But not all Mildred's sympathy, or Richard's goodness, could avail to make those long weeks and months of misery otherwise than dreary; and nobly as Ethel Trelawny performed her duty, there were times when her young heart sickened and grew heavy with pain in the oppressive atmosphere of that weary sickroom.
To her healthy vitality, the spectacle of her father's helplessness was simply terrible; the inertness of the fettered limbs, the indistinct utterance of the tied and faltering tongue, the confusion of the benumbed brain, oppressed her like a nightmare. There were times when her pity for him was so great, that she would have willingly laid down all her chances of happiness in this life if she could have restored to him the prospect of health.
It was now that the real womanhood of Ethel Trelawny rose to the surface. Richard's heart ached with its fulness of love when he saw her day after day so meekly and patiently tending her afflicted father; the worn, pale face and eyes heavy with trouble and want of sleep were far more beautiful to him now; but he hid his feelings with his usual self-control. She had learned to depend upon him and trust him, and this state of things was too precious to be disturbed.
Richard was his father's sole curate now. Towards the end of October, Hugh Marsden had finished his preparations, and had bidden good-bye to his friends at the vicarage.
Mildred, who saw him last, was struck with the change in the young man's manner; his cheerful serenity had vanished—he looked subdued, almost agitated.
She was sitting at work in the little glass room; a tame canary was skimming among the flowers, Dr. Heriot's voice was heard cheerfully whistling from an inner room, some late blooming roses lay beside Mildred, her husband's morning gift, the book from which he had been reading to her was still open on the table; the little domestic picture smote the young man's heart with a dull pain.
'I am come to say good-bye, Mrs. Heriot,' he said, in a sadder voice than she had ever heard from him before; 'and it has come to this, that I would sooner say any other word.'
'We shall miss you dreadfully, Mr. Marsden,' replied Mildred, looking regretfully up at the plain honest face. Hugh Marsden had always been a favourite with her, and she was loath to say good-bye to him.
'Others have been kind enough to tell me so,' he rejoined, twirling his shabby felt hat between his fingers. 'Miss Olive, Miss Lambert I mean, said so just now. Somehow, I had hoped—but no, she has decided rightly.'
Mildred looked up in surprise. Incoherence was new in Hugh Marsden; but just now his clumsy eloquence seemed to have deserted him.