When she heard that Eugene and Annie were summoned to her mother's side, again she endeavored to share their cares; but Mr. Godfrey was fearful of suffering too great intercourse between Adelaide and Eugene, and used his utmost endeavors to dissuade her. He insisted that the physicians absolutely ordered that none should approach her save those she asked for. The father dreaded the judgment of the daughter when she should know the cause of her mother's trouble. He was accustomed to be looked up to by his children, and shrank from incurring the disapproval of this one in particular; for Adelaide had ever been considered the most talented and the most intellectual of the family. He had a sort of consciousness that to the mother's influence in veiling his foibles from his children's eyes, he owed much of that reverence with which they habitually approached him; and he could but feel that he had made but a poor return for a life of devotedness, when he refused to yield to the first [{752}] important demand she had ever made him, and that in favor of his own son.
But now Eugene had written to Adelaide to say her mother was calm, and would welcome her. Adelaide entered her father's house pale and trembling, an attendant supporting her.
"Is she still alive?" she whispered, as she saw her father; then, as if fearful he would still oppose her seeing Mrs. Godfrey's, she refused by a gesture to enter the sitting-room, but made her way at once up the broad staircase to the room her mother had ever been wont to occupy. She opened the door, and flinging herself on her knees by the side of the bed, took the pale hand, and, as she kissed it, said, with streaming eyes: "Ah! dear mother, why was I not permitted to come to you before?"
"And who forbade you, my love?"
"My father said the doctors—"
Mrs. Godfrey looked at her husband, who had followed Adelaide into the room; there was surprise and sorrow, but no anger on her countenance. She pressed Adelaide's hand and whispered, "Perhaps he was right, I was unconscious and delirious a long while, my poor child; but now you will stay with me the little time that I remain on earth."
"You feel better to-day, my dear mother," said Annie, hopefully.
"I do, but it cannot last; we must not deceive ourselves. I am glad to see my dear Adelaide, but I cannot talk to her yet."
The effort of saying even so much exhausted her; she lay back, and they watched long hours in silence by her pillow.
Day after day passed away, the loving children surrounding her, and Mr. Godfrey sharing their watch. All traces of excitement had gone, in the solemnity of that watch. Mrs. Godfrey seemed so thoroughly in peace, that that peace seemed to pass into the circle of hearts surrounding her. She became, however, perceptibly weaker everyday. Ten days after Adelaide's arrival she whispered to her one morning: "Tell your father I wish to speak to him."