And John, laying his own hand on the old brown wrinkled one, would reply gently,
"No better, Josey! But we must hope,—we must hope always, and believe that God will be merciful."
"An' if He ain't merciful, what'll we do?" persisted Josey once, with tears in his poor dim eyes.
"We must submit!" answered John, almost sternly—"We must believe that He knows what is wise and good for her—and for us all! And we must live out our lives patiently without her, Josey!—patiently, till the blessed end—till that peace cometh which passeth all understanding!"
And Josey, looking at him, was awed by the pale spiritual serenity of his features and the tragic human grief of his eyes.
One person in the neighbourhood proved himself a mainstay of help and consolation during this time of general anxiety and suspense, and this was Julian Adderley. He was always at hand and willing to be of service. He threw his 'dreams' of poesy to the winds and became poet in earnest,—poet in sympathy with others,—poet in kindly thought,—poet in constant delicate ways of solace to the man he had learned to respect above all others, and whose unspoken love and despair he recognised with more passionate appreciation than any grandly written tragedy. He had gone at once to the Manor on Cicely's arrival there, and had laid himself, metaphorically so to speak, at her feet. When she had first seen him, all oppressed by the weight of her sorrow as she was, she had burst out crying, whereat he had, without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment, taken her in his arms and kissed her. Neither he nor she seemed the least surprised at the spontaneity of their mutual caress,—it came quite naturally. "It was so new—so fresh!" said Julian afterwards. And from that eventful moment, he had installed himself more or less at the Manor, under Cicely's orders. He wrote letters for her, answered telegrams, drew up a formal list of 'Callers' and 'Enquiries,' kept accounts, went errands for the two trained nurses who were in day and night attendance on the unconscious invalid upstairs, and made himself generally useful and reliable. But his 'fantastic' notions were the same as ever. He would not, as he put it, 'partake of food' at the Manor while its mistress was lying ill,—nor would he allow any servant in the household to wait upon him. He merely came and went, quietly to and fro, giving his best services to all, and never failing to visit Walden every day, and tell him all the latest news. He even managed to make friends with the great dog Plato, who, ever since Maryllia's accident, had taken up regular hours of vigil outside her bedroom door, regardless of doctor and nurses, though he would move his leonine body gently aside whenever they passed in or out, showing a perfectly intelligent comprehension of their business. Plato every now and again would indulge in a walk abroad with Julian, accompanying him as far as the rectory, where he would enter, laying his broad head on Walden's knee with a world of sympathy in his loving brown eyes, while Nebbie, half-jealous, half-gratified, squatted humbly in the shadow of his feathery tail. And John found a certain melancholy pleasure in caressing the very dog Maryllia loved, and would sit, thoughtfully stroking the animal's thick coat, while Adderley and Dr. Forsyth, both of whom were now accustomed to meet in his little study every evening, discussed the pros and cons of what was likely to happen when Maryllia woke from her long trance of insensibility. Would her awakening be to life or death? John listened to their talk, himself saying nothing, all unaware that they talked merely to cheer him and to try and put the best light they could on the face of affairs in order to give him the utmost hope.
The weary days rolled on in rain and gloom,—Christmas came and went with a weight and dullness never before known in St. Rest. Every Sunday since the accident, Walden had earnestly requested the prayers of his congregation for Miss Vancourt, 'who was seriously ill'—and on Christmas Day, he gave out the same request, with a pathetic alteration in the wording, which as he uttered it, caused many people to sob as they listened.
"The prayers of this congregation," he said—"are desired for Maryllia Vancourt, who has been much beloved among you, and whose life is now in imminent peril!"
A chill seemed to strike through the church,—an icy blast far colder than the wintry wind,—the alabaster sarcophagus in front of the altar seemed all at once invested with a terrible significance,- -death, and death only was the sovereign ruler of the world! And when the children's choir rose to give the 'Hark the herald angels sing, Glory to the new-born King'—their voices were unsteady and fell out of tune into tears.
Maryllia was indeed in 'imminent peril.' She had become suddenly restless, and her suffering had proportionately increased. At the earliest symptom of returning consciousness, the attention of the watchers at her bedside became redoubled;—should she speak, they were anxious to hear the first word that escaped her lips. For as yet, no one knew how she had come by her accident. None of the hunters had seen her fall, and Bennett the groom, stoutly refused to believe that the mare had either missed her jump, or thrown her mistress.