‘Do you know, that when he was born we thought he would die? Father Somerville called to ask about you–he did not know you were away–just as they were about to send for the vicar to baptise him; and he offered to do it, so they let him, for fear it should be too late if they waited–for his poor little life seemed to hang by a thread.’
‘Why do you say they?’ asked her brother.
‘Simply because to me it seemed absurd–as if it made any difference to the poor little darling whether he was baptised or not! Will you not go and see him, Jerome?’
‘Perhaps–presently. So Somerville baptised him!’ he said dreamily; and then added:
‘I am going upstairs to her sitting-room.’
‘Don’t stay there too long, Jerome. It makes me so unhappy to think of you.’
‘You must not mind me,’ was all he said, as he slowly took his way upstairs.
Passing the rooms which had been set apart as nurseries, he heard a child’s feeble cry, and started, shuddered, and hastened his steps till he came to what had of late been Nita’s favourite room–a little boudoir opening from her bedroom. There was a dimness, subdued and faint. He stood on the threshold, looking round, and by degrees began to distinguish things more clearly. They had not drawn up the blinds here since Nita had last been in the room, the evening before she was taken ill. Everything was as she had left it. There was the couch on which she had spent so many weary hours, and the little table beside it, on which lay one or two books, and her writing-case, and a work-basket. Another book had fallen upon the floor, and something lay beside it, in which Jerome, looking intently, recognised Nita’s great dog, Speedwell, stretched upon the ground beside the couch, waiting, no doubt, for her return, and watching the book which had fallen; it was the book she had read in so much of late–her little ‘Imitation of Christ.’
The old dog looked up, with a wistful expression, whined a little, and waved his tail to and fro, as Jerome looked at him. With an inarticulate sound, which ended in a heavy sob, the young man dropped upon one end of the couch, covering his face with one hand, while the other hung down, and the dog licked it, and sat up, and whined again, asking where she was.
His anguish at this moment amounted to torture, as he realised how completely everything had come to an end. Here, as he sat alone, with his own miserable thoughts–here and in this moment his wages were paid to him; measure for measure–no more and no less; wages which could not be refused, could not be transferred, must be accepted and counted over, and tasted to the bitter end.