Chapter Twenty Six.
The Sentence.
That afternoon and the next day passed away like a nightmare, and still the Major lay in the same helpless calm. Mr Hilliard had gone over to Dublin on his own responsibility, and had come back late at night, bringing with him a trained nurse, at the sight of whom Bridgie shed tears of thankfulness; but during the daytime the sisters took it in turns to watch by the bedside, while Mademoiselle seemed to act the part of guardian angel to the whole household in turns. She soothed the excited servants and roused them to a sense of their duty. She cooked dainty little dishes for the nurses, and ministered to them when they were off duty. She interviewed callers, and, last and best of all, took Pixie in hand, and kept her interested and content. It was the strong wish of her brothers and sisters that Pixie should not suspect the dangerous nature of her father’s illness, for they knew her excitable nature, and trembled for the effect on the invalid of one of her passionate bursts of lamentation.
“Besides, what’s the use? Let her be happy as long as she can! I want her to be happy!” cried Bridgie pathetically; and Mademoiselle assented, knowing full well that the very effort of keeping up before the child would be good for the rest of the household. There was no preventing one interview, however, for the Major was as much set on seeing his piccaninny as she was determined to see him; so on the evening of the second day Bridgie led her cautiously into the room, and the sick man moved his eyes—the only part of him that seemed able to move—and looked wistfully into the eager face.
“Well, my Pixie, I’ve been getting into trouble, you see!”
“Does it hurt ye, father? Have you got a pain?”
“Never a bit, Pixie. I’m just numb. I feel as if I can’t move!”
“I’ve felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at school when the gong rings and I’m made to get up. It’s the same as being lazy.”