Antony looked at him and divined what he was going to say. “She is worse, doctor?” he whispered.
“She is well, sir. Well, forever!”
Then, with such a cry as could only come from a wounded soul, Antony fled upstairs. Rose sank into the nearest chair. She had not yet any clear conception of her misery. But in a moment or two, Antony returned with his little dead daughter in his arms. He was weeping like a woman; nay, he was sobbing as men sob who have lost hope.
“Oh, my darling!” he cried. “My little comforter! 238 My lost angel!” and with every exclamation he kissed the lovely image of Death. Straight to the trembling, dazed mother he took the clay-cold form, which had already been dressed for its burial. And when Rose understood the fact, she was like one awakening from a dream—there was a moment’s stupor, a moment’s recollection, a moment’s passionate realization of her loss; and then shriek after shriek, from a mind that suddenly lost its balance and fell from earth to hell.
Fortunately, the physician was at hand, and for once Antony left Rose to his care. His sympathy seemed dead. He had borne until his capacity for suffering was exhausted. He lay down on the nursery couch, close to his dead child, and God sent him the sleep He gives to His beloved when the sorrow is too great for them. On awakening he found Mrs. Filmer at his side. She was weeping, and her tears made Antony blind also. He drew his hands across his eyes, and stood up, feeling weak and shattered, and ill from head to feet.
“Antony,” said Mrs. Filmer, “you have behaved nobly this day. I cannot thank you as I would like to.”
“Emma is dead!” he answered. “Dear mother, that is all I can bear to-night. Such a sad, little, suffering life! If I could only have suffered for her! If I could only have been with her at the hour. I watched for that favor. I grudged to leave her, even to eat or sleep—and I missed it after all! For I hoped at the moment of parting to have some vision or assurance that her tender little soul would not have to pass alone through the great outer space and darkness. Where is she now? Who is her Helper? Will Christ indeed carry her in his bosom until her small feet reach the fields of Paradise? Mother! mother! I am 239 broken-hearted this night. Who was with her when she died?”
“It seems that she died alone. The nurse thought she was asleep, and she went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. When she came back Emma was dead. The doctor says she had a fit and died in it.”
“No one to help her! No one to kiss her! It is too cruel! My dear one would open her eyes at last and find no father—no mother—no one at all to say ‘good-bye’ to her!”
“Come, come, Antony! The doctor thinks she never recovered consciousness. He says she did not suffer. You have saved Rose. Go and say a word to her. She is in despair.”