nstead of the thoughts which became him, as being
now in his father's place, with the fortunes and comfort of his family
more or less depending upon him, all that his mind would follow were the
events of this afternoon, so full of fate. He saw Lady Markland stand,
with the child clinging to her, in the dim room, the shrouded bed and
indistinct attendant figures behind, the dimly flickering lights. Why
had she so claimed his aid, asked for his service, with that certainty
of being obeyed? Her every word trembled in his ear still:--they were
very few; but they seemed to be laid up there in some hidden repository,
and came out and said themselves over again when he willed, moving him
as he never had been moved before. He made many efforts to throw off
this involuntary preoccupation as the carriage rolled quickly along;
the tired horse quickening its pace as it felt the attraction of home,
the tired coachman letting it go almost at its own pleasure, the broad
moonlight fields, with their dark fringes of hedge, spinning past. Then
the village went past him, with all its sleeping houses, the church
standing up like a protecting shadow. He looked out again at this,
straining his eyes to see the dark spot where his father was lying, the
first night in the bosom of the earth: and this thought brought him back
for a moment to himself. But the next, as the carriage glided on into
the shadow of the trees, and the overgrown copses of the Warren received
him into their shadow, this other intrusive tragedy, this story which
was not his, returned and took possession of him once more. To see her
standing there, speaking so calmly, with the soft tones that perhaps
would have been imperious in other circumstances: "Do it for me." No
question whether it could be done, or if he could do it. One thing
only there was that jarred throughout all,--the child that was always
there, forming part of her. "If ever I have anything to do with that
boy"--Warrender said to himself; and then there was a moment of dazzle
and giddiness, and the carriage stopped, and a door opened, and he found
himself standing out in the fresh, soft night with his mother, on the
threshold of his own home. There was a light in the hall behind her,
where she stood, with the whiteness of the widow's cap, which was still
a novelty and strange feature in her, waiting till he should return. It
was far on in the night, and except herself the household was asleep.
She came out to hi