The End
Lord Ashden spent that night pacing restlessly up and down the floor,
and when the doctor came out of the sick-chamber early the following
morning, he called him into his room. “I want to know,” he began in a
strange, monotonous voice, “just what the chances are for the boy’s
life. No, don’t try to spare me, please. I prefer to know the truth.”
The physician, a strictly professional and apparently unsympathetic
man, was moved to sudden pity as he remarked the traces of intense
suffering in Lord Ashden’s face and manner:
“My dear fellow,” he said, an expression in his eyes which was most
unusual to them, “I did not know the little chap was so dear to you.”
“He is all I have,” said Lord Ashden quietly. “All I have,” he repeated
as though to himself, and then he went on:
“But you have not told me yet what you think of his condition.”
It was the strictly professional man who spoke this time.
“It is difficult to tell--just yet,” he said. “The burns are serious,
although not necessarily fatal, and there has been a great shock to the
general system, a very great shock; the action of the heart is weak,
and there is a deplorable lack of vitality and less recuperative energy
than I could wish to see. However”--He paused and looked at Lord Ashden
steadily.
“Go on,” he said almost sternly, and, taking up the physician’s
sentence, he added, “you have, in short, little encouragement to
offer?”
“I think,” said the doctor slowly, “that the boy’s chances are about
even; yes, about even,” he repeated, and then he held out his hand.
“I must go now,” he said, “but I will return in a few hours. And be
assured, my dear sir, that everything possible will be done.”
“Thank you,” said Lord Ashden, opening the door to allow the physician
to pass through; and as the latter went downstairs he heard the door
close again, and the sound of a key turning in the lock.
“Poor fellow!” the busy surgeon said, as he buttoned up his coat and
went briskly down the steps, “poor fellow!”
Toward noon of that day Philip began to come out of the kind of stupor
in which he had lain all night. He smiled faintly at Aunt Delia as
she leaned over the bed, and tried to speak, but he was too weak, and
presently he closed his eyes again. He suffered a good deal from the
burns, which quite covered his hands and arms, and as night came on
again he grew restless and feverish, talking incoherently and sometimes
starting up in bed; once he thought the manager was calling him to go
upon the stage and play.
“In a moment!” he cried, and then he lay back upon the pillow, smiling.
“They are clapping,” he whispered; “they like my music, I think, and I
am glad--for Lord Ashden’s sake.” After that the pain grew worse, and
he tossed restlessly about on the bed, sometimes moaning, and muttering
indistinctly to himself; now and then the watchers caught a word.
“All ready, sir! Is it my turn to go on? Are they all there, Aunt
Delia, Lord Ashden, Miss Acton? All but Marion, I don’t see her.
Wouldn’t she stay to hear me play? Oh, yes, there she is, sitting
between Miss Acton and Lillie, dear little Lillie! I must play my very
best to-night.”
It was the concert--always the concert; once when he lay so quiet that
they thought he was asleep, there was a distant sound of the barking
of a dog. “Dash!” he exclaimed, opening his eyes, and he made them
understand that he wanted to see his favorite. Aunt Delia hesitated,
but the nurse nodded her head, and the little dog was sent for from
a distant part of the house where he had been confined, an unwilling
captive. The poor little fellow seemed to realize that something
dreadful had happened, and when he was brought to Philip’s bed he
neither fidgeted nor barked, but remained perfectly quiet, his dumb,
loving soul looking out of his bright eyes. Philip tried to hold out
his poor bandaged arms, and they laid the dog gently beside him; it
was very touching to see the joy of both; Dash crawled as closely as
he could to Philip’s side, and the boy lay looking at him with a faint
smile of perfect satisfaction. “Dear little Dash!” he murmured, and
then he closed his eyes again. That night he grew much worse, and Lord
Ashden, pacing restlessly about in the adjoining room, covered his ears
to shut out the sound of groans and feeble cries which pierced his
great loving heart like sharp knives. He was trying with all his might
to reconcile himself to the thought of giving up the dear child who had
wound himself so closely around the strong man’s affections. “_She_ was
taken from me,” he moaned “and God knows I loved her; and now he is
going too, and he is all I have--all I have.”
Not once or twice, but many times, during the night Aunt Delia stole
in to comfort him; her heart, too, was very near to breaking, but she
had learned to say, “Thy will be done,” and her sweet wrinkled face,
on which were the traces of recent tears, wore a look of peace and
resignation which Lord Ashden observed with wonder.
“Why should God punish us in this way?” he said once, and his companion
laid her fingers gently on the rebellious lips.
“Hush!” she said; “do not say that, dear friend; when, three years ago
(it seems but yesterday), you came to us and asked that you might take
Philip to Italy, it was very hard to give him up, yet his uncle and I
knew that it was for the boy’s best good; we said ‘Go’ when our hearts
were murmuring ‘Stay.’ Would it not have been selfish to have kept our
Philip by our side in the narrow circle of our love and care, when
before him lay the chance of the life of Italy and the musical training
which he so needed and wished for? And now, dear, dear friend, think a
moment; may it not be something the same way now? Surely our Heavenly
Father knows what is best for our darling, when He would take him from
our clinging arms into the fuller life of light and love.”
She paused and laid her hand with the most caressing tenderness upon
the bowed head of her companion.
“You will be brave, I know, dear heart,” she whispered. “God bless and
help you.”
A few hours later the whole family were gathered in a sorrowful group
around Philip’s bed. The end was very near, the doctor said, and the
boy had asked to see them, calling for each one by name. He looked
about upon the familiar faces, his own shining with love and peace, and
there was no trace of fear or even of regret in his calm, clear eyes.
Strangely enough, it was Marion’s name which he spoke first, and he
tried to hold out his hand, stiff and heavy with bandages, as she knelt
sobbing beside his pillow. “Why do you cry?” he asked wonderingly. “Not
for me, surely, dear cousin; there is no pain now, you know.”
“Oh, Philip, Philip,” cried the girl, “forgive me! Only say that you
forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, dear Marion,” replied the boy; “I love
you very much; you will not forget that I said so, will you, dear?” And
Miss Acton gently led the weeping girl from the room.
Philip followed her with troubled eyes, and then he turned to the
others; he had a word for each, but his chief thought was for Lord
Ashden, who sat beside the bed, outwardly quite calm, for he feared to
disturb Philip by any show of emotion; he even tried to smile when the
boy looked at him, and bent low over the pillow to hear the whispered
words. The others moved away while the two talked together, and no one
else heard what the boy said to his friend. Once or twice the latter
gave a great, deep sob, and Aunt Delia coming to his side for an
instant heard Philip whisper:
“I shall see _her_, you know, Lord Ashden. Do you suppose she will know
me?”
“The doctor says you must not talk any more for the present, dear boy,”
whispered Mrs. Seldon softly, and Philip looked up with a radiant smile
and a little weary, but quite contented, sigh.
“I am a little tired,” he murmured. “I will sleep awhile,” and he
closed his eyes, but presently he opened them again and looked around
the room. “Are they all here?” he asked faintly. “I cannot quite see.”
“We are all here,” replied Lord Ashden steadily; and Philip looked up
languidly and smiled.
He lay very still after this, only opening his eyes once when Dash
moved a little closer to his side. The nurse would have taken the dog
away, but Philip shook his head, and after that there was perfect
stillness in the room. The end came very quietly--so quietly that they
thought he was only asleep, until the nurse nodded gravely to Aunt
Delia and she arose and put her arms around Lord Ashden, whispering:
“Come, dear Frederick, our Philip has gone home.”
End of Project Gutenberg's Philip, by Virginia C. Young and Mary C. Hungerford