Part 42 (1/2)

'Tom, remember papa's promise!'

'Do you think a man can do nothing without committing himself, like poor Aubrey? No, Ethel, the Doctor may be clever, but that's no use if a man is soft, and he is uncommonly soft; and you should not encourage him in it.'

Ethel was prevented from expressing useless indignation by the arrival of Mary, asking where papa was.

'Gone to bed. He said he must go off at six to-morrow, there are so many patients to see. Ave does not want him, I hope?'

No, she is still asleep; I was only waiting for Richard, and he had dreadful work with that poor Henry.'

'What kind of work?'

'Oh, I believe it has all come on him now that it was his fault--driving Leonard to that place; and he was in such misery, that Richard could not leave him.'

'I am glad he has the grace to feel it at last,' said Tom.

'It must be very terrible!' said Mary. 'He says he cannot stay in that house, for every room reproaches him; and he groaned as if he was in tremendous bodily pain.'

'What, you a.s.sisted at this scene?' said Tom, looking at her rather sharply.

'No; but Richard told me; and I heard the groans as I sat on the stairs.'

'Sat on the stairs?'

'Yes. I could not go back to Ave's room for fear of waking her.'

'And how long?'

'Towards an hour, I believe. I did all that piece,' said Mary, displaying a couple of inches of a stocking leg, 'and I think it was pretty well in the dark.'

'Sitting on the stairs for an hour in the dark,' said Tom, as he gave Mary the candle he had been lighting for her. 'That may be called unappreciated devotion.'

'I never can tell what Tom means,' said Mary, as she went up-stairs with Ethel. 'It was a very comfortable rest. I wish you had had the same, dear Ethel, you look so tired and worn out. Let me stay and help you. It has been such a sad long day; and oh! how terrible this is!

And you know him better than any of us, except Aubrey.'

Mary stopped almost in dismay, for her sister, usually so firm, broke down entirely, and sitting down on a low chair, threw an arm round her, and resting her weary brow against her, gave way to long tearless sobs, or rather catches of breath. 'Oh! Mary! Mary!' she said, between her gasps, 'to think of last year--and Coombe--and the two bright boys--and the visions--and the light in those glorious eyes--and that this should be the end!'

'Dear, dear Ethel,' said Mary, with fast-flowing tears and tender caresses, 'you have kept us all up; you have always shown us it was for the best.'

'It is! it is!' cried Ethel. 'I do, I _will_ believe it! If I had only seen his face as papa tells of it, I could keep hold of the glory of it and the martyr spirit. Now I only see his earnest, shy, confiding look--and--and I don't know how to bear it.' And Ethel's grasp of Mary in both arms was tightened, as if to support herself under her deep labouring sobs of anguish. Ah! he was very fond of you.'

'There never was any one beyond our own selves that loved me so well. I always knew it would not last--that it ought not; but oh! it was endearing; and I did think to have seen him a s.h.i.+ning light!'

'And don't you tell us he is a s.h.i.+ning light now?' said Mary, among the tears that really almost seemed to be a relief, as if her sister herself had shed them; and as she knelt down, Ethel laid her head on her shoulder, and spoke more calmly.

'He is,' she said, 'and I ought to be thankful for it! I think I am generally--but now--it makes it the more piteous--the hopes--the spirit--the determination--all to be quenched, and so quenched--and to have nothing--nothing to do for him.

'But, Ethel, papa says your messages do him more good than anything; and papa will let you go and see him, and that will comfort him.'

Ethel's lips gave a strange sort of smile; she thought it was at simple Mary's trust in her power, but it would hardly have been there but for the species of hope thus excited, and the sense of sympathy. Mary was not one to place any misconstruction on what had pa.s.sed; she well knew that Leonard had almost taken a brother's place in Ethel's heart, and she prized him at the rate of her sister's esteem. Perhaps her prominent thought was how cruel were those who fancied that Ethel's lofty faith was unfeeling, and how very good Leonard must be to be thus mourned. At any rate, she was an excellent comforter, in the sympathy that was neither too acute nor too obtuse; and purely to oblige her, Ethel for the first time submitted to her favourite panacea of hair brus.h.i.+ng, and found that in very truth those soft and steady manipulations were almost mesmeric in soothing away the hard oppressive excitement, and bringing on a gentle and slumberous resignation.