I felt a Pang, but it was for her, not myself. Poor Prue found herself deserted! All my old Love for her resumed its Strength; but there was no Time now for Pity or Complaint—I rose up, saying, "Well, I will go up-Stairs now; keep yourself up, dear Prue; there's no knowing how much your Strength may be wanted."
"There is not, indeed," said she, bursting into Tears afresh. I could not stand this—I said, "Come, Prue, come, ..." and put my Arm about her, and she laid her Head on my Shoulder. I was obliged to gulp down my own Tears, but I said gently, "This will never do—we must not give way—Only think how much more poor Father, and dear Mother too, have to bear than we have. You must give over Crying, for indeed I cannot go up till you do."
"You may go now," says she, wiping her Eyes and smiling up at me, "for, strange as it may seem to you, I'm the better for this Cry. Go up now, go softly; and send dear Mother down to me presently, if you can, for she needs Rest and Refreshment."
I said, "I will," and went up. My Father was dozing when I entered—my Mother sitting beside him, with her Hands clasped on her Knee. As soon as she saw me, she mutely held out her Arms without rising; and the next Instant I was folded to her Heart. We spoke a little in Whispers; and for a While I thought not nor desired to persuade her to go. At length I did; and she, after a little Resistance, yielded; for she was very much exhausted. I quietly took her Place, and remained in it a long While, inactive in Body, but with a Mind how busy!
Home, at last! and to a Scene how changed! Everything as still and quiet as on Larkfield Moor! He that had been the Life of many a noisy, convivial Party, laid low—perhaps rapidly drawing nigh an unknown World. My Mother, roused from her incapable State by strong Affection; Prue, loving me again, and in Tears—Mr. Fenwick gone!
What a Dream this World seems sometimes! Besides, my Head was mazed with my Journey, and I was stiff with so much Jolting, and the Closeness and Warmth of the Chamber after the biting Cold of the outer Air made me feel drowsy. But I would not yield to it.
A Coffin flew out of the Fire. I was thankful not to be superstitious. But yet I'd as lief it had been a Purse.
I thought of Gatty's lone Watch; and how much harder her Post was than mine. I was not incurring personal Danger in the Service of an imperious, unfeeling Patient; I was not separated from a Mother and Sister whom I loved; I was watching over some one very dear to me. Thinking of her and of my Father and Mother, I framed my Thoughts to Prayer. Suddenly my Father, without opening his Eyes, murmured, "Delia! Give me your Hand!... Poor Delia, I have been very untoward to thee—"
Silently, I placed my Hand in his. Cordelia was my Mother's Name, but he was accustomed to call her Delia for short; or rather, had been accustomed, in their old Days of Love and Harmony. I took it for a good Sign, his calling her so again; it showed that his Illness and her Tenderness had melted him. I always liked his Abbreviation of her Name, myself, though Prue thought it only fit for a China Shepherdess.
"Who have I got hold of?" says he. "This isn't Delia's Hand!—Ah, I see the Shadow of Patty's Nose against the Bed-curtain. Welcome, Child! come, kiss thy poor old Dad."