it was eight o'clock on a fine october morning. there was a touch of frost in the air that made the sunshine which gilded the steadily falling leaves from the beech trees bordering the road outside dr. knight's house feel genial and comforting.
in the pleasant sitting-room facing the high road sat the doctor, his children, and their governess at breakfast. the head of the family was a tall, muscular man, with a bronzed face, and kind, grey eyes. there was about him a look of perfect health, that made his patients in the country town of raymouth say his very presence in a sick-room was cheering; and possessing great skill as a surgeon, added to one of the most sympathetic hearts in the world, it was no wonder he had an increasing practice. indeed, he needed it, for his wife was an invalid, and he had four children, and no private means.
as the doctor read his letters, which had been placed by his plate, the children chatted merrily.
"i wish it was a holiday!" cried nellie, aged six, glancing out at the sunshine, and pouting. "miss clarke, cannot we have a holiday? do say yes!"
"why no, nellie, certainly not," the governess answered promptly. "it is not to be thought of for a moment."
she was a pretty, bright woman, young enough to be in sympathy with her little pupils, and she looked at them smilingly as she spoke. dora, who was eight, a quiet, good-tempered child, accepted the governess' verdict without a remonstrance, but the two elder children looked stormy, and whispered to each other.
george and david knight were twins, fine little fellows of ten years old, mischievous and tiresome in many ways, but, in spite of their loud voices and boisterous manners, really kind-hearted. they were much alike, taking after their father in appearance, as did the two girls, all the children being pictures of health—a family to be proud of, or rather to thank god for.
"it rained last saturday," david remarked presently. "miss clarke, do you remember it rained last saturday?"
"quite well. i was as sorry as you children were, i assure you. nevertheless, you cannot have a holiday to-day. come, cheer up! lesson-time will soon pass, and then we'll have a nice long walk in the woods before dinner."
"yes, i like walking through the dead leaves," said dora, "only the worst of it is if we go in the woods the boys will throw stones at the squirrels! i cannot think how they can be so cruel!"
"she cannot think how we can be so cruel!" mimicked george, whilst david laughed. "pooh, dora! you're so silly!"
"i am not silly at all!" dora indignantly exclaimed. "and it is cruel!"
"it would be cruel if they maimed the poor little creatures," dr. knight agreed, "but," with a sly glance at his sons, "as neither by any chance hits his mark, if i were you, dora, i would let the boys take shots at the squirrels if it's any amusement to them."
the twins grew very red, and david gave george a kick under the table, which somewhat relieved his feelings; then george returned the favour with interest, no doubt with a like soothing result. after that the breakfast proceeded tranquilly, till miss clarke noticed the doctor's face grow grave as he opened the last of his letters. he read the epistle through twice, then rising hastily, and with an apology to the governess, went upstairs to his wife.
three years before, mrs. knight had met with a carriage accident which had nearly cost her her life. for weeks she had lain hovering between life and death, and that time had been accountable for the few grey hairs that streaked the doctor's brown head. she had recovered, that is to say, her life had been spared, but to the end of her days she would in all probability be an invalid, unable to walk, unable even to dress herself, dependent upon the services of others.
in those first days, after the knowledge that she would live had come to her, she had thought life so good and desirable; and then very tenderly her husband had told her the truth. in the first agony of the thought of her helplessness she had wept upon his bosom such sad tears as her eyes had never known before. he had said very little, his sorrow for her had been too deep to admit of many words, but when he had left her he had felt that all happiness had fled. it had been awful to think of his beautiful wife an invalid for life. he had visited his patients as usual, and had repaired again to his wife's bedside. the nurse had slipped from the room, and he had silently taken her place, dreading an outburst of the violent grief he could do so little to comfort. his wife's feeble fingers had closed softly round his strong brown palm as he had tenderly bent over her.
"john," she had whispered, "how i must have grieved you! what a weak, selfish creature you must have thought me! after the anxiety and trouble i have been, to think i should have distressed you with my wicked repinings! do you know, after you had gone i lay crying for hours, and then after a while my selfishness came home to me. i thought that because god means me to live, he must still have some work for me to do. don't you think so?"
"assuredly i do, my dear wife."
"oh, john, i did not remember this morning that i was railing against the cross god had sent me to bear! it seemed to me that god had deserted me! do you remember how i always said, looking on some beautiful scene—the sea, or a wide expanse of moor—that i could feel god's presence? well, to-day, shut up in this room, i had the same sensation. i knew god was near me, a real sustaining presence, and i think he will be near me in the years to come, and with his help i may be able to do my duty to you and the children!"
from that day mrs. knight had never complained of her sad condition, and tied to the narrow limits of two rooms though she was, she somehow managed the household, and continued to be a real helpmate to her husband. people said she was a wonderful woman, and marvelled how she contrived to get such good servants; but it must have been a hard heart that would not render faithful service to the doctor's invalid wife.
on this bright october morning mrs. knight sat, or rather reclined, in her invalid's chair; the tray holding her breakfast things on a small table close by. anna, an elderly woman who had nursed all the children in turn, and who, since the day of her mistress's accident, had been her chief attendant, had placed a small bunch of autumn violets in a vase near at hand, but hearing her master's footsteps on the stairs she went into the bedroom that led out of the sitting-room, closing the door after her.
"how soon you have finished breakfast!" mrs. knight exclaimed. "i hope you have made a good meal, john."
the invalid was a pretty woman still, with fair hair and blue eyes. her husband seated himself by her side and answered her cheerfully, but she was quick to note a shadow on his brow.
"what is it?" she asked anxiously.
"i have had news of my dead brother's wife. she is very ill—dying she herself thinks—and she wants to see me."
"oh, john, you will go to her at once, will you not? but where is she?"
"in london. i have the address here. yes, i shall go to her at once, as you say. gray must manage by himself to-day."
mr. gray was dr. knight's assistant. he did not live in the house, but his lodgings were only a few doors away.
"i shall catch the fast train to town, and will telegraph to you after i have seen my sister-in-law. it is strange she should send for me, seeing we were never friends. it will be a painful meeting. i cannot forget that when my poor brother was lying in his last illness she was going to balls and entertainments, begrudging even the few minutes she spent by his bedside. she was ever the worldliest of women, and what poor leonard saw in her to love i never could imagine!"
the doctor spoke bitterly. his wife pressed his hand gently, and the gloom left his face as he bent over her and kissed her.
"well, little woman, i must not stay up here with you. i must rush off and see gray, and somehow manage to catch the fast train. i hear the children trooping up the stairs! there's no need to tell them the purport of my journey."
the doctor bustled away as the children came laughing and talking into their mother's room. it was her custom, unless she was too unwell, to have them with her every morning for half-an-hour before they joined their governess in the school-room. first they read the psalms for the day, verse by verse in turn, then they hung around her, talking of all the matters of interest pertaining to their young lives. nellie, the baby of the family, nestled in her mother's arms. she had no remembrance of her mother but as an invalid; but dora and the twins recollected the time when mrs. knight had been the soul of activity, joining with them in their games, full of life and gaiety.
"what is father in such a hurry for this morning?" dora inquired. "he finished his breakfast so quickly, and yet nobody sent for him."
"he is going to london this morning by the fast train on important business," mrs. knight briefly explained.
"oh!"
four pairs of eyes looked curious and interested, but no questions were asked. it was soon time for the children to go to the school-room, and when they had gone mrs. knight had not long to wait before her husband returned. he had seen mr. gray, and was quite ready for his journey.
"take care of yourself, john," mrs. knight implored nervously.
she had never been nervous in the old days, but now it was different, though she strove hard to conquer her fears.
"my dear wife, i am always most careful!" and indeed he spoke truly. "it is not in the least likely i shall be away long."
"no, i suppose not. by the way, john, i've been thinking your sister-in-law may want to make you guardian to her little girl."
"it is not very probable, mary. let me see, the child is about the age of the twins, is she not?"
"yes, her birthday is within a month of theirs. i remember your brother's letter in which he told us of his little daughter's birth! how pleased he was! how he would have loved her if he had lived!"
"ab, poor fellow! they named the baby stella. why, mary, if anything happens to the mother the child will be quite a little heiress; you know my sister-in-law inherited a lot of money from a distant relation. well, i must really be off!"
one long kiss, a tender embrace, and mrs. knight was listening to her husband's footsteps descending the stairs.
