DR. RAY'S PRESCRIPTION.
ETHEL slept rather late, and woke the next morning with a confused
feeling that something very unpleasant had happened. At first, she
could not remember what it was, but presently it all came over her at
once, and she turned over and hid her face with a groan.
"Oh, dear! I wish I had not woke up," was her first thought. "I wish
I might stay in bed, and not see anybody." The second thought was a
better one. "It must be late; and Matthew likes to have every one
punctual at breakfast. I can do as much as that, any how."
This was a good beginning. Ethel dressed, and said her prayers; the
latter sorrowfully enough.
"I have no right to expect Him to hear me, I am such a sinner," said
she; and then the thought came into her mind that the very fact of her
being a sinner gave her a right; for did not Jesus Christ come into the
world to save sinners?
The bell rung just as she was ready, and she made haste down. She
was actually the first person in the dining-room,—a thing which had
never occurred before. Presently, Henry came in, and then Emily and
the doctor. The doctor kissed her as usual; and, as he noticed the
appealing glance she gave him, he repeated the kiss, and asked, kindly,
"How is the side this morning?"
"I 'won't' cry," thought Ethel, as she felt a choking lump in her
throat: she forced back the tears, and answered, "Better, thank you."
At family prayers, Dr. Ray read the prayer for "thy sick servant, for
whom our prayers are desired;" and though it was nothing unusual, it
made Ethel's heart beat, and she wondered if he were thinking of poor
Mary.
"How did you find your patient last night?" asked Mr. Dalton, after
they were seated at the table. He saw that Ethel longed, but did not
dare to ask.
"I will tell you after breakfast," returned the doctor, glancing at
Ethel.
"Please, brother, tell me now," said Ethel, imploringly.
"Well, keep yourself quiet," returned the doctor, kindly. "It may not
be so bad, after all; but it is very uncomfortable. You see, Anna alone
was unable to get poor Mary on the sofa, and she fell against the sharp
corner of the bookcase. She has got an ugly cut on her head, and, I am
afraid, a bad shake of the brain; but it is not easy to judge of these
epileptic cases. She was insensible when I left her last night, and
I presume I shall find her so this morning. Take care, Ethel; don't
faint! Drink some hot coffee."
Ethel put out her hand blindly, to feel for the coffee cup she could
not see. Some one held it to her lips. She made a brave effort to
drink, and that was the last she knew, till she heard a voice say, "She
is coming to herself."
Then she opened her eyes, and found herself lying on the sofa, with
Emily bathing her face.
"There, that's better," said the doctor, kindly. "Lie still awhile,
and you will be all right." He bent over her as he spoke, and Ethel
whispered: "Indeed, brother, I did try not to faint."
"I saw you did, my dear. I understand all about it," returned Dr. Ray.
"Never mind now. Lie still a little, and then you will be ready for
your breakfast."
"You don't think the poor girl will die, do you, Matthew?" said Ethel,
when Dr. Ray came in from his office to see, as he said, how she was
getting on.
She was not getting on very comfortably. She had not been able to eat
anything, though she tried hard, to please Emily; and her head felt too
weak and giddy for any of her usual employments: so she was fain to
content herself with lying back in the great chair and making tatting.
She looked anxiously into Dr. Ray's face as she spoke.
"My child, I cannot possibly tell," answered the doctor gravely, but
kindly. "Doctors may be mistaken like other folks, you know. It is a
very unfortunate affair altogether, and I would give a great deal if
it had not happened; but there is no use in wishing that now. The only
thing is to make the best of it."
"I can't see any best to make of it," said Ethel, sadly. "I cannot see
a ray of hope or comfort anywhere."
"There is where you make a mistake, my dear girl," replied Dr. Ray.
"No human being ought ever to be in a place to say that. If you have
committed a very great sin, (which I do not deny) that is no reason
for despair. It is only a reason for repentance, asking forgiveness,
and beginning again. Peter committed a great sin: his was a sin of
cowardice, as well as yours; but if he had given up to despair, a great
deal would have been lost, not only to himself, but to all the world."
"If it had been only this one sin: if I had merely been surprised into
running away and leaving Anna, it would have been bad enough," said
Ethel; "but that is not all, nor the worst. I have done wrong in every
way. I have been cross and fretful with Emily. I have been selfish and
self-indulgent about all sorts of things; and I have been deceitful,
too," she added, with a great effort, determined to make a clean breast
of it. "I have gone on letting you think I rode over to the West side
when I went to take my lessons; and I have not been in the street-car
once since you gave me those tickets."
"That accounts for the side-aches," said the doctor. "It is not
necessary to suppose any heart disease. But, Ethel, it seems to me that
you have done a little more than 'let me think,' haven't you?"
"Yes, indeed, I have," replied Ethel, colouring. "I have told more than
one lie about it."
"I am very sorry to hear this, Ethel," said Dr. Ray. "I have always
thought you one of the most sincere, truthful girls in the world, I was
telling Henry so the other night."
"Yes, I heard you," replied Ethel. "I have always prided myself on
being truthful."
"That is not the way to remain so," said Dr. Ray, as Ethel paused.
"When we begin to pride ourselves on our good qualities, we find out
pretty soon that they are not much to be proud of."
"I know that very well now," returned Ethel. "But it does not seem to
me that I shall ever be proud again. I can see nothing in myself but
sin and folly."
"Then, my dear, you have got to a very good place," said Dr. Ray,
kindly. "In general, a man must be convinced that he is sick, before he
can be cured. But you know, Ethel, there is medicine provided for such
sickness as yours,—medicine far better than any of mine, for it never
fails to suit every case. There is one remedy for all your troubles,
and that is the cure of Christ. There is a prescription for you. I
leave you to think it over; for there is a great deal contained in it,
far more than appears at the first glance. Can I do anything for you
before I go out?"
"Are you going over to Mrs. Burger's?" asked Ethel.
The doctor nodded.
"Can you wait till I write a little note to Anna?"
"I will wait, whether I can or not," replied the doctor: "only be
short; for my list is a tremendous one; and I must get out this
afternoon to look after my operation case. Some day I hope I shall see
you show the spirit which that poor man's wife did. But write your
note, dear, and make it as brief as you can."
"How good he is, and how wickedly unjust I have always been to him,"
thought Ethel, as she got out her desk. Perhaps it was well that she
did not have much time to think over her note. It ran thus:
"DEAR ANNA:—I am not well enough to come and see you; and, besides,
I am not sure you would wish to see me: so I write by Matthew. I was
very wicked and mean to leave you so last night, and I feel as if I had
murdered that poor girl. Do forgive me, if you can; and please, dear
Anna, don't judge of religious people by me.
"As ever, your friend,
"ETHEL DALTON."
When she was left alone, Ethel began to think over the doctor's
prescription. "I know that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from all
sin," said she to herself, as she turned over the leaves of her Bible;
"and that the greatest sinner need not despair of pardon. I have asked
his forgiveness, and I suppose I ought to think that I have it; though
I cannot feel as if I were forgiven: but after all, I want more than
forgiveness. I want help and direction. I want to know what to do, and
what to avoid."
At that moment, her eye fell on a text in the Gospel of Luke.
"And he said to them all, If any man will come after me, let him deny
himself, and take up his cross 'daily,' and follow me."
"I wonder if that is what Matthew was thinking about?" she thought. "I
wonder if that is the one I need? To deny myself 'daily'—to take up the
cross 'daily'—what would that mean for me?"
Ethel lay back in her chair considering for a long time. She began to
see wonderful meanings in that taking up of the cross.
"Why, I have never done it once, that I can see—never at least in this
matter. I have indulged, instead of denying myself. I have encouraged
and petted my own weakness; and I have always thought it a sufficient
reason for not doing anything that it was disagreeable. I begin to see.
I must take up the cross daily and hourly. I don't think I need seek
for occasions. There will be plenty of them."
"How are you getting on, little sister?" said Henry, looking in,
presently. "Are you feeling better?"
"I don't know. I don't feel very well, as far as that, goes," replied
Ethel. "It seems very idle to sit here all the morning making tatting;
but I cannot help it. My head is giddy the moment I try to go about to
do anything which requires attention."
"Then it seems to be clear that sitting still and making tatting is
your work for the present," replied Henry, smiling. "Would you rather
be alone, or shall I give you the benefit of my brilliant society?"
"I wish you would come and sit with me, and let me tell you all I have
been thinking about," said Ethel.
"With all the pleasure in life, my dear. I wonder whether I may venture
to bring 'my' tatting—my whittling, as Mrs. Jones disrespectfully calls
it—into this room?"
"Your wood-carving? Yes, I am sure you may," replied Ethel. "The
shavings will be easily swept off the matting; and Emily is not a fussy
housekeeper. She does not mind a little litter."
"Emily seems a very comfortable person to live with," said Mr. Dalton,
as he sat himself down opposite Ethel, who had spread a large newspaper
on the floor to receive the cuttings of his work.
"She is, indeed; and so is Dr. Ray," replied Ethel, somewhat earnestly.
"Matthew has been so kind to me this morning."
"He is always kind, I think, though his manners are a little abrupt,
sometimes," said Mr. Dalton. "Now, then, tell me all you have been
thinking about, as you say. I can listen all the better for having my
hands busy."
Ethel went over with all the thoughts which had been occupying her
during the morning, concealing nothing and excusing nothing in her past
conduct.
"I think you have followed at least a part of the depth of Matthew's
prescription," said Mr. Dalton, after a little silence. "Tell me now,
Ethel, what has lain at the root of all your troubles?"
"Selfishness!" replied Ethel, promptly.
"Do you believe selfishness was at the bottom of your cowardice?"
"Yes, I believe so, Henry. I was always thinking of myself. If I had
had any spirit of self-sacrifice, I should have learned to control my
fears, and to act in spite of them. The other day, when I made such a
fool of myself about the dog, I never thought of his hurting 'you.'
Just so it was last night. I never thought what might happen to Anna or
poor Mary. It was all my wretched, miserable self. And so it has been
all my life long. I thought it a good enough reason for refusing to sit
up at Mrs. Merton's with Mary Rose the night her little girl died, that
I could not bear to be in the house with a corpse. If I had not been
selfish, I should have thought that it was no worse for me than Mary,
and, that whether it was or not, somebody must do it. Yes, it has been
self-indulgence all the time."
"I rather think you are right, though I did not expect that answer,"
said Mr. Dalton, thoughtfully. "I supposed you would say want of faith."
"Well, and that is selfishness, too," said Ethel. "I should have
thought of what the Lord had promised to do for me, and what I had
promised to do for him."
"True. I see your head has not been so giddy but that you could think
to good purpose. Well, and now for the remedy."
"The remedy must be, as Matthew says, in the cross," said Ethel; "in
taking up the cross daily, and denying myself."
"But how? You might deny yourself in many ways: such as in dress, and
in eating nice things, and visiting."
"There would be no very heavy cross in that; because, really, I don't
care so very much for any of those things. It seems to me that I must
take up the real cross which God gives me, and not make one for myself,
which will be light and pretty," said Ethel. "It would be no cross for
me to fasten my collar with a common pin instead of a gold one. But
it would be for me to see a caterpillar crawling on my frock and sit
still, without screaming, till I could get rid of it. It would not be
nearly so much of a cross for me to go without meat for dinner as it
would be for me to go and do the marketing; because I dislike the sight
and smell of the raw meat, and I am afraid of the butchers' dogs."
"Exactly so. Your illustrations are precisely to the point, my dear
child. Here comes Matthew."
Ethel looked up in her brother-in-law's face with a glance of inquiry.
He put a little note into her hand.
"That is from Anna," said he. "The girl is rather better, though not in
a pleasant way. She Was unconscious last night, and now she is crazy;
but even that state of things is an improvement."
"Then she may get well after all?" said Ethel, eagerly.
"She may, and that is all I can say," returned the doctor. "The state
of her general health is against her. I am sorry to bring you such a
bad report, dear; but I suppose you want to hear the truth."
"Yes, indeed," replied Ethel. "Oh how I do wish I could do something
for her, or to help Mrs. Burgers!"
"You must try to get well yourself, child. That is the first thing.
Then we shall see what can be done."
Ethel shut herself up in her own room to read Anna's note. It was short
and to the point, as her own had been.
"DEAR ETHEL:—I thought last night I never could forgive you, or speak
to you again; but I think I can now. Of course I must as long as you
have asked me. I can't write any more now, but I will see you at
Italian class.
"Truly yours,
"A. B."