CHAPTER IX.
From the first it was a bad case. The throat was not so particularlyaffected, but the weakness was extreme. All imaginable devices wereresorted to, to keep up the patient's strength. Notwithstanding allhuman precautions, however, that strength failed and failed.
In a few days the strong man was like an infant. He could not lift afinger, he could scarcely turn his head, his voice was completely gone.His stricken soul could only look dumbly into the world through hiseyes. Those honest eyes were pathetic. Dorothy was unremitting in herattentions. She took complete charge from the very first. Dr. Edwardscame and went, but he gave the nursing to Dorothy. She had preparedherself for a great fight. She had hoped to conquer, but on the thirdday of the doctor's illness she knew that the battle was not to thestrong nor the race to the swift--in short, the good doctor was calledto render up his account, his short span of mortal life was over.
One evening he had lain perfectly still and in a state of apparentstupor for several hours. Dorothy stood at the foot of the bed. Her eyeswere fixed on the patient.
"It is strange how much I admire him," she said to herself. "I never meta nobler, truer-hearted man."
"Dorothy, come here," said the doctor.
She went at once, and bent over him.
"I am going," he said, looking at her.
"Yes, Dr. Staunton," she answered.
He closed his eyes again for a moment.
"The wife," he murmured--"does she know?"
"I am not sure," said Dorothy in her quiet, clear voice, which never fora moment sank to a whisper. "I think she must guess--I have not toldher."
"She had better know," said the doctor. "Will you bring her here?"
"Yes, I'll go and fetch her at once."
Dorothy left the room. She stood for a moment on the landing.
The task which lay immediately before her made her spirits sink. Sheknew just as well as Dr. Staunton did how precarious was Mrs. Staunton'stenure of life. She knew that a sudden shock might be fatal. Were thosechildren to lose both parents? The doctor was going,--no mortal aid nowcould avail for him,--but must the mother also leave the children?
"I do not know what to do," thought Dorothy. "She must see herhusband--they _must_ meet. He is the bravest man I know, but can hesuppress his own feelings now--now that he is dying? No, no, it is toomuch to ask; but I greatly, greatly fear that if he does not, the shockwill kill her."
Dorothy went slowly downstairs. She was generally decisive in heractions. Now, she trembled, and a terrible nervousness seized her.
When she reached the little entrance hall, and was about to open thedoor of the parlor where she expected to find Mrs. Staunton, she wassurprised to come face to face with a tall, bronzed young man, who wastaking off his hat and hanging it on one of the pegs in the hat-rack. Heturned, and started when, he saw her. He was evidently unfamiliar withnurses and sickness. His face flushed up, and he said in a sort ofapologetic way:
"Surely this is Dr. Staunton's house?"
"Yes," said Dorothy.
"I am George Staunton. I--I came down on pressing business--I want tosee my father in a hurry. What is the matter?"
He stepped back a pace or two, startled by the expression on Dorothy'sface.
"Come in here at once," she said, seizing his hand. She dragged him intothe seldom-used drawing-room. The moment they got inside, shedeliberately locked the door.
"You have come just in time," she said. "You must bear up. I hope you'llbe brave. Can you bear a great shock without--without fainting, oranything of that sort?"
"Oh, I won't faint!" he answered. His lips trembled, his blue eyes grewwide open, the pupils began to dilate.
"I believe you are a brave lad," said Dorothy, noticing these signs. "Itis your lot now to come face to face with great trouble. Dr.Staunton--your father--is dying."
"Good God! Merciful God!" said the lad. He sank down on the nearestchair--he was white to the lips.
Dorothy went up and took his hand.
"There, there!" she said. "You'll be better in a moment. Try to forgetyourself--we have not, any of us, a single instant just now to think ofourselves. I have come down to fetch your mother."
"You are the nurse?" said George, glancing at her dress.
"Yes, I am nursing your father. It has been a very badcase--diphtheria--a very acute and hopeless case from the first. There'sa great deal of infection. Are you afraid?"
"No, no! don't talk of fear. I'll go to him. I--I was in trouble myself,but that must wait. I'll go to him at once."
"I want you to go to your mother."
"My mother! is she ill too?"
"She is not exactly ill--I mean she is not worse than usual, but herlife is bound up in your father's. It would be a dreadful thing for yoursisters and yourself if your mother were to die. Your coming here atthis moment may mean her salvation. I have to go to her now, to tell herthat her dying husband has sent for her. Will you follow me into theroom? Will you act according to your own impulses? I am sure God willdirect you. Stay where you are for a minute--try to be brave. Follow meinto the room as soon as you can."
Dorothy left the drawing room. As she went away, she heard the young mangroan. She did not give herself time to think--she opened the parlordoor.
Mrs. Staunton was sitting in her favorite seat by the window. Her facewas scarcely at all paler than it had been a week ago. She sat then bythe window, looking out at her trouble, which showed like a speck in theblue sky. The shadow which enveloped her whole life was coming closernow, enveloping her like a thick fog. Still she was bearing up. Her eyeswere gazing out on the garden--on the flowers which she and the doctorhad tended and loved together. Some of the younger children hadclustered round her knee--one of them held her hand--another played witha bunch of keys and trinkets which she always wore at her side.
"Go on, mother," said little Marjory, aged seven. "Don't stop."
"I have nearly finished," said Mrs. Staunton.
"But not quite. Go on, mother; I want to hear the end of the story,"said Phil.
Mrs. Staunton did not see Dorothy, who stood motionless near the door.
"They got so tired," she began in a monotonous sort of voice--"sodreadfully tired, that there was nothing for them to do but to try andget into the White Garden."
"A _White Garden_!" repeated Phil. "Was it pretty?"
"Lovely!"
"Why was it called a White Garden?" asked Marjory.
"Because of the flowers. They were all white--white roses, white lilies,snowdrops, chrysanthemums--all the flowers that are pure white withoutany color. The air is sweet with their perfume--the people who come tolive in the White Garden wear white flowers on their white dresses--itis a beautiful sight."
"It must be," said Marjory, who had a great deal of imagination. "Arethe people happy?"
"Perfectly happy--rested, you know, Marjory. They are peaceful as youare when you are tucked up in your little bed."
"I like best to play and romp," said Marjory in a meditative voice; "butthen, you see, I am never tired."
"Dorothy is standing at the door," exclaimed Phil. "Come in, Dorothy,and listen to mother's beautiful story."
"Do you want me?" asked Mrs. Staunton, standing up. She began totremble--the children looked at her anxiously.
Dorothy went straight up and took her hand. "Dr. Staunton wishes to seeyou," she said. "Will you come with me?" She looked anxiously toward thedoor.
Mrs. Staunton put up her hand to her head. "Good-bye, my darlings," shesaid, looking at the little pair, who were gazing up at her with puzzledfaces. "Go and play in the garden, and don't forget the White Gardenabout which we have been speaking." She stooped down and deliberatelykissed both children, then she held out her hand to Dorothy. "I am quiteready," she said.
At that moment George entered the room. He put his arms round hismother. He was a big fellow--his arms were strong. The muscles in hisneck seemed to start out, his eyes looked straight into his mother's.
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nbsp; "You have got _me_, mother; I am George," he said. "Come, let us go tomy father together."
Mrs. Staunton tottered upstairs. She was not in the least surprised atseeing George, but she leaned very firmly on him. They went into thesickroom, and when George knelt down by his father's bedside, Mrs.Staunton knelt by him.
The doctor was going deeper and deeper into the valley from which thereis no return. Earthly sounds were growing dim to his ears--earthlyvoices were losing their meaning--earthly sights were fading before hisfailing eyes. The dew of death was on his forehead.
Mrs. Staunton, whose face was nearly as white, bent down lower and loweruntil her lips touched his hand. The touch of her lips made him open hiseyes. He saw his wife; the look on her face seemed to bring him back toearth again--it was like a sort of return wave, landing him high on theshores of time.
His impulse was to say, "Come with me--let us enter into the rest of theLord together;" but then he saw George. George had thrown his arm roundhis mother's waist.
"Let me keep her, father," said the young man. "Don't take her yet, letme keep her."
"Yes, stay with the lad, Mary," said the doctor.
It was a final act of self-renunciation. His eyelids drooped over hisdying eyes--he never spoke again.