Chapter 10

_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.