CHAPTER XV.
AT REVELSTOKE AGAIN.
Meanwhile sore trouble had come upon Dulcie Carlyon in her Devonshire home.
Her father had been dull and gloomy of late, and had more than once laid his hand affectionately on her ruddy golden hair, and said in a prayerful way that 'he hoped he might soon see her well married, and that she might never be left friendless!'
'Why such thoughts, dear papa?' she would reply.
Dulcie had felt a sense of apprehension for some time past. Was it born of her father's forebodings, or of the presentiment about which she had conversed with Florian? A depression hung over her—an undefinable dread of some great calamity about to happen. At night her sleep was restless and broken, and by day a vague fear haunted her.
The evil boded was to happen soon now.
With these oppressive thoughts mingled the memory of the tall and handsome dark-eyed lad she loved—it seemed so long ago, and she longed to hear his voice again, and for his breast to lay her head upon. But where was Florian now? Months had passed without her hearing of him, and she might never hear again!
Little could she have conceived the foul trick that Shafto had played them both in the matter of the locket; but, unfortunately for herself, she had not seen the last of that enterprising young gentleman.
She felt miserably that her heart was lonely and heavy, and that, young as she was, light and joy, with the absence and ruin of Florian, had gone out of her life. She was alone always with her great sorrow, and longed much for tears; but as her past life had been a happy and joyous one, Dulcie Carlyon had been little—if at all—given to them.
One morning her father did not appear at breakfast as usual. As yet undressed her red-golden hair, that the old man loved to stroke and caress, was floating in a great loose mass on her back and shoulders, and her blue eyes looked bright and clear, if thoughtful.
She had, as was her daily wont, arranged his letters, cut and aired the morning papers for him, adjusted a vase of fresh flowers on the table, with a basket of delicate peaches, which she knew he liked, from the famous south wall of the garden, with green fig leaves round them, for Dulcie did everything prettily and tastefully, however trivial. Then she cut and buttered his bread, poured out his tea, and waited.
Still he did not appear. She knocked on his bedroom door, but received no answer, and saw, with surprise, that his boots were still on the mat outside.
She peeped in and called on him—'Papa, papa!' but there was no response.
The room was empty, and the morning sun streamed through the uncurtained window. The bed had not been slept in! Again she called his name, and rushed downstairs in alarm and affright.
The gas was burning in his writing-room; the window was still closed as it had been overnight; and there, in his easy chair, with his hands and arms stretched out on the table, sat Llewellen Carlyon, with his head bent forward, asleep as Dulcie thought when she saw him.
'Poor papa,' she murmured; 'he has actually gone to sleep over his horrid weary work.'
She leaned over his chair; wound her soft arms round his neck and bowed grey head—her lovely blue eyes melting with tenderness, her sweet face radiant with filial love, till, as she laid her cheek upon it, a mortal chill struck her, and a low cry of awful dismay escaped her.
'What is this—papa?'
She failed to rouse him, for his sleep was the sleep of death!
It was disease of the heart, the doctors said, and he had thus passed away—died in harness; a pen was yet clutched in his right hand, and an unfinished legal document lay beneath it.
Dulcie fainted, and was borne away by the servants to her own room—they were old and affectionate country folks, who had been long with Llewellen Carlyon, and loved him and his daughter well.
Poor Dulcie remained long unconscious, the sudden shock was so dreadful to her, and when she woke from it, the old curate, Mr. Pentreath, who had baptized Florian and herself, was standing near her bed.
'My poor bruised lamb,' said he, kindly and tenderly, as he passed his wrinkled hand over her rich and now dishevelled tresses.
'What has happened?' she asked wildly.
'You fainted, Dulcie.'
'Why—I never fainted before.'
'She don't seem to remember, sir,' whispered an old servant, who saw the vague and wild inquiring expression of her eyes.
'Drink this, child, and try to eat a morsel,' said the curate, putting a cup of coffee and piece of toast before her.
'Something happened—something dreadful—what was it—oh, what was it?' asked Dulcie, putting her hands to her throbbing temples.
'Drink, dear,' said the curate again.
She drank of the coffee thirstily; but declined the bread.
'I beat up an egg in the coffee,' said he; 'I feared you might be unable to eat yet.'
Her blue eyes began to lose their wandering and troubled look, and to become less wild and wistful; then suddenly a shrill cry escaped her, and she said, with a calmness more terrible and painful than fainting or hysterics:
'Oh, I remember now—papa—poor papa—dead! Found dead! Oh, my God! help me to bear it, or take me too—take me too!'
'Do not speak thus, child,' said Mr. Pentreath gently.
'How long ago was it—yesterday—a month ago, or when? I seem—I feel as if I had grown quite old, yet you all look just the same—just the same; how is this?'
'My child,' said the curate, with dim eyes, 'your dire calamity happened but a short time ago—little more than an hour since.'
Her response was a deep and heavy sob, that seemed to come from her overcharged heart rather than her slender throat, and which was the result of the unnatural tension of her mind.
'Come to my house with me,' said the kind old curate; but Dulcie shook her head.
'I cannot leave papa, dead or alive. I wish to be with him, and alone.'
'I shall not leave you so; it is a mistake in grief to avoid contact with the world. The mind only gets sadder and deeper into its gloom of melancholy. If you could but sleep, child, a little.'
'Sleep—I feel as if I had been asleep for years; and it was this morning, you tell me—only this morning I had my arms round his neck—dead—my darling papa dead!'
She started to her feet as if to go where the body lay under the now useless hands of the doctor, but would have fallen had she not clutched for support at Mr. Pentreath, who upheld and restrained her.
The awful thought of her future loneliness now that she had thus suddenly lost her father, as she had not another relation in the world, haunted the unhappy Dulcie, and deprived her of the power of taking food or obtaining sleep.
In vain her old servants, who had known her from infancy, coaxed her to attempt both, but sleep would not come, and the food remained untasted before her.
'A little water,' she would say; 'give me a little water, for thirst parches me.'
All that passed subsequently seemed like one long and terrible dream to Dulcie. She was alone in the world, and when her father was laid in his last home at Revelstoke, within sound of the tumbling waves, in addition to being alone she found herself well-nigh penniless, for her father had nothing to leave her but the old furniture of the house they had inhabited.
That was sold, and she was to remain with the family of the curate till some situation could be procured for her.
She had long since ceased to expect any letter from or tidings of Florian. She began to think that perhaps, amid the splendour of his new relations, he had forgotten her. Well, it was the way of the world.
Never would she forget the day she quitted her old home. Her father's hat, his coat and cane were in the hall; all that he had used and that belonged to him were still there, to bring his presence before her with fresh poignancy, and to impress upon her that she was fatherless, all but friendless, and an orphan.
The superstitious people about Revelstoke now remembered that in Lawyer Carlyon's garden, blossom and fruit had at the same time appeared on more than one of his apple-trees, a certain sign of coming death to one of his household. But who can tell in this ever-shifting world what a day may bring forth!
One evening—she never forgot it—she had been visiting her father's grave, and was slowly quitting the secluded burial-ground, when a man like a soldier approached her in haste.
'Florian!' She attempted to utter his name, but it died away on her bloodless lips.