"Is it so?" she said.
"Yes," said Julius, in a quiet tone, as sad and subdued as his looks. "He slept himself away peacefully a quarter of an hour ago."
"I suppose I must not go in now. I longed to come before. Poor boy, he was like a toy flung away."
"You need not grieve over him," said Julius. "Far from it. You have done a great deal for him."
"I-I only caused him to be put into temptation."
"Nay. Your care woke his spirit up and guarded him. No one could hear his wanderings without feeling that he owed much to you. There is a drawing to be given to you that will speak much to you. It is at the Rectory; it was not safe here. And his mother is here. I can't but hope her soul has been reached through him. Yes," as Lenore leant against the gate, her warm tears dropping, "there is no grief in thinking of him. He had yearnings and conceptions that could not have been gratified in his former station; and for him an artist's life would have been more than commonly uphill work-full of trial. I wish you could have heard the murmured words that showed what glorious images floated before him-no doubt now realized."
"I am glad he was really good," were the only words that would come.
The hearts of both were so full, that these words on what was a little further off were almost necessary to them.
"Take my arm," said Julius, kindly. "Our roads lie together down the lane. How is your sister? Better, I hope, as I see you here."
"She has slept more quietly. Mr. M'Vie thinks her a little better."
"So it is with Terry de Lancey," said Julius; "he is certainly less feverish to-day;" but there was no corresponding tone of gladness in the voice, though he added, "Cecil is going on well too."
"And-" Poor Lenore's heart died within her; she could only press his arm convulsively, and he had mercy on her.
"Frank's illness has been different in character from the others," he said; "the fever has run much higher, and has affected the brain more, and the throat is in a very distressing state; but Dr. Worth still does not think there are specially dangerous symptoms, and is less anxious about him than Raymond."
"Ah! is it true?"
"He does not seem as ill as Frank; but there have been bleedings at the nose, which have brought him very low, and which have hitherto been the worst symptoms," and here the steady sadness of his voice quivered a little.
Lenore uttered a cry of dismay, and murmured, "Your mother?"
"She is absorbed in him. Happily, she can be with him constantly. They seem to rest in each other's presence, and not to look forward."
"And Cecil?"
"It has taken the lethargic turn with Cecil. She is almost always asleep, and is now, I believe, much better; but in truth we have none of us been allowed to come near her. Her maid, Grindstone, has taken the sole charge, and shuts us all out, for fear, I believe, of our telling her how ill Raymond is."
"Oh, I know Grindstone."
"Who looks on us all as enemies. However, Raymond has desired us to write to her father, and he will judge when he comes."
They were almost at the place of parting. Eleonora kept her hand on his arm, longing for another word, nay, feeling that without it her heart would burst. "Who is with Frank?"
"Anne. She hardly ever leaves him. She is our main-stay at the Hall."
"Is he ever sensible?" she faintly asked.
"He has not been really rational for nearly ten days now."
"If-if-oh! you know what I mean. Oh! gain his pardon for me!" and she covered her face with her hand.
"Poor Frank!-it is of your pardon that he talks. Tell me, Eleonora, did you ever receive a letter from my mother?"
"Never. Where was it sent?" she said, starting.
"To Revelrig. It was written the day after the ball."
"I never went to Revelrig. Oh! if I could have spoken to you first I should have been saved from so much that was wrong. No one knew where I was."
"No, not till Sister Margaret told Herbert Bowater that her sisters had been at a ball at the town-hall the week before. Then he saw she was Miss Strangeways, and asked if she knew where you were."
"Ah, yes! disobedience-tacit deception-temper. Oh! they have brought their just punishment. But that letter!"
"I think it was to explain poor Frank's conduct at the races. Perhaps, as the servants at Revelrig had no knowledge of you, it may have been returned, and my mother's letter have been left untouched. I will see."
They knew they must not delay one another, and parted; Julius walking homewards by the Hall, where, alas! there was only one of the family able to move about the house, and she seldom left her patient.
Julius did, however, find her coming down-stairs with Dr. Worth, and little as he gathered that was reassuring in the physician's words, there was a wistful moisture about her eyes, a look altogether of having a bird in her bosom, which made him say, as the doctor hurried off, "Anne, some one must be better."
"Cecil is," she said; and he had nearly answered, "only Cecil," but her eyes brimmed over suddenly, and she said, "I am so thankful!"
"Miles!" he exclaimed.
She handed him a telegram. The Salamanca was at Spithead; Miles telegraphed to her to join him.
"Miles come! Thank God! Does mother know?"
"Hush! no one does," and with a heaving breast she added, "I answered that I could not, and why, and that he must not come."
"No, I suppose he must not till he is free of his ship. My poor Anne!"
"Oh no! I know he is safe. I am glad! But the knowledge would tear your mother to pieces."
"Her soul is in Raymond now, and to be certain of Miles being at hand would be an unspeakable relief to him. Come and tell them."
"No, no, I can't!" she cried, with a sudden gush of emotion sweeping over her features, subdued instantly, but showing what it was to her. "You do it. Only don't let them bring him here."
And Anne flew to her fastness in Frank's attic, while Julius repaired to Raymond's room, and found him as usual lying tranquil, with his mother's chair so near that she could hand him the cool fruit or drink, or ring to summon other help. Their time together seemed to both a rest, and Julius always liked to look at their peaceful faces, after the numerous painful scenes he had to encounter. Raymond, too, was clinging to him, to his ministrations and his talk, as to nothing else save his mother. Raymond had always been upright and conscientious, but his religion had been chiefly duty and obligation, and it was only now that comfort or peace seemed to be growing out of it for him. As he looked up at his brother, he too saw the involuntary brightness that the tidings had produced, and said, "Is any one else better, Julius? I know Terry is; I am so glad for Rose."
"I asked Anne the same question," said Julius. "Mother, you will be more glad than tantalized. The Salamanca is come in."
Raymond made an inarticulate sound of infinite relief. His mother exclaimed, "He must not come here! But Frankie could not spare Anne to him. What will she do?"