She was silent, and both sat in the cold room without
word or motion.
POSSIBILITIES
Christmas passed, and the beginning of the New Year
drew nigh. And, one morning, as Mr. Woodstock
was glancing up and down the pages of a ledger, a
telegram was delivered to him. It was from a hospital
in the north-west of London. “Your daughter
is dying, and wishes to see you. Please come
at once.”
Lotty’s ailment had declared itself as pneumonia.
She was frequently delirious, and the substance of
her talk at such times led the attendant Sister to
ask her, when reason returned, whether she did not
wish any relative to be sent for. Lotty was frightened,
but, as long as she was told that there was still
hope of recovery, declined to mention any name.
The stubborn independence which had supported her
through these long years asserted itself again, as
a reaction after her fruitless appeal; at moments
she felt that she could die with her lips closed,
and let what might happen to her child. But when
she at length read upon the faces of those about her
that her fate hung in the balance, and when she saw
the face of little Ida, come there she knew not how,
looking upon her from the bedside, then her purpose
yielded, and in a whisper she told her father’s
address, and begged that he might be apprised of her
state.
Abraham Woodstock arrived at the hospital, but to
no purpose. Lotty had lost her consciousness.
He waited for some hours; there was no return of sensibility.
When it had been long dark, and he had withdrawn from
the ward for a little, he was all at once hastily
summoned back. He stood by the bedside, his hands
behind his back, his face set in a hard gaze upon
the pale features on the pillow. Opposite to
him stood the medical man, and a screen placed around
the bed shut them off from the rest of the ward.
All at once Lotty’s eyes opened. It seemed
as though she recognised her father, for a look of
surprise came to her countenance. Then there was
a gasping for breath, a struggle, and the eyes saw
no more, for all their staring.
Mr. Woodstock left the hospital. At the first
public-house he reached he entered and drank a glass
of whisky. The barman had forgotten the piece
of lemon, and was rewarded with an oath considerably
stronger than the occasion seemed to warrant.
Arrived at certain cross-ways, Mr. Woodstock paused.
His eyes were turned downwards; he did not seem dubious
of his way, so much as in hesitation as to a choice
of directions. He took a few steps hither, then
back; began to wend thither, and again turned.
When he at length decided, his road brought him to
Milton Street, and up to the door on which stood the
name of Mrs. Ledward.
He knocked loudly, and the landlady herself opened.
“A Mrs. Starr lived here, I believe?”
he asked.
“She does live here, sir, but she’s in
the orspital at present, I’m sorry to say.”
