"LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY."
Heart's brother hast thou ever known
What meaneth that No more?
Hast thou the bitterness outdrawn,
Close hidden at its core?
Oh! no--draw from it worlds of pain,
And thou shalt surely find,
That in that word there doth remain
A bitterer drop behind.
ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.
"Phœbe says she doesn't think I shall be really frightened when
the time comes, and there isn't anything really to be afraid of, you
know--it is so different now; when we talked about it at Codrington
it all seemed so dark and dreadful I couldn't bear ever to let it
come up to be thought over. How long one can put away things when
they are not nice to think about?"
"Then why do you talk like this, what good does it do?" questioned
Donovan. It was a December afternoon, and they were talking in the
twilight.
"I'm sorry, I had forgotten. It was very selfish," said Dot,
penitently. It was so hard for her to remember that Donovan did not
share in her new sense of relief, that she more than once made little
allusions of this sort; had she been less simple and childish, his
want of participation would have made her unhappy, as it was,
however, she was content to leave it, sure that in time it would come
to him.
Donovan was very irritable that day, not, of course, with Dot, he was
always gentle with her even when in his worst moods, but he was in
one of his querulous, carping humours, and quarrelled with everything
he read. The oft quoted line of Pope's,
"One truth is clear, whatever is is right,"
was quite sufficient to call forth an angry tirade.
It was a lie, it could not possibly be proved! Were murder, and
fraud, and oppression, and injustice right? People had no business
to make great, false, sweeping assertions of that kind. The anger
soon came down to more personal matters.
"Was it right, do you think, that you and I should have been left to
old Doery, and bullied and tormented as we were? Was it right that
you should be mismanaged and half killed by an owl of a country
doctor? Is it right that you should be suffering as you are now?"
"Some things do seem hard," said Dot, "but we have not got to
understand why everything is, and I think it's best to be still and
take what comes. Do you know, Dono, sometimes when I'm very cross
with the pain for coming back so often, I think of what we saw at
Codrington. Do you remember the little bay where the rocks were, and
how we used to watch the waves dashing so angrily against the very
tall upright rock, and passing so quietly over the little ones? I
think if we are patient, and don't set ourselves up to fight against
the pain and grumble at it, it is not half so hard to bear."
Now Donovan had always felt a sort of sympathy with the tall solitary
rock, with its hard jagged outline, braving in its own strength the
power of the waves. Dot's idea did not please him; patience,
lowliness, and submission were virtues far beyond his comprehension,
and he felt very strongly that painful sense of separation which had
sprung up so strangely between them during the last few months. He
felt far away from Dot, and he hated the feeling and quickly changed
the subject.
"Shall I read something else to you?" he asked.
"I should like some music," said Dot, knowing that this would lead to
no discussion which could displease Donovan, and then ensued what
some people would have thought a rather incongruous selection,
ranging from Sebastian Bach to the latest popular song, and from
"Vedrai Carino" to "The Green Hill far away." There was no
distinction in music to Donovan, he played all Dot's favourites one
after the other. In the middle of the last hymn Mrs. Farrant came
in. It was the time of her second daily visit.
"Pray stop that tune, Donovan," she said, plaintively. "We are
always having it in church, and I am so tired of it, the boys sing it
frightfully out of time, and always get flat in the last line. How
do you feel this afternoon, Dot?"
"Better, thank you, mamma," said Dot, looking wistfully across the
room at Donovan, as he tossed aside the hymn-book impatiently.
"Really better?" questioned Mrs. Farrant, with anxiety, for Dot had
been suffering so much more lately, that even her calm phlegmatic
nature had been stirred to uneasiness and apprehension.
"Yes, I think so," said the little girl. "Dono and I have been
settling our Christmas presents, and what do you think he is going to
give me, mamma? A clock--a dear little clock of my very own."
She had gained the end she wanted; Donovan, who had been at the other
side of the room, turned round, met her eyes, and came to her.
"Dono spoils you, I think," said Mrs. Farrant, smiling; and somehow
the words, trifling as they were, drew the three together. Donovan
recovered his temper, and for once talked naturally before his
mother, teased Dot merrily, and quite surprised Mrs. Farrant by his
high spirits. "I never saw you so talkative before," she remarked,
as the dressing-bell rang, and she rose to go.
"It is Dot who teaches us how to laugh," said Donovan. "You are a
little witch, and sweep away bad humours instead of cobwebs."
Christmas to Donovan only meant a full house, an incomprehensible
gaiety and good humour, a conventional old-fashioned dinner, which he
did not like, and a certain amount of holly and ivy. In his
different way he was quite as far from understanding it as poor old
Scrooge in the "Christmas Carol." The year before old Mr. Hayes had
dined with them, but he was now far away, for, not many weeks before,
his "castle in the air" had become a reality; an old friend of his
had returned from the United States, having made his fortune; he had
come to Oakdene to see Mr. Hayes, had discovered the great wish of
his old school-fellow, and had suggested a six months' tour on the
Continent, in which he was to bear the greater part of the expense.
So the old man in childlike glee had let his cottage and started for
Italy, taking a cordial farewell of Donovan, and recommending him to
follow his plan, which was now coming to such a successful issue.
The guests, therefore, this year only consisted of Adela Farrant and
two friends of Ellis's; nor was the misanthropical Donovan very sorry
that such should be the case. There was something almost ghastly to
him in the merriment which everyone seemed to think it right to force
up. The real happiness of the season was of course utterly unknown
to him, and he had not even any recollections of the "merry
Christmas" of childhood to fall back upon.
Adela tried to tease him into a little conversation as she sat beside
him at dinner, but it was hard work.
"Do you know, Donovan, I was staying at a country house in Sussex
last September, and the first night I got there I saw some one who
reminded me so much of you."
"Indeed!" replied her taciturn companion.
"He was not so much like you in face as in manner; I thought to
myself, no one but my cousin Donovan sits through an evening in such
complete silence, and afterwards--what do you think?--I found out
that your double was dumb."
Donovan laughed a little.
"I can't make small talk," he said--"I told you so long ago."
"Oh! of course your great intellect can't stoop to frivolities," said
Adela, with pretended sarcasm in her tone, but laughter in her bright
eyes. "Perhaps you would kindly give me a little instruction,
though, on some of the weighty subjects that fill your brain."
He laughed again, but then, thinking of his misery at Codrington,
added, quite gravely,
"My brain is anxious just now to forget certain weighty subjects, not
to rake them up. Dot came out with one of her quaint remarks the
other day, which mix in so strangely with her childishness; she
noticed how wonderful it was that you can put any subject out of your
head, when it is not pleasant to think of it, for an almost unlimited
time."
"My dear cousin," said Adela, "do you mean you always keep skeletons
in your cupboard?"
"The world is full of grim things--I try to forget them," said
Donovan.
"You're the most extraordinary person," said Adela. "You actually
never mean to face these things?"
"Not till I'm obliged to," said Donovan.
"Perhaps that accounts for your stupidity," said Adela, with a daring
flash of her dark eyes. "A thousand pardons--I mean the brevity of
your remarks."
"There you have the worst of it, cousin, for 'Brevity is the soul of
wit,'" said Donovan.
"Ah! well, I think you are improved; you shall not be scolded,"
replied Adela, good-humouredly; then, resuming her playful
maliciousness, she continued--"It was such a pity you weren't at
church this morning; the decorations were beautiful, really quite
worth seeing--a cross and two triangles of white azaleas sent by the
Wards, any amount of wreathing round the pillars, and some charming
devices in Epsom salts on a red background."
Donovan naturally scoffed at this.
"I can't think how you can like that sort of thing--if you despise
and condemn pagans, why do you borrow their customs?"
"You hard, matter-of-fact creature! Why, of course we must have a
little beauty. Can't you understand what a help it is?"
"No, I can't," said Donovan, shortly. Then, as the blazing Christmas
pudding was brought in, he continued his grumble. "This, too, is an
absurd, senseless old custom. What good does it do us all to sit
round the table and watch blue flames, and then eat a horrible,
black, burnt, compound, like hot wedding-cake?"
"You are a wretch," said Adela. "You would like to sweep away all
the dear old manners and customs, and start us all in a new order of
things, where men would be machines, and everything would be done by
rule and measure. You would like us all to be as rational and
comprehensible as vulgar fractious, now would you not?"
"It would simplify life," said Donovan, smiling.
"I knew you'd say so," said Adela, triumphantly. "It's really quite
dreadful to talk to such a flint. Have you no associations with the
dear old things? Were you never young?"
"No, I don't think I ever was," said Donovan, with a touch of sadness
in his voice.
The conversation somehow paused here, until an uncontrolled yawn on
Donovan's part stimulated Adela to a fresh effort.
"You are horribly uninteresting," she said.
"Yes, I'm most abominably sleepy. I was up last night."
"Ah! so Dot told me," replied Adela. "You tell her stories, she
says, just like the wonderful story-teller in the 'Arabian Nights,'
one after the other."
"It amuses her," said Donovan, "and sometimes I have sent her to
sleep in that way, but we couldn't manage it last night. She is
dreadfully worn out to-day after all the pain."
"These attacks seem much more frequent than they used to be," said
Adela.
"Yes," he replied, and there was something in his voice which made
Adela suddenly grave, but in a minute he recovered himself, and with
his ordinary manner asked if he should peel an orange for her.
Just then some carol-singers began a hymn outside, but the rest of
the party were not quite in the humour for hymns.
"Oh! those boys sing so badly," said Mrs. Farrant. "Do send them
away, Ellis."
"Yes, I think we had about enough of them this morning at church,"
said Ellis, and he would have sent word to them to go had not Donovan
risen.
"I'll take them round to the other side of the house," he said. "Dot
likes music."
"What!" exclaimed Adela, "you mean to countenance a heathenish old
custom, after all you have said?"
"Dot will like it," he replied, as if this were a sufficient reason
for countenancing anything.
The little invalid's room seemed very quiet and dim after the merry
voices and bright lights down below, and yet it was an unspeakable
relief to Donovan to be there with her once more, away from the
hollow merriment of his step-father and the other guests, away from
Adela's good-humoured banter. Dot was in bed, and there was about
her that terrible stillness of utter exhaustion which makes illness,
and especially a child's illness, so very sad to see. She was quite
worn out with sleeplessness, and, though the pain was less severe
than it had been, her face still bore marks of suffering. She did
not move as Donovan entered, but welcomed him with her eyes.
"You have done dinner quickly to-night," she said. "You have not
been hurrying to get back to me?"
"No; but some carol-singers have come," said Donovan, "and I thought
you would like to hear them."
"Oh, I am so glad!" she said, with child-like pleasure. "I did so
want to hear the carols that Phœbe has been telling me about.
Please draw up the blind, Phœbe, so that they may know we are
listening. Oh! there is my clock striking. Hark!"
Donovan's present, an exquisite little travelling clock, stood on the
mantelpiece, and as Dot spoke it chimed the hour, then struck eight
o'clock in sweet, low, muffled tones, like the sound of a distant
cathedral bell.
"It is so beautiful," she said, happily. "It will make the night go
so much more quickly. Now put your arm round me, Don dear."
Then the choir-boys outside began their carol, the voices sounding
sweet and subdued as they floated up into the silence of the
sick-room. At first the words seemed almost incongruous, the dear
old Christmas hymn had surely not been meant for such sadness, and
suffering, and anxiety? But the shrill fearless trebles went on, and
Donovan and Dot listened.
"God rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan's power.
When we were gone astray;
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy!"
Dot caught the refrain which came at the end of every verse, and was
delighted with it. By-and-by the singers went away, and Dot asked to
have some reading. Some one had sent her a leaflet hymn; it was a
description of the "City with streets of gold," and Donovan read it
through patiently, though it seemed to him sensational and
unsatisfying, and he was grieved to think that she could care for
such material delights as were described. It was a positive relief
to him that she did not like it. To sing and rest in a luxurious
city could not be her ideal of a future life.
"And besides," she said, in her quaint way, "there isn't time to
think about the houses, and the streets, and the gardens, they don't
make the home; it is something like the home here, I think; you know,
though Oakdene is so pretty, it is only because you are here that I
love it, it is you that I think of, not the house."
There was a pause in which the candle flared for a moment in its
socket, and then died out, leaving the room in darkness. The maid
had gone away. Donovan would have rung, but Dot stopped him.
"We won't have another," she said. "I like to be in the dark when
you hold me near you; and, look, we can see the stars, there is dear
old Orion, he's my very favourite of all, I always look for him.
And, Dono dear, while we are all alone like this I want to tell you
something, you won't like it now, but some day I am sure you will.
When Phœbe first told me everything it was only through you that I
could at all understand. I had to think first what love was, and
what giving up was, and then I thought of you, and how you loved me
and gave up all your life to me; no, I know you will say you didn't
give up anything, but you have, Don, you have given up pleasure, and
rest, and change, and all sorts of things."
"But do you think I could have been happy, do you think life would
have been tolerable if I had gone away to enjoy myself and left you
alone?" said Donovan, hoarsely.
"No, Don," she replied, nestling closer to him, "I was quite sure you
never could, and then you see I could believe how the greatest love
of all could not leave us."
He gave a mental ejaculation of thankfulness that Doery had never
grieved the tender little soul with her cold-blooded Calvinism. Dear
little girl! she was happy enough in her new convictions, he would
not for the world have disturbed her; in the dark he even smiled a
little to think that he had actually helped towards establishing the
"delusion" in her mind, had helped to set up his rival.
The next few days passed hopefully, Dot seemed to grow a little
stronger again, and, as she had rallied from so many attacks, they
all began to feel relieved, and to fancy that anxiety was over for
the present. There was to be a dance at the Manor on the 31st, and
when, at Christmas, Dot had been so seriously ill, Mrs. Farrant had
almost decided to postpone it; however, she seemed to recover
quickly, so the arrangement was not altered, and the house was soon
in that state of excitement and turmoil which invariably precedes any
unusual event of the kind. Adela Farrant was quite in her element,
and even succeeded in stirring up Donovan to such an extent that he
came down, from what she called his "high horse," and condescended to
show some interest in the arrangements. She was therefore doubly
astonished when, about eight o'clock on the evening of the dance, she
met him on the stairs, to find that all his interest had suddenly
abated.
"Try to get this affair over as quickly as you can," he said, as they
passed each other.
"What do you mean?" said Adela, standing still. "You are coming
down, are you not?"
"No, I can't, it's quite impossible. Dot is so restless and poorly,
I'm afraid she is in for another of her bad attacks; I want you to
get the people away as soon as may be, the noise is sure to worry
her."
"Oh! she'll be asleep before it begins," said Adela. "No one will be
here till nine o'clock, I should think."
"Well, I hope it will be so. It's an abominable nuisance, though,
that the house should be all upset to-night."
As he spoke, he opened the door of the little invalid's room, and
shut himself in, while Adela passed down the stairs to the
drawing-room, a little annoyed at what she called "Cæsar's
desertion," and vaguely uneasy at his account of Dot. One of the
guests was, however, greatly relieved at his absence; Mrs. Ward
really began to enjoy the evening when she found that the "dangerous
young man" did not appear; she was quite content that her daughters
should dance with Major Mackinnon and Mr. Probyn, two friends of
Ellis Farrant's who were staying at the Manor. They were quite
distinguished-looking men; Mrs. Ward was glad that her girls should
have such nice partners, and remained in happy ignorance that they
were in reality characters beside whom the poor black sheep of
Oakdene would have become almost white in contrast.
Meanwhile, in the room above, Dot was in that state of strange,
restless misery which always preceded her attacks--A sort of
anticipation of the pain. This was the time when her courage was
most apt to fail; she could not bear the thought of the suffering
beforehand, though, when it actually came, she was always brave and
patient. In vain did Donovan try every possible means of sending her
to sleep. Every preventative which the doctors had ordered to be
tried at such times had of course been brought to bear upon the poor
little girl, but to-night nothing seemed to have any effect. Donovan
read to her, played to her, told her story after story, but she grew
rapidly worse, and they at length realised that some fresh form of
illness must have set in; much as she had suffered, she had never
been in such terrible pain before. Old Mrs. Doery, who had nursed
her through so many illnesses, was summoned at once, and the younger
nurse went downstairs to find a messenger who could be sent for the
doctor. The house, however, was all in confusion, and in a few
minutes Phœbe returned in despair; the other servants were too
busy to go; she could not even persuade any of the servants of the
guests to ride over to Greyshot with the message.
"This miserable dance!" exclaimed Donovan, angrily. "Well, I must go
myself, then; I shall be quicker than any of those lazy knaves."
But Dot clung to him.
"It is so hard to bear without you. I will be good if it's really
best, but--but----"
It cost him a hard struggle to decide, but, knowing that an unwilling
messenger would be slow, he felt that the only sure way was to go
himself; there was no time to be lost. He bent down to kiss the poor
little quivering lips, and said, very gently and firmly,
"It _is_ best, darling. Be brave; I shall not be long."
She tried to smile, and he hurried away, sick at heart. Rushing
headlong downstairs, snatching up his hat from the stand, brushing
past some astonished visitors, he ran at full speed to the stables,
saddled the cob with his own hands, and in five minutes was on the
road to Greyshot. He had dashed out from the heated room just as he
was; the night was piercingly cold, the snow was falling fast, and
the north wind blew the flakes into his eyes, so that he was almost
blinded by them; he shivered from head to foot, but did not know that
he shivered--all that he felt was an overwhelming anxiety and dread.
What if he should never see Dot again? The extraordinary severity
and suddenness of this illness had alarmed them all--what if she sank
under it? And he had refused her last entreaty! Oh! bitter agony,
what if he reached home too late! "Too late! too late!" The very
sound of the horse's hoofs echoed his fears, the muffled footfall as
they galloped on over the snowy road. And yet it was the only sure
way of getting the doctor; he knew he had been right to come; it
might--it was just possible that it might save Dot some minutes of
pain--it might save her life. But again his heart sank down like
lead under the oppression of the one horrible fear. That ride was
ever after a sort of nightmare recollection to him.
At last he thought it was ended; he sprang down at the door of the
doctor's house and rang furiously. The footman appeared in answer.
"Dr. L---- was dining at Monklands."
Monklands was about two miles on the other side of Greyshot.
Poor Donovan rode on almost despairingly, cursing his cruel fate. It
was half-past ten by the time he reached the house; then, to his
relief, he saw that Dr. L----'s carriage was standing at the door.
He would not dismount; the doctor came out to him at once, and, on
hearing his account of Dot, prepared to come to her directly, left a
hurried message of farewell to his host, and springing into his
carriage, drove home, promising to come on to the Manor as quickly as
possible.
Donovan had neither whip nor spurs, but he had what is far more
efficacious--the power of communicating his thoughts to animals; the
cob seemed to gather from the feeling of his hand on her neck, from
his occasional ejaculations, all the anxiety of this ride. In spite
of the deep snow, he galloped on bravely; on through the open
country, through the silent Greyshot streets, along the white
deserted road, till at length the lights of the Manor shone out
through the branches of the ghostly-looking oak-trees, the bright
lights in the lower windows, and the dim light in the upper room.
Donovan's heart gave a great bound when he heard in the distance the
music of the string quartette and the sound of dancing. It was well
with Dot then! In common decency the house would have been in
silence if his fears had been realised. Forgetful of everything but
the one absorbing interest, he dashed into the house, through the
hall and up the broad staircase; Miss Ward and her partner, who were
pacing up and down in the cool, stared at the sudden apparition with
its snowy garments and strained expectant face; he never even saw
them, but, hurrying on, threw aside his wet clothes, and in five
minutes had reached Dot's room. As he opened the door two sounds
mingled for an instant in his ear. From below came the sound of the
"grand chain" in the "Lancers," and from the sick-bed came a low
sobbing moan. Phœbe was saying something to the little girl; he
caught the words of one of her favourite hymns--
"We may not know, we cannot tell,
What pains He had to bear."
Dot saw him in a minute and gave a relieved exclamation.
"Oh! Dono, I'm so glad you are back; I've wanted you so dreadfully.
Let me hold your hands."
His face, which had been rigid during the time of his anxiety, was
changed now to the look of tenderness and even cheerfulness, which he
had learnt to wear when with the little girl.
"Dr. L---- will be here almost directly, and then he will make you
more comfortable," he said, taking his place at the bedside.
"Oh! Dono," she gasped, "sometimes I think I shall never be
comfortable any more."
"You thought so last time you were ill," said Donovan, soothingly,
"and then after all you had some quiet days."
"Yes, but this is worse. Oh, Dono, Dono!" and again she broke into
that wail of pain which pierced the hearts of the watchers. Donovan
was the only one who never lost his control; he was always ready with
quiet, tender words; sometimes when the pain was lulled for a few
minutes he would even make the little girl smile.
At last the doctor came, and Donovan waited in fearful suspense for
his opinion; he waited outside the room in the gallery, pacing up and
down miserably, feeling chafed and annoyed by the laughter and noise
which reached his ears from below. After some time Dr. L---- came
out, with a face which only too fully confirmed his fears.
"Cannot this noise be stopped?" he asked, a little impatiently.
"It _shall_ be," said Donovan, with bitter earnestness. "She is in
danger, as I thought?"
"Yes," said Dr. L----. "Mrs. Farrant ought to be told at once."
"You mean that--that the end is near?" questioned Donovan, startled,
in spite of his forebodings.
"It is an acute attack of inflammation; I am afraid she must sink
under it," replied the doctor, gravely.
Without a word Donovan went slowly down the stairs to the room where
the dancing was going on. A Highland reel had just begun; the tune
"Tullochgorum" rang in his head for weeks after. The greater number
of the guests were looking on at the dancers. Donovan saw that his
mother was quite at the other end of the room, and, as he was
arranging how best to reach her, Ellis caught sight of him and
hurried towards the place where he was standing.
"How now, Donovan, come to dance after all, and in that old
shooting-coat?"
"You must stop this; Dot is ill," said Donovan, in a hollow voice.
"My dear fellow, you ask impossibilities; one can't turn away seventy
guests at a moment's notice."
"She is dying," said Donovan, and the words sounded strangely out of
place in the midst of all the gaiety and merriment.
"_Dying!_" echoed Ellis, startled and shocked. At an ordinary time
he would have enjoyed the opportunity of thwarting and annoying his
step-son; only a moment ago and something of this sort had been in
his intentions, but that one word scattered all mean and unkind
thoughts; before the angel of death even this selfish and dishonest
man became softened and awed.
"I will arrange it; the music shall of course be stopped," he said,
in really kind tones.
Donovan thanked him, and asked him to tell Mrs. Farrant, and Ellis at
once complied, crossing the room to the place where his wife was
talking with the squire, and telling her that she must speak to
Donovan for a moment outside.
She was so completely overcome by the unexpected news that Donovan
was almost in despair. To be kept away from Dot was terrible, and
yet he could not leave his mother in her distress. Speaking with the
perfect gentleness and control which seemed specially given to him
that night, he at last persuaded her to come and see the little girl,
overruling the sobbing, shrinking appeal, "that it was so terrible,
so sad--and she couldn't bear to go in that dress."
But a very few minutes beside the poor little child's bed proved too
much for Mrs. Farrant's powers of endurance. The sight of her
suffering was indeed terribly painful, and with a mother's
instinctive love awakening in her heart, but without a mother's long
training in self-denial and devotion, Mrs. Farrant naturally could
not control herself in the least; she burst into tears, agitated Dot,
and had at last to be taken from the room.
"I love her so," she said, piteously, to Donovan, as he half carried
her along the gallery, and helped her on to her sofa.
He bent down and kissed her.
"You will come in again when you can?" he said. "We will tell you
when there is any change."
Adela came in while he was speaking, and he left her with Mrs.
Farrant, and hastily returned to the sick-room. Dot was now growing
delirious with the pain, but, though she could not bear anyone else
even to touch the bed-clothes, she liked him to hold her hand, and
her unconscious words were always spoken to him. The solemn midnight
was undisturbed by music or merriment; instead of dancing the old
year out and the new year in, the guests were driving sadly from the
Manor. Dot was moaning in the last sharp struggle of her little
life, and Donovan was watching beside her in anguish which could only
have been suppressed by the purest and truest love.
There was not the smallest hope now. The long night hours dragged
slowly on, the death-agony grew more and more intense, and the doctor
could do absolutely nothing to lessen the pain. Poor old Mrs. Doery
quite broke down, and sat rocking herself to and fro with her face
buried in her apron. Phœbe, with a white face, stood ready to do
whatever she was told. Donovan, never once faltering, bore up with
what the doctor described afterwards as "really extraordinary
fortitude, almost as if the poor little girl's death would not be
such a dreadful blow to him." In reality, he was so absorbed in her
that he had not a thought to spare for the future, and while he was
near her it was absolutely necessary that he should be perfectly
quiet and controlled.
Once, for a few minutes, however, the doctor asked him to leave the
room, and then his strong will gave way. Ellis had left Adela with
his wife, and, unable to go to bed, had stretched himself on a sofa
which, in the general disarrangement of the house, had been placed at
the end of the gallery; he was beginning to get drowsy when the
opening of a door roused him. Was it all over, he wondered! He sat
up and listened. A terrible cry of anguish in a wailing, child's
voice told him that Dot still lived. Then for the first time he
noticed that, in the dim light, a few paces from him stood Donovan.
He, too, must have been listening, for he made a half-choked
exclamation as the sound reached him, and staggering forward, not
noticing his step-father, sat down on a chair near him, and with his
arms stretched across the table, and his head buried, gave way to an
overwhelming burst of grief. Ellis was really touched, and almost
infected too. Instinctively he tried to show his sympathy.
"Donovan, my poor fellow, don't give way. While there's life there's
hope, you know."
"I wish she were dead," he groaned; "out of the pain."
"But she may get better," suggested Ellis.
"No," he answered, with a great sob which shook his whole frame,
"it's only a question of hours--hours of torture!"
Then springing up in a sort of frenzy, and dashing the tears from his
eyes, he seized hold of Ellis's arm.
"Here! you who believe in a God--get down on your knees and pray for
her--pray that she may die!"
Without waiting for an answer from the astonished Ellis, he turned to
the window, tore back the curtain, threw open the casement, and leant
out into the black night. Somewhere, somewhere in that yawning space
there surely must be a Power who could help him in his fearful need!
His whole heart went out in a passionate cry to the vast unknown.
"God! God! Exist! Be! Stop this agony! Let her die! What good
can it possibly do? Let her die!"
It was the first prayer he had ever prayed.
There was a touch upon his arm, he turned and saw Phœbe standing
beside him.
"Miss Dot is asking for you, sir, but won't you take something before
you go back?"
He shook his head, but, as he passed Ellis, asked him to give
Phœbe and Mrs. Doery some wine. Then he went back to the
sick-room, composed his face with an effort, and resumed his place
beside Dot.
"Dono, talk to me," was the very first request, and he did talk
bravely and soothingly, in the continuous way which Dot always liked.
Taciturn and unimaginative as he really was, he had long ago learnt
to overcome all his natural difficulties, and utterly to disregard
his own tastes and inclinations when Dot was in any way concerned.
At last the pain grew less severe, the poor exhausted little life
began to ebb away fast. When the longed-for relief came, Donovan
knew that the end was very near. He breathed more freely.
"The pain is all gone," whispered Dot, after a long quiet interval,
"will it never come again? Is it gone for always, Dono?"
"Yes, darling, I think quite gone," he replied; his dreary creed did
not allow him to say more.
"It is so comfortable," she murmured, drowsily.
Before long Mrs. Farrant and Adela were summoned, and Ellis too came
in, and kissed the little worn face, and poor Waif crept after them
all, Donovan lifting him up that Dot's hand might stroke his head for
the last time.
By-and-by the room was quiet again, only Donovan, the two nurses, and
the doctor stayed to watch the end. The perfect silence was at last
interrupted, a sudden shiver passed through the little wasted form.
"I am so cold, Dono," she murmured, moving her hands nervously about
the coverlet, "put your arm round me again; oh! it is getting so
dark, hold me, Dono, hold me! Is it wrong to be so frightened?"
"I am holding you, darling," he replied, "there is nothing to fear."
But the words died from his cold lips as he uttered them, he felt
that he could not comfort her, that she was beyond his help; and her
next words seemed to pierce his heart.
"I can't feel your arms, Dono, I can't see you."
A stifled moan escaped him, he bent low over her, and again and again
kissed her cold damp brow.
"I did not mean to vex you, darling," she gasped, "it will be better
soon, perhaps. Say me the hymn about the light."
He repeated Newman's "Lead, kindly Light," which, for some unknown
reason, had always been a great favourite with Dot, he knew it
perfectly well, and would, of course, have said anything to please
her, nor did he feel what a hideous mockery the words were to him, he
was too completely absorbed in thinking of her. After he had
finished the hymn, there was a long pause during which her breathing
became more and more difficult. Donovan's whole being seemed to live
with each effort, he too drew each breath slowly and painfully. But
there came a respite before long, the light did shine through the
gloom, and a look of almost baby-like peace stole over Dot's troubled
face. She did not speak a word, it never had been her way to say
very much, but by-and-by Donovan overheard faint half-dreamy
whispers, and knew that she was speaking with a little child's
confidence to God.
"You will comfort Dono, won't you, and we will be all quite happy
together."
The words died away into indistinct murmurs, she sank into a
painless, half unconscious state.
It was not till this time that one thought of himself came to trouble
Donovan, but as he knelt by the bedside, with Dot's head resting on
his arm, as he listened to--almost counted--the sighing breaths, his
desolation broke upon him. In a few minutes all that to him made
life worth living would have passed away for ever! Death, to him
truly the king of terrors, was here at the bedside, and he was
powerless, helpless, he could only wait for the grim unknown to
snatch little Dot away--away into a forever of nothingness! His
brain reeled at the thought, he could not control the shuddering
agony which made his limbs almost powerless and brought to his strong
firm face a pallor almost as deathly as that of the little dying
child.
"You had better rest a minute," said the doctor. "It is too much for
you."
But the thought of losing even one of those precious last minutes--of
resigning his place to another--seemed intolerable. He signed a
negative with some impatience, raised Dot a little higher, smoothed
back the hair from her cold forehead, and waited, trying to control
the trembling which might disturb her, to regulate the half-choked
gasping breaths which would agitate his whole frame.
Then came an unconquerable longing for one more word from her, one
more recognizing look. The struggle between this desire and his
unwillingness to break in upon the comparative peace of her last
moments grew to anguish; passionate entreaties rose to his lips, and
were only checked by the fiercest effort of will, wild impossible
longings surged up in his heart, and above all was a fearful
realisation that the time was short, that minutes, perhaps seconds,
were all that was left to him.
But the spiritual current of sympathy which had united the two in
life was as strong as ever, they had been all in all to each other,
and even now, in the very moment of death, little Dot felt
instinctively that Donovan wanted her.
Half rousing herself from the state of dreamy peace she had fallen
into, she felt for his face, drew it nearer to hers, and, with long
pauses between the words, whispered,
"I've asked to be quite near you still. I think God will let me. He
is so very good, you know--you will know."
That perfect confidence of hers made death a happy thing. In her
untroubled child-like faith she had no manner of doubt that the
Father who loved them both so dearly would one day teach Donovan what
His love was.
A minute after came a scarcely audible request.
"Kiss me, Dono."
He folded his arms round her, and pressed his cold lips to hers; in
another moment a shudder passing through the little frame told him
that he was alone in the world.