which Ethel had lately seen filled with a glad home party. She was looking round, thinking whether to venture up to Meta's room, and there summon Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her. Ethel could not speak, but Meta's voice was more cheerful than she had expected. 'How kind of you, dear Ethel!'
'Papa sent for me,' said Ethel.
'He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?'
'Oh, yes; but you must leave me. You must want to be with him.'
'He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,' said Meta. 'If he only would! But will you come up to my room? That is nearer.'
'Is papa with him?'
'Yes.'
Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room, where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner- hour, when he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not, however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he had another seizure.
Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more than a few days' weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his countenance at once.
Not so Meta. 'How is he? May I go to him?' cried she.
'Not now, my dear,' said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. 'Yes, my dear, the struggle is over.'
Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta's waist, as if to strengthen her, as she stood quite passive and still.
Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter. 'Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared to hope.'
Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her, she inarticulately murmured, 'Oh! why did you not call me?'
'I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not to let you see him suffer.'
Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to rouse her, that she said, 'I should like to go to bed.'
'Right--the best thing,' said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, 'Go with her, but don't try to rouse her--don't talk to her. Come back to me, presently.'
He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she disappeared into her own room.
Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head, under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs asked her if she would have a light.
'No, no, thank you--the dark and alone. Good-night,' said Meta. Ethel went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her in his arms, and kissed her forehead. 'And how is the poor little dear?' he asked.
'The same,' said Ethel. 'I can't bear to leave her alone, and to have said nothing to comfort her.'
'It is too soon as yet,' said Dr. May--'her mind has not taken it in. I hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when she wakens.'
'She was utterly unprepared.'
'I could not make her understand me,' said Dr. May.
'And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there!'
'It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes; and his whole mind seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been.'
'Must we leave her to herself all night?'
'Better so,' said Dr. May. 'She has been used to loneliness; and to thrust companionship on her would be only harassing.'
Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did not understand.
'I used to try to force consolation on people,' said Dr. May, 'but I know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent.'
'You have seen so many sorrows,' said Ethel.
'I never understood till I felt,' said Dr. May. 'Those few first days were a lesson.'
'I did not think you knew what was passing,' said Ethel.
'I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than those two days,' said Dr. May. 'Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan sitting by me; but I don't believe I had any will. I could no more have moved my mind than my broken arm; and I verily think, Ethel, that, but for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never to disturb grief.'
'And what shall we do?'
'You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased.'
'If only I were anybody else!'
Dr. May again threw his arm round her, and looked into her face. He felt that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else; and, together, they sat down, and talked of what was to be done, and what was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the house of death. Ethel felt and showed it so much, in her subdued, awe-struck manner, that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his ordinary manner, familiarised, as he necessarily was, with the like scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble, and their conversation recurred to those days, so that each gained a more full understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning.
Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as early as might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep continued to shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, and had been with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and then she found her half dressed, and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down, nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered, as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not to mind--Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients; but she did not seem to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being reminded.
Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted to take the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She sat behind her urn, and asked about tea or coffee, quite accurately, in a low, subdued voice, that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the meal was over, and she had rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her daily work, she turned round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and stood for a moment, as if confused.
'Cannot we help you?' said Ethel.
'I don't know. Thank you. But, Dr. May, I must not keep you from other people--'
'I have no one to go to this morning,' said Dr. May. 'I am ready to stay with you, my dear.'
Meta came closer to him, and murmured, 'Thank you!'
The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and Meta, looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, in a low voice, 'Now tell me--'
Dr. May drew her down to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in his soft, sweet voice, told her all that she wished to learn of her father's last hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome tears drop freely down, but without violence, and she scarcely attempted to speak. There was a pause at the end, and then she said gently, 'Thank you, for it all. Dear papa!' And she rose up, and went back to her room.
'She has learned to dwell apart,' said Dr. May, much moved.
'How beautiful she bears up!' said Ethel.
