Part 22 (1/2)

”If I might choose, papa,” replied Emmie, ”I would rather that you would take me to the cottage of Widow Brant.”

”Ah! that's your poor _protegee_, Emmie; I have not seen her at her cottage door lately. Is she recovering her health?”

”I scarcely know, papa,” replied Emmie faintly.

”I thought that you had taken her under your care, my love, that the poor creature has been supplied with food from our own table.”

”Mrs. Jessel has often been with some--at least--that's to say--I hoped--I thought that she went to the widow,” stammered forth Emmie.

Since the discovery that Jael was the wife and accomplice of Harper, Miss Trevor had lost even the small amount of confidence which she might once have felt in this woman.

Mr. Trevor looked rather surprised and annoyed at Emmie's evident confusion. ”I marvel, my child, that you should employ as your almoner and cottage visitor a person of whom we know so little,” said he.

”She offered herself,” observed Emmie, ”and I was afraid to refuse Mrs.

Jessel's services, lest I should give her offence. It was so foolish in me--so wrong! Poor Widow Brant is on my conscience, papa; but I do not like going alone to her cottage.”

”Then why not take our good Susan with you?” inquired Mr. Trevor.

Emmie's dread of Harper had been so greatly increased by the events of the preceding night, that she now felt Susan's company to be no efficient protection. The young lady renewed her request that her father should, at least on this one occasion, be her companion on her walk to the hamlet. She felt safe when leaning on his arm.

”These visits to sick women are not in my line,” observed Mr. Trevor, smiling, ”as I am neither doctor nor divine. I do not neglect my tenants; I am willing to help them according to my means; and am proving at this moment my care for their interests by involving myself, for their sakes, in a very troublesome affair. But in a cottage I own that I feel like a fish out of water. Never mind, however; as you wish it, I am ready to-day to be your escort; my only bargain is that you shall take all the talking, my love.”

The father and daughter soon set out together, sauntered along the shrubbery, and pa.s.sed through the outer gateway. Emmie glanced timidly at the almost tumble-down hovel of Harper. It was shut up. No firelight gleamed through the cracked panes of the single window, from the chimney issued no smoke. The maiden saw that the tenant of that hovel was not within it, and guessed but too easily that he was at that moment ensconced at his mysterious work in the haunted chamber. She could scarcely pay any attention to her father's conversation, and answered almost at random the questions which he occasionally asked.

The door of Widow Brant's cottage was not closed. The sound of several voices was heard within as the Trevors approached the humble dwelling.

Some women were in the cottage, and a gentleman in whom Mr. Trevor recognized the parish doctor of S----. The room was so small that the entrance of the two visitors made it seem crowded. Emmie's eye sought in vain for the widow, until she caught sight, in a corner of the room, of a form extended on a low bed, covered with clothes and rags instead of a blanket, and of a face on which were already visible the signs of approaching death.

”Why was I not sent for before?” said the doctor angrily to one of the neighbours; ”this is just the way with you all: you give yourselves up to a quack till you have one foot in the grave, and then send for the doctor, and expect him to work miracles for your cure! Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” said the medical man, interrupting himself, and raising his hat on perceiving the presence of Mr. Trevor and his daughter.

”Is there no hope for the poor woman?” asked the master of Myst Court in a voice too low to reach the ear of the patient. The doctor, in his reply, observed less consideration.

”The disease has gone too far--too far--and the poor creature's strength is exhausted. She cannot struggle through now. She has been half starved with hunger and cold, and has had neither proper care and medicine, nor the food which was absolutely necessary to keep up her vital powers. I can do nothing in this case--nothing!”

Emmie had but paused to hear the doctor's opinion, and then, with a heavy heart, she glided to the bedside and bent over the dying woman.

Emmie had but once before stood by a death-bed, and that was when she had been brought, while but a child, to receive a mother's last kiss and blessing. To Emmie the scene before her was inexpressibly solemn and sad.

The widow's life was ebbing away, but her mind was clear. ”I thought that you'd have come again,” were the faint words which struggled forth from her pale lips as she recognized the young lady.

Those words went to Emmie's heart like a knife. There had, then, been expectation and disappointment; the lady's visit had been watched for, hoped for, and it had not been made till too late! Hollow, wistful eyes were raised to Emmie's. Again the poor sufferer spoke, but so feebly that Miss Trevor had to bend very low indeed to catch the meaning of what she said.

”They say I'm dying--and death is so awful!” murmured the widow.

”Not to those who have given their hearts to Him who died for sinners!”

whispered Emmie softly in the sufferer's ear.

”I've had no one to tell me of these things, and I be not learned.

But--but I've not led a bad life; I've harmed no one,” said the dying widow, grasping, as so many unenlightened sinners do, at that false hope of safety which can only break in their hands.

”She's al'ays been a good neighbour, and a decent, respectable body!”