the last reported conversation between Wilfrid and Mrs. Baxendale, it was determined that the latter must take upon herself the office of telling Emily the truth. Mrs. Hood implored her to do so; the poor mother was sinking into a state which scarcely left her the command of her mind, and, though she could not sustain the duty herself, it was her harassing desire that it might quickly be performed. So at length the revelation was made, made with all the forbearance and strengthening tenderness of which a strong-souled woman is capable. But the first syllables prepared Emily for the whole truth. A secret dread, which she had not dared to confess to herself on that last evening, though probably it brought about the crisis in her suffering, and which the false assurances recently given her had perhaps not wholly overcome, rushed forth as soon as evil was hinted at. The softened statement that her father had been stricken down by a natural malady did not for a moment deceive her. She closed her eyes; the pillows which supported her were scarcely whiter than her face. But she was soon able to speak with perfect self- control.
‘Was he brought home wrapped in something?’ she asked. ‘With his face covered?’
‘He was, Emily.’
‘How and where did I see him? For I know I did see him.’
‘Your mother has told me that you rose from your bed, and went to the room below. She did not realise that you were unconscious; she believed that you knew of this.’
This was her dread vision. As if to protect herself from it, she raised her hand and laid it across her eyes. Then it fell again to the coverlet—thin, flower-like hand, which in its translucency of flesh seemed to have been created by spirit for its chosen abode.
When silence had lasted some moments—
‘Now that I know he is dead,’ Emily resumed—oh, the sad music of the last word!—’I can bear to hear the manner of it without disguise. Will you tell me the whole truth, Mrs. Baxendale?’
It was spoken like herself. Ever clinging to sincerity, ever ready to face the truth of things, in how many a matter of less moment had the girl spoken with just this directness, inspiring respect in all who heard her clear, candid voice.
Mrs. Baxendale sank her eyes, and hesitated.
‘He died by his own hand,’ Emily said, below her breath.
The lady kept silence. Emily again closed her eyes, and, as she so lay, felt warm lips touch her forehead.
Mrs. Baxendale believed for a moment that the sufferer had lost consciousness, but the utterance of her name caused Emily to raise her lids.
‘Why did he do this?’ she asked, regarding her friend fixedly.
‘No one can say, dear.’
Emily drew a deep sigh; a gleam passed over her face.
‘There was an inquest?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it possible for me to see a newspaper in which it was reported?’
‘If you really desire it,’ said Mrs. Baxendale, with hesitation.
‘I do; I wish to read it. Will you do me that great kindness?’
‘I will bring it you in a day or two. But would it not be better to delay—’
‘Is there anything,’ Emily asked quickly, ‘that you have kept from me?’
‘Nothing; nothing.’
‘Then I need not put off reading it. I have borne the worst.’
As Mrs. Baxendale left the house, she was passed at a short distance along the road by a man on horseback. This rider gave a sign to the coachman to stop, and a moment after presented himself at the window of the brougham. It was Dagworthy; he wished to have news of Mrs. and Miss Hood. The lady gave him full information.
‘I fear I could not see Mrs. Hood?’ Dagworthy said.
‘Oh, she is far too ill!’ was the reply.
Having assured himself on this point, Dagworthy took his leave, and, when the carriage was remote, rode to the house. He made fast the reins to the gate, entered, and knocked at the door. A girl who did subordinate work for the nurses opened.
‘I want you,’ Dagworthy said, ‘to give this note at once to Miss Hood. You understand?—to Miss Hood. Will you do so?’
‘I will, sir.’
He went away, and, immediately after, Emily was reading these lines:
‘I wish to tell you that no one has heard, and no one ever will, of the circumstances you would desire to have unknown. I send this as soon as you are able to receive it. You will know from whom it comes.’
She knew, and the message aided her. The shook of what she had just heard was not, in its immediate effect, as severe as others had feared it would be. Perhaps Emily’s own sojourn at the gates of death lessened the distance between her and him who had passed them; perhaps the vast misery which lay behind her, the darkness threatening in the future, brought first to her mind death’s attribute of deliverance. This, in the hours that followed, she strove to dwell upon nothing could touch her father now, he was safe from trouble. But, as the current in her veins grew warmer, as life held her with a stronger hand and made her once more participant in his fears and desires, that apparition of the motionless veiled form haunted her with access of horror. If she slept it came into her dreams, and her waking thoughts strove with hideous wilfulness to unmuffle that dead face. When horror failed, its place was taken by a grief so intense that it shook the fabric of her being. She had no relapse in health, but
