But now—now when the search was given over in despair—came the full realization of her utter bereavement. Then the mortal anguish and despair she had long struggled against overwhelmed her soul; and, hating the sunlight, the glad earth, and bright sky above, she buried herself in deepest mourning, shut out the light from her room, and, in silence and darkness, still mourned for her lost one, and “would not be comforted.”
On the heart of her husband the blow had fallen no less heavily; but crushing back his bitter sorrow to his own noble heart, he calmed himself to console her. Of all her friends—of all who loved her, she would admit no one to her presence but him; and folded to his heart, she sat for hours, day after day, white, still, cold, and silent. When he left her, she threw herself on her couch, and, in the same strange stupor, remained there until he came back.
At first, he had permitted Nature to have her way, thinking her sorrow would be less enduring if left to wear itself out; but when months and months passed, and no change came, and he saw her growing whiter and more fragile day after day, he began to think it was time something else was done to rouse her from this destroying grief.
“Maude, Maude! this is wrong—this is sinful!” he said, holding her little wan hands, and looking sadly down into the white, cold face. “This rebellious murmuring must not be indulged longer. Dearest Maude, rouse yourself from this trance of despair, and remember our Erminie is in the hands of One who ‘doeth all for the best.’ He who noteth even the fall of a sparrow will protect our angel child.”
A shiver, a shadow, a fluttering of the heart, and that was all. No words came from the pale lips.
“Have faith, sweet wife, and trust in God. Overcome this selfish grief, and remember there still remain many for you to love—many who love you. Live for them, my own Maude; live for me; live for the heaven where our Erminie has gone.”
“Oh, my child! my child! Would to God I had died for thee!” broke in a passionate cry from the white lips of the mother.
The manly chest of Lord De Courcy rose and fell; the muscles of his face twitched for a moment convulsively, and his arms strained her in a closer clasp.
“Our child prays for her mother in heaven. Grieve not for her, dear love. And am I not left to you still?”
“Oh! it was my fault—it was my fault! I left her alone, helpless and unprotected, while I was enjoying myself down-stairs. There was no one to watch her—no one to save her. All were gone, and she was left to perish! Oh, my child! my child!”