaved as an anxious lover should do. He wrote daily to Miss
Monro to beg for the most minute bulletins; he procured everything in
town that any doctor even fancied might be of service, he came down as
soon as there was the slightest hint of permission that Ellinor might see
him. He overpowered her with tender words and caresses, till at last she
shrank away from them, as from something too bewildering, and past all
right comprehension.
But one night before this, when all windows and doors stood open to admit
the least breath that stirred the sultry July air, a servant on velvet
tiptoe had stolen up to Ellinor's open door, and had beckoned out of the
chamber of the sleeper the ever watchful nurse, Miss Monro.
"A gentleman wants you," were all the words the housemaid dared to say so
close to the bedroom. And softly, softly Miss Monro stepped down the
stairs, into the drawing-room; and there she saw Mr. Livingstone. But
she did not know him; she had never seen him before.
"I have travelled all day. I heard she was ill—was dying. May I just
have one more look at her? I will not speak; I will hardly breathe. Only
let me see her once again!"
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't know who you are; and if you mean
Miss Wilkins, by 'her,' she is very ill, but we hope not dying. She was
very ill, indeed, yesterday; very dangerously ill, I may say, but she is
having a good sleep, in consequence of a soporific medicine, and we are
really beginning to hope—"
But just here Miss Monro's hand was taken, and, to her infinite surprise,
was kissed before she could remember how improper such behaviour was.
"God bless you, madam, for saying so. But if she sleeps, will you let me
see her? it can do no harm, for I will tread as if on egg shells; and I
have come so far—if I might just look on her sweet face. Pray, madam,
let me just have one sight of her. I will not ask for more."
But he did ask for more after he had had his wish. He stole upstairs
after Miss Monro, who looked round reproachfully at him if even a
nightingale sang, or an owl hooted in the trees outside the open windows,
yet who paused to say herself, outside Mr. Wilkins's chamber door,
"Her father's room; he has not been in bed for six nights, till to-night;
pray do not make a noise to waken him." And on into the deep stillness
of the hushed room, where one clear ray of hidden lamp-light shot athwart
the door, where a watcher, breathing softly, sat beside the bed—where
Ellinor's dark head lay motionless on the white pillow, her face almost
as white, her form almost as still. You might have heard a pin fall.
After a while he moved to withdraw. Miss Monro, jealous of every sound,
followed him, with steps all the more heavy because they were taken with
so much care, down the stairs, back into the drawing-room. By the bed-
candle flaring in the draught, she saw that there was the glittering mark
of wet tears on his cheek; and she felt, as she said afterwards, "sorry
for the young man." And yet she urged him to go, for she knew that she
might be wanted upstairs. He took her hand, and wrung it hard.
"Thank you. She looked so changed—oh! she looked as though she were
dead. You will write—Herbert Livingstone, Langham Vicarage,
himself looked burnt and scared with affliction. He had a startled look,
they said, as if he never could tell, after such experience, from which
side the awful proofs of the uncertainty of earth would appear, the
terrible phantoms of unforeseen dread. Both rich and poor, town and
country, sympathised with him. The rich cared not to press their claims,
or their business, at such a time; and only wondered, in their
superficial talk after dinner, how such a good fellow as Wilkins could
ever have been deceived by a man like Dunster. Even Sir Frank Holster
and his lady forgot their old quarrel, and came to inquire after Ellinor,
and sent her hothouse fruit by the bushel.
Mr. Corbet behaved as an anxious lover should do. He wrote daily to Miss
Monro to beg for the most minute bulletins; he procured everything in
town that any doctor even fancied might be of service, he came down as
soon as there was the slightest hint of permission that Ellinor might see
him. He overpowered her with tender words and caresses, till at last she
shrank away from them, as from something too bewildering, and past all
right comprehension.
But one night before this, when all windows and doors stood open to admit
the least breath that stirred the sultry July air, a servant on velvet
tiptoe had stolen up to Ellinor's open door, and had beckoned out of the
chamber of the sleeper the ever watchful nurse, Miss Monro.
"A gentleman wants you," were all the words the housemaid dared to say so
close to the bedroom. And softly, softly Miss Monro stepped down the
stairs, into the drawing-room; and there she saw Mr. Livingstone. But
she did not know him; she had never seen him before.
"I have travelled all day. I heard she was ill—was dying. May I just
have one more look at her? I will not speak; I will hardly breathe. Only
let me see her once again!"
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't know who you are; and if you mean
Miss Wilkins, by 'her,' she is very ill, but we hope not dying. She was
very ill, indeed, yesterday; very dangerously ill, I may say, but she is
having a good sleep, in consequence of a soporific medicine, and we are
really beginning to hope—"
But just here Miss Monro's hand was taken, and, to her infinite surprise,
was kissed before she could remember how improper such behaviour was.
"God bless you, madam, for saying so. But if she sleeps, will you let me
see her? it can do no harm, for I will tread as if on egg shells; and I
have come so far—if I might just look on her sweet face. Pray, madam,
let me just have one sight of her. I will not ask for more."
But he did ask for more after he had had his wish. He stole upstairs
after Miss Monro, who looked round reproachfully at him if even a
nightingale sang, or an owl hooted in the trees outside the open windows,
yet who paused to say herself, outside Mr. Wilkins's chamber door,
"Her father's room; he has not been in bed for six nights, till to-night;
pray do not make a noise to waken him." And on into the deep stillness
of the hushed room, where one clear ray of hidden lamp-light shot athwart
the door, where a watcher, breathing softly, sat beside the bed—where
Ellinor's dark head lay motionless on the white pillow, her face almost
as white, her form almost as still. You might have heard a pin fall.
After a while he moved to withdraw. Miss Monro, jealous of every sound,
followed him, with steps all the more heavy because they were taken with
so much care, down the stairs, back into the drawing-room. By the bed-
candle flaring in the draught, she saw that there was the glittering mark
of wet tears on his cheek; and she felt, as she said afterwards, "sorry
for the young man." And yet she urged him to go, for she knew that she
might be wanted upstairs. He took her hand, and wrung it hard.
"Thank you. She looked so changed—oh! she looked as though she were
dead. You will write—Herbert Livingstone, Langham Vicarage,
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