Polly was kneeling by the bed. On it lay the child, the face almost white, but yet with a little colour in the delicate cheek. Her hand held tightly that of her sister.
The doctor had not come; he was out; would not be back till morning.
Tom could not explain this; and he knew, moreover, that the surgeon could effect nothing. Without a word he knelt also by the child’s bedside. The candles were quivering to extinction on the Christmas tree. One was guttering, and sending a stream of wax over the head of the spotted dog. Then another fell twinkling through the boughs and went out. And at the same time the light went out in Bessie’s eyes.
A few days later, when the earth had closed over the child, Tom was speaking with Mary, and she said to him: “Tom, I think now I should like that Christmas tree to be planted on the little maid’s grave. Will you oblige me by doing it?” Then, after wiping her eyes: “Tom, that is a Tree of Death.”
The head-gardener triumphantly carried away Bella; the marriage took place within six weeks of the Christmas supper and dance. Isabella Frowd had become Mrs. Sandy MacSweeny, and was planted in the gardener’s beautiful cottage. But in all things human there comes a change. Within a very short time certain matters started to light. What these were you shall hear from the squire’s own lips, as he addressed Tom Mountstephen.
“Tom,” said the squire, his broad, rosy face very hot and agitated, “Tom, I’ve bundled MacSweeny off. I don’t see why I should have to buy the fruit I grow from the greengrocer in our market town. I don’t see why, if I purchase bulbs and greenhouse plants, they should invariably disappear, and be reported to have died. I don’t see why, if I buy flower seeds, they should come up in other folks’ gardens. I have not been able to get fruit for my table without sending to town to buy it. I have been ruined in procuring vast supplies of choice plants from nurserymen, and have not enjoyed them. MacSweeny is off. Hang it! you may not be a professional, and A1, and all that, but you are honest as daylight. I feel I can trust you, and—dash my buttons!—there is the situation vacant for you, if you choose to have it. And there is the cottage—the only disadvantage is that it is too large for you, and you are unmarried.”
“Oh, as to that, sir, that is easily remedied. I be just now on my way to the pass’n to get him to have Mary and me asked next Sunday.”
“Mary—Mary who?”
“Mary Mauduit, sir.”