‘She will not let herself dwell on it. She never even looked at Mrs. Morton’s letter.’
‘And I really hope they won’t find the poor little dear, to have all the fuss and heart-rending.’
‘Oh, Birdie!’
‘There’s only one thing that would make me wish it. I’m quite sure that that Miss Ida knows more about it than she owns. No, you need not say, “Oh, Birdie” again; I don’t suspect her of the deed, but I do believe she saw the boy and kept out of his way, and now wants that poor Ellen to have all the blame!’
‘You will believe nothing against a girl out of an orphanage!’
‘I had rather any day believe Ellen Mole than p. 222Ida Morton. There’s something about that girl which has always revolted me. I would never trust her farther than I could see her!’
‘Prejudice, Birdie; because she is in bad style.’
‘You to talk of prejudice, Addie, who hardly knew how to go on living here under the poor stick!’
‘Don’t, Birdie. He has earned esteem by sheer goodness. Poor man, I don’t know what to wish for him when I think of the pang that awaits him.’
‘You know what to wish for yourself and Northmoor! Not but that Herbert may come to good if he doesn’t come into possession for many a long year.’
‘And now I must write to that poor child, Constance. But oh, Bertha, don’t condemn hastily! Haven’t I had enough of that?’
p. 223CHAPTER XXXIII
DARKNESS
Full a week later, Frank looked up from his pillow, and said, ‘I wonder when it will be safe to have Mite back. Mary, sweet, what is it? I have been sure something was burthening you. Come and tell me. If he has the fever, you must go to him. No!’ as she clasped his hand and laid her face down on the pillow.
‘Ah, Frank, he does not want us any more!’
‘My Mary, my poor Mary, have you been bearing such knowledge about with you? For how long?’
‘Since that worst day, yesterday week. Oh, but to see you getting better was the help!’
‘Can you tell me?’
She told him, in that low, steady voice, all she knew. It was very little, for she had avoided whatever might break the composure that seemed so needful to his recovery; and he could listen quietly, partly from the lulling effect of weakness, partly from his anxiety for her, and the habit of self-restraint, in which all the earlier part of their p. 224lives had been passed, made utterance come slowly to them.
‘Life will be different to us henceforth,’ he once said. ‘We have had three years of the most perfect happiness. He gave and He hath taken away. Blessed—’
And there he stopped, for he saw the working of her face. Otherwise they hardly spoke of their loss even to one another. It went down deeper than they could bear to utter, and their hearts and eyes met if their lips did not. Only Lord Northmoor lay too dejected to make the steps expected in the recovery of strength for a few days after the grievous revelation, and on the day when at last he was placed on a couch by the window, his wife collapsed, and, almost unconscious, was carried to her bed.
It was not a severe or alarming attack, and all she wanted was to be let alone; but there was enough of sore throat and other symptoms to prolong the quarantine, and Lady Adela could no longer be excluded from giving her aid. She went to and fro between the patients, and comforted each with regard to the other, telling the one how her husband’s strength was returning, and keeping the other tranquil by the assurance that what his wife most needed was perfect rest, especially from the necessity of restraining herself. Those eyes showed how many tears were poured forth when they could have their free course. Lady Adela had gone through enough to feel with ready tact what would be least jarring to each. She had persuaded Bertha to go back to London, both to her many avocations and to receive p. 225Amice, who must still be kept at a distance for some time.
Lord Northmoor, as soon as he had strength and self-command for it, read poor Mrs. Morton’s letters, and also saw Eden, for whom there was little fear of infection. She managed to tell her history and answer all his questions in detail, but she quite broke down under his kind tone of forgiveness and assurance that no blame attached to her, and that he was only grateful to her for her tender care of his child, and she went away sobbing pitifully.
Adela came back, after taking her from the room, where Frank was sitting in an easy-chair by the window, and looking out on the summer garden, which seemed to be stripped of all its charm and value for him.
‘Poor thing,’ she said, ‘she is quite overcome by your kindness.’
‘I do not think any one is more to be pitied,’ said he.
‘No, indeed, but she wishes you would have heard what she had to say about the supposing Ida to have gone in that direction.’
‘I thought it better not. It would not have exonerated the poor little maid from carelessness, and there is no use in fostering a sense of injury or suspicion, when what is done cannot be undone,’ he said wearily.
‘Indeed you are quite right,’ said Adela earnestly. ‘You know how to be in charity with all men. Oh, the needless misery of hasty unjust suspicions!’ Then as he looked up at her—‘Do you know our own story?’
p. 226‘Only the main facts.’
‘I think you ought to know it. It accounts for so much!’ said she, moved partly by the need of utterance, and partly by the sense that the turn of his thoughts might be good for him. ‘You know what a passion for horses there has always been in this family.’
‘I know—I could have had it if my life had begun more prosperously.’
