John Ward, Preacher Part 40

Mrs. Dale had been the first one to come in, in the morning. They had scarcely finished breakfast when they heard her decided voice in the hall, reproving Sally for some careless sweeping. A little while ago, Lois would have resented this as interference; but she had too many real troubles now to take Mrs. Dale's meddling to heart.

"Well, Helen, my dear," she said, "I'm glad to see you." Mrs. Dale turned her cheek to her niece, under the impression that she was kissing her.

"It is high time for you to be home again. You must keep this foolish child in order; she hardly eats or sleeps. I suppose you've sent to know how Arabella Forsythe is to-day, Lois?"

Lois looked anxious. "I thought she really was better last night, but she sent word this morning there was no change."

"Fudge!" cried Mrs. Dale. "I brought her round all right before that nurse came. She can't have killed her in this time. The fact is, brother, Arabella Forsythe isn't in any hurry to get well; she likes the excitement of frightening us all to death. I declare, Helen, she made her death-bed adieux six times over! I must say, nothing does show a person's position in this world so well as his manner of leaving it. You won't find poor William Denner making a fuss. He isn't Admiral Denner's great-grandson for nothing. Yes, Arabella Forsythe has talked about her soul, and made arrangements for her funeral, every day for a week. That's where her father's money made in b.u.t.tons crops out!"

"But aunt Deely," Helen said, "isn't there any hope for Mr. Denner?

Ashurst wouldn't be Ashurst without Mr. Denner!"

"No, not a bit," Mrs. Dale answered promptly. "I suppose you'll go and see him this morning, brother, and tell him?"

"Yes," replied Dr. Howe, sighing, "I suppose I must, but it does seem unnecessary to disturb him."

"He won't be disturbed," said Mrs. Dale stoutly; "he isn't that kind.

There, now," she added, as Dr. Howe took up his hat and stick and went gloomily out into the suns.h.i.+ne, "I shouldn't wonder if your father left it to Gifford to break it to him, after all. It is curious how Archibald shrinks from it, and he a clergyman! I could do it, easily. Now, Lois, you run along; I want to talk to Helen."

But the rector had more strength of purpose than his sister thought. His keen eyes blurred once or twice in his walk to the village, and his lip almost trembled, but when he reached Mr. Denner's bedside he had a firm hand to give his friend. The doctor had left a note for him, saying the end was near, and he read this before he went into the sick-room.

Mr. Denner had failed very perceptibly since the day before. He looked strangely little in the great bed, and his brown eyes had grown large and bright. But he greeted the rector with courteous cordiality, under which his faint voice faltered, and almost broke.

"How are you to-day, Denner?" his friend said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and taking the sick man's hand in his big warm grasp.

"Thank you," replied Mr. Denner, with labored breath, "I am doing nicely."

"Has Giff been here this morning?" asked Dr. Howe.

"Yes," the lawyer answered. "He has gone home for an hour. Mary takes excellent care of me, and I felt I was really keeping him too much from his aunts. For his stay is limited, you know, and I am afraid I have been selfish in keeping him so much with me."

"No, no," the rector said, "it is a pleasure for him to be with you; it is a pleasure for any of us. Poor little Lois is dreadfully distressed about you,--she longs to come and nurse you herself; and Helen,--Helen came last night, you know,--she wants to be of some use, too."

"Oh, well, now, dear me," remonstrated Mr. Denner feebly, "Miss Lois must not have a moment's uneasiness about me,--not a moment's. Pray tell her I am doing nicely; and it is really of no consequence in the world,--not the slightest."

Then Mr. Denner began to speak of Gifford's kindness, and how good every one in the village had been to him; even Mary had softened wonderfully in the last few days, though of this the sick man did not speak, for it would seem to imply that Mary had not always been all she might be, and, in view of her present kindness, it would have been ungracious to draw attention to that.

"Yes," Mr. Denner ended, folding his little hands on the counterpane, "it is worth while to have had this indisposition (except for the trouble it has given others) just to see how good every one is. Gifford has been exceedingly kind and thoughtful. His gentleness--for I have been very troublesome, doctor--has been wonderful. Like a woman's; at least so I should imagine."

The rector had clasped his hands upon his stick, and was looking intently at Mr. Denner, his lower lip thrust out and his eyebrows gathered in an absent frown.

"William," he said suddenly, "you've seen the doctor this morning?"

"Yes," Mr. Denner answered, "oh, yes. He is very kind about getting here early; the nights seem quite long, and it is a relief to see him early."

"I have not seen him to-day," said Dr. Howe slowly, "but yesterday he made me feel very anxious about you. Yes, we were all quite anxious, William."

The lawyer gave a little start, and looked sharply at his old friend; then he said, hesitating slightly, "That--ah--that was yesterday, did I understand you to say?"

Dr. Howe leaned forward and took one of Mr. Denner's trembling little hands in his, which was strong and firm. "Yes," he said gently, "but, William, my dear old friend, I am anxious still. I cannot help--I cannot help fearing that--that"--

"Stay," interrupted Mr. Denner, with a visible effort at composure, "I--I quite understand. Pray spare yourself the pain of speaking of it, Archibald. You are very kind, but--I quite understand."

He put his hand before his eyes a moment, and then blindly stretched it out to his friend. The rector took it, and held it hard in his own. The two men were silent. Mr. Denner was the first to speak.

"It is very good in you to come and tell me, Archibald. I fear it has discomposed you; it was very painful for you. Pray do not allow yourself to feel the slightest annoyance; it is of no consequence, I--ah--a.s.sure you. But since we are on the subject, perhaps you will kindly mention--how--how soon?"

"I hope, I trust," answered the rector huskily, "it may not be for several days."

"But probably," said Mr. Denner calmly, "probably--sooner?"

Dr. Howe bowed his head.

"Ah--just so--just so. I--I thank you, Archibald."

Suddenly the rector drew a long breath, and straightened himself, as though he had forgotten something. "It must come to us all, sooner or later," he said gently, "and if we have lived well we need not dread it.

Surely you need not, of all the men I have ever known."

"I have always endeavored," said Mr. Denner, in a voice which still trembled a little, "to remember that I was a gentleman."

Dr. Howe opened his lips and shut them again before he spoke. "I--I meant that the trust in G.o.d, William, of a Christian man, which is yours, must be your certain support now."

The lawyer looked up, with a faint surprise dawning in his eyes. "Ah--you are very good to say so, I'm sure," he replied courteously.

Dr. Howe moved his hands nervously, clasping and re-clasping them upon the head of his stick. "Yes, William," he said, after a moment's silence, "that trust in G.o.d which leads us safely through all the dark places in life will not fail us at the end. The rod and the staff still comfort us."

"Ah--yes," responded Mr. Denner.

The rector gained confidence as he spoke. "And you must have that blessed a.s.surance of the love of G.o.d, William," he continued; "your life has been so pure and good. You must see in this visitation not chastis.e.m.e.nt, but mercy."

Dr. Howe's hand moved slowly back to the big pocket in one of his black coat-tails, and brought out a small, shabby prayer-book.

"You will let me read the prayers for the sick," he continued gently, and without waiting for a reply began to say with more feeling than Dr. Howe often put into the reading of the service,--

"'Dearly beloved, know this, that Almighty G.o.d is the Lord of life and death, and of all things to them pertaining; as'"--

"Archibald," said Mr. Denner faintly, "you will excuse me, but this is not--not necessary, as it were."

Dr. Howe looked at him blankly, the prayer-book closing in his hand.

"I mean," Mr. Denner added, "if you will allow me to say so, the time for--for speaking thus has pa.s.sed. It is now, with me, Archibald."

There was a wistful look in his eyes as he spoke.

"I know," answered Dr. Howe tenderly, thinking that the Visitation of the Sick must wait, "but G.o.d enters into now; the Eternal is our refuge, a very present help in time of trouble."

"Ah--yes"--said the sick man; "but I should like to approach this from our usual--point of view, if you will be so good. I have every respect for your office, but would it not be easier for us to speak of--of this as we have been in the habit of speaking on all subjects, quite--in our ordinary way, as it were? You will pardon me, Archibald, if I say anything else seems--ah--unreal?"

Dr. Howe rose and walked to the window. He stood there a few minutes, but the golden June day was dim, and there was a tightening in his throat that kept him silent. When he came back to the bedside, he stood, looking down at the sick man, without speaking. Mr. Denner was embarra.s.sed.