"God bless you, Miss," said he; "make him touch a drop o' this: he's
gone since breakfast without food, and it's past one in the morning
now."
He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her
to her place at the Squire's side. She did not speak, for she did not
well know what to say, or how to present this homely want of nature
before one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, and
touched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a sick child,
and she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the first spoonful
of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almost
overturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as he
pointed to the bed,--
"He will never eat again--never."
Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible
manner that Molly trembled lest he also should die--should break his
heart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her
tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon, looking
through the unclosed window, with passionless stare. Her father stood
by them both before either of them was aware.
"Go downstairs, Molly," said he gravely; but he stroked her head
tenderly as she rose. "Go into the dining-room." Now she felt the
reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she
went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should
meet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die,--what he
now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the
dining-room,--the last few steps with a rush of terror,--senseless
terror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid
out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about decanting some
wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away
her over-excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt
very much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But
vividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glass
to her lips as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which she
had gone instinctively as to a place of rest.
"Drink, Miss. It's good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to
eat a bit. Says he, 'My daughter may have to stay here, Mr. Robinson,
and she's young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or
she'll break down utterly.' Those was his very words."