CHAPTER X.
TREES THAT, LIKE THE POPLAR, LIFT UPWARD ALL THEIR BOUGHS, GIVE NO
SHADE AND NO SHELTER, WHATEVER THEIR HEIGHT. TREES THE MOST
LOVINGLY SHELTER AND SHADE US, WHEN, LIKE THE WILLOW, THE HIGHER
SOAR THEIR SUMMITS, THE LOWLIER DROOP THEIR BOUGHS.
Usually when Sophy left Waife in the morning, she would wander out into the grounds, and he could see her pass before his window; or she would look into the library, which was almost exclusively given up to the Morleys, and he could hear her tread on the old creaking stairs. But now she had stolen into her own room, which communicated with his sitting-room—a small lobby alone intervening—and there she remained so long that he grew uneasy. He crept softly to her door and listened. He had a fineness of hearing almost equal to his son’s; but he could not hear a sob—not a breath. At length he softly opened the door and looked in with caution.
The girl was seated at the foot of the bed, quite still—her eyes fixed on the ground, and her finger to her lip, just as she had placed it there when imploring silence; so still, it might be even slumber. All who have grieved respect grief. Waife did not like to approach her; but he said, from his stand at the threshold: “The sun is quite bright now, Sophy; go out for a little while, darling.”
She did not look round, she did not stir; but she answered with readiness, “Yes, presently.”
So he closed the door and left her. An hour passed away; he looked in again; there she was still—in the same place, in the same attitude.
“Sophy, dear, it is time to take your walk; go—Mrs. Morley is in front, before my window. I have called to her to wait for you.”
“Yes—presently,” answered Sophy, and she did not move.
Waife was seriously alarmed. He paused a moment-then went back to his room—took his hat and his staff—came back.
“Sophy, I should like to hobble out and breathe the air; it will do me good. Will you give me your arm? I am still very weak.”