A wilful ward

by Ruth Lamb

This plan was adopted. Kenneth, weary with so much journeying, slept on the road, and was given into Geraldine's arms, too drowsy to be roused, so was put to bed at Monk's How.

Mr. Torrance had never doubted that Kathleen would be like wax in his hands, and said to himself, "I shall settle the business easily enough over the breakfast-table. My lady may think she will beat me, but when she has slept upon the matter she will listen to reason. When I have secured the cash, the boy shall come back, and she will be so delighted to have him that she will forget all else, as she has done many a time before, after our quarrels were over."

Mr. Torrance had reached his dressing-room when he came to this mental conclusion. He was feeling wretchedly ill, and unfit for anything but rest. He caught sight of his face in the glass, and was startled by its colour. He walked unsteadily across the floor, and was fain to sit down before undressing.

"This dizziness again. The old doctor's warning will come true, if I go on in the way I have done lately. I must turn over a fresh leaf, or—"

A servant passing the door heard a fall, and listened. There was no further movement, but a sound of heavy, unnatural breathing reached her, and she ran hastily downstairs to call for help. She met her mistress at the foot of the stairs, and told her that she was afraid Mr. Torrance must be ill.

Kathleen told the girl to follow her, hastened to the dressing-room, and found her husband lying senseless and motionless on the floor. The only sign of life was the stertorous breathing which had attracted the girl's attention, and caused her to give the alarm.

The doctor was soon on the spot, and confirmed the fear which had taken possession of Kathleen.

"Yes, it is apoplexy," he said. "Mr. Torrance's father died of it, but later in life. He was careful of himself, and lived by strict rules, which I could not induce your husband to do, though it was his only chance, and he knew it."

Kathleen's distress can be better imagined than described. Trouble is always intensified at such times by the knowledge that we have parted on other than kindly terms with the one who now lies stricken and helpless. If the sufferer ever held the dearest place in our hearts, our own wrongs seem to vanish, and through the mist of past years of trial we see him, not as the author of our sorrows, but as he was when he won our girlish love. So it was with Kathleen, and sad indeed were the few days which followed her husband's seizure. She was ever praying for, and longing to see a look of recognition, to hear him whisper her name, or give signs of possible restoration.

Only once came a gleam of consciousness, and the sufferer's eyes wandered, as if in search of something. Kathleen bent over him, and whispered, "Do you know me, John?—Kathleen." A slight murmur, and she caught one word, "Adela." It was a last effort. Mr. Torrance relapsed into unconsciousness, and a few hours later Kathleen was a widow. The only thought of which he had been capable was not given to her who had given him all, or to their child. It had gone back to his first love—the only real affection of his life, and that a sadly selfish one.