Oh, when its flower seems fain to die,
The full heart grudges smile or sigh
To aught beside, though fair and dear;
Like a bruised leaf, at touch of fear,
Its hidden fragrance love gives out.--Lyra Innocentum
'The letters at last! One to Ethel, and three to Leonard! Now for it,
Ethel!'
Ethel opened--read--ran out of the room without a word, and sought her
father in his study, where she laid before him Tom's letter, written
from Massissauga the day after his arrival.
'Dear Ethel,
'I have found my darling, but too late to arrest the disease--the work
of her brother's perverseness and wrong-headedness. I have no hope of
saving her; though it will probably be a matter of several months--that
is, with care, and removal from this vile spot.
'I am writing to Henry, but I imagine that he is too much charmed with
his present prospects to give them up; and in her angelic
self-sacrifice she insists on Leonard's not coming out. Indeed, there
would be no use in his doing so unless she leaves this place; but
should no unforeseen complication supervene, it is my full persuasion
that she could be removed, safely make the voyage, and even be spared
for this summer among us. Surely my father will not object! It will
be but a short time; and she has suffered so much, so piteously needs
love and cherishing, that it is not in him to refuse. He, who
consented to Margaret's engagement, cannot but feel for us. I would
work for him all my life! I would never cast a thought beyond home, if
only once hallowed by this dear presence for ever so short a time. Only
let the answers be so cordial as to remove all doubts or scruples; and
when they are sent prepare for her. I would bring her as quickly as
her health permits. No time must be lost in taking her from hence; and
I wait only for the letters to obtain her consent to an immediate
marriage. Furnish the house at once; I will repay you on my return.
There is £200 for the first floor, sitting, and bedrooms; for the rest
the old will do. Only regard the making these perfect; colouring
pink--all as cheerful and pleasant as money can accomplish. If Flora
will bear with me, get her to help you; or else Mary, if Cheviot
forgives me. Only don't spare cost. I will make it up some way, if
you find more wanted. I saw an invalid sofa, an improvement on
Margaret's, which I will write to Gaspard to send from Paris. If you
could only see the desolateness of the house where she has wasted away
these three years, you would long to make a bower of bliss for her. I
trust to you. I find I must trust everything to you. I cannot write
to my father; I have made nine beginnings, and must leave it to you.
He has comforted her, he knows her sorrows; he could not see her and
bid me leave her. Only there must be no hesitation. That, or even
remonstrance, would prevent her from consenting; and as to the
objections, I cannot know them better than I do. Indeed, all this may
be in vain; she is so near Heaven, that I dare not talk to her of this;
but I have written to Leonard, dwelling chiefly on the chance of
bringing her to him. Her desire to keep him from attempting to come
out will I trust be an inducement; but if you could only see her, you
would know how irreverent it seems to persecute one so nearly an angel
with such matters. If I may only tend her to the last! I trust to
you. This is for my father.
'Ever yours,
'THOMAS MAY.'
The last sentence referred to a brief medical summary of her symptoms,
on a separate paper.
'Can this be Tom?' was the Doctor's exclamation. 'Poor boy! it is
going very hard with him!'
'This would soften it more than anything else could,' said Ethel.
'Oh yes! You write. Yes, and I'll write, and tell him he is free to
take his own way. Poor child! she would have been a good girl if she
had known how. Well, of all my eleven children that Tom should be the
one to go on in this way!'
'Poor dear Tom! What do you think of his statement of her case? Is
she so very ill?'
Dr. May screwed up his face. 'A sad variety of mischief,' he said; 'if
all be as he thinks, I doubt his getting her home; but he is young, and
has his heart in it. I have seen her mother in a state like this--only
without the diseased lungs. You can't remember it; but poor Ward never
thought he could be grateful enough after she was pulled through.
However, this is an aggravated case, and looks bad--very bad! It is a
mournful ending for that poor boy's patience--it will sink very deep,
and he will be a sadder man all his days, but I would not hinder his
laying up a treasure that will brighten as he grows older.'
'Thank you, papa. I shall tell him what you say.'
'I shall write--to her I think. I owe him something for not proving
that it is all as a study of pneumonia. I say, Ethel, what is become
of the "Diseases of Climate?"' he added, with a twinkle in his eye.
'In the nine beginnings.'
'And how about the Massissauga Company?'
'You heartless old worldly-minded father!' said Ethel. 'When you take
to prudence for Tom, what is the world coming to?'
'Into order,' said the Doctor, shaking himself into the coat she held
for him. 'Tom surrendered to a pet patient of mine. Now for poor
Leonard! Good-bye, young people! I am off to Cocksmoor!'
'Please take me, grandpapa,' cried Dickie, hopping into the hall.
'You, you one-legged manikin! I'm going over all the world; and how
are you to get home?'
'On Leonard's back,' said the undaunted Dickie.
'Not so, master: poor Leonard has news here that will take the taste of
nonsense out of his mouth.'
'I am his friend,' said Dickie, with dignity.
'Then your friendship must not disturb him over his letters. And can
you sit in the carriage and twirl your thumbs while I am at Fordham?'
'I shall not twirl my thumbs. I shall make out a problem on my ship
chess-board.'
'That's the boy who was sent from the Antipodes, that he might not be
spoilt!' quoth Aubrey, as the Doctor followed the child into the
carriage.
'Granting reasonable wishes is not spoiling,' said Ethel.
'May the system succeed as well with Dickie as with--' and Aubrey in
one flourish indicated Gertrude and himself.
'Ay, we shall judge by the reception of Ethel's tidings!' cried
Gertrude. 'Now for it, Ethel. Read us Tom's letter, confute the
engineer, hoist with his own petard.'
'Now, Ethel, confute the Daisy, the green field daisy--the simple
innocent daisy, deluded by "Diseases of Climate."'
'Ethel looks as concerned as if it were fatal truth,' added Gertrude.
'What is it?' asked Aubrey. 'If Henry Ward has gone down in a monitor
at Charleston, I'll forgive him.'
'Not that,' said Ethel; 'but we little thought how ill poor Ave is.'
'Dangerously?' said Aubrey, gravely.
'Not perhaps immediately so; but Tom means to marry at once, that he
may have a chance of bringing her home to see Leonard.'
'Another shock for Leonard,' said Aubrey, quite subdued, 'why can't he
have a little respite?'
'May they at least meet once more!' said Ethel; 'there will be some
comfort in looking to that!'
'And what a fellow Tom is to have thought of it,' added Aubrey. 'Nobody
will ever dare to say again that he is not the best of the kit of us!
I must be off now to the meet: but if you are writing, Ethel, I wish
you would give her my love, or whatever he would like, and tell him he
is a credit to the family. I say, may I tell George Rivers?'
'Oh yes; it will soon be in the air; and Charles Cheviot will be down
on us!'
Away went Aubrey to mount the hunter that George Rivers placed at his
service.
Gertrude, who had been struck dumb, looked up to ask, 'Then it is
really so?'
'Indeed it is.'
'Then,' cried Gertrude, vehemently, 'you and he have been deceiving us
all this time!'
'No, Gertrude, there was nothing to tell. I did not really know, and I
could not gossip about him.'
'You might have hinted.'
'I tried, but I was clumsy.'
'I hate hints!' exclaimed the impetuous young lady; 'one can't
understand them, and gets the credit of neglecting them. If people
have a secret attachment, they ought to let all their family know!'
'Perhaps they do in Ireland.'
'You don't feel one grain for me, Ethel,' said Gertrude, with tears in
her eyes. 'Only think how Tom led me on to say horrid things about the
Wards; and now to recollect them, when she is so ill too--and he--' She
burst into sobs.
'My poor Daisy! I dare say it was half my fault.'
Gertrude gave an impatient leap. 'There you go again! calling it your
fault is worse than Charles's improving the circumstance. It was my
fault, and it shall be my fault, and nobody else's fault, except Tom's,
and he will hate me, and never let me come near her to show that I am
not a nasty spiteful thing!'
'I think that if you are quiet and kind, and not flighty, he will
forget all that, and be glad to let you be a sister to her.'
'A sister to Ave Ward! Pretty preferment!' muttered Gertrude.
'Poor Ave! After the way she has borne her troubles, we shall feel it
an honour to be sisters to her.'
'And that chair!' broke out Gertrude. 'O, Ethel, you did out of malice
prepense make me vow it should be for Mrs. Thomas May.'
'Well, Daisy, if you won't suspect me of improving the circumstance, I
should say that finishing it for her would be capital discipline.'
'Horrid mockery, I should say,' returned Gertrude, sadly; 'a gaudy
rose-coloured chair, all over white fox-gloves, for a person in that
state--'
'Poor Tom's great wish is to have her drawing-room made as charming as
possible; and it would be a real welcome to her.'
'Luckily,' said Gertrude, breaking into laughter again, 'they don't
know when it began; how in a weak moment I admired the pattern, and
Blanche inflicted it and all its appurtenances on me, hoping to convert
me to a fancy-work-woman! Dear me, pride has a fall! I loved to
answer "Three stitches," when Mrs. Blanche asked after my progress.'
'Ah, Daisy, if you did but respect any one!'
'If they would not all be tiresome! Seriously, I know I must finish
the thing, because of my word.'
'Yes, and I believe keeping a light word that has turned out heavy, is
the best help in bridling the tongue.'
'And, Ethel, I will really try to be seen and not heard while I am
about the work,' said Gertrude, with an earnestness which proved that
she was more sorry than her manner conveyed.
Her resolution stood the trying test of a visit from the elder married
sisters; for, as Ethel said, the scent of the tidings attracted both
Flora and the Cheviots; and the head-master endeavoured to institute a
kind of family committee, to represent to the Doctor how undesirable
the match would be, entailing inconveniences that would not end with
the poor bride's life, and bringing at once upon Tom a crushing anxiety
and sorrow. Ethel's opinion was of course set aside by Mr. Cheviot,
but he did expect concurrence from Mrs. Rivers and from Richard, and
Flora assented to all his objections, but she was not to be induced to
say she would remonstrate with her father or with Tom; and she
intimated the uselessness thereof so plainly, that she almost hoped
that Charles Cheviot would be less eager to assail the Doctor with his
arguments.
'No hope of that,' said Ethel, when he had taken leave. 'He will
disburthen his conscience; but then papa is well able to take care of
himself! Flora, I am so thankful you don't object.'
'No indeed,' said Flora. 'We all know it is a pity; but it would be a
far greater pity to break it off now--and do Tom an infinity of harm.
Now tell me all.'
And she threw herself into the subject in the homelike manner that had
grown on her, almost in proportion to Mary's guest-like ways and
absorption in her own affairs.
Six weeks from that time, another hasty note announced that Dr. and
Mrs. Thomas May and Ella were at Liverpool; adding that Averil had been
exceedingly ill throughout the voyage, though on being carried ashore,
she had so far revived, that Tom hoped to bring her home the next day;
but emotion was so dangerous, that he begged not to be met at the
station, and above all, that Leonard would not show himself till
summoned.
Dr. May being unavoidably absent, Ethel alone repaired to the
newly-furnished house for this strange sad bridal welcome.
The first person to appear when the carriage door was opened was a
young girl, pale, tall, thin, only to be recognized by her black eyes.
With a rapid kiss and greeting, Ethel handed her on to the further
door, where she might satisfy the eager embrace of the brother who
there awaited her; while Tom almost lifted out the veiled muffled
figure of his bride, and led her up-stairs to the sitting-room, where,
divesting her of hat, cloak, muff, and respirator, he laid her on the
sofa, and looked anxiously for her reassuring smile before he even
seemed to perceive his sister or left room for her greeting.
The squarely-made, high-complexioned, handsome Averil Ward was entirely
gone. In Averil May, Ethel saw delicately refined and sharpened
features, dark beautiful eyes, enlarged, softened, and beaming with
perilous lustre, a transparently white blue-veined skin, with a lovely
roseate tint, deepening or fading with every word, look, or movement,
and a smile painfully sweet and touching, as first of the three, the
invalid found voice for thanks and inquiries for all.
'Quite well,' said Ethel. 'But papa has been most unluckily sent for
to Whitford, and can't get home till the last train.'
'It may be as well,' said Tom: 'we must have perfect quiet till after
the night's rest.'
'May I see one else to-night?' she wistfully asked.
'Let us see how you are when you have had some coffee and are rested.'
'Very well,' she said, with a gentle submission, that was as new a
sight as Tom's tenderness; 'but indeed I am not tired; and it is so
pretty and pleasant. Is this really Dr. Spencer's old house? Can
there be such a charming room in it?'
'I did not think so,' said Tom, looking in amazement at the effect
produced by the bright modern grate with its cheerful fire, the warm
delicate tints of the furniture, the appliances for comfort and
ornament already giving a home look.
'I know this is in the main your doing, Ethel; but who was the hand?'
'All of us were hands,' said Ethel; 'but Flora was the moving spring.
She went to London for a week about it.'
'Mrs. Rivers! Oh, how good!' said Averil, flushing with surprise; then
raising herself, as her coffee was brought in a dainty little service,
she exclaimed, 'And oh, if it were possible, I should say that was my
dear old piano!'
'Yes,' said Ethel, 'we thought you would like it; and Hector
Ernescliffe gave Mrs. Wright a new one for it.'
This was almost too much. Averil's lip trembled, but she looked up
into her husband's face, and made an answer, which would have been odd
had she not been speaking to his thought.
'Never mind! It is only happiness and the kindness.' And she drank the
coffee with an effort, and smiled at him again, as she asked, 'Where is
Ella?'
'At our house,' said Ethel; 'we mean her to be there for the present.'
Knowing with whom Ella must be, and fearing to show discontent with the
mandate of patience, Averil again began to admire. 'What a beautiful
chair! Look, Tom! is it not exquisite? Whose work is it?'
'Gertrude's.'
'That is the most fabulous thing of all,' said Tom, walking round it.
'Daisy! Her present, not her work?'
'Her work, every stitch. It has been a race with time.' The
gratification of Averil's flush and smile was laid up by Ethel for
Gertrude's reward; but it was plain that Tom wanted complete rest for
his wife, and Ethel only waited to install her in the adjoining
bed-room, which was as delightfully fitted up as the first apartment.
Averil clung to her for the instant they were alone together, and
whispered, 'Oh, it is all so sweet! Don't think I don't feel it! But
you see it is all I can do for him to be as quiet as I can! Say so,
please!'
Ethel felt the throb of the heart, and knew to whom she was to say so;
but Tom's restless approaching step made Averil detach herself, and
sink into an arm-chair. Ethel left her, feeling that the short clasp
of their arms had sealed their sisterhood here and for ever.
'It is too sad, too beautiful to be talked about,' she said to
Gertrude, who was anxiously on the watch for tidings.
Obedient as Averil was, she had not understood her husband's desire
that she should seek her pillow at once. She was feeling brisk and
fresh, and by no means ready for captivity, and she presently came
forth again with her soft, feeble, noiseless step; but she had nearly
retreated again, feeling herself mistaken and bewildered, for in the
drawing-room stood neither Tom nor his sisters, but a stranger--a dark,
grave, thoughtful man of a singularly resolute and settled cast of
countenance. The rustle of her dress made him look up as she turned.
'Ave!' he exclaimed; and as their eyes met, the light in those brown
depths restored the whole past. She durst not trust herself to speak,
as her head rested on his shoulder, his arms were round her; only as
her husband came on the scene with a gesture of surprise, she said,
'Indeed, I did not mean it! I did not know he was here.'
'I might have known you could not be kept apart if I once let Leonard
in,' he said, as he arranged her on the sofa, and satisfied himself
that there were no tokens of the repressed agitation that left such
dangerous effects. 'Will you both be very good if I leave you to be
happy together?' he presently added, after a few indifferent words had
passed.
Averil looked wistfully after him, as if he were wanted to complete
full felicity even in Leonard's presence. How little would they once
have thought that her first words to her brother would be, 'Oh, was
there ever any one like him?'
'We owe it all to him,' said Leonard.
'So kind,' added Averil, 'not to be vexed, though he dreaded our
meeting so much; and you see I could not grieve him by making a fuss.
But this is nice!' she added, with a sigh going far beyond the effect
of the homely word.
'You are better. Ella said so.'
'I am feeling well to-night. Come, let me look at you, and learn your
face.'
He knelt down beside her, and she stroked back the hair, which had
fulfilled his wish that she should find it as long, though much darker
than of old. Posture and action recalled that meeting, when her couch
had been his prison bed, and the cold white prison walls had frowned on
them; yet even in the rosy light of the cheerful room there was on them
the solemnity of an approaching doom.
'Where is the old face?' Averil said. 'You look as you did in the
fever. Your smile brings back something of yourself. But, oh, those
hollow eyes!'
'Count Ugolino is Dr. May's name for me: but, indeed, Ave, I have tried
to fatten for your inspection.'
'It is not thinness,' she said, 'but I had carried about with me the
bright daring open face of my own boy. I shall learn to like this
better now.'
'Nay, it is you and Ella that are changed. O, Ave, you never let me
know what a place you were in.'
'There were many things better than you fancy,' she answered; 'and it
is over--it is all gladness now.'
'I see that in your face,' he said, gazing his fill. 'You do look ill
indeed; but, Ave, I never saw you so content.'
'I can't help it,' she said, smiling. 'Every moment comes some fresh
kindness from him. The more trouble I give him the kinder he is. Is
it not as if the tempest was over, and we had been driven into the
smoothest little sunshiny bay?'
'To rest and refit,' he said, thoughtfully.
'For me, "the last long wave;" and a most gentle smooth one it is,'
said Averil; 'for you to refit for a fresh voyage. Dear Leonard, I
have often guessed what you would do.'
'What have you guessed?'
'Only what we used to plan, in the old times after you had been at
Coombe, Leonard.'
'Dear sister! And you would let me go!'
'Our parting is near, any way,' she said, her eye turning to the print
from Ary Scheffer's St. Augustine and Monica. 'Whoever gave us that,
divined how we ought to feel in these last days together.'
'It was Richard May's gift,' said Leonard. 'Ave, there was nothing
wanting but your liking this.'
'Then so it is?' she asked.
'Unless the past disqualifies me,' he said. 'I have spoken to no one
yet, except little Dickie. When I thought I ought to find some present
employment, and wanted to take a clerkship at Bramshaw's, Dr. May made
me promise to wait till I had seen you before I fixed on anything; but
my mind is made up, and I shall speak now--with your blessing on it,
Ave.'
'I knew it!' she said.
He saw it was safer to quit this subject, and asked for Henry.
'He sent his love. He met us at New York. He is grown so soldierly,
with such a black beard, that he is more grown out of knowledge than
any of us, but I scarcely saw him, for he was quite overset at my
appearance, and Tom thought it did me harm. I wish our new sister
would have come to see me.
'Sister!'
'Oh, did you not know? I thought Tom had written! She is a Virginian
lady, whose first husband was a doctor, who died of camp-fever early in
the war. A Federal, of course. And they are to be married as soon as
Charleston has fallen.'
Leonard smiled. And Averil expressed her certainty that it had fallen
by that time.
'And he is quite Americanized?' asked Leonard. 'Does he return to our
own name! No? Then I do not wonder he did not wish for me. Perhaps he
may yet bear to meet me, some day when we are grown old.'
'At least we can pray to be altogether, where one is gone already' said
Averil. 'That was the one comfort in parting with the dear Cora--my
blessing through all the worst! Leonard, she would not go to live in
the fine house her father has taken at New York, but she is gone to be
one of the nurses in the midst of all the hospital miseries. And, oh,
what comfort she will carry with her!'
Here Tom returned, but made no objection to her brother's stay,
perceiving that his aspect and voice were like fulness to the hungry
heart that had pined so long--but keeping all the others away; and they
meanwhile were much entertained by Ella, who was in joyous spirits; a
little subdued, indeed, by the unknown brother, but in his absence very
communicative. Gertrude was greatly amused with her account of the
marriage, in the sitting-room at Massissauga, and of Tom's being so
unprepared for the brevity of the American form, that he never knew
where he was in the Service, and completed it with a puzzled 'Is that
all?'
Averil had, according to Ella, been infinitely more calm and composed.
'She does nothing but watch his eyes,' said Ella; 'and ever since we
parted from Cora, I have had no one to speak to! In the cabin he never
stirred from sitting by her; and if she could speak at all, it was so
low that I could not hear. School will be quite lively.'
'Are you going to school?'
'Oh yes! where Ave was. That is quite fixed; and I have had enough of
playing third person,' said Ella, with her precocious Western manner.
'You know I have all my own property, so I shall be on no one's hands!
Oh, and Cora made her father buy all Ave's Massissauga shares--at a
dead loss to us of course.'
'Well,' said Gertrude, 'I am sorry Tom is not an American share-holder.
It was such fun!'
'He wanted to have made them all over to Henry; but Cora was
determined; and her father is making heaps of money as a commissary, so
I am sure he could afford it. Some day, when the rebellion is subdued,
I mean to go and see Cora and Henry and his wife,' added Ella, whose
tinge of Americanism formed an amusing contrast with Dickie's colonial
ease--especially when she began to detail the discomforts of
Massissauga, and he made practical suggestions for the remedies of
each--describing how mamma and he himself managed.
The younger ones had all gone to bed, Richard had returned home, and
Ethel was waiting to let her father in, when Leonard came back with the
new arrivals.
'I did not think you would be allowed to stay so late,' said Ethel.
'We did not talk much. I was playing chants most of the time; and
after she went to bed, I stayed with Tom.'
'What do you think of her?'
'I cannot think. I can only feel a sort of awe. End as it may, it
will have been a blessed thing to have had her among us like this.'
'Yes, it ought to do us all good. And I think she is full of
enjoyment.'
'Perfect enjoyment!' repeated Leonard. 'Thank God for that!'
After some pause, during which he turned over his pocket-book, as if
seeking for something, he came to her, and said, 'Miss May, Averil has
assented to a purpose that has long been growing up within me--and that
I had rather consult you about than any one, because you first inspired
it.'
'I think I know the purpose you mean,' said Ethel, her heart beating
high.
'The first best purpose of my boyhood,' he said. 'If only it may be
given back to me! Will you be kind enough to look over this rough
copy?'
It was the draught of a letter to the Missionary Bishop, Mr. Seaford's
diocesan, briefly setting forth Leonard's early history, his
conviction, and his pardon, referring to Archdeacon May as a witness to
the truth of his narrative.
'After this statement,' he proceeded, 'it appears to me little short of
effrontery to offer myself for any share of the sacred labour in which
your Lordship is engaged; and though it had been the wish of the best
days of my youth, I should not have ventured on the thought but for the
encouragement I received from Mr. Seaford, your Lordship's chaplain. I
have a small income of my own, so that I should not be a burthen on the
mission, and understanding that mechanical arts are found useful, I
will mention that I learnt shoemaking at Milbank, and carpentry at
Portland, and I would gladly undertake any manual occupation needed in
a mission. Latterly I was employed in the schoolmaster's department;
and I have some knowledge of music. My education is of course,
imperfect, but I am endeavouring to improve myself. My age is
twenty-one; I have good health, and I believe I can bring power of
endurance and willingness to be employed in any manner that may be
serviceable, whether as artisan or catechist.'
'I don't think they will make a shoemaker of you,' said Ethel, with her
heart full.
'Will they have me at all? There will always be a sort of
ticket-of-leave flavour about me,' said Leonard, speaking simply,
straight-forwardly, but without dejection; 'and I might be doubtful
material for a mission.'
'Your brother put that in your head.'
'He implied that my case half known would be a discredit to him, and I
am prepared for others thinking so. If so, I can get a situation at
Portland, and I know I can be useful there; but when such a hope as
this was opened to me again, I could not help making an attempt. Do you
think I may show that letter to Dr. May?'
'O, Leonard, this is one of the best days of one's life!'
'But what,' he asked, as she looked over the letter, 'what shall I
alter?'
'I do not know, only you are so business-like; you do not seem to care
enough.'
'If I let myself out, it would look like unbecoming pressing of myself,
considering what I am; but if you think I ought, I will say more. I
have become so much used to writing letters under constraint, that I
know I am very dry.'
'Let papa see it first,' said Ethel. 'After all, earnestness is best
out of sight.'
'Mr. Wilmot and he shall decide whether I may send it,' he said; 'and
in the meantime I would go to St. Augustine's, if they will have me.'
'I see you have thought it all over.'
'Yes. I only waited to have spoken with my sister, and she--dear, dear
Ave--had separately thought of such a destination for me. It was more
than acquiescence, more than I dared to hope!'
'Her spirit will be with you, wherever she is! And,' with a sudden
smile, 'Leonard, was not this the secret between you and Dickie?'
'Yes,' said Leonard, smiling too; 'the dear little fellow is so fresh
and loving, as well as so wise and discreet, that he draws out all that
is in one's heart. It has been a new life to me ever since he took to
me! Do you know, I believe he has been writing a letter of
recommendation of me on his own account to the Bishop; I told him he
must enclose it to his father if he presumed to send it, though he
claims the Bishop as his intimate friend.'
'Ah,' said Ethel, 'papa is always telling him that they can't get on in
New Zealand for want of the small archdeacon, and that, I really think,
abashes him more than anything else.'
'He is not forward, he is only sensible,' said Leonard, on whose heart
Dickie had far too fast a hold for even this slight disparagement not
to be rebutted. 'I had forgotten what a child could be till I was with
him; I felt like a stock or a stone among you all.'
Ethel smiled. 'I was nearly giving you "Marmion", in remembrance of
old times, on the night of the Christmas-tree,' she said; 'but I did
not then feel as if the "giving double" for all your care and trouble
had begun.'
'The heart to feel it so was not come,' said Leonard; 'now since I have
grasped this hope of making known to others the way to that Grace that
held me up,'--he paused with excess of feeling--'all has been joy, even
in the recollection of the darkest days. Mr. Wilmot's words come back
now, that it may all have been training for my Master's work. Even the
manual labour may have been my preparation!' His eyes brightened, and
he was indeed more like the eager, hopeful youth she remembered than
she had ever hoped to see him; but this brightness was the flash of
steel, tried, strengthened, and refined in the fire--a brightness that
might well be trusted.
'One knew it must be so,' was all she could say.
'Yes, yes,' he said, eagerly. 'You sent me words of greeting that held
up my faith; and, above all, when we read those books at Coombe, you
put the key of comfort in my hand, and I never quite lost it. Miss
May,' he added, as Dr. May's latch-key was heard in the front door, 'if
ever I come to any good, I owe it to you!'
And that was the result of the boy's romance. The first tidings of the
travellers next morning were brought near the end of breakfast by Tom,
who came in looking thin, worn, and anxious, saying that Averil had
called herself too happy to sleep till morning, when a short doze had
only rendered her feeble, exhausted, and depressed.
'I shall go and see her,' said Dr. May; 'I like my patients best in
that mood.'
Nor would the Doctor let his restless, anxious son do more than make
the introduction, but despatched him to the Hospital; whence returning
to find himself still excluded, he could endure nothing but pacing up
and down the lawn in sight of his father's head in the window, and
seeking as usual Ethel's sympathy.
There was some truth in what Charles Cheviot had said. Wedlock did
enhance the grief and loss, and Tom found the privilege of these months
of tendance more heart-wringing than he had anticipated, though of
course more precious and inestimable. Moreover, Averil's depression
had been a phase of her illness which had not before revealed itself in
such a degree.
'Generally,' he said, 'she has talked as if what she looks to were all
such pure hope and joy, that though it broke one's heart to hear it,
one saw it made her happy, and could stand it. Fancy, Ethel, not an
hour after we were married, I found her trying the ring on this finger,
and saying I should be able to wear it like my father! It seemed as if
she would regret nothing but my sorrow, and that my keeping it out of
sight was all that was needful to her happiness. But to-day she has
been blaming herself for--for grieving to leave all so soon, just as
her happiness might have been beginning! Think, Ethel! Reproaching
herself for unthankfulness even to tears! It might have been more for
her peace to have remained with her where she had no revival of these
associations, if they are only pain to her.'
'Oh no, no, Tom. It only proves the pleasure they do give her. You
know, better than I do, that there must be ups and downs, failures of
spirits from fatigue when the will is peaceful and resigned.'
'I know it. I know it with my understanding, Ethel, but as to
reasoning about her as if she was anybody else, the thing is mere
mockery. What can my father be about?' he added, for the twentieth
time. 'Talking to her in the morning always knocks her up. If he had
only let me warn him; but he hurried me off in his inconsiderate way.'
At last, however, the head disappeared, and Tom rushed indoors.
'So, Tom, you have made shorter work of twenty-five patients than I of
one.'
'I'll go again,' said poor Tom, in the desperation of resolute
meekness, 'only let me see how she is.'
'Let Ethel go up now. She is very cheery except for a little headache.'
While Ethel obeyed, Dr. May began a minute interrogation of his son, so
lengthened that Tom could hardly restrain sharp impatient replies to
such apparent trifling with his agony to learn how long his father
thought he could keep his treasure, and how much suffering might be
spared to her.
At last Dr. May said, 'I may be wrong. Your science is fresher than
mine; but to me there seem indications that the organic disease is in
the way of being arrested. Good health of course she cannot have; but
if she weathers another winter, I think you may look for as many years
of happiness with her as in an ordinary case.'
It was the first accent of hope since the hysteric scream that had been
his greeting, and all his reserve and dread of emotion: could not
prevent his covering his face with his hands, and sobbing aloud.
'Father, father,' he said, 'you cannot tell what this is to me!'
'I can in part, my boy,' said the Doctor, sadly.
'And,' he started up and walked about the room, 'you shall have the
whole treatment. I will only follow your measures. No one at New York
saw the slightest hope of checking it.'
'They had your account, and you hardly allowed enough for the
hysterical affection. I do not say it is certainty--far less, health.'
'Any way, any way, if I may only have her to lie and look at me, it is
happiness unlooked for! You don't think I could have treated her
otherwise?'
'No. Under His blessing you saved her yourself. You would have
perceived the change if she had been an indifferent person.'
Tom made another turn to the door, and came back still half wild, and
laid his face on his arms upon the table. 'You tell her,' he said, 'I
shall never be able--'
Knocking at Averil's door, Dr. May was answered by a call of 'Tom.'
'Not this time, my dear. He is coming, but we have been talking you
over. Ave, you have a very young doctor, and rather too much
interested.'
'Indeed!' she said, indignantly; 'he has made me much better.'
'Exactly so, my dear; so much better that he agrees with me that he
expressed a strong opinion prematurely.'
'They thought the same at New York,' she said, still resolved on his
defence.
'My dear, unless you are bent on growing worse in order to justify his
first opinion, I think you will prove that which he now holds. And,
Ave, it was, under Providence, skill that we may be proud of by which
he has subdued the really fatal disorder. You may have much to
undergo, and must submit to a sofa life and much nursing, but I think
you will not leave him so soon.'
There was a long pause; at last she said, 'O, Dr. May, I beg your
pardon. If I had known, I would never--'
'Never what, my dear?'
'Never have consented! It is such a grievous thing for a professional
man to have a sick wife.'
'It is exactly what he wanted, my dear, if you will not fly at me for
saying so. Nothing else could teach him that patients are not cases
but persons; and here he comes to tell you what he thinks of the
trouble of a sick wife.'
'Well,' said Dr. May, as he and Ethel walked away together, 'poor young
things, they have a chequered time before them. Pretty well for the
doctor who hated sick people, Wards, and Stoneborough; but, after all,
I have liked none of our weddings better. I like people to rub one
another brighter.'
'And I am proud when the least unselfish nature has from first to last
done the most unselfish things. No one of us has ever given up so much
as Tom, and I am sure he will be happy in it.'
More can hardly be said without straying into the realms of prediction;
yet such of our readers as are bent on carrying on their knowledge of
the Daisies beyond the last sentence, may be told that, to the best of
our belief, Leonard's shoemaking is not his foremost office in the
mission, where he finds that fulness of hopeful gladness which
experience shows is literally often vouchsafed to those who have given
up home, land, and friends, for the Gospel's sake. His letters are the
delight of more than one at Stoneborough; and his sister, upon her
sofa, is that home member of a mission without whom nothing can be
done--the copier of letters, the depot of gifts, the purveyor of
commissions, the maker of clothes, the collector of books, the keeper
of accounts--so that the house still merits the name of the S. P. G.
office, as it used to be called in the Spenserian era. But Mrs. Thomas
May is a good deal more than this. Her sofa is almost a renewal of the
family centre that once Margaret's was; the region where all tidings
are brought fresh for discussion, all joys and sorrows poured out, the
external influence that above all has tended to soften Gertrude into
the bright grace of womanhood. Mary Cheviot and Blanche Ernescliffe
cannot be cured of a pitying 'poor Tom'--as they speak of 'the
Professor'--in which title the awkward sound of Dr. Tom has been merged
since an appointment subsequent to the appearance of the "Diseases of
Climate". But every one else holds that not his honours as a
scientific physician, his discoveries, and ably-written papers--not
even his father's full and loving confidence and gratitude, give
Professor May as much happiness as that bright-eyed delicate wife, with
whom all his thoughts seem to begin and end.