'Not now, dearest,' said Wilmet, kissing him. 'You must be through with the worst, thank God.'
He asked no more, for his voice was low and faint, the pain and dizziness still considerable; and the being fed without raising himself occupied him till the doctor came for his evening visit, and confirmed the sister's comfort in his improvement. She sat gazing as he fell asleep again, till Captain Harewood reminded her that her letter to Ewmouth must be sent before the mail closed. She turned to the window, where still lay her anxiously-worded bulletin, not yet closed; but as she took the pen, the blinding tears fell thick and soft as the summer rain outside.
'This will be a happy ending,' said John Harewood, as he saw her silently striving to clear her sight.
'Would you be so very kind as to write it for me?' she answered, pointing to the paper, with a lovely smile through her tears. 'He will believe it all the more.'
And as he took the pen, she retreated in quiet swiftness to her little room; but came back as he finished the few freshly hopeful lines; then going to the door with him, looked up with the same sweet tremulous smile. 'Thank you! What thankfulness it is! What a merciful rain this is! If you knew the relief it is to send this report to Felix! You cannot guess what this dear little fellow is to him.'
'I think I can, a little,' said John Harewood, with his heart in his voice; and Wilmet smiled again, her stately but usually rather severe beauty wonderfully softened and sweetened by emotion.
The improvement continued when Clement arrived on the Sunday morning; and though fevered, confused, and beset by odd fancies, especially about the silence of the Cathedral, Lance knew his brother, smiled at him, and returned his greeting. Clement had a more cheerful task than usual in what seemed to be his day's work-answering inquiries at the door, and taking in presents of fruit. All the Chapter and half the town seemed to call, or send, at least once a day; and little boys used to hang about the court, too shy to come to the door, but waiting to collect tidings from the attendants, and mutually using strong measures upon one another when either was betrayed into noise.
Clement called his sister aside to ask whether she could spare him, since she had the help of the matron and the Harewoods. 'I should be very glad to stay,' he averred, 'but somebody is really wanted at home.'
Wilmet had not been so much accustomed to consider Clement in the light of 'somebody,' as greatly to care whether he went or stayed, and only said, 'I can get on very well. No one is of so much use as Captain Harewood.'
'Just so,' said Clement; 'and I think I am doing more good at home. Imagine my finding all the windows open in that pouring rain, and Cherry sitting shivering.'
'Very foolish of Cherry,' said Wilmet.
'Poor Cherry! she could not help herself, and was only thankful when I had the courage to shut them in Alda's face. Then they don't know what to do with Theodore.'
'Poor Tedo-that's the worst of it!'
'You see he is used to a man's hand and voice. He is very good with me, but Sibby has had dreadful work with him every night till I came home. And, Wilmet, couldn't you send a message who is to be mistress while you are away?'
'Alda, of course.'
'Alda doesn't seem to understand, and she will not let Cherry tell her.'
'Cherry always does bother Alda. I can't help it, Clem, they must rub on somehow and if you can make Theodore happy, the rest does not so much signify.'
Not signify! Clement did not know whether he was standing on his head or his heels, and never guessed that not only was she too much absorbed in the present thoroughly to realise the absent, but that she would not venture to send orders based on his report, which in her secret soul she qualified by his love of importance and interference. However, he went away, and was not seen again all the ensuing week-the early part of which was very trying, for the fever recurred regularly about noon and midnight, and always brought rambling, which since that conversation with Wilmet, had taken the turn of talking about being buried in a surplice, and of continually recurring to the 134th Psalm, which, it was now remembered, Lance had shortly before taken part in, over the grave of an old lay-vicar, who, boy and man, had served the Cathedral for nearly sixty years. Often, too, the poor little fellow seemed struggling with some sense of demerit-whether positive disgrace, or suspicion, or the general Christian feeling of unworthiness, Wilmet and John Harewood could never make out; and they did not choose to speak of these wanderings either to Will or to Mr. Beccles. In the intervals of consciousness, the thought of danger and death seemed to be lost in the weakness of exhaustion, and the dread of whatever brought back the pain, from which there was no respite except in cool air and perfect quiet. The least movement intensified it, and brought on the sickness that showed the brain to be still affected; and still worse was any endeavour to attend to the shortest and simplest devotions, when Mr. Harewood attempted them. Yet all the time there was amendment; the fever was every day less severe, the intervals longer, the sleep calmer, the doctor more securely hopeful; and by the end of a week from the time of the accident, recovery was beginning sensibly to set in.
Clement, meanwhile, did not appear; nor was he seen till the ensuing Monday, when he stood on the threshold of the open door at the Bailey, bewildered at the emptiness of the bed where he had last seen his brother-till a weak voice said, 'Here, Clem,' and he saw on another of the little old beds a small figure, in a loose soft white silk Indian robe de chambre, the face shrunken into nothing but overhanging brow and purple haloed eyes, though the eyes themselves were smiling welcome in all their native blueness and clearness, and two thin white hands were held out.
'Out of bed, Lance! That is getting on!'
'Yes. They thought I should be cooler, and sleep better for it.'
'And are you all alone?' said Clement, hanging over him.
'The maids are about somewhere. Wilmet is gone to the Cathedral, while Jack got me up.'
'Then you must be a great deal better.'
'Oh yes; I haven't had any of that horrid fever since Friday.'
'And the pain?'
'Better, if I lie quite still and it is not hot, but I couldn't stand a bit when I tried. I hardly know how Jack carried me here.'
'You are little and light enough,' said Clement; 'but I'll help to carry you back. I am sorry not to have been here more, Lance, but I was so much wanted at home.'
'Thank you, I didn't want any one. Jack is such a fellow; and Wilmet- -somehow, Clem, I never seem to have cared enough about W. W.'
'Nor I, till I saw what home is like without her,' murmured Clement.
'And isn't she beautiful, too?' added Lance; 'it is quite nice to lie and look at her at work. Don't you think her much better looking than Alda?'
'If handsome is that handsome does,' said Clement. 'You wouldn't like me to stay with you instead of Mettie, old chap?'
The helplessly alarmed look of illness came into Lance's eyes. 'Oh no, no; I couldn't spare Wilmet yet. She doesn't want to go?'
'No; I have said nothing to her; but Cherry is not well, and everything is at sixes and sevens; but there, never mind,' as the tears started into the sick boy's eyes, 'we'll manage; I should not have said anything about it.'
'Please don't,' said Lance. 'If she ought to go, let her, and don't tell me. I can't help it, Clem; I'm afraid to think if it ought to be, or I should make my head rage, and I should begin to talk nonsense again, and that s worst of all.'
'Do you know when you are talking nonsense?' said Clement, surprised, and eager to lead off from the subject he felt he ought not to have broached.
'Oh, yes, I know that it is not the right thing, and the right thing won't come; and the worst of it is,' lowering his already feeble voice, 'saving one's prayers is hardest of all; I can't remember what I know best. I couldn't so much as go through the Magnificat if you were to shoot me.'
'But holloa! They don't generally come out of the Cathedral this way, do they?'
'Who?'
'The Bishop! Ay, and the Dean! Speaking to Wilmet. I believe they are coming here. Lie still, Lance.'
'I must,' he acquiesced, after half raising himself and falling back. 'Oh, can it be about the prize? Some of that stuff on my forehead, please, Clem.'
