Without any discussion,our plans were tacitly changed--no more was said about going home to dear Longfield.Every one felt,though no one trusted it to words,that the journey was impossible.For Muriel lay,day after day,on her little bed in an upper chamber,or was carried softly down in the middle of the day by her father,never complaining,but never attempting to move or talk.When we asked her if she felt ill,she always answered,"Oh,no!only so very tired."Nothing more.
"She is dull,for want of the others to play with her.The boys should not run out and leave their sister alone,"said John,almost sharply,when one bright morning the lads'merry voices came down from the Flat,while he and I were sitting by Muriel's sofa in the still parlour.
"Father,let the boys play without me,please.Indeed,I do not mind.I had rather lie quiet here.""But it is not good for my little girl always to be quiet,and it grieves father.""Does it?"She roused herself,sat upright,and began to move her limbs,but wearily.
"That is right,my darling.Now let me see how well you can walk."Muriel slipped to her feet and tried to cross the room,catching at table and chairs--now,alas!not only for guidance but actual support.At last she began to stagger,and said,half crying:
"I can't walk,I am so tired.Oh,do take me in your arms,dear father."Her father took her,looked long in her sightless face,then buried his against her shoulder,saying nothing.But I think in that moment he too saw,glittering and bare,the long-veiled Hand which,for this year past,_I_had seen stretched out of the immutable heavens,claiming that which was its own.Ever after there was discernible in John's countenance a something which all the cares of his anxious yet happy life had never written there--an ineffaceable record,burnt in with fire.
He held her in his arms all day.He invented all sorts of tales and little amusements for her;and when she was tired of these he let her lie in his bosom and sleep.After her bed-time he asked me to go out with him on the Flat.
It was a misty night.The very cows and asses stood up large and spectral as shadows.There was not a single star to be seen.
We took our walk along the terrace and came back again,without exchanging a single word.Then John said hastily:
"I am glad her mother was so busy to-day--too busy to notice.""Yes,"I answered;unconnected as his words were.
"Do you understand me,Phineas?Her mother must not on any account be led to imagine,or to fear--anything.You must not look as you looked this morning.You must not,Phineas."He spoke almost angrily.I answered in a few quieting words.We were silent,until over the common we caught sight of the light in Muriel's window.Then I felt rather than heard the father's groan.
"Oh,God!my only daughter--my dearest child!"Yes,she was the dearest.I knew it.Strange mystery,that He should so often take,by death or otherwise,the DEAREST--always the dearest.Strange that He should hear us cry--us writhing in the dust,"O Father,anything,anything but this!"But our Father answers not;and meanwhile the desire of our eyes--be it a life,a love,or a blessing--slowly,slowly goes--is gone.And yet we have to believe in our Father.Perhaps of all trials to human faith this is the sorest.Thanks be to God if He puts into our hearts such love towards Him that even while He slays us we can trust Him still.
This father--this broken-hearted earthly father--could.
When we sat at the supper-table--Ursula,John,and I,the children being all in bed--no one could have told that there was any shadow over us,more than the sadly-familiar pain of the darling of the house being "not so strong as she used to be.""But I think she will be,John.We shall have her quite about again,before--"The mother stopped,slightly smiling.It was,indeed,an especial mercy of heaven which put that unaccountable blindness before her eyes,and gave her other duties and other cares to intercept the thought of Muriel.While,from morning till night,it was the incessant secret care of her husband,myself,and good Mrs.Tod,to keep her out of her little daughter's sight,and prevent her mind from catching the danger of one single fear.
Thus,within a week or two,the mother lay down cheerfully upon her couch of pain,and gave another child to the household--a little sister to Muriel.
Muriel was the first to whom the news was told.Her father told it.
His natural joy and thankfulness seemed for the moment to efface every other thought.
"She is come,darling!little Maud is come.I am very rich--for Ihave two daughters now."
"Muriel is glad,father."But she showed her gladness in a strangely quiet,meditative way,unlike a child--unlike even her old self.
"What are you thinking of,my pet?"
"That--though father has another daughter,I hope he will remember the first one sometimes.""She is jealous!"cried John,in the curious delight with which he always detected in her any weakness,any fault,which brought her down to the safe level of humanity."See,Uncle Phineas,our Muriel is actually jealous."But Muriel only smiled.
That smile--so serene--so apart from every feeling or passion appertaining to us who are "of the earth,earthy,"smote the father to the heart's core.
He sat down by her,and she crept up into his arms.
"What day is it,father?"
"The first of December."
"I am glad.Little Maud's birthday will be in the same month as mine.""But you came in the snow,Muriel,and now it is warm and mild.""There will be snow on my birthday,though.There always is.The snow is fond of me,father.It would like me to lie down and be all covered over,so that you could not find me anywhere."I heard John try to echo her weak,soft laugh.
"This month it will be eleven years since I was born,will it not,father?""Yes,my darling."
