“What is the matter, dear? Are you afraid of the storm? I never knew you afraid of thunder and lightning; but perhaps you may be now, because you are ill.”
“No,” sobbed Mildred.
“I cannot help being glad of this storm,” continued Oliver, “though it is disagreeable, at the time, to people who have no house to go to. I hope it will clear the air, and freshen it; and that is the very thing we want, to make you better.”
“It is not that, Oliver. I don’t mind the storm at all.”
“Then what makes you cry so, dear? Is it about Geordie?”
“Yes. Something about him that I don’t think you know; something that I shall never bear to think of. It will make me miserable as long as I live. Do you know, I was tired of nursing him, and hearing him cry; and I gave it up—the only thing I could do for him! I asked Ailwin to take him. And in two days he was dead; and I could never do anything for him any more.”
Here a burst of grief stopped her voice. Her brother said, very solemnly,—
“Now, Mildred, listen to me,—to the little I can say—for you know I cannot, in this place, stay and talk with you as we should both like, and as we might have done at home. I think you were almost always very kind to Geordie; and I am sure he loved you very dearly. But I have heard mother say that the worst part of losing dear friends is that we have to blame ourselves, more or less, for our behaviour to them,—even to those we loved the very most. So I will not flatter you, dear: though I don’t at all wonder at your being tired of hearing Geordie cry that day. I will not say whether you were right or wrong; but only put you in mind that we may always ask for pardon. Remember, too, that you may meet Geordie again; and perhaps be kinder to him than we ever are to one another here. Now I will go, and come back again soon.”
“Stop one minute,” implored Mildred. “I dreamed that you all went away from this hill, and left me alone.”
As she said this, she looked at her brother, with such a painful wistfulness, that he saw that she had had a fever-dream, and was not yet quite clear from its remains. He laughed, as at something ridiculous; which Mildred seemed to like: and then he reminded her more gravely, that they could not get away from this place if they would. If an opportunity should occur, he assured her he would not leave hold of her hand. Nothing should make him step into a boat without her. Poor Mildred had fancied, bewildered as she was this morning, that if Oliver knew of what she had done about George, he would think himself justified in leaving her to perish on the hill; and yet she could not help telling him. Her mind was relieved, for the present, and she let him go.