_DEATH._
Christmas eve, and Beth was home for her two weeks' holidays. It was
just after tea, and she and her father thought the parlor decidedly
cosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles flaming among the holly
over the mantel-piece. It seemed all the cosier because of the storm
that raged without. The sleet was beating against the pane, and the wind
came howling across the fields. Beth parted the curtains once, and
peeped out at the snow-wreaths whirling and circling round.
"Dear! such a storm! I am glad you're not out to-night, daddy."
Beth came back to the fire-side, and passed her father a plate of
fruit-cake she had made herself.
"It's too fresh to be good, but you mustn't find any fault. Just eat
every bit of it down. Oh, Kitty, stop!"
They had been cracking walnuts on the hearth-rug, and Beth's pet kitten
was amusing itself by scattering the shells over the carpet.
Beth sat down on the footstool at her father's feet.
"You look well after your fall's work, Beth; hard study doesn't seem to
hurt you."
"I believe it agrees with me, father."
"Did you see much of Arthur while you were in Toronto, Beth? I was
hoping you would bring him home for the Christmas holidays."
"No, I never saw him once."
"Never saw him once!"
He looked at her a little sternly.
"Beth, what is the matter between you and Arthur?"
Ding! The old door-bell sounded. Beth drooped her head, but the bell had
attracted her father's attention, and Aunt Prudence thrust her head into
the parlor in her unceremonious way.
"Doctor, that Brown fellow, by the mill, is wuss, an' his wife's took
down, too. They think he's dyin'."
"Oh, daddy, I can't let you go out into this dreadful storm. Let me go
with you."
"Nonsense, child! I must go. It's a matter of life and death, perhaps.
Help me on with my coat, daughter, please, I've been out in worse storms
than this."
Beth thought her father looked so brave and noble in that big otter
overcoat, and his long white beard flowing down. She opened the door for
him, and the hall light shone out into the snow. She shuddered as she
saw him staggering in the wind and sleet, then went back into the
parlor. It seemed lonely there, and she went on to the kitchen, where
Aunt Prudence was elbow-deep in pastry. A kitchen is always a cheerful
place at Christmas time. Beth's fears seemed quieted, and she went back
to the parlor to fix another branch of holly about a picture. Ding! Was
any one else sick, she wondered, as she went to answer the bell. She
opened the door, and there stood Mrs. Perth! It was really she, looking
so frail and fair in her furs.
"Why, May, dear! What are you doing out in this storm?"
"Oh, I'm nearly half dead, Beth." She tried to laugh, but the attempt
was not exactly a success.
Beth took her in to the fire, removed her wraps, all matted with snow,
and called to Aunt Prudence for some hot tea.
"Is your father out to-night, Beth?" asked May.
"Yes, he went away out to the Browns'. But wherever have you been?"
"I've been taking some Christmas things to a poor family about two miles
out in the country, and I didn't think the storm so very bad when I
started; but I'm like the Irishman with his children, I've 'more'n I
want'--of sleet, at any rate. Walter is away to-night, you know."
"Mr. Perth away! Where?"
"Oh, he went to Simcoe. He has two weddings. They are friends of ours,
and we didn't like to refuse. But it's mean, though," she continued,
with a sweet, affected little pout; "he'll not get back till afternoon,
and it's Christmas, too."
"Oh, May dear, you'll just stay right here with us to-night, and for
dinner to-morrow. Isn't that just fine!" Beth was dancing around her in
child-like glee. Mrs. Perth accepted, smiling at her pleasure; and they
sat on the couch, chatting.
"Did you say Dr. Woodburn had gone to the Browns'."
"Yes, Mrs. Brown is sick, too."
"Oh, isn't it dreadful? They're so poor, too. I don't believe they've a
decent bed in the house."
"Eight! There, the clock just struck. Father ought to be back. It was
only a little after six when he went out."
She looked anxiously at the drawn curtains, but the sleet beating harder
and harder upon the pane was her only answer.
"There he is now!" she cried, as a step entered the hall, and she rushed
to meet him.
"Oh, daddy, dear--why, father!"
Her voice changed to wonder and fear. His overcoat was gone and he
seemed a mass of ice and snow. His beard was frozen together; his breath
came with a thick, husky, sound, and he looked so pale and exhausted.
She led him to the fire, and began removing his icy garments. She was
too frightened to be of much use, but May's thoughtful self was flitting
quietly around, preparing a hot drink and seeing that the bed was ready.
He could not speak for a few minutes, and then it was only brokenly.
"Poor creatures! She had nothing over her but a thin quilt, and the snow
blowing through the cracks; and I just took off my coat--and put it over
her. I thought I could stand it."
Beth understood it now. He had driven home, all that long way, facing
the storm, after taking off his warm fur overcoat, and he was just
recovering from a severe cough, too. She trembled for its effect upon
him. It went to her heart to hear his husky breathing as he sat there
trembling before the fire. They got him to bed soon, and Aunt Prudence
tramped through the storm for Dr. Mackay, the young doctor who had
started up on the other side of the town. He came at once, and looked
grave after he had made a careful examination. There had been some
trouble with the heart setting in, and the excitement of his adventure
in the storm had aggravated it. Beth remembered his having trouble of
that sort once before, and she thought she read danger in Dr. Mackay's
face.
That was a long, strange night to Beth as she sat there alone by her
father's bedside. He did not sleep, his breathing seemed so difficult.
She had never seen him look like that before--so weak and helpless, his
silvery hair falling back from his brow, his cheeks flushed, but not
with health. He said nothing, but he looked at her with a pitying look
sometimes. What did it all mean? Where would it end? She gave him his
medicine from hour to hour. The sleet beat on the window and the heavy
ticking of the clock in the intervals of the storm sounded like
approaching footsteps. The wind roared, and the old shutter creaked
uneasily. The husky breathing continued by her side and the hours grew
longer. Oh, for the morning! What would the morrow bring? She had
promised May to awaken her at three o'clock, but she looked so serene
sleeping with a smile on her lips, that Beth only kissed her softly and
went back to her place. Her father had fallen asleep, and it was an hour
later that she heard a gentle step beside her, and May looked at her
reproachfully. She went to her room and left May to watch. There was a
box on her table that her father had left before he went out that
evening, and then she remembered that it was Christmas morning.
Christmas morning! There was a handsome leather-bound Bible and a gold
watch with a tiny diamond set in the back. She had a choked feeling as
she lay down, but she was so exhausted she soon slept. It was late in
the morning when she awoke, and May did not tell her of her father's
fainting spell. Aunt Prudence was to sit up that night. The dear old
housekeeper! How kind she was, Beth thought. She had often been amused
at the quaint, old-fashioned creature. But she was a kind old soul, in
spite of her occasional sharp words.
Dr. Woodburn continued about the same all the following day, saving that
he slept more. The next day was Sunday, and Beth slept a little in the
afternoon. When she awakened she heard Dr. Mackay going down the hall,
and May came in to take her in her arms and kiss her. She sat down on
the bed beside Beth, with tears in her beautiful eyes.
"Beth, your father has been such a good man. He has done so much! If God
should call him home to his reward, would you--would you refuse to give
him up?"
Beth laid her head on May's shoulder, sobbing.
"Oh, May--is it--death?" she asked, in a hoarse whisper.
"I fear so, dear."
Beth wept long, and May let her grief have its way for a while, then
drew her nearer to her heart.
"If Jesus comes for him, will you say 'no'?"
"His will be done," she answered, when she grew calmer.
The next day lawyer Graham came and stayed with Dr. Woodburn some time,
and Beth knew that all hope was past, but she wore a cheerful smile in
her father's presence during the few days that followed--bright winter
days, with sunshine and deep snow. The jingle of sleigh-bells and the
sound of merry voices passed in the street below as she listened to the
labored breathing at her side. It was the last day of the year that he
raised his hand and smoothed her hair in his old-time way.
"Beth, I am going home. You have been a good daughter--my one great
joy. God bless you, my child." He paused a moment. "You will have to
teach, and I think you had better go back to college soon. You'll not
miss me so much when you're working."
Beth pressed back her tears as she kissed him silently, and he soon fell
asleep. She went to the window and looked out on it all--the clear, cold
night sky with its myriads of stars, the brightly lighted windows and
the snow-covered roofs of the town on the hill-slope, and the Erie, a
frozen line of ice in the distant moonlight. The town seemed unusually
bright with lights, for it was the gay season of the year. And, oh, if
she but dared to give vent to that sob rising in her throat! She turned
to the sleeper again; a little later he opened his eyes with a bright
smile.
"In the everlasting arms," he whispered faintly, then pointed to a
picture of Arthur on the table. Beth brought it to him. He looked at it
tenderly, then gave it back to her. He tried to say something, and she
bent over him to catch the words, but all was silent there; his eyes
were closed, his lips set in a smile. Her head sank upon his breast.
"Papa!" she cried.
No answer, not even the sound of heartbeats. There was a noiseless step
at her side, and she fell back, unconscious, into May's arms. When she
came to again she was in her own room, and Mr. Perth was by her side.
Then the sense of her loss swept over her, and he let her grief have its
way for a while.
"My child," he said at last, bending over her. How those two words
soothed her! He talked to her tenderly for a little while, and she
looked much calmer when May came back.
But the strain had been too much for her, and she was quite ill all the
next day. She lay listening to the strange footsteps coming and going in
the halls, for everyone came to take a last look at one whom all loved
and honored. There was the old woman whom he had helped and encouraged,
hobbling on her cane to give him a last look and blessing; there was the
poor man whose children he had attended free of charge, the hand of
whose dying boy he had held; there was the little ragged girl, who
looked up through her tears and said, "He was good to me." Then came the
saddest moment Beth had ever known, when they led her down for the last
time to his side. She scarcely saw the crowded room, the flowers that
were strewn everywhere.
It was all over. The last words were said, and they led her out to the
carriage. The sun was low in the west that afternoon when the Perths
took her to the parsonage--"home to the parsonage," as she always said
after that. Aunt Prudence came to bid her good-bye before she went away
to live with her married son, and Beth never realized before how much
she loved the dear old creature who had watched over her from her
childhood. Just once before she returned to college she went back to
look at the old home, with its shutters closed and the snow-drifts on
its walks. She had thought her future was to be spent there, and now
where would her path be guided?
"Thou knowest, Lord," she said faintly.