“But what about it? You are not ill; you don’t want a doctor,” said Cicely.
“I don’t know, dear. I don’t think I am very well,” replied Mrs. Methvyn tremulously. “Long ago—years ago I used to have now and then a sudden sort of attack, a kind of spasm, which some doctors thought had to do with my heart. Then for some time these attacks almost ceased, and I thought it must have been a mistake—but lately they have returned much more frequently and violently than before. And—Cicely dear—when I went up to town with Parker that day from Brighton—I would not let you come, you know—it was to see Dr.——, the great authority on that class of disease.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said that there was nothing to be done. It was true what I had been told. He said that—that I might not get worse for a long time, but that—it is not certain that I shall not.”
“Mamma,” cried Cicely gazing up in her mother’s face with wildly agonised eyes, “mamma, you are going to die and leave me. That is what you mean. Why didn’t you tell me before? oh! why didn’t you?”
“My child, my darling, I could not,” said her mother, the tears coursing down her thin pale cheeks. “How could I break your heart again? And it is only quite lately that I have begun to be afraid about myself—only quite lately. It may pass off again—I may be with you for many years yet.”
“No,” said Cicely, “no. I feel it coming. Mother, oh! mother, what shall I do? How can God be so cruel? May not I die too? Oh, mamma, mamma!”
She burst into an anguish of wild weeping, and for some moments Mrs. Methvyn did not check her. Then at last she whispered, “Cicely dearest, will you not try to be calm? For my sake—I cannot bear to see you go.”
The words recalled Cicely to herself. Yes, she must be calm. The pain of witnessing such stormy grief would assuredly weaken her mother’s already feeble hold on life. With a violent effort she checked her sobs, and fought for self-control. Then she listened to all her mother had to say; listened, and pretended to believe that her fears had exaggerated the danger; but in her heart of hearts she knew the truth—the last drop of bitter sorrow had been poured into the cup of which, for one so young, she had already drunk deeply.
When Mr. Hayle called the next day, he was shown into the drawing-room and there found Mrs. Methvyn alone. He stayed with her a considerable time, but he did not see Cicely at all. When he came away from the house, his face looked sad and careworn, and he sighed deeply: “Poor things, poor things!” he murmured to himself. Yet he was well used to sorrow and suffering! “I will call again in a day or two if you will allow me,” he said to Mrs. Methvyn at parting. And she thanked him warmly and begged him to come. “Cicely will be better again before long,” she said, “and she will like to see you. It is the first shock that has, as it were, overwhelmed her,” she added, with a sort of gentle apology of manner that touched Mr. Hayle greatly. “I will come again soon,” he repeated.