John and I sat up late together that night.He could not rest--even though he told me he had left the mother and her two daughters as cosy as a nest of wood-pigeons.We listened to the wild night,till it had almost howled itself away;then our fire went out,and we came and sat over the last faggot in Mrs.Tod's kitchen--the old Debateable Land.We began talking of the long-ago time,and not of this time at all.The vivid present--never out of either mind for an instant--we in our conversation did not touch upon,by at least ten years.Nor did we give expression to a thought which strongly oppressed me,and which I once or twice fancied I could detect in John likewise--how very like this night seemed to the night when Mr.
March died;the same silentness in the house--the same windy whirl without--the same blaze of the wood-fire on the same kitchen ceiling.
More than once I could almost have deluded myself that I heard the faint moans and footsteps over-head--that the staircase door would open,and we should see there Miss March,in her white gown,and her pale,steadfast look.
"I think the mother seemed very well and calm to-night,"I said,hesitatingly,as we were retiring.
"She is.God help her--and us all!"
"He will."
This was all we said.
He went up-stairs the last thing,and brought down word that mother and children were all sound asleep.
"I think I may leave them until daylight to-morrow.And now,Uncle Phineas,go you to bed,for you look as tired as tired can be."I went to bed;but all night long I had disturbed dreams,in which Ipictured over and over again,first the night when Mr.March died--then the night at Longfield,when the little white ghost had crossed by my bed's foot,into the room where Mary Baines'dead boy lay.And continually,towards morning,I fancied I heard through my window,which faced the church,the faint,distant sound of the organ,as when Muriel used to play it.
Long before it was light I rose.As I passed the boy's room Guy called out to me:
"Halloa!Uncle Phineas,is it a fine morning?--for I want to go down into the wood and get a lot of beech-nuts and fir-cones for sister.
It's her birthday to-day,you know."
It WAS,for her.But for us--Oh,Muriel,our darling--darling child!
Let me hasten over the story of that morning,for my old heart quails before it still.
John went early to the room up-stairs.It was very still.Ursula lay calmly asleep,with baby Maud in her bosom;on her other side,with eyes wide open to the daylight,lay--that which for more than ten years we had been used to call "blind Muriel."She saw,now.
The same day at evening we three were sitting in the parlour;we elders only--it was past the children's bed-time.Grief had spent itself dry;we were all very quiet.Even Ursula,when she came in from fetching the boys'candle,as had always been her custom,and though afterwards I thought I had heard her going up-stairs,likewise from habit,--where there was no need to bid any mother's good-night now--even Ursula sat in the rocking-chair,nursing Maud,and trying to still her crying with a little foolish baby-tune that had descended as a family lullaby from one to the other of the whole five--how sad it sounded!
John--who sat at the table,shading the light from his eyes,an open book lying before him,of which he never turned one page--looked up at her.
"Love,you must not tire yourself.Give me the child.""No,no!Let me keep my baby--she comforts me so."And the mother burst into uncontrollable weeping.
John shut his book and came to her.He supported her on his bosom,saying a soothing word or two at intervals,or when the paroxy** of her anguish was beyond all bounds supporting her silently till it had gone by;never once letting her feel that,bitter as her sorrow was,his was heavier than hers.
