“It is true, my own poor dear,” said Dr. May, supporting her, as she rested against his arm, and hid her face on his shoulder, while her breath came short, and she shivered under the renewed perception—“she is gone to wait for you.”
“Hush! Oh, don’t! papa!” said Flora, her voice shortened by anguish. “Oh, think why—”
“Nay, Flora, do not, do not speak as if that should exclude peace or hope!” said Dr. May entreatingly. “Besides, it was no wilful neglect—you had other duties—”
“You don’t know me, papa,” said Flora, drawing her hands away from him, and tightly clenching them in one another, as thoughts far too terrible for words swept over her.
“If I do not, the most Merciful Father does,” said Dr. May. Flora sat for a minute or two, her hands locked together round her knees, her head bowed down, her lips compressed. Her father was so far satisfied that the bodily dangers he had dreaded were averted; but the agony of mind was far more terrible, especially in one who expressed so little, and in whom it seemed, as it were, pent up.
“Papa!” said Flora presently, with a resolution of tone as if she would prevent resistance; “I must see her!”
“You shall, my dear,” said the doctor at once; and she seemed grateful not to be opposed, speaking more gently, as she said, “May it be now—while there is no daylight?”
“If you wish it,” said Dr. May.
The dawn, and a yellow waning moon, gave sufficient light for moving about, and Flora gained her feet; but she was weak and trembling, and needed the support of her father’s arm, though hardly conscious of receiving it, as she mounted the same stairs, that she had so often lightly ascended in the like doubtful morning light; for never, after any party, had she omitted her visit to the nursery.
The door was locked, and she looked piteously at her father as her weak push met the resistance, and he was somewhat slow in turning the key with his left hand. The whitewashed, slightly furnished room reflected the light, and the moonbeams showed the window-frame in pale and dim shades on the blinds, the dewy air breathed in coolly from the park, and there was a calm solemnity in the atmosphere—no light, no watcher present to tend the babe. Little Leonora needed such no more; she was with the Keeper, who shall neither slumber nor sleep.