CHAPTER XIV. "THE FIRST DARK DAY OF BITTERNESS."

Waikato Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2134, 13 March 1886, Page 1 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XIV. " THE FIRST DARK DAY OF BITTERNESS."

Tjik house seemed very quiet for the next few days — very still and silent. There were no merry voices of cl.ildren heard in the lower 100 ms ; no tumbles on the old broad staus. Bonny, the little one, the darling, lay tossing on her fevered bed, and Mrs Manners and Mis-> Williams crept about with noiseless footsteps, and spoke in anxious whispers during the long hours of their painful watch. From the \ery first, Mr Ruthyen, the doctor, had said it wis a bad case, and as day aft°r day passed a way with no change for the better, so did hope turn her bright face to the wall, and sickening fear and terrible doubts began to (iil the poor mother's sinking heart. Only at rare intervals Bonny was now sensible ; waking up sometimes and talking of "Hugh's tree,' her doll, and " Georgie ;" and once or twice she asked where the others were. But, m general, a kind of stupor seemed to oppress her, and on the seventh day after her seizure, the doctor beckoned Mias Williams out when he was leaving the «>ick room. 1 It's as well it were broken to poor Mrs Manners,' he said in a loud whisper, after closing the door behiud them ; ' there's no hope, the child will die.' 1 Oh, doctor !' • There's no hope,' he repeated. ' I've done what I could ; but if they'd like other advice, well and good ; but it's no use.' ' How cau I tell it ?— How can I tell poor Mrs Manners ?' ' Tell the Vicar, that would be the best way,' said the doctor, putting on his gloves. ' It's as well they bhould know —she won't last twenty-four hours. And he took up his hat and went away, reading his newspaper as he was duven to his next patient. ' Oh, Mr Manners !' said Mis 3 Williams, a minute afterw.wds, opening the door of the study, her eyes sti earning with tears. ' What !' said the Vicar, stirtin.* up. ' Is Bonny worse ?' 1 How can I tell you ?' answered Miss Williams, holding out her hand to him. ' Our darling is dying.' 'What!' and the Vicar's face grew pale. He never cared to hear of death or danger, and Bouuy was his favourite — his youngest. • Dr Ruthyen has just told me so.' • He's a fool ' said the Vicar, excitedly, ' a confounded fool ! I'll telegraph to George at once to bring out a physician from Oldcastle.' 'Mr George is in London.' 'To be sure— how stupid of him going off at a moment's notice. Ruthyen is a fool to go and say such a thing. Does poor Nelly know ?' 'No T could not tell her. Oh, Mr Manners, do not go away, I cannot be left ;' for the Vicar was gathering up his things in preparations for departure. ' I must, Miss Williams. Don't stop me ; I am going to the statiou to telegraph to Oldcastle for a doctor.' 1 And poor Mrs Manners ?' 'Don't tell her. Tell her he doesn't think her quite so well; that's enough.' And Mr Manners hurried upstairs to change his coat, while Miss Williams was left alone with her tei rible news. ' What did the doctor say ?' inquired the eager mother, the moment she reappeared in the sick-ioom. 'He does not think her quite so well this morning,' answered Miss Williams, struggling for composure. ' Not so well ? Ob, Amy !* and the colour faded completely out of the poor mother's face, and she fell down on her knees by the little bed, praying aloud— 'Oh God spare her — spare my darling — my little one. Oh God ! have mercyhave mercy upon us !' That cry of anguish, so loud and so bitter, seemed somehow to reach even the dulled ears of the motionless and dying child, for the next moment Bonny opened her dim eyes and gazed wildly round ; throwing up her arms and struggling as if for breath. • What is it, my darling ?' saiil Mrs Mauners, rising and lifting her up. ' Don't let me go, mamma !' cried Bonny; 'don't let me go!' But the mother's fond arms could no longer hold her darling, aud after a few brief struggles Bonny passed silently away. 'She — she is better now,' said Mrs Manners, laying her head gently down on the pillow after all was still. 'Come away, dear Mrs Manners,' said Amy Williams, weeping — 'come away, our little augel is gone.' •What?' cried the mother in a loud voice; 'what, dead? — No, no, no — wake up, my darling — wake, Bonny, wake !' And she lifted the child once more in her arms. Wake, my darling — it is mamma, mamma ; I won't let you go, I won't let yon go !' But the little one J a dim eyes again slowly opened, and with a shriek the wretched mother s>aw the truth, and fell in strong convulsions on the floor. Miss Williams scarcely knew how the rostof that wretched day was spent. Mrs Manners went from one fit into the other, and at night was pronounced by the doctor to be in a high fever — to bo in danger — and the vicar heerned quite stutined and incapable of action. ' Will you telegraph for George r' said Miss Williaius at last to him, and ho eagerly seized on this relief. ' Yes, yes, to be suiv. Why did you not think of it before ?He said. ' I'll net Jim to drive me to the -4 itioa ;' and he huriied out. and Mis»s Williams remained alone with the delirious women, calling in piteous accents for her dead child. ' Sir Hugh is come, Mib«, and wants to pee you,' said a servant presently, entering the room. 'He s>ent this cud,' and she held on*- a few pencilled lines. ' Come down and speak to me for a moment,' he bad written ; and after a slight hesitation Miss Williams complied with his request. Sir Hugh was standing in the Jiuingroom as hhe went in, and be advanced to meet her, holding out his hund. 'No, it is bettor noi,' said Miss Williams, drawing back ; 'you have heard the new?, I suppose ?' ' The little girl is de id; bur what about poor Mrs Manners ? I hearth it s>he has also taken the fever.' • She is very ill.' 'I am truly sorry, I heard so, and came at once, CJau I do anything for you ? Telegraph for doctoib — or anything' you want ? I think Mrs Manner j bhould have further advice.' • The Vicar was just goinsr to te^jfraph to Qldcastle this morning when B->uny

died ; and now lie seoms hardly to unierbtund what to d<i.' ' I will go myself if you wiih it.' ' You .ire veiy good, Sir Hugh. You mi»hr, p 1 haps,' telegraph if you know of .uiv onu jou would like to hee her. The Viet; lias <iono to the station to do so to Oeorjro now.' ' I will m> at onco then to meet him, and we can consult who to sent for. Is there any elso I can do ? Pray command me if there is,' ' No, I think nothing — but, Sir Hugh, I thank you — ior thinking of us iv our giief.' ' I am n>. t quito «o black aa I'm painted, peibaps — as well as another gentleman we know of. 1 said Sir Hugh, smiling and hoiding her hand. ' Good nivht, Mi**Williams, I think it is I who ought thank you, for acting a daughter's part to my uncle-, poor wife np-tairs.' And Sir Hugh took up hi» (r p and went away ; and the gowrness etond for a fow minutes after he was gone with a thoughtful and anxious face. All the next day Mrs Manners continued veiy ill, and the next as well. Then she grew weaker and quieter ; and the doctor fiom Oldcabtle, whom Sir Hugh and the Vicar had sent for, and who now oamo each morning to meet the countiy practitioner, began to look very gravo. ' It is .1 critical ci c e," he said, and left minute diieclioiis, and enquired of Miss Williams if she wero the invalid's daughter. ' You are not quite strong enough for this work, I .see," ho -aid, looking at Mis-< Williams' white seared faco in morning light. ' You \\ ant iv^t. If Mrs Manners is not better to-monow, I shall send a uursp out by the evening train.' MIV 3 Williams was, iv tiutb, utterly worn out ; for, added to her anxiety : about Mis Manners, all the painful details ! of poor Bonny's funeral had also fallen on her hand:?. The Vicar sat in his study the mosi part of the day, and declared he could not see after it ; that ho was utterly overcome, and consoled himself with constant supplies of whisky toddy ; scarcely ever going up to the sick room beside his wife. ' His feelings were too much for him," he said, and Miss Williams was obliged to look after everything herself. There is nothing more painful and trying to our frail frames than continuous night nursing. In vain the poor governess, on the third night of Mrs Manners' illness, tiiod to keep her eyes open. Close they would bi'foie the hour the housemaid had pioini-ed to relieve her ; and the tick, tick of tin- ci'.ik on the mantelpiece was growing i'aintui to her ears, when she suddenly Waited, for she heard a step on the gravel beneath, and, at once rousing up, listened to the gcutlo ring of the door bell, and fi'lt almost &ure that George Manners had arrived. A few nunutch later and she heard his footsteps on the stairs ; and then there came a low rap at the door, and when she rose to open it George Manners stood before her, and silently held out his hand. ' Is she better ?' he whispered. ' .She is quieter — yes, perhaps a little better," said Mi?<s Williams. ' Will you come in. She will not hear yon." George follow ed Miss Williams to his fetep-mother's bedside, and stood for a moment or two looking at her, as if he were wondering at the change. ' Is the asleep ?' he said at last touohing her hand. 1 1 think not • she generally lies lfke that now."' 4 And you ?' said Mr Manners, turning round and fixing his eyes on Miss Williams' face. • Oh I— l'm ' I About done. I see. Have you no nur«e ?' 4 Dr. Phillips will send one to-morrow, he said, if Mrs Manners is not better. But I hopo bhe will not be needed, But come downstairs for a few minutes now. I will tell Ann to come hore ; she is sitting up.' •Very well,' said Gsorge Manners, and ho left the room. Miss Williams went into her room, and bathed her face, when the servant came, before s'ce went down to him. She was conscious, perhaps, how nights of anxiety and watchiug had told on her appearance, and did not caie that he should see her looking so wan and ill. Geoige was standing by tho diningroom fire when she entered the ioo:n, and an easy-chair was pushed clo'e to the hearth. 4 Come and sit here, 1 ho said. • I want yon to tell me all about them ; but first take this.' And he filled a glass with some wine and handed it to hex-. 4 Thauk yon,' said Miss Williams wearily. 'Oh, I'm so glad, so thankful you are come.' • Drink the wine, and don't speak for a few minutes. I got the telegram in Essex late last night. I was staying out of town — that is the reason I did not come hero.' I 1 have scarcely known what to do.' 4 Where are the resb ?' •At Sir Hugh's.' And George frowned as .she spoke. 4 That's .some of Adelaide's arrangement, of course,' ho said. 4 No ; Sir Hugh came the moment he heard poor Bonny was ill, and wanted everyone to go. 1 4 And you did not ?' 4 How could I have left your mother F George wis silent. 4 1 am only too thankful if I have bsen of any use to her,' went on Miss Williams. 1 1 am very grateful to you.' 4 You need not say that.' ' But you are not fit to do it,' said Georgo looking at her. ' Hive you seen a doctor ?' 4 1 "see thorn every day, of coarse.' 4 1 mean about yourself ?' 4 Oh, no !' 4 Then you should ; you look utterly worn out. What has my father been doiag-, so entirely to neglect you ?' 4He felt poor Bonny's death so much. But you, Mr Manners —you don't look well. Are yon very tried ?' 4 1 am well enough ; don't yon mind about wo.' Miss Williams made no reply, but sighed deeply, and Georgo, as he beard it, turned hi>« head sharply away. • Would you liko to see Bonny ?' she asked in a few minutes. 4 Is — the poor child — is ' and he stopped. 4 She is to be buried to-morrow. She is lying in her little coffin in the nursery.' 'It is not right for you to go,' said Geoige, abruptly. 4Oh ! I've been there constantly. I've never left her, or your poor mother.' 'You — you are ' and George paused, and bit his lip«, and Miss Williams «aw ho was trembling violently. 4 Not po very bad, peihaps,' she said gently, with a smile, holding out her hand to him. ' Come George, let us go and look at our little darling.' But George did not take the hand she held to him, but merely followed her from tho room Bonny's coffin was lying on the little bed whore sho had died. It was not closed, and the lovely small waxen face within looked lovelier than it had ever done in life. For a few minutes George stood silently looking at her ; then in that stern voice, whioh with him indicated much emotion, he said — 4 How like Milly she is — too liko !' 4 Yes.' 'Did she suffer much?' he asked presently. 'Oh no! Oh, I don't think ao ; she struggled a little at the end.' 4 She has escaped early,' said Georg-3,

stooping down and kis.-tiutr h^r. "Jood bye, Bonny — good-byp, litll" Bonny.' And A ny Williams noticed ho left a ten on tho fair white face. <I Go id-byo, Bonny !' she "aid, and she also kii-od tho o<>M th'jclc, mil the 11 Gaorgo waited for her, .aid locked the door behind her sis she went out ' You must go to bed now,' lif said, ' I am going to sit up with my mother.' 4 No, indeed.' 'I mean to do so. You must have a night's rest.' ' But after your journey ?' 1 1 am not tired,' he answered ; 'and I've much to think of.' And lie held out his hand to her, and as li" did &o, she noticed how care-worn and alteied he looked. 'Good night,' he said, and without another word he turned away. She slept so soundly, taing utterly worn out with fatigue, th.it fcho never awoke until a servant brought up hei breakfast on the following morning. 'Mr George snid I was to say lie hoped you weie better, miss.' said the girl. 4 Yes,' answered Miss Williams, and see put hw hands up to her head and swoolJeu eyes 'The joiner's j ming to screw down tho coffin at ten, miss ; is that light :' These woids restored her to some energy. 'How can I lie here,' «ho th night, ' and leave him all this pain ?' i v. ill qe f up at once, Jane,' she said, ' and sac about everything ' 'Oh ! but please miss, Mr George said you hadn't to get up— at least th it 1 had to light your fire first— and the pokei'sin to do it.' ' Never mind the fire ; I'll soon be dressed.' But it made her heart lighter to think he had not forgotteu a trifle like this. She found the Vicar and his son sitting together over their breakfast, downstairs. 'How are you, my dear?' said the Vicar rising and holding out a shaking hand to her as she entered. ' I don't know what I should have done without her, George !' he continued, in a sudden burst of gratitude. ' She has been what Adelaide ought to have been— she has taken a daughter's place.' 'I am sure I have done nothing — only my duty to those who have been so kind to me,' said Miss Williams. 'I'll say no more ; but I won't forget,' answered the Vicar. As long as I have a house over my head, you are welcome to the place you have taken there— a daughter's place.' George rose abruptly from the table as his father said this, and went to the window, looking out at the cold grey sky. 1 You've seen all about the sad arrangements, I suppo.se, my dear V continued the Vicar. ' Yes, I hope so.' ' Have you asked any one ? Yon will have asked Hugh, of course.' 'No, I never thought ot it.' ' Oil ! that's a pity. Hugh should have been asked ; the head of the house, you Bee. I'm afraid he'll think it odd. Don't you think so, George ?' 'What folly !' said George, angrily, turning round, 'as if a man like Hugh cared a straw for all the poor children in the world.' 'But there' 3 a certain etiquette, my dear fellow.' ' Then I think you should have seen to it,' muttered George. 4 Well, well, it's too late now. You'll give all the directions to the men,' Miss Williams ?' 'I will, father; excuse mo,' said George, coming forward to the table; 1 but a delicate woman like Miss Williams is not the proper person. I will see everything is right, if you'— and ho turned to Miss Williams— ' will stay with my mother, nnd try and not to let her know that anything unusual is going on in the house ?' 'I will gladly do so,' she answered 4 What do you think of Mrs Manners ?' she added. ' And how did she pass the night?' ' She knew me as the day broke,' said George ; 4 and seemed pleased to find m«> at home. I hope and trust she is going to pull through. I think the worst is ovci.' 4 1 could not bear it if anything were to happen to her,' said the Vicar. ' Poor thing ! she has been an excjllent wife to me ?' And the Vicar who really looke I much scaied and shaken, shuHied in his slippers out of the room. 4 Poor father !' said George, looking after him with a smile ; 4 how tender he is to his own feelings — how considerate to himself !' Miss Williams smiled also. 4 It's a good thing to carry about with one in the world, I think,' she said. 4 What, selfishness?' 'A little, I mean.' 'I am sorry to hear you say so. ' No, it is a bad thing— it saps, I think, every noble and generous feeling of the heart.' 'Ah, but the human heart is such a strange thing ; it is impossible to account for it.' 1 Yes, you may well say so.' 4 But I must go now, and see after Mrs Manners.' 4 Yes ; keep everything from her that you can, and — and, Miss Williams, before you go, there is one thing — I would not have you tbink that I am not grateful.' 'Indeed, you have" no reason to le so.' 'Let m- judge of that; and thoiurh selfishness h a bad thing I ,' he added, with a kind of smile, ' don't quite forget yourself. Yon really look very ill.' Ho walked up and down tho room t. >mc minutes after she had left, aud then, with a heavy high, went out to see about his little sister's grave. Two men were digging it in the churchyard when he got there ; the one who was inside, his head nearly level with the sod, was whistling at his work. 4 Well, my men,' said George, somewhat sternly. He forgot for the momont that his grief was not their*. 4 Well, M niter George — it's cold this morning,' said tho man in the tu-ivc. looking up. 4So the little oue'a gat away How's the mistress ?' 4 She is better,' said Georgo, turning aside. 4 See that everything is ready in an hour,' he added, and hold out some silver to the men, feeling unreasonably augry at their indifforeneo. 4 Yet they havo seen her a thousand times,' ho thought bitterly — ' tho merry little child, so boon to lie in that cold bed!' As he was leaving the graveyard ho met Sir Huarh Manners. 4 1 hear little Bonny ii to be butied this morning, George,' he said, holdinsr ou'u his hand — ' I should like to come.' And George could not refuse his hand to tho man who made the kindly ofrVr. 4 They talked something about asking you,' he murmured in reply, 4 but poor Mi"-8 Williams ' ' Has behaved like a brick ! Upon my word, I am beginning- to think ' and Sir Hugh stopped suddenly. 4 Will you come into the homo ? • said George. 4 But perhaps you had better not.' ' Adelaide goes on like a wild thins if I go near. She declared I had brought infection the other night, when I Haw Miss Williams for a few minutes.' ' Ye*.' 'I saw her when I heard poor Mrs Manners had taken ill. She asked me to telegraph to Oldcastle for Dr. Philips.' ' Didn't ray father do that ?' said George quiokly ' My dear fellow, you? father will go

tho way ot my fathor if he doesn't take earo. I expect he'll have an attack of delirium ticmcn.s before long. He was in a tughtful state at the station the other night.' ' H'i\v disrrnreful!' It's, to diown hit, griet, I suppose,' said Sir Husrh, with n laugh; then weeing (I 'oiijt'% look of pnin, he added, 'but I am tmly sorry .il>i>ut tho littlo girl.' ' And Milly r' ,i-ked Gtorge. ' What a lovely child thdt is. They talk about angels — she * as good as one my day of tha week. What an unselfish, pine little thing! I sit and look at her tor hours. I wish there were more like her.' ' She's a dear littlo girl ; givo her my love.' ' You v/on't be allowed to como up for a few days to see us, I .suppose?" 'No; I'll ictiiru to Oldcjstlo as soon as I nee how Mis Manueis' illness turns ' 'Siio is a kind cie.ttuie, people say,' .said Sir Hugh ; ' and tell your little governess ' ' Good morning,' said George, abruptly, interrupting him; 'I have some things to sec; after. The funeral, if you really wish to come, i> at one o'clock ;' and Sir Hugh, taking the hint, nodded to his cousin, and turned back on his w ay to the Hall, It was, iciimug heavily , when they iMrried the little child away. Rim, niixiJ with drifting sleet and snow, beat on tho few mouruerb as they .stood round the iiaiiow grave. Sir Hugh Manuers « .uno, tud Gcoigo, and all the old servant*. Who was thcie el-e? The true mourner — guui -stricken mother — lay unconscious upstair*, and who el->e cared that another little child was gone ? ' Good-bye, Hugh,' said George, holding out hia hand, as they were leaving tho grave, with something of bia old manner towards his cousin. ' Good-bye ; I thank you for coining.' ' Good-bye, old fellow,' answered Sir Hugh, and they paited at the church gates.' George shivered as he walked home, and shivered when he reached it, and tried to warm himself by the blazing fire. Tho Vicar retired at once to his study, from whence a faint odour of hot whisky and water presently issued ; and George felt utterly miserable and depressed. ' Why are wo born,' he thought bitteily, 'always, always to suffer? Them seems no end to it on earth.' And he sat down, crouching close to the fire. Presently, however, some one rapped at the door, and he lifted his head to bid the applicant enter. ' Gome in,' he said, and the door opened, and Miss Williams, diessed in jionrniiig, came and stood beside him. '1 siw you come home,' sho s.aid. ' I was watchiug. So it is all over Y ' Yes.' ' How did tho Vicar go through it ?' ' He read the service with great expression.' ' Oh, Mr Manneis!' ' Well, don't you believe mo ?' ' I don't know.' ' Will you sit down ? How are you ?—? — You look very pale. Jane tells me my mother has never fatirred since we went out.' ' No, poor thing.' ' She will get better, I hope. ' Yes,' and there was an embarrassing pause. ' I— l hope they soe after you ?' presently said Miss Williams, glancing louud ; ' you have not Mrs Manners now. 1 ' Yes, thank you ; everything is all light, except my head,' he added, with a sort of laugh.' ' Does it ache ?' ' Yes, horribly.' ' I am very sorry— George have you forgiven me yet?' And she held out her hand to him — he sitting there by the fire, and she standing in her black dress by his side. He made no answer, but he held her hand — held it as if half unconsciously — bonding down his head still lower, till his dark hair touched her dress. 'You judge me hirshly,' said Mifes Williams. ' I want you to believe that ?' ' Very well,' said he, almost in a whisper. 'Ihavoso few friends,"" sho went on, ' I cannot afford to lose you.' George gave a heavy sigh.' ' Besides, X—lX — I think it grieves you to think ill of me. George, do not do so any more' ' Don't,' said George Manners, rising histily, 'don't speak to me— dou'fc look at me like that.' 1 1 did not mPcin to aunoy you.' ' I feel wretchedly ill, and out of sorts — partly with fatigue, I suppose, and I'm not up to any — well, painful discussions to-day.' ' I do not wish to have any — only I wish jouto say just onee — I forgive you.' ' Well,' said he, comiug to her eide, ' I forgive you.' ' And we are friends !' And she once more held,out her hand. ' Amy, you ask too much.' ' No,' she said earnestly, ' I do not, George, I cannot do without your friendship now.' ' He looked at her long ana earnestly after she said this, and then slowly put his hand into hers. ' Let it be as you will,' he said. ' I cannot look at you and not trust you. Gome to me always, as you would do to a brother.' ' You have made me very happy,' answered Amy William*, with a soft, fond smile. ' Good-bye for the present—goodbye my brother George.' (To be continued.)

A fUinCTK JO A NEW WIFE. Dear wife and perfect fiiend, my household queen, With watchful care making my home so dear, That all my work mere pastime doth appear, If but thy fairy face in my room be seen, And the soft voice's tmiMC intervene Like melody itself the brain to clear Of o'er^pun tissue of thought's atmosphere By gracious fancies whore God's hand hath bean ! Man caunot rise, or mi I th.nk, to heights Where spirits pure as thine unconscious move, Till'that white Verity's exceeding lights The' grosser spirit I*,1 *, e.uthly stain reprove. And the botcingel of Jehovah-, lights Arm us Anew with his whole armour — Lo\ c. The study of the drink question in Switzei land brings out some inteiesting fact-.. It is found that alcohol is most largely consumed in the cantons where wa^es arc lowest and the people poorest. The following amusing anecdote of Richatd Wagner and Alexaudre Dumas pi'ia is toLl by M. Ch. Monselet: Richard Wanner generally received his visitors in mediiuvul costume*, such as he always wore when composing. Alexandre Dunas, calling on him one day, was highly amused at the masquerade. "You are all dressed up to play Gessler," said Dumas, with his good natured laugh, which rather hurt the feelings of the author of "Tannhauser," who nerertheless returned M. Dumaa' visit when next lie was at Paris. After some considerable delay M. Dumas appears, at last, diessed magnificently in a dressing gown w ith a large flower pattern, a helmet with flying plumes, a life-belt round his waist and enormous riding-boots. " Pardon me,'" said he, majestically, " for appearing in my working costume. I can do nothing without being dressed in this manner ; half of my ideas live in the helmet, and the other half are lodged in my boots, which are indispensable to me wheu I write my love scenes." 4