Chapter XIX

“Come away, for Life and Thought here no longer dwell;
But in a city glorious,
A great and distant city—have bought
A Mansion incorruptible; would they could have stayed with us!”

TENNYSON.

Upstairs, Daphne lay face downwards on the floor of the child’s room. She had done with Katherine all the quiet, hopeless things that have to be done. The little body lay beneath the sheet with folded hands, shut eyes, and smiling lips. The only change was that the noise of the laboured breathing had ceased, and in its stead, the palpable hush of death was in the room.

The sun shone through the blind upon the lilies; they had not been able to have lilies in the room before. Daphne felt that it was cruel to shut the windows; it was so difficult for the child to breathe with the windows shut. Her uncle had been into the room and prayed over the child. Her aunt, who had been crying a great deal, came in and made suggestions about the room. She talked in a whisper—and walked on tiptoe—but she did not stay very long. Now the sun was setting, and all around the hall there were the cries of birds.

“Daphne, dear!” said her uncle’s voice, “Daphne?”

“Oh! it is so terrible to hear you speak in this room!” she cried, but she rose to her feet, and stood before him shivering.

“The problem is over,” said her uncle gently; “our child has passed, as we all pass at length, from the trivial surface out into the infinite deep—of God. Daphne, let us believe, ‘Who made, hath not _unmade_ the child.’” Daphne looked at him; the lines of pain in his face made him look ten years older. There was no doubt he realized.

“Full of immortality,” he said half to himself, “beyond the reach of tears, and pangs, and pain, and _alive_ for evermore! Can you not say, ‘Thank God she is spared?’ Not _to_ us, but _from_ the things that hurt and fail? Dear Daphne, try to say with me ‘Christ’s blessing on the newly born!’”

“You don’t seem to understand,” she said in low, level tones. “It was my carelessness—I could have saved her!”

“And now God has saved her,” said her uncle gently.

The girl looked at him with despair in her eyes. “Oh! you won’t understand!” she said, “you won’t even leave me anything to be forgiven!”

“God forgive us all!” said her uncle very solemnly. “And Daphne—you made the child very happy—she loved you.” Daphne moved helplessly forward, and her uncle took her into his arms. They were both crying. “And she won’t cough any more; one can be glad of that!” said her uncle.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Daphne sobbed. “One can be glad of that!”

Downstairs, Katherine was sitting with Mrs. Fordington. “I am so glad,” said the Vicar’s wife, “that the last skirt I bought was black—it seems a Providence; I had half a mind to buy a navy blue!” She took out her pocket-handkerchief.

“I meant to tell you, Mrs. Fordington,” said Katherine quietly, “she died quite without pain. She was unconscious when the doctor came, and he was not gone half-an-hour when—when the room became quiet.”

“I shall always think,” said Mrs. Fordington, “that that young man, Fern, acted most reprehensibly in giving us no warning. What do you have a doctor for if it’s not to tell you what you may expect!” Katherine did not attempt an answer. “I told Wilfred all along that a homœopath was best. I was _much_ averse to the giving of brandy. I have heard before now of people who died from the reaction of stimulants, but doctors do anything to save themselves trouble!”

“You see, her heart was weak,” Katherine threw in.

“I cannot believe that it was necessary, and it certainly did no good,” said Mrs. Fordington firmly. “I have seen the undertaker,” she went on, “poor Wilfred has no head at such times, and I have made all arrangements. We shall feel much better after the funeral. I have had a very kind note from Lady Middleton putting her carriage at our disposal. My idea was to stay here till it was all over. I was going to ask Mr. Ogden to take it, but Wilfred almost insists upon young Mitchell. It seems to me not at all the proper thing, he is only a curate, and he’s sure to do something Roman. However, I gave in as usual. After all, why should _my_ feelings be considered, I am only the child’s mother!” Mrs. Fordington put her handkerchief to her eyes, she expected sympathy, but Katherine got up and left the room.

The house was lost in twilight and the creeping shadows rested her. The servants turned on the electric light, and the terrible world grew plain again.

Katherine was a little tired, she had been on her feet all day, and she was going to see her mother. On the way through the hall a servant met her with a letter.

“DEAR MISS LINTON,” she read,

“I really have no right in the world to write to you, unless
wishing to be read by you constitutes a right, but I am just so
sorry as I can be about the dear little girl. I thought when I
began to write I might find something to say, but there isn’t
anything, is there? I do believe though that Death isn’t what we
think it is, but the great way Out; and if the little girl you
are looking after finds it, don’t grieve too much! What we can
see that’s good in life (and after all it’s a great world!) sort
of makes one think there’s something better that we are bound to
see later on. If the child goes first be very sure she is going
to have a good time. I’m coming down over Sunday this week if
you don’t tell me not to. I think Overham is a lovely place and
you will have to say a very firm ‘no’ to stop my coming.

“Ever yours,
“BERT RUSSELL.”

Katherine tore the letter very slowly into little pieces, then she dropped them into a waste-paper basket. “Oh! how stupid!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve torn up the address and now I can’t tell him not to come!” All the same her anger at her own stupidity was not very deep. It did not seem worth while to investigate the scraps in the hope of reconstructing his address. She walked briskly through the park. It was a very lovely evening, and she did not feel so tired now.