Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/90

9, 1864.] Jane saw that at the first glance. The slight movement she made caused him to open them: a joyful ray of gladness flashed into his countenance, and he feebly put out his hand. Jane sank on her knees, and burst into a wailing flood of tears as she clasped it.

“Oh, father, father!”

Who can tell how bitter was that moment to Jane Chesney? In spite of the marriage and the new wife, in spite of the estrangement and the separation, she had unconsciously nourished a secret hope, unacknowledged to herself openly, but not the less dear to her heart, that she and her father should come together again; that she should still be his dear daughter, living in the sunshine of his presence, ministering to his comfort as of old. How it was to be brought about, she never glanced at; but the hope, the prospect, had not been less cherished. And now—there he lay, but a few hours of life left to him! Had Jane’s heart not broken before, it would have broken then.

The day drags through, though storms keep out the sun.

And thus the heart will break, but brokenly live on.

Her head was bowed over him, and she allowed a few moments for the indulgence of her anguish. Her bonnet was off, and Lord Oakburn stretched over his other hand, and laid it fondly on her hair.

“Don’t fret, Jane. We must all make the port at last.”

“Oh, father, father!” she repeated, in agony, “is there no hope?”

“Not in this ship, Jane. But I’m going into a better one. One not made with human hands, child; one where the pumps don’t get choked or the timbers rotten. My voyage is nearly over, Jane.”

She sobbed piteously; she scarcely knew how to bear the hour’s trial.

“Father, are we to part thus, having been estranged all this while? Oh, father, forgive me for my rebellion; forgive me for all the grief I may have caused you; but I could not endure to feel nothing to you, to be a cipher in your home.”

“Child, what do you mean? You have not been rebellious to me; you must go to Laura for that. It did hurt you, Jane, I know, and I was vexed when I had done it; but you see, child, I wanted to have a direct heir, and now he is born. Forgive me, Jane, for the pain I caused you, but don’t you ask forgiveness of me; you, my dutiful child, who have ever been ready to put your hands under my feet. I might have set about it in a more ship-shape manner, have taken you into my counsels, and made it pleasant for all sides; and I wish I had. You see, I thought you wouldn’t like it, and I was a coward and did not speak. She has been a good wife to me, Jane; and she respects you, and would love you, if you’d let her.”

Jane did not answer. An attendant opened the door to see if anything might be wanted, but was waved away again.

“So Laura would not come, Jane?”

“She could not come,” sobbed Jane; “she was at Pembury. She is telegraphed for, and may be here by the next train.”

“Does he make her a good husband?”

“I think so; I hear nothing to the contrary. I do not go there,” added Jane, trying to subdue her aching heart, so as to speak calmly.

“And now, Jane, where’s Clarice? In this, my death-hour, she is more anxiously present to me than any of you. Has harm come to her?”

“Father, I don’t know where she is: I cannot think or imagine where. I begin to fear that harm has come to her; sometimes I feel sure of it.”

“In what shape?” asked the earl.

“Nay, how can I tell? Then again, I reason that she must be abroad: but the thought of her has become to me a wearing care.”

“However it maybe, I can do nothing,” panted the peer, “but, Jane, I leave her to you. Mind! I leave her to you! Spare no exertions to discover her; make it your object in life, until it is accomplished; keep that port always in view in your steering. And when you have found her give her my blessing, and tell her I have not been able to leave her well off, but that I have done what I could. You will give her a home, Jane, if she will not come to her step-mother?”

“As long as I have one, father.”

“Yours is secured, such as it is. Lucy”

The earl’s voice had been growing weaker, and now ceased altogether. Jane opened the door, and beckoned in the attendants, whom she found waiting outside.

“Oh, missee! oh, missee!” wept poor Pompey, likewise pressing forward, “massa never get up no more!”

The earl appeared to have sunk into a sort of stupor; they could scarcely tell whether it was stupor or sleep. When the medical men paid their next visit, they said he might go off in it, or might rally from it for a time. Jane sat in the room; she could not leave him. And thus the day passed on.

Passed on without bringing Laura. Jane wondered, much. Would she not come—as