taking it, said, ‘I’ve brought Dr Harvey, Emmie. He’ll soon have you right again.’
He released his wife’s hand, straightened and stepped aside. At once Dr Harvey was there, taking a seat on the kitchen chair that Lydia had placed for him, and bending to the woman.
As the doctor ministered to her and took in the extent of her injuries he murmured comforting little words. Then he said softly, sympathetically, ‘Oh, dear, this was an unfortunate accident, Mrs Halley, wasn’t it?’
‘Y-yes,’ Mrs Halley stuttered. ‘I was c-careless.’
The doctor gave a little nod. ‘So it seems,’ he said kindly. ‘Lamps can be such dangerous things – all that paraffin.’ Then turning to Mr Halley at his side, he added directly, ‘Very unfortunate indeed, but it’s so easily done.’ He gave a sigh. ‘It’s a bad business. Dropping a lamp like that. I’ve had other cases. Burning paraffin – it can be truly dreadful.’
The doctor stayed some time longer at the house. At one time he spoke of Mrs Halley being moved to the cottage hospital at Hurstleigh but she would have none of it. She would remain where she was, she insisted, and rely on the care of her husband and daughters.
After he had done what he could for her, and given her a little chloral to deaden the pain and help her to sleep, the doctor said he would leave, but would return in the morning. Mr Halley saw him to the door, where he asked him quietly how he judged his wife’s injuries.
The doctor looked grave. They were very serious, he said, and it would aid her greatly if she could be persuaded to go into the hospital.
When he returned just after eleven the next morning to see his patient he found that she had died less than an hour before.
It had not rained in several days, but on the morning of the funeral the clouds, which had gathered during the night, opened and let fall the threatened downpour.
Lydia and Ryllis, the tears streaming from their eyes, stood at the low-curtained window of the parlour and watched as the small funeral cortège moved away from the house, the umbrellas of the mourners opened up against the falling rain.
Even after the short procession had passed along the lane out of sight, they remained at the window. Victorian manners generally frowned on females being present at a funeral graveside, and so the sisters remained behind. Never having been to a funeral, they had to rely on magazine illustrations and paintings and verbal accounts to have any idea of what went on. Certainly they had their imaginations, and in Lydia’s mind’s eye she saw her father standing at the graveside along with the other mourners, and could almost hear the raindrops drumming on the black domes of their umbrellas. Would the sound drown out the words of the Reverend Hepthaw as he delivered his melancholy address over their mother’s coffin? Lydia could see her father as clearly as if he were beside her, standing with straight back and head bent, the muscle in his jaw working in a steady, rhythmic movement, his eyes swimming with tears behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. What would go through his mind? Would he be focused solely on the loss of his wife or was a part of him judging and criticising the words of the Reverend Hepthaw?
Lydia could scarcely believe that it was all happening. Was it only just over a week ago that she and Ryllis and her mother had been sitting over their teacups while Ryllis had so amused them with anecdotes from her life with the Lucases? Surely it wasn’t possible. Surely the whole horrific story could not be real.
When their father and the handful of mourners returned to the house after the funeral Lydia and Ryllis served them tea and sandwiches and cake. Then, when the platters wereempty and the visitors had gone, the two sisters changed back into their everyday dresses and pinafores and carried the dishes into the scullery where they washed and dried them. In the meantime their father sat in the front parlour,
He released his wife’s hand, straightened and stepped aside. At once Dr Harvey was there, taking a seat on the kitchen chair that Lydia had placed for him, and bending to the woman.
As the doctor ministered to her and took in the extent of her injuries he murmured comforting little words. Then he said softly, sympathetically, ‘Oh, dear, this was an unfortunate accident, Mrs Halley, wasn’t it?’
‘Y-yes,’ Mrs Halley stuttered. ‘I was c-careless.’
The doctor gave a little nod. ‘So it seems,’ he said kindly. ‘Lamps can be such dangerous things – all that paraffin.’ Then turning to Mr Halley at his side, he added directly, ‘Very unfortunate indeed, but it’s so easily done.’ He gave a sigh. ‘It’s a bad business. Dropping a lamp like that. I’ve had other cases. Burning paraffin – it can be truly dreadful.’
The doctor stayed some time longer at the house. At one time he spoke of Mrs Halley being moved to the cottage hospital at Hurstleigh but she would have none of it. She would remain where she was, she insisted, and rely on the care of her husband and daughters.
After he had done what he could for her, and given her a little chloral to deaden the pain and help her to sleep, the doctor said he would leave, but would return in the morning. Mr Halley saw him to the door, where he asked him quietly how he judged his wife’s injuries.
The doctor looked grave. They were very serious, he said, and it would aid her greatly if she could be persuaded to go into the hospital.
When he returned just after eleven the next morning to see his patient he found that she had died less than an hour before.
It had not rained in several days, but on the morning of the funeral the clouds, which had gathered during the night, opened and let fall the threatened downpour.
Lydia and Ryllis, the tears streaming from their eyes, stood at the low-curtained window of the parlour and watched as the small funeral cortège moved away from the house, the umbrellas of the mourners opened up against the falling rain.
Even after the short procession had passed along the lane out of sight, they remained at the window. Victorian manners generally frowned on females being present at a funeral graveside, and so the sisters remained behind. Never having been to a funeral, they had to rely on magazine illustrations and paintings and verbal accounts to have any idea of what went on. Certainly they had their imaginations, and in Lydia’s mind’s eye she saw her father standing at the graveside along with the other mourners, and could almost hear the raindrops drumming on the black domes of their umbrellas. Would the sound drown out the words of the Reverend Hepthaw as he delivered his melancholy address over their mother’s coffin? Lydia could see her father as clearly as if he were beside her, standing with straight back and head bent, the muscle in his jaw working in a steady, rhythmic movement, his eyes swimming with tears behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. What would go through his mind? Would he be focused solely on the loss of his wife or was a part of him judging and criticising the words of the Reverend Hepthaw?
Lydia could scarcely believe that it was all happening. Was it only just over a week ago that she and Ryllis and her mother had been sitting over their teacups while Ryllis had so amused them with anecdotes from her life with the Lucases? Surely it wasn’t possible. Surely the whole horrific story could not be real.
When their father and the handful of mourners returned to the house after the funeral Lydia and Ryllis served them tea and sandwiches and cake. Then, when the platters wereempty and the visitors had gone, the two sisters changed back into their everyday dresses and pinafores and carried the dishes into the scullery where they washed and dried them. In the meantime their father sat in the front parlour,
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