Good words are silver, but good deeds are gold.--Cecil and Mary
'It has been a very good day, papa; he has enjoyed all his meals,
indeed was quite ravenous. He is asleep now, and looks as comfortable
as possible,' said Ethel, five weeks after Aubrey's illness had begun.
'Thank God for that, and all His mercy to us, Ethel;' and the long
sigh, the kiss, and dewy eyes, would have told her that there had been
more to exhaust him than his twelve hours' toil, even had she not
partly known what weighed him down.
'Poor things!' she said.
'Both gone, Ethel, both! both!' and as he entered the drawing-room, he
threw himself back in his chair, and gasped with the long-restrained
feeling.
'Both!' she exclaimed. 'You don't mean that Leonard--'
'No, Ethel, his mother! Poor children, poor children!'
'Mrs. Ward! I thought she had only been taken ill yesterday evening.'
'She only then gave way--but she never had any constitution--she was
done up with nursing--nothing to fall back on--sudden collapse and
prostration--and that poor girl, called every way at once, fancied her
asleep, and took no alarm till I came in this morning and found her
pulse all but gone. We have been pouring down stimulants all day, but
there was no rousing her, and she was gone the first.'
'And Mr. Ward--did he know it?'
'I thought so from the way he looked at me; but speech had long been
lost, and that throat was dreadful suffering. Well, "In their death
they were not divided."'
He shaded his eyes with his hand; and Ethel, leaning against his chair,
could not hinder herself from a shudder at the longing those words
seemed to convey. He felt her movement, and put his arm round her,
saying, 'No, Ethel, do not think I envy them. I might have done so
once--I had not then learnt the meaning of the discipline of being
without her--no, nor what you could do for me, my child, my children.'
Ethel's thrill of bliss was so intense, that it gave her a sense of
selfishness in indulging personal joy at such a moment; and indeed it
was true that her father had over-lived the first pangs of change and
separation, had formed new and congenial habits, saw the future hope
before him; and since poor Margaret had been at rest, had been without
present anxiety, or the sight of decay and disappointment. Her only
answer was a mute smoothing of his bowed shoulders, as she said, 'If I
could be of any use or comfort to poor Averil Ward, I could go
to-night. Mary is enough for Aubrey.'
'Not now, my dear. She can't stir from the boy, they are giving him
champagne every ten minutes; she has the nurse, and Spencer is
backwards and forwards; I think they will pull him through, but it is a
near, a very near touch. Good, patient, unselfish boy he is too.'
'He always was a very nice boy,' said Ethel; 'I do hope he will get
well. It would be a terrible grief to Aubrey.'
'Yes, I got Leonard to open his lips to-day by telling him that Aubrey
had sent him the grapes. I think he will get through. I hope he will.
He is a good friend for Aubrey. So touching it was this morning to
hear him trying to ask pardon for all his faults, poor fellow--fits of
temper, and the like.'
'That is his fault, I believe,' said Ethel, 'and I always think it a
wholesome one, because it is so visible and unjustifiable, that people
strive against it. And the rest? Was Henry able to see his father or
mother?'
'No, he can scarcely sit up in bed. It was piteous to see him lying
with his door open, listening. He is full of warm sound feeling, poor
fellow. You would like to have heard the fervour with which he begged
me to tell his father to have no fears for the younger ones, for it
should be the most precious task of his life to do a parent's part by
them.'
'Let me see, he is just of Harry's age,' said Ethel, thoughtfully, as
if she had not the strongest faith in Harry's power of supplying a
parent's place.
'Well,' said her father, 'remember, a medical student is an older man
than a lieutenant in the navy. One sees as much of the interior as the
other does of the surface. We must take this young Ward by the hand,
and mind he does not lose his father's practice. Burdon, that young
prig that Spencer got down from London, met me at Gavin's, when I
looked in there on my way home, and came the length of Minster Street
with me, asking what I thought of an opening for a medical
man--partnership with young Ward, &c. I snubbed him so short, that I
fancy I left him thinking whether his nose was on or off his face.'
'He was rather premature.'
'I've settled him any way. I shall do my best to keep the town clear
for that lad; there's not much more for him, as things are now, and it
will be only looking close after him for a few years, which Spencer and
I can very well manage.'
'If he will let you.'
'There! that's the spitefulness of women! Must you be casting up that
little natural spirit of independence against him after the lesson he
has had? I tell you, he has been promising me to look on me as a
father! Poor old Ward! he was a good friend and fellow-worker. I owe
a great deal to him.'
Ethel wondered if he forgot how much of the unserviceableness of his
maimed arm had once been attributed to Mr. Ward's dulness, or how many
times he had come home boiling with annoyance at having been called in
too late to remedy the respectable apothecary's half measures. She
believed that the son had been much better educated than the father,
and after the fearful lesson he had received, thought he might realize
Dr. May's hopes, and appreciate his kindness. They discussed the
relations.
'Ward came as assistant to old Axworthy, and married his daughter; he
had no relations that his son knows of, except the old aunt who left
Averil her £2000.'
'There are some Axworthys still,' said Ethel, 'but not very creditable
people.'
'You may say that,' said Dr. May emphatically. 'There was a scapegrace
brother that ran away, and was heard of no more till he turned up, a
wealthy man, ten or fifteen years ago, and bought what they call the
Vintry Mill, some way on this side of Whitford. He has a business on a
large scale; but Ward had as little intercourse with him as possible.
A terrible old heathen.'
'And the boy that was expelled for bullying Tom is in the business.'
'I hate the thought of that,' said the Doctor. 'If he had stayed on,
who knows but he might have turned out as well as Ned Anderson.'
'Has not he?'
'I'm sure I have no right to say he has not, but he is a flashy slang
style of youth, and I hope the young Wards will keep out of his way.'
'What will become of them? Is there likely to be any provision for
them?'
'Not much, I should guess. Poor Ward did as we are all tempted to do
when money goes through our hands, and spent more freely than I was
ever allowed to do. Costly house, garden, greenhouses--he'd better
have stuck to old Axworthy's place in Minster Street--daughter at that
grand school, where she cost more than the whole half-dozen of you put
together.'
'She was more worth it,' said Ethel; 'her music and drawing are
first-rate. Harry was frantic about her singing last time he was at
home--one evening when Mrs. Anderson abused his good-nature and got him
to a tea-party--I began to be afraid of the consequences.'
'Pish!' said the Doctor.
'And really they kept her there to enable her to educate her sisters,'
said Ethel. 'The last time I called on poor Mrs. Ward, she told me all
about it, apologizing in the pretty way mothers do, saying she was
looking forward to Averil's coming home, but that while she profited so
much, they felt it due to her to give her every advantage; and did not
I think--with my experience--that it was all so much for the little
ones' benefit? I assured her, from my personal experience, that
ignorance is a terrible thing in governessing one's sisters. Poor
thing! And Averil had only come home this very Easter.'
'And with everything to learn, in such a scene as that! The first day,
when only the boys were ill, there sat the girl, dabbling with her
water-colours, and her petticoats reaching half across the room,
looking like a milliner's doll, and neither she nor her poor mother
dreaming of her doing a useful matter.'
'Who is spiteful now, papa? That's all envy at not having such an
accomplished daughter. When she came out in time of need so grandly,
and showed all a woman's instinct--'
'Woman's nonsense! Instinct is for irrational brutes, and the more you
cultivate a woman, the less she has of it, unless you work up her
practical common sense too.'
'Some one said she made a wonderful nurse.'
'Wonderful? Perhaps so, considering her opportunities, and she does
better with Spencer than with me; I may have called her to order
impatiently, for she is nervous with me, loses her head, and knocks
everything down with her petticoats. Then--not a word to any one,
Ethel--but imagine her perfect blindness to her poor mother's state all
yesterday, and last night, not even calling Burdon to look at her; why,
those ten hours may have made all the difference!'
'Poor thing, how is she getting on now?'
'Concentrated upon Leonard, too much stunned to admit another idea--no
tears--hardly full comprehension. One can't take her away, and she
can't bear not to do everything, and yet one can't trust her any more
than a child.'
'As she is,' said Ethel, 'but as she won't be any longer. And the two
little ones?'
'It breaks one's heart to see them, just able to sit by their nursery
fire, murmuring in that weary, resigned, sick child's voice, 'I wish
nurse would come.' 'I wish sister would come.' 'I wish mamma would
come.' I went up to them the last thing, and told them how it was, and
let them cry themselves to sleep. That was the worst business of all.
Ethel, are they too big for Mary to dress some dolls for them?'
'I will try to find out their tastes the first thing to-morrow,' said
Ethel; 'at any rate we can help them, if not poor Averil.'
Ethel, however, was detained at home to await Dr. Spencer's visit, and
Mary, whose dreams had all night been haunted by the thought of the two
little nursery prisoners, entreated to go with her father, and see what
could be done for them.
Off they set together, Mary with a basket in her hand, which was
replenished at the toy-shop in Minster Street with two china-faced
dolls, and, a little farther on, parted with a couple of rolls,
interspersed with strata of cold beef and butter, to a household of
convalescents in the stage for kitchen physic.
Passing the school, still taking its enforced holiday, the father and
daughter traversed the bridge and entered the growing suburb known as
Bankside, where wretched cottages belonging to needy, grasping
proprietors, formed an uncomfortable contrast to the villa residences
interspersed among them.
One of these, with a well-kept lawn, daintily adorned with the newest
pines and ornamental shrubs, and with sheets of glass glaring in the
sun from the gardens at the back, was the house that poor Mr. and Mrs.
Ward had bought and beautified; 'because it was so much better for the
children to be out of the town.' The tears sprang into Mary's eyes at
the veiled windows, and the unfeeling contrast of the spring glow of
flowering thorn, lilac, laburnum, and, above all, the hard, flashing
brightness of the glass; but tears were so unlike Ethel that Mary
always was ashamed of them, and disposed of them quietly.
They rang, but in vain. Two of the servants were ill, and all in
confusion; and after waiting a few moments among the azaleas in the
glass porch, Dr. May admitted himself, and led the way up-stairs with
silent footfalls, Mary following with breath held back. A voice from
an open door called, 'Is that Dr. May?' and he paused to look in and
say, 'I'll be with you in one minute, Henry; how is Leonard?'
'No worse, they tell me; I say, Dr. May--'
'One moment;' and turning back to Mary, he pointed along a dark
passage. 'Up there, first door to the right. You can't mistake;' then
disappeared, drawing the door after him.
Much discomfited, Mary nevertheless plunged bravely on, concluding
'there' to be up a narrow, uncarpeted stair, with a nursery wicket at
the top, in undoing which, she was relieved of all doubts and scruples
by a melancholy little duet from within. 'Mary, Mary, we want our
breakfast! We want to get up! Mary, Mary, do come! please come!'
She was instantly in what might ordinarily have been a light, cheerful
room, but which was in all the dreariness of gray cinders, exhausted
night-light, curtained windows, and fragments of the last meal. In
each of two cane cribs was sitting up a forlorn child, with loose locks
of dishevelled hair, pale thin cheeks glazed with tears, staring eyes,
and mouths rounded with amaze at the apparition. One dropped down and
hid under the bed-clothes; the other remained transfixed, as her
visitor advanced, saying, 'Well, my dear, you called Mary, and here I
am.'
'Not our own Mary,' said the child, distrustfully.
'See if I can't be your own Mary.'
'You can't. You can't give us our breakfast.'
'Oh, I am so hungry!' from the other crib; and both burst into the
feeble sobs of exhaustion. Recovering from fever, and still fasting at
half-past nine! Mary was aghast, and promised an instant supply.
'Don't go;' and a bird-like little hand seized her on either side.
'Mary never came to bed, and nobody has been here all the morning, and
we can't bear to be alone.'
'I was only looking for the bell.'
'It is of no use; Minna did jump out and ring, but nobody will come.'
Mary made an ineffectual experiment, and then persuaded the children to
let her go by assurances of a speedy return. She sped down, brimming
over with pity and indignation, to communicate to her father this cruel
neglect, and as she passed Henry Ward's door, and heard several voices,
she ventured on a timid summons of 'papa,' but, finding it unheard, she
perceived that she must act for herself. Going down-stairs, she tried
the sitting-room doors, hoping that breakfast might be laid out there,
but all were locked; and at last she found her way to the lower
regions, guided by voices in eager tones of subdued gossip.
There, in the glow of the huge red fire, stood a well-covered table,
surrounded by cook, charwoman, and their cavaliers, discussing a pile
of hot-buttered toast, to which the little kitchen-maid was
contributing large rounds, toasted at the fire.
Mary's eyes absolutely flashed, as she said, 'The children have had no
breakfast.'
'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' and the cook rose, 'but it is the
nurse-maid that takes up the young ladies' meals.'
Mary did not listen to the rest; she was desperate, and pouncing on the
bread with one hand, and the butter with the other, ran away with them
to the nursery, set them down, and rushed off for another raid. She
found that the commotion she had excited was resulting in the
preparation of a tray.
'I am sure, ma'am, I am very sorry,' said the cook, insisting on
carrying the kettle, 'but we are in such confusion; and the nurse-maid,
whose place it is, has been up most of the night with Mr. Leonard, and
must have just dropped asleep somewhere, and I was just giving their
breakfast to the undertaker's young men, but I'll call her directly,
ma'am.'
'Oh, no, on no account. I am sure she ought to sleep,' said Mary. 'It
was only because I found the little girls quite starving that I came
down. I will take care of them now. Don't wake her, pray. Only I
hope,' and Mary looked beseechingly, 'that they will have something
good for their dinner, poor little things.'
Cook was entirely pacified, and talked about roast chicken, and
presently the little sisters were sitting up in their beds, each in her
wrapper, being fed by turns with delicately-buttered slices, Mary
standing between like a mother-bird feeding her young, and pleased to
find the eyes grow brighter and less hollow, the cheeks less wan, the
voices less thin and pipy, and a little laugh breaking out when she
mistook Minna for Ella.
While tidying the room, she was assailed with entreaties to call their
Mary, and let them get up, they were so tired of bed. She undertook to
be still their Mary, and made them direct her to the house-maid's
stores, went down on her knees at the embers, and so dealt with
matches, chips, and coal, that to her own surprise and pride a fire was
evoked.
'But,' said Ella, 'I thought you were a Miss May.'
'So I am, my dear.'
'But ladies don't light fires,' said Minna, in open-eyed perplexity.
'Oh,' exclaimed the younger sister, 'you know Henry said he did not
think any of the Miss Mays were first-rate, and that our Ave beat them
all to nothing.'
The elder, Minna, began hushing; and it must be confessed that honest
Mary was not superior to a certain crimson flush of indignation, as she
held her head into the grate, and thought of Ethel, Flora, and Blanche,
criticized by Mr. Henry Ward. Little ungrateful chit! No, it was not
a matter of laughing, but of forgiveness; and the assertion of the
dignity of usefulness was speedily forgotten in the toilette of the
small light skin-and-bone frames, in the course of which she received
sundry compliments--'her hands were so nice and soft,' 'she did not
pull their hair like their own Mary,' 'they wished she always dressed
them.'
The trying moment was when they asked if they might kneel at her lap
for their prayers. To Mary, the twelve years seemed as nothing since
her first prayers after the day of terror and bereavement, and her eyes
swam with tears as the younger girl unthinkingly rehearsed her wonted
formula, and the elder, clinging to her, whispered gravely, 'Please,
what shall I say?'
With full heart, and voice almost unmanageable, Mary prompted the few
simple words that had come to her in that hour of sorrow. She looked
up, from stooping to the child's ear, to see her father at the door,
gazing at them with face greatly moved. The children greeted him
fondly, and he sat down with one on each knee, and caressed them as he
looked them well over, drawing out their narration of the wonderful
things 'she' had done, the fingers pointing to designate who she was.
His look at her over his spectacles made Mary's heart bound and feel
compensated for whatever Mr. Henry Ward might say of her. When the
children had finished their story, he beckoned her out of the room,
promising them that he would not keep her long.
'Well done, Molly,' he said smiling, 'it is well to have daughters good
for something. You had better stay with them till that poor maid has
had her sleep out, and can come to them.'
'I should like to stay with them all day, only that Ethel must want me.'
'You had better go home by dinner-time, that Ethel may get some air.
Perhaps I shall want one of you in the evening to be with them at the
time of the funeral.'
'So soon!'
'Yes, it must be. Better for all, and Henry is glad it should be so.
He is out on the sofa to-day, but he is terribly cut up.'
'And Leonard?'
'I see some improvement--Burdon does not--but I think with Heaven's
good mercy we may drag him through; the pulse is rather better. Now I
must go. You'll not wait dinner for me.'
Mary spent the next hour in amusing the children by the fabrication of
the dolls' wardrobe, and had made them exceedingly fond of her, so that
there was a very poor welcome when their own Mary at length appeared,
much shocked at the duration of her own slumbers, and greatly obliged
to Miss May. The little girls would scarcely let Mary go, though she
pacified them by an assurance that she or her sister would come in the
evening.
'Don't let it be your sister. You come, and finish our dolls' frocks!'
and they hung about her, kissing her, and trying to extract a promise.
After sharing the burthen of depression, it was strange to return home
to so different a tone of spirits when she found Aubrey installed in
Ethel's room as his parlour, very white and weak, but overflowing with
languid fun. There was grief and sympathy for the poor Wards, and
anxious inquiries for Leonard; but it was not sorrow brought visibly
before him, and after the decorous space of commiseration, the smiles
were bright again, and Mary heard how her father had popped in to boast
of his daughter being 'as good as a house-maid, or as Miss
What's-her-name;' and her foray in the kitchen was more diverting to
Aubrey than she was as yet prepared to understand. 'Running away with
the buttered toast from under the nose of a charwoman! let Harry never
talk of taking a Chinese battery after that!' her incapacity of
perceiving that the deed was either valiant or ludicrous, entertaining
him particularly. 'It had evidently hit the medium between the sublime
and ridiculous.'
When evening came, Mary thought it Ethel's privilege to go, as the most
efficient friend and comforter; but Ethel saw that her sister's soul
was with the Wards, and insisted that she should go on as she had begun.
'O, Ethel, that was only with the little ones. Now you would be of use
to poor Averil.'
'And why should not you? and of more use?'
'You know I am only good for small children; but if you tell me--'
'You provoking girl,' said Ethel. 'All I tell you is, that you are
twenty-three years old, and I won't tell you anything, nor assist your
unwholesome desire to be second fiddle.'
'I don't know what you mean, Ethel; of course you always tell me what
to do, and how to do it.'
Ethel quite laughed now, but gave up the contest, only saying, as she
fondly smoothed back a little refractory lock on Mary's smooth open
brow, 'Very well then, go and do whatever comes to hand at Bankside,
my dear. I do really want to stay at home, both on Aubrey's account,
and because papa says Dr. Spencer is done up, and that I must catch him
and keep him quiet this evening.'
Mary was satisfied in her obedience, and set off with her father. Just
as they reached Bankside, a gig drove up containing the fattest old man
she had ever beheld; her father whispered that it was old Mr. Axworthy,
and sent her at once to the nursery, where she was welcomed with a
little shriek of delight, each child bounding in her small arm-chair,
and pulling her down between them on the floor for convenience of
double hugging, after which she was required to go on with the
doll-dressing.
Mary could not bear to do this while the knell was vibrating on her
ear, and the two coffins being borne across the threshold; so she
gathered the orphans within her embrace as she sat on the floor, and
endeavoured to find out how much they understood of what was passing,
and whether they had any of the right thoughts. It was rather
disappointing. The little sisters had evidently been well and
religiously taught, but they were too childish to dwell on thoughts of
awe or grief, and the small minds were chiefly fixed upon the dolls, as
the one bright spot in the dreary day. Mary yielded, and worked and
answered their chatter till twilight came on, and the rival Mary came
up to put them to bed, an operation in which she gave her assistance,
almost questioning if she were not forgotten, but she learnt that her
father was still in the house, the nurse believed looking at papers in
Mr. Henry's room with the other gentlemen.
'And you will sit by us while we go to sleep. Oh! don't go away!'
The nurse was thankful to her for so doing, and a somewhat graver mood
had come over Minna as she laid her head on her pillow, for she asked
the difficult question, 'Can mamma see us now?' which Mary could only
answer with a tender 'Perhaps,' and an attempt to direct the child to
the thought of the Heavenly Father; and then Minna asked, 'Who will
take care of us now?'
'Oh, will you?' cried Ella, sitting up; and both little maids, holding
out their arms, made a proffer of themselves to be her little children.
They would be so good if she would let them be--
Mary could only fondle and smile it off, and put them in mind that they
belonged to their brother and sister; but the answer was, 'Ave is not
so nice as you. Oh, do let us--'
'But I can't, my dears. I am Dr. May's child, you know. What could I
say to him?'
'Oh! but Dr. May wouldn't mind! I know he wouldn't mind! Mamma says
there was never any one so fond of little children, and he is such a
dear good old gentleman.'
Mary had not recognized him as an old gentleman at fifty-eight, and did
not like it at all. She argued on the impracticability of taking them
from their natural protectors, and again tried to lead them upwards,
finally betaking herself to the repetition of hymns, which put them to
sleep. She had spent some time in sitting between them in the summer
darkness, when there was a low tap, and opening the door, she saw her
father. Indicating that they slept, she followed him out, and a
whispered conference took place as he stood below her on the stairs,
their heads on a level.
'Tired, Mary? I have only just got rid of old Axworthy.'
'The nurse said you were busy with papers in Henry's room.'
'Ay--the Will. Henry behaves very well; and is full of right feeling,
poor fellow!'
'What becomes of those dear little girls? They want to make themselves
a present to me, and say they know you would like it.'
'So I should, the darlings! Well, as things are left, it all goes to
Henry, except the £10,000 Ward had insured his life for, which divides
between the five. He undertakes, most properly, to make them a
home--whether in this house or not is another thing; he and Averil will
look after them; and he made a most right answer when Mr. Axworthy
offered to take Leonard into his office,' proceeded the communicative
Doctor, unable to help pouring himself out, in spite of time and place,
as soon as he had a daughter to himself. 'Settle nothing
now--education not finished; but privately he tells me he believes his
mother would as soon have sent Leonard to the hulks as to that old
rascal, and the scamp, his grand-nephew.'
Mary's answer to this, as his tones became incautiously emphatic, was a
glance round all the attic doors, lest they should have ears.
'Now then, do you want to get home?' said the Doctor, a little rebuked.
'Oh no, not if there is anything I can do.'
'I want to get this girl away from Leonard. He is just come to the
state when it all turns on getting him off to sleep quietly, and not
disturbing him, and she is too excited and restless to do anything with
her; she has startled him twice already, and then gets upset--tired
out, poor thing! and will end in being hysterical if she does not get
fed and rested, and then we shall be done for! Now I want you to take
charge of her. See, here's her room, and I have ordered up some tea
for her. You must get her quieted down, make her have a tolerable
meal, and when she has worked off her excitement, put her to
bed--undressed, mind--and you might lie down by her. If you can't
manage her, call me. That's Leonard's door, and I shall be there all
night; but don't if you can help it. Can you do this, or must I get
Miss "What-d'ye-call-her" the elder one, if she can leave the Greens in
Randall's Alley?
Well was it that Mary's heart was stout as well as tender; and instead
of mentally magnifying the task, and diminishing her own capabilities,
she simply felt that she had received a command, and merely asked that
Ethel should be informed.
'I am going to send up to her.'
'And shall I give Averil anything to take?'
'Mutton-chops, if you can.'
'I meant sal-volatile, or anything to put her to sleep.'
'Nonsense! I hate healthy girls drugging themselves. You don't do
that at home, Mary!'
Mary showed her white teeth in a silent laugh at the improbability,
there being nothing Ethel more detested than what she rather rudely
called nervous quackeries. Her father gave her a kiss of grateful
approbation, and was gone.
There was a light on the table, and preparations for tea; and Mary
looked round the pretty room, where the ornamental paper, the flowery
chintz furniture, the shining brass of the bedstead, the frilled muslin
toilet, and et ceteras, were more luxurious than what she ever saw,
except when visiting with Flora, and so new as to tell a tale of the
mother's fond preparation for the return of the daughter from school.
In a few moments she heard her father saying, in a voice as if speaking
to a sick child, 'Yes, I promise you, my dear. Be good, be reasonable,
and you shall come back in the morning. No, you can't go there. Henry
is going to bed. Here is a friend for you. Now, Mary, don't let me
see her till she has slept.'
Mary took the other hand, and between them they placed her in an
arm-chair, whose shining fresh white ground and gay rose-pattern
contrasted with her heated, rumpled, over-watched appearance, as she
sank her head on her hand, not noticing either Mary's presence or the
Doctor's departure. Mary stood doubtful for a few seconds, full of
pity and embarrassment, trying to take in the needs of the case.
Averil Ward was naturally a plump, well-looking girl of eighteen, with
clearly-cut features, healthy highly-coloured complexion, and large
bright hazel eyes, much darker than her profuse and glossy hair, which
was always dressed in the newest and most stylish fashion, which, as
well as the whole air of her dress and person, was, though perfectly
lady like, always regarded by the Stoneborough world as something on
the borders of presumption on the part of the entire Ward family.
To Mary's surprise, the five weeks' terrible visitation, and these last
fearful five days of sleepless exertion and bereavement, had not faded
the bright red of the cheek, nor were there signs of tears, though the
eyes looked bloodshot. Indeed, there was a purple tint about the
eyelids and lips, a dried-up appearance, and a heated oppressed air, as
if the faculties were deadened and burnt up, though her hand was cold
and trembling. Her hair, still in its elaborate arrangement, hung
loose, untidy, untouched; her collar and sleeves were soiled and
tumbled; her dress, with its inconvenient machinery of inflation,
looked wretched from its incongruity, and the stains on the huge
hanging sleeves. Not a moment could have been given to the care of her
own person, since the sole burthen of nursing had so grievously and
suddenly descended on her.
Mary's first instinct was to pour out some warm water, and bringing it
with a sponge, to say, 'Would not this refresh you?'
Averil moved petulantly; but the soft warm stream was so grateful to
her burning brow, that she could not resist; she put her head back, and
submitted like a child to have her face bathed, saying, 'Thank you.'
Mary then begged to remove her tight heavy dress, and make her
comfortable in her dressing-gown.
'Oh, I can't! Then I could not go back.'
'Yes, you could; this is quite a dress; besides, one can move so much
more quietly without crinoline.'
'I didn't think of that;' and she stood up, and unfastened her hooks.
'Perhaps Dr. May would let me go back now!' as a mountain of mohair and
scarlet petticoat remained on the floor, upborne by an over-grown steel
mouse-trap.
'Perhaps he will by and by; but he said you must sleep first.'
'Sleep--I can't sleep. There's no one but me. I couldn't sleep.'
'Then at least let me try to freshen you up. There. You don't know
what good it used to do my sister Blanche, for me to brush her hair. I
like it.'
And Mary obtained a dreamy soothed submission, so that she almost
thought she was brushing her victim to sleep in her chair, before the
maid came up with the viands that Dr. May had ordered.
'I can't eat that,' said Averil, with almost disgust. 'Take it away.'
'Please don't,' said Mary. 'Is that the way you use me, Miss Ward,
when I come to drink tea with you?'
'Oh, I beg your pardon,' was the mechanical answer.
Mary having made the long hair glossy once more, into a huge braid, and
knotted it up, came forth, and insisted that they were to be
comfortable over their grilled chickens' legs. She was obliged to make
her own welcome, and entertain her hostess; and strenuously she worked,
letting the dry lips imbibe a cup of tea, before she attempted the
solids; then coaxing and commanding, she gained her point, and
succeeded in causing a fair amount of provisions to be swallowed; after
which Averil seemed more inclined to linger in enjoyment of the
liquids, as though the feverish restlessness were giving place to a
sense of fatigue and need of repose.
'This is all wrong,' said she, with a faint bewildered smile, as Mary
filled up her cup for her. 'I ought to be treating you as guest, Miss
May.'
'Oh, don't call me Miss May! Call me Mary. Think me a sister. You
know I have known something of like trouble, only I was younger, and I
had my sisters.'
'I do not seem to have felt anything yet,' said Averil, passing her
hands over her face. 'I seem to be made of stone.'
'You have done: and that is better than feeling.'
'Done! and how miserably! Oh, the difference it might have made, if I
had been a better nurse!'
'Papa and Dr. Spencer both say you have been a wonderful nurse,
considering--' the last word came out before Mary was aware.
'Oh, Dr. May has been so kind and so patient with me, I shall never
forget it. Even when I scalded his fingers with bringing him that
boiling water--but I always do wrong when he is there--and now he won't
let me go back to Leonard.'
'But, Averil, the best nurse in the world can't hold out for ever.
People must sleep, and make themselves fit to go on.'
'Not when there is only one:' and she gasped.
'All the more reason, when there is but one. Perhaps it is because you
are tired out that you get nervous and agitated. You will be quite
different after a rest.'
'Are you sure?' whispered Averil, with her eyes rounded, 'are you sure
that is all the reason?'
'What do you mean?' said Mary.
Averil drew in her breath, and squeezed both hands tight on her chest,
as she spoke very low: 'They sent me away from mamma--they told me papa
wanted me: then they sent me from him; they said I was better with
Leonard; and--and I said to myself, nothing should make me leave
Leonard.'
'It was not papa--my father--that sent you without telling you,' said
Mary, confidently.
'No,' said Averil.
'No; I have heard him say that he would take all risks, rather than
deceive anybody,' said Mary, eagerly. 'I have heard him and Dr.
Spencer argue about what they called pious frauds, and he always said
they were want of faith. You may trust him. He told me Leonard was in
the state when calm sleep was chiefly wanted. I know he would think it
cruel not to call you if there were need; and I do not believe there
will be need.'
Something like this was reiterated in different forms; and though
Averil never regularly yielded, yet as they sat on, there came pauses
in the conversation, when Mary saw her nodding, and after one or two
vibrations in her chair, she looked up with lustreless glassy eyes.
Mary took one of these semi-wakened moments, and in the tone of
caressing authority that had been already found effectual, said she
must sleep in bed; took no notice of the murmur of refusal, but
completed the undressing, and fairly deposited her in her bed.
Mary's scrupulous conscience was distressed at having thus led to the
omission of all evening orisons; but if her own simple-hearted loving
supplications at the orphan's bedside could compensate for their
absence, she did her utmost. Then, as both the room-door and that of
the sick-chamber had been left open, she stole into the passage, where
she could see her father, seated at the table, and telegraphed to him a
sign of her success. He durst not move, but he smiled and nodded
satisfaction; and Mary, after tidying the room, and considering with
herself, took off her more cumbrous garments, wrapped herself in a
cloak, and lay down beside Averil, not expecting to sleep, but passing
to thoughts of Harry, and of that 23rd Psalm, which they had agreed to
say at the same hour every night. By how many hours was Harry
beforehand with her? That was a calculation that to Mary was always
like the beads of the chaplain of Norham Castle. Certain it is, that
after she had seen Harry lighting a fire to broil chickens' legs in a
Chinese temple, under the willow-pattern cannon-ball tree, and heard
Henry Ward saying it was not like a lieutenant in the navy, she found
herself replying, 'Use before gentility;' and in the enunciation of
this--her first moral sentiment--discovered that it was broad daylight.
What o'clock it was she could not guess. Averil was sound asleep,
breathing deeply and regularly, so that it was; a pleasure to listen to
her; and Mary did not fear wakening her by a shoeless voyage of
discovery to the place whence Dr. May was visible.
He turned at once, and with his noiseless tread came to her. 'Asleep
still? So is he. All right. Here, waken me the moment he stirs.'
And rather by sign than word, he took Mary into the sickroom, indicated
a chair, and laid himself on a sofa, where he was instantaneously sound
asleep, before his startled daughter had quite taken everything in; but
she had only to glance at his haggard wearied face, to be glad to be
there, so as to afford him even a few moments of vigorous slumber with
all his might.
In some awe, she looked round, not venturing to stir hand or foot. Her
chair was in the full draught of the dewy morning breeze, so chilly,
that she drew her shawl tightly about her; but she knew that this had
been an instance of her father's care, and if she wished to make the
slightest move, it was only to secure a fuller view of the patient,
from whom she was half cut off by a curtain at the foot of the bed. A
sort of dread, however, made Mary gaze at everything around her before
she brought her eyes upon him--her father's watch on the table,
indicating ten minutes to four, the Minster Tower in the rising
sunlight--nay, the very furniture of the room, and Dr. May's position,
before she durst familiarize herself with Leonard's appearance--he whom
she had last seen as a sturdy, ruddy, healthful boy, looking able to
outweigh two of his friend Aubrey.
The original disease had long since passed into typhus, and the scarlet
eruption was gone, so that she only saw a yellow whiteness, that,
marked by the blue veins of the bared temples, was to her mind
death-like. Mary had not been sheltered from taking part in scenes of
suffering; she had seen sickness and death in cottages, as well as in
her own home, and she had none of the fanciful alarms, either of
novelty or imagination, to startle her in the strange watch that had so
suddenly been thrust on her but what did fill her with a certain
apprehension, was the new and lofty beauty of expression that sat on
that sleeping countenance. 'A nice boy,' 'rather a handsome lad,' 'a
boy of ingenuous face,' they had always called Leonard Ward, when
animated with health and spirits; and the friendship between him and
Aubrey had been encouraged, but without thinking of him as more than an
ordinary lad of good style. Now, however, to Mary's mind, the broad
brow and wasted features in their rest had assumed a calm nobility that
was like those of Ethel's favourite champions--those who conquered by
'suffering and being strong.' She looked and listened for the low
regular breath, almost doubting at one moment whether it still were
drawn, then only reassured by its freedom and absence from effort, that
it was not soon to pass away. There was something in that look as if
death must set his seal on it, rather than as if it could return to the
flush of health, and the struggle and strife of school-boy life and of
manhood.
More than an hour had passed, and all within the house was as still as
ever; and through the window there only came such sounds as seem like
audible silence--the twittering of birds, the humming of bees, the
calls of boys in distant fields, the far-away sound of
waggon-wheels--when there was a slight move, and Mary, in the tension
of all her faculties, had well-nigh started, but restrained herself;
and as she saw the half-closed fingers stretch, and the head turn, she
leant forward, and touched her father's hand.
Dr. May was on his feet even before those brown eyes of Leonard's had
had time to unclose; and as Mary was silently moving to the door, he
made a sign to her to wait.
She stood behind the curtain. 'You are better for your sleep.'
'Yes, thank you--much better.'
The Doctor signed towards a tray, which stood by a spirit-lamp, on a
table in the further corner. Mary silently brought it, and as quietly
obeyed the finger that directed her to cordial and spoon--well knowing
the need--since that unserviceable right arm always made these
operations troublesome to her father.
'Have you been here all night, Dr. May?'
'Yes; and very glad to see you sleeping so well.'
'Thank you.' And there was something that made Mary's eyes dazzle with
tears in the tone of that 'Thank you.' The Doctor held out his hand
for the spoon she had prepared, and there was another 'Thank you;'
then, 'Is Ave there?'
'No, I made her go to bed. She is quite well; but she wanted sleep
sorely.'
'Thank you,' again said the boy; then with a moment's pause, 'Dr. May,
tell me now.'
Mary would have fled as breaking treacherously in upon such tidings;
but a constraining gesture of her father obliged her to remain, and
keep the cordial ready for immediate administration.
'My dear, I believe you know,' said Dr. May, bending over him--and Mary
well knew what the face must be saying.
'Both?' the faint tones asked.
'Recollect the sorrow that they have been spared,' said Dr. May in his
lowest, tenderest tones, putting his hand out behind him, and signing
to Mary for the cordial.
'She could not have borne it;' and the feebleness of those words made
Mary eager to put the spoon once more into her father's hands.
'That is right, my boy. Think of their being together;' and Mary heard
tears in her father's voice.
'Thank you,' again showed that the cordial was swallowed; then a pause,
and in a quiet, sad, low tone, 'Poor Ave!'
'Your mending is the best thing for her.'
Then came a long sigh; and then, after a pause, the Doctor knelt down,
and said the Lord's Prayer--the orphan's prayer, as so many have felt
it in the hour of bereavement.
All was quite still, and both he and Mary knelt on for some short
space; then he arose in guarded stillness, hastily wiped away the tears
that were streaming over his face, and holding back the curtain, showed
Mary the boy, again sunk into that sweet refreshing sleep. 'That is
well over,' he said, with a deep sigh of relief, when they had moved to
a safe distance. 'Poor fellow! he had better become used to the idea
while he is too weak to think.'
'He is better?' asked Mary, repressing her agitation with difficulty.
'I believe the danger is over; and you may tell his sister so when she
wakes.'