"BE BRAVE, DEAR."
"Wasn't father with her?" Polly had said when she could find her voice
late that evening. "Wasn't father there? I thought father--I always
thought father could keep death away."
She was lying on her pretty white bed when she spoke. She had lain there
now for a couple of days--not crying nor moaning, but very still,
taking no notice of any one. She looked dull and heavy--her sisters
thought her very ill.
Dr. Maybright said to Helen--
"You must be very careful of Polly, she has had a shock, and she may
take some time recovering. I want you to nurse her yourself, Nell, and
to keep the others from the room. For the present, at least, she must be
kept absolutely quiet--the least excitement would be very bad for her."
"Polly never cries," said Helen, whose own blue eyes were swollen almost
past recognition; "she never cries, she does not even moan. I think,
father, what really upset Polly so was when she heard that you--you
were there. Polly thinks, she always did think that you could keep death
away."
Here poor Helen burst into fresh sobs herself.
"I think," she added, choking as she spoke, "that was what quite broke
Polly down--losing mother, and losing faith in your power at the same
time."
"I am glad you told me this, Helen," said Dr. Maybright, quietly. "This
alters the case. In a measure I can now set Polly's heart at rest. I
will see her presently."
"Presently" did not mean that day, nor the next, nor the next, but one
beautiful summer's evening just when the sun was setting, and just when
its long low western rays were streaming into the lattice-window of the
pretty little bower bedroom where Polly lay on her white bed, Dr.
Maybright opened the door and came in. He was a very tall man, and he
had to stoop as he passed under the low, old-fashioned doorway, and as
he walked across the room to Polly's bedside the rays of the setting sun
fell on his face, and he looked more like a beautiful healing presence
than ever to the child. She was lying on her back, with her eyes very
wide open; her face, which had been bright and round and rosy, had grown
pale and small, and her tearless eyes had a pathetic expression. She
started up when she saw her father come in, gave a glad little cry, and
then, remembering something, hid her face in her hands with a moan.
Dr. Maybright sat down in the chair which Helen had occupied the greater
part of the day. He did not take any notice of Polly's moan, but sat
quite still, looking out at the beautiful, glowing July sunset.
Wondering at his stillness, Polly presently dropped her hands from her
face, and looked round at him. Her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to
fill.
"If I were you, Polly," said the doctor, in his most matter-of-fact and
professional manner, "I would get up and come down to tea. You are not
ill, you know. Trouble, even great trouble, is not illness. By staying
here in your room you are adding a little to the burden of all the
others. That is not necessary, and it is the last thing your mother
would wish."
"Is it?" said Polly. The tears were now brimming over in her eyes, but
she crushed back her emotion. "I didn't want to get up," she said, "or
to do anything right any more. She doesn't know--she doesn't hear--she
doesn't care."
"Hush, Polly--she both knows and cares. She would be much better
pleased if you came down to tea to-night. I want you, and so does Helen,
and so do the other girls and the little boys. See, I will stand by the
window and wait, if you dress yourself very quickly."
"Give me my pocket-handkerchief," said Polly. She dashed it to her eyes.
No more tears flowed, and by the time the doctor reached the window he
heard a bump on the floor; there was a hasty scrambling into clothes,
and in an incredibly short time an untidy, haggard-looking, but now
wide-awake, Polly stood by the doctor's side.
"That is right," he said, giving her one of his quick, rare smiles.
He took no notice of the tossed hair, nor the stained, crumpled, cotton
frock.
"Take my arm, Polly," he said, almost cheerfully. And they went down
together to the old parlor where mother would never again preside over
the tea-tray.
It was more than a week since Mrs. Maybright had died, and the others
were accustomed to Helen's taking her place, but the scene was new to
the poor, sore-hearted child who now come in. Dr. Maybright felt her
faltering steps, and knew what her sudden pause on the threshold meant.
"Be brave, dear," he whispered. "You will make it easier for me."
After that Polly would have fought with dragons rather than shed a ghost
of a tear. She slipped into a seat by her father, and crumbled her
bread-and-butter, and gulped down some weak tea, taking care to avoid
any one's eyes, and feeling her own cheeks growing redder and redder.
In mother's time Dr. Maybright had seldom spoken. On many occasions he
did not even put in an appearance at the family tea, for mother herself
and the group of girls kept up such a chatter that, as he said, his
voice would not be heard; now, on the contrary, he talked more than any
one, telling the children one or two most interesting stories on natural
history. Polly was devoted to natural history, and in spite of herself
she suspended her tea-cup in the air while she listened.
"It is almost impossible, I know," concluded Dr. Maybright as he rose
from the table. "But it can be done. Oh, yes, boys, I don't want either
of you to try it, but still it can be done. If the hand is very steady,
and poised in a particular way, then the bird can be caught, but you
must know how to hold him. Yes--what is the matter, Polly?"
"I did it!" burst from Polly, "I caught two of them--darlings--I was
kissing them when--oh, father!"
Polly's face was crimson. All the others were staring at her.
"I want you, my dear," said her father, suddenly and tenderly. "Come
with me."
Again he drew her hand protectingly through his arm, and led her out of
the room.
"You were a very good, brave child at tea-time," he said. "But I
particularly wish you to cry. Tears are natural, and you will feel much
better if you have a good cry. Come upstairs now to Nurse and baby."
"Oh, no, I can't--I really can't see baby!"
"Why not?--She is a dear little child, and when your mother went away
she left her to you all, to take care of, and cherish and love. I think
she thought specially of you, Polly, for you always have been specially
fond of little children. Come to the nursery now with me. I want you to
take care of baby for an hour, while Nurse is at her supper."
Polly did not say another word. The doctor and she went together into
the old nursery, and a moment or two afterwards she found herself
sitting in Nurse's little straw arm-chair, holding a tiny red mite of a
baby on her knee. Mother was gone, and this--this was left in her
place! Oh, what did God mean? thought the woe-begone, broken-hearted
child.
The doctor did not leave the room. He was looking through some books, a
pile of old MS. books in one corner by the window, and had apparently
forgotten all about Polly and the baby. She held the wee bundle without
clasping it to her, or bestowing upon it any endearing or comforting
little touch, and as she looked the tears which had frozen round her
heart flowed faster and faster, dropping on the baby's dress, and even
splashing on her tiny face.
Baby did not like this treatment, and began to expostulate in a fretful,
complaining way. Instantly Polly's motherly instincts awoke; she wiped
her own tears from the baby's face, and raising it in her arms, pressed
its little soft velvet cheek to her own. As she did so, a thrill of warm
comfort stole into her heart.
"Polly," said her father, coming suddenly up to her, "please take good
care of baby till Nurse returns. I must go out now, I have some patients
to see, but I am going to prescribe a special little supper for you,
which Helen is to see you eat before you go to bed. Good-night, dear.
Please ask Nurse, too, if you can do anything in the morning to help her
with baby. Good-night, good-night, both of you. Why the little creature
is quite taking to you, Polly!"
Dr. Maybright was about to leave the room when Polly called him back.
"Father, I must say one thing. I have been in a dreadful, dreadful dream
since mother died. The most dreadful part of my dream, the blackest
part, was about you."
"Yes, Polly, yes, dear."
"You were there, father, and you let her die."
Dr. Maybright put his arm round the trembling child, and drew her and
the baby too close to him.
"Not willingly," he said, in a voice which Polly had never heard him use
before. "Not willingly, my child. It was with anguish I let your mother
go away. But Polly, there was another physician there, greater than I."
"Another?" said Polly.
"Yes, another--and He prescribed Rest, for evermore."
All her life afterwards Polly remembered these words of her father's.
They calmed her great sorrow, and in many ways left her a different
child.