All at once Norman opened his eyes, and seeing him said quietly, as he
looked around:

'What place is this, Harold?' 'Martin's--James Martin's, sir. You were brought here after the
accident.' 'Yes, I remember! Am I badly hurt? I can feel nothing!' 'I fear so, sir! I have sent for Stephen.' 'Sent for Stephen! Am I about to die?' His voice, though feeble, was
grave and even. 'Alas! sir, I fear so!' He sank on his knees as he spoke and took him,
his second father, in his arms. 'Is it close?' 'Yes.' 'Then listen to me! If I don't see Stephen, give her my love and
blessing! Say that with my last breath I prayed God to keep her and make
her happy! You will tell her this?' 'I will! I will!' He could hardly speak for the emotion which was
choking him. Then the voice went on, but slower and weaker:

'And Harold, my dear boy, you will look after her, will you not? Guard
her and cherish her, as if you were indeed my son and she your sister!' 'I will. So help me God!' There was a pause of a few seconds which
seemed an interminable time. Then in a feebler voice Squire Norman spoke
again:

'And Harold--bend down--I must whisper! If it should be that in time you
and Stephen should find that there is another affection between you,
remember that I sanction it--with my dying breath. But give her time! I
trust that to you! She is young, and the world is all before her. Let
her choose . . . and be loyal to her if it is another! It may be a hard
task, but I trust you, Harold. God bless you, my other son!' He rose
slightly and listened. Harold's heart leaped. The swift hoof-strokes of
a galloping horse were heard . . . The father spoke joyously:

'There she is! That is my brave girl! God grant that she may be in
time. I know what it will mean to her hereafter!' The horse stopped suddenly. A quick patter of feet along the passage and then Stephen half dressed
with a peignoir thrown over her, swept into the room. With the soft
agility of a leopard she threw herself on her knees beside her father and
put her arms round him. The dying man motioned to Harold to raise him. When this had been done he laid his hand tenderly on his daughter's head,
saying:

'Let now, O Lord, Thy servant depart in peace! God bless and keep you,
my dear child! You have been all your life a joy and a delight to me! I
shall tell your mother when I meet her all that you have been to me! Harold, be good to her! Good-bye--Stephen! . . . Margaret! . . . ' His head fell over, and Harold, laying him gently down, knelt beside
Stephen. He put his arm round her; and she, turning to him, laid her
hand on his breast and sobbed as though her heart would break. * * * * *

The bodies of the two squires were brought to Normanstand. Rowly had
long ago said that if he died unmarried he would like to lie beside his
half-sister, and that it was fitting that, as Stephen would be the new
Squire of Norwood, her dust should in time lie by his. When the terrible
news of her nephew's and of Norman's death came to Norwood, Miss Laetitia
hurried off to Normanstand as fast as the horses could bring her. Her coming was an inexpressible comfort to Stephen. After the first
overwhelming burst of grief she had settled into an acute despair. Of
course she had been helped by the fact that Harold had been with her, and
she was grateful for that too. But it did not live in her memory of
gratitude in the same way. Of course Harold was with her in trouble! He
had always been; would always be. But the comfort which Aunt Laetitia could give was of a more positive
kind. From that hour Miss Rowly stayed at Normanstand. Stephen wanted her; and
she wanted to be with Stephen. After the funeral Harold, with an instinctive delicacy of feeling, had
gone to live in his own house; but he came to Normanstand every day. Stephen had so long been accustomed to consulting him about everything
that there was no perceptible change in their relations. Even necessary
business to be done did not come as a new thing. And so things went on outwardly at Normanstand very much as they had done
before the coming of the tragedy. But for a long time Stephen had
occasional bursts of grief which to witness was positive anguish to those
who loved her. Then her duty towards her neighbours became a sort of passion. She did
not spare herself by day or by night. With swift intuition she grasped
the needs of any ill case which came before her, and with swift movement
she took the remedy in hand. Her aunt saw and approved. Stephen, she felt, was in this way truly
fulfilling her duty as a woman. The old lady began to secretly hope, and
almost to believe, that she had laid aside those theories whose carrying
into action she so dreaded. But theories do not die so easily. It is from theory that practice takes
its real strength, as well as its direction. And did the older woman
whose life had been bound under more orderly restraint but know, Stephen
was following out her theories, remorselessly and to the end. CHAPTER IX--IN THE SPRING


The months since her father's death spread into the second year before
Stephen began to realise the loneliness of her life. She had no
companion now but her aunt; and though the old lady adored her, and she
returned her love in full, the mere years between them made impossible
the companionship that youth craves. Miss Rowly's life was in the past. Stephen's was in the future. And loneliness is a feeling which comes
unbidden to a heart. Stephen felt her loneliness all round. In old days Harold was always
within hail, and companionship of equal age and understanding was
available. But now his very reticence in her own interest, and by her
father's wishes, made for her pain. Harold had put his strongest
restraint on himself, and in his own way suffered a sort of silent
martyrdom. He loved Stephen with every fibre of his being. Day by day
he came toward her with eager step; day by day he left her with a pang
that made his heart ache and seemed to turn the brightness of the day to
gloom. Night by night he tossed for hours thinking, thinking, wondering
if the time would ever come when her kisses would be his . . . But the
tortures and terrors of the night had their effect on his days. It
seemed as if the mere act of thinking, of longing, gave him ever renewed
self-control, so that he was able in his bearing to carry out the task he
had undertaken: to give Stephen time to choose a mate for herself. Herein
lay his weakness--a weakness coming from his want of knowledge of the
world of women. Had he ever had a love affair, be it never so mild a
one, he would have known that love requires a positive expression. It is
not sufficient to sigh, and wish, and hope, and long, all to oneself. Stephen felt instinctively that his guarded speech and manner were due to
the coldness--or rather the trusting abated worship--of the brotherhood
to which she had been always accustomed.