At last: “How long since?” he asked, raising his head.
She seated herself by his side, and with her hand gently laid upon his, she replied:
“Your mother was ill but three days, Dr. Hutton. Upon the first day I wrote to you—upon the third she passed away. It is four days since, so that, you see, you could not have reached here, even by the utmost speed; and so you have nothing to blame yourself for.”
“Dead! really dead! dead four days!” he exclaimed, burying his face in his hands.
“No, not dead—living in heaven! You know that—try to feel it also,” she said tenderly.
He did not reply, nor did he speak again for some time, nor did she break upon the sacred silence of his grief by any ill-judged attempt at consolation.
At last he broke forth in bitter lamentation.
“Oh, that she had but lived! Oh, that my poor mother had but lived! That her son might have atoned in the last half of her life for the sorrows of her youth! Oh, that my mother had but lived!”
“Ah! do not mourn so; believe me, it is far better as it is. There are some lives so wronged, so broken, that nothing but death can set them right. Such a life was hers. There are some sorrows so deep that nothing but heaven can cure them. Such sorrows were hers. Oh! believe me, by all the loving-kindness of the Father, it is better as it is,” said Garnet, kindly pressing the hand she held.
“If I could have seen her but once! Oh, Miss Seabright! I thought but little about her in my boyhood, but as I grew to man’s estate the one secret, cherished hope of my heart was to find my mother—to devote my life to her. Oh, that I could have found her; oh, that I could have reached here in time to have seen her living face but once, so as to have known and remembered it.”