There was no more said at that time, but little by little the poor lady’s sorrowful tale was told. After Antony’s failure she had returned to her father’s house. “But I soon found myself in every one’s way,” she said, mournfully. “I had not done well for the family—they were disappointed. I was interfering with my younger sisters—I had no money—I was an eye-sore, a disgrace. And little Harry was a trouble. The younger children mocked and teazed him. The day before I left a servant struck him, and my mother defended the servant. Then I thought of you. I thought you loved the child, and would not like him to be ill-used when I can no longer love him.”
“I do love him, Evelyn; and no one shall ill-use him while I live.”
“Thank God! Now the bitterness of death is passed. There is nothing else to leave.”
The boy was a lovely boy, inheriting his father’s physique with much of his mother’s sensitive refined nature. He was a great joy in the silent, old house. He came, too, just at the time when Elizabeth, having conquered the first great pangs of her sorrow, was needing some fresh interest in life. She adopted him with all her heart. He was her lost brother’s only child, he was the prospective heir of Hallam. In him were centered all the interests of the struggle she was making. She loved him fondly, with a wise and provident affection.
It scarcely seemed to pain Evelyn that he clung to Elizabeth more than to herself. “He cannot reason yet,” she said, “and instinct leads him to you. He feels that you are strong to love and protect him. I am too weak to do any thing but die.” She was, indeed, unable to bear his presence long at a time; and his short visits to the silent, darkened chamber were full of awe and mystery to the sensitive child. In a month it became evident that the end was very near. She suffered much, and Elizabeth left her as little as possible. She was quite dependent upon her love, for Elizabeth had notified the dying lady’s family of her dangerous condition, and no action of any kind was taken upon the information.
One night Evelyn seemed a little easier, and Harry stayed longer with her. Martha came three times for the child ere she would consent to let him go. Then she took the pretty face in her hands, gave it one long gaze and kiss, and shut her eyes with a painful, pitiful gasp. Elizabeth hastened to her side; but she knew what was passing in the mother’s heart, and presumed not to intermeddle in her sorrow. But half an hour afterward, when she saw heavy tears steal slowly from under the closed eyelids, she said, as she wiped them, gently away,
“Dear Evelyn, why do you weep?”
“For my poor little wasted life, love; what a mistake it has been. I do not remember a single happiness in it.”
“Your childhood, Evelyn?”
“I think it was saddest of all. Children miss happiness most. My childhood was all books and lessons and a gloomy nursery, and servants who scolded us when we were well, and neglected us when we were sick. I remember when I had scarlet fever, they used to put a little water and jelly on a chair beside me at night, but I was too weak to reach them. What long hours of suffering! What terrors I endured from many causes!” “Forget that now, dear.”