Had Mrs. Dudley remonstrated on the subject, which she felt far too weary and broken-spirited to attempt, there can be little question but that Mrs. Croft would have retorted, she, at all events, had no right to complain, “considering my husband is continually in Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” which was true, though, certainly, Heather could not be accused of encouraging his visits.
Five times out of six she was “not at home,” and yet he haunted the house. He never seemed tired of bringing little luxuries for Lally. The fruit he procured moistened the parched lips; the flowers he sent lay on her pillow; the oldest wine in his cellars, the choicest grapes from his uncle’s forcing-houses at Layford, found their way to the sick room, which Lally now never left.
He was fond of children, this man who was childless, and Lally had twined herself into his affections. He would have done anything to save her, and he importuned Mr. Henry about Lally till that great man became perfectly sick of the sight of his old friend’s nephew.
Well, it was down a lane bordered by roses she went to her long home; soft hands tended her; a loving breast pillowed her; friends bore her company sorrowfully while she glided—glided adown that road, the descent in which is, towards the last, so steep and sudden.
Even Heather was deceived concerning the end, which drew nearer day by day, and hour by hour.
It was so gradual, no one could say when the change came—no one could tell exactly when Hope finally left the house, closing the door behind her. No one could remember when the child ceased to make lamentations concerning her own sickness, and grew patient; no one could quite recollect when it was every person about the house, save Arthur, commenced to realise that Lally—the little Lally of a happier time—might never roam again with tireless feet from parlour to dairy, from garden to paddock, of that old home which they seemed to have left so long and long ago.
There was very bitter sorrow in that London house; to their business Alick and Cuthbert went daily with hearts which were heavy with grief for the little plaything about to be taken from them for ever; the girls up from Hertfordshire could not settle to their usual occupations, but wandered idly and purposelessly about the house; the servants crept to their work, feeling the burden of a great trouble oppressing them. Mrs. Piggott could neither rest nor eat, and Priscilla Dobbin’s eyes were constantly so red that Harry Marsden’s remark concerning them was no longer applicable. Ned took a dreary holiday to come and have a look at “Missie,” but had to beat a hasty retreat downstairs, where he sat in the kitchen and cried like a child; but still death was slow about coming; and still Heather kept her weary vigils, and still Arthur would not comprehend.
One evening, utterly exhausted, she had thrown herself on the sofa, leaving Agnes to keep watch beside Lally, when the man who acted as messenger to the company and footman to the Dudleys, entered the room, where no candles were lighted, and nothing dispelled the gloom except the fire burning not over brightly, to inform Heather—
“A young person wished to speak to her.”
“I cannot see any one,” Mrs. Dudley replied.