'And the cough, doctor?'
'Why, if that doesn't go before the cold weather begins, you may as well take her to Torquay for the winter.'
Oh! consumption, thou scourge of England's beauty! how many mothers, gasping with ill-suppressed fears, have listened to such words as these—have listened and then hoped; listened again and hoped again with fainter hopes; have listened again, and then hoped no more!
But there was much on Mrs. Woodward's mind which she could not bring herself to tell to any doctor, but which still left in her breast an impression that she was perhaps keeping back the true cause of Katie's illness. Charley had not been at Hampton since his arrest, and it was manifest to all that Katie was therefore wretched.
'But why do you not ask him, mamma?' she had urged when her mother suggested that he stayed away because he did not like to show himself after what had occurred. 'What will he think of us? he that saved my life, mamma! Oh, mamma! you promised to forgive him. Do ask him. You know he will come if you ask him.'
Mrs. Woodward could not explain to her—could not explain to any one—why she did not invite him. Norman guessed it all, and Mrs. Woodward saw that he had done so; but still she could not talk to him of Katie's feelings, could not tell him that she feared her child was heart-laden with so sad a love. So Mrs. Woodward had no confidant in her sorrow, no counsel which she could seek to aid her own wavering judgement. It was prudent, she thought, that Katie and Charley should be kept apart. Prudent! was it not even imperative on her to save her child from such a fate? But then, when she saw the rosy cheek grow pale by degrees, as she watched the plump little arms grow gradually thin and wan, as those high spirits fell, and that voice which had ever been so frequent in the house and so clear,—when the sound of it became low and rare, then her heart would misgive her, and she would all but resolve to take the only step which she knew would bring a bright gleam on her child's face, and give a happy tone to her darling's voice.
During the earlier portion of these days, Katie had with eager constancy reiterated her request that Charley should be asked to Hampton; but of a sudden her prayers ceased. She spoke no more of Charley, asked no longer after his coming, ceased even to inquire frequently of his welfare. But yet, when his name was mentioned, she would open wide her bright eyes, would listen with all her ears, and show only too plainly to one who watched her as a mother only can watch, what were the thoughts which filled her heart.
'Linda,' she had said one night, as they sat in their room, preparing themselves for bed, 'Linda, why does not mamma invite Charley to come down to Hampton?'
'Oh! I don't know,' said Linda; who, however, if she did not know, was not far wrong in the guess she made. 'I suppose she thinks he'd be ashamed to show himself after having been in prison.'
'Ashamed! Why should he be ashamed after so long? Didn't you hear Harry say that the same thing often happens to young men? Is he never to come here again? Dear Linda, I know you know; do tell me.'