Nellie Netterville; or, One of the Transplanted, Chapter III-V [pp. 175-190]

Nellie Netterville.
impassioned prayer, what time her
husband and her father-in-law were
fighting the battles of their royal
and most ungrateful master. A tall
crucifix, carved, like the rest of the
furniture, in black oak, stood, therefore, on a sort of prie-dieu at the farther end of the room, and near it
was a table arranged in desk-fashion,
at which she had been in the habit
of transacting the business of her
household.
Room and prie-dieu, crucifix and
table, Ilamish had them all by heart
already.
Here in his baby days he had
been used to come, when he and his
little foster-sister were wearied with
their own play, to sit at the feet of
Mrs. Netterville and listen to the
tales which she invented for their
amusement. Here, as time went on,
separating Nellie outwardly from his
society, yet leaving her as near to
him in heart as ever, he had been
wont to bring his morning offerings
of fish from the running stream, or
bunches of purple heather from the
rocks. Here he had come for news
of the war, and of the master, on
that very day which brought tidings
of his death; and here, too, even
while he tried to comfort Nellie, who
had flung herself down in her childish misery just on the spot where
her mother lay prostrate now, he
had wondered, and, young as he
was, had in part, at least, comprehended the marvellous self-forgetfulness of Mrs. Netterville, who, in the
midst of her own bereavement, had
yet found heart and voice to comfort
her aged father-in-law and her child,
as if the blow which had struck
them down had not fallen with threefold force on her own head. In the
darkness of the room and the confusion of his own thoughts, he did not,
however, at first perceive Mrs. Netterville in her lowly posture, and
VOL. VII.-I 2
glanced instinctively toward the priedieu, where he had so often before
seen her take refuge in the hour of
trial.
But she was not there, and a thrill
of terror ran through his frame when
he at last discovered her, face downward, on the floor, her widow's coif
flung far away, and her long locks,
streaked-by the hand of grief, not
time-abundantly with gray, streaming round her in a disorder which
struck Hamish all the more forcibly,
that it was in such direct contrast
to the natural habits of order and
propriety she had brought with her
from her English home. There she
lay, not weeping- such misery as
hers knows nothing of the relief of
tears-not weeping, but crushed and
powerless, as if her very body had
proved unequal to the weight of sorrow put upon it, and had fallen beneath the burtheni. She seemed,
indeed, not in a swoon, but stunned
and stupefied, and quite unconscious
that she was not alone. Hamish
trembled for her intellect; but young
as he was, he was used to sorrow, and
understood both the danger and the
remedy.
His lady must be roused at any
cost, even at that the very thought
of which made him tremble, the recalling her to a full knowledge of her
misery. He advanced farther into
the room, moving softly, in his great
reverence for her desolation, as we
move, almost unconsciously to ourselves, in the presence of the dead,
and occupied himself for a few minutes in arranging the loose papers on
her desk, and the flowers which Nellie had placed upon the prie-dieui
only a day or two before. They
were faded now-faded as the poor
child's fortunes-but instead of throwing them away, he poured fresh water
into the vase which held them, as if
that could have restored their beauty.
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