Page:Once a Week Volume 5.djvu/17

7 of the sick woman, until daylight began to dawn.

Then the three watchers thought there was a change. Her lips moved, unintelligent sounds escaped them, life seemed to be re- turning — life without reason. Presently her voice was louder, her utterance more distinct. Her mind wandered, not in the ravings of madness over troublous events and painful times, but rather seemed to roam over the scenes of her infancy, in country places and green fields.

Her speech was not coherent, many of her words were unintelligible to those about her bed, but ever and anon her voice rose and became painfully distinct. She called " Father !" now ; now, at her mother's knee, a little child again, she said, in a low sweet voice, which one at least of those three watchers never for- got, scraps of hymns her baby voice had doubtless often sung in peace, and far, far away. And she was very young now, and very fair, with long flaxen hair and delicately chiselled features, and a form of perfect symmetry.

Softer and softer her voice became, and she spoke at longer and longer intervals, till, in the early dawn of the New Year's-day, she lay calm and composed, and her blue eyes were closed in sleep.

Seeing this, the nurse left the room: the surgeon and the landlady watched by the pillow of the sufferer still.

She slept about an hour. When her eyes unclosed, she seemed to have recovered her senses, for she looked wistfully about her. Her wishes were understood — they placed her baby by her side: she gave it one gentle caress, one long loving look from her large tearful blue eyes, then murmuring in a low, sweet voice —

"Through life's long day, through death's dark night, Oh! gentle Jesus, be our light" —

she sank upon her pillow into a soft slumber.

When the grim nurse returned, her Spirit had departed from Earth.

The same pale cold daylight of the New Year's morn that penetrated into the chamber of death, in Wilderness Row, streamed in through the casements of Robert Mortimer's chamber, in Grosvenor Square.

The dawn of New Year's-day is a holy time and should give birth to holy thoughts; not such were his. He had spent the night in un- righteous vigil — the unrumpled bedclothes plainly told that he had not sought his couch; wrapped in a dressing-gown, and seated before the fire in an easy-chair, his hands held a book before him, but his thoughts were not on the volume; — he sat like Richelieu awaiting François' packet.

Pale, anxious, agitated, his careworn face displayed the perturbed working of his mind; every nerve was racked, every sensibility stretched to the furthest compass; no need now to maintain the appearance of composure—nobody could see him: he sat listening to every sound, as the wild animal caught in a snare listens to the approaching footsteps of the trapper. With aching head, parched lips, moist brow, and trembling damp hands, he sat and listened.

At the sound of wheels in the street he rose with a start, drew back his curtains, and stared out.

The busy world was Avaking to life and action. He put out his lights and continued to stand at the window. It was such a morning as New Year's morning should be, bright, clear, and frosty; but its brightness brought no cheer to him. The milkman was leaving his milk at a neighbouring house, and saluting a rosy-cheeked kitchen maid on the area-steps with a hearty "Wish you a happy new year, my lass." Robert Mortimer closed his window with a growl. It was chilly, and he sat down again before his fire. At length the church clocks struck nine. A quick light footstep was heard on the stair. Mortimer opened the door, and admitted Brady.

"Well, what news?"

"Dead, sir."

Robert Mortimer clasped his brow with his hands and seated himself on his bed.

"Died at eight this morning, sir," Brady continued, after a brief silence.

"Her brat? " said Mortimer, looking up and darting an eager glance at Brady.

"Doing well enough, I believe, sir," replied his imperturbable servant.

There was another brief interval of silence. Then Mortimer started up from his seat and began to unfasten the girdle of his dressing-gown.

Brady advanced to the door of the chamber.

"Say nothing of all this, Brady," said his master, slowly and emphatically. " You know something of my reasons; more of my purposes than I have told you. There is nothing lost by being trustworthy in my service; of that