"Yes," said Dorothy.

"I am George Staunton. I--I came down on pressing business--I want to see my father in a hurry. What is the matter?"

He stepped back a pace or two, startled by the expression on Dorothy's face.

"Come in here at once," she said, seizing his hand. She dragged him into the seldom-used drawing-room. The moment they got inside, she deliberately locked the door.

"You have come just in time," she said. "You must bear up. I hope you'll be brave. Can you bear a great shock without--without fainting, or anything of that sort?"

"Oh, I won't faint!" he answered. His lips trembled, his blue eyes grew wide open, the pupils began to dilate.

"I believe you are a brave lad," said Dorothy, noticing these signs. "It is your lot now to come face to face with great trouble. Dr.

Staunton--your father--is dying."

"Good G.o.d! Merciful G.o.d!" said the lad. He sank down on the nearest chair--he was white to the lips.

Dorothy went up and took his hand.

"There, there!" she said. "You'll be better in a moment. Try to forget yourself--we have not, any of us, a single instant just now to think of ourselves. I have come down to fetch your mother."

"You are the nurse?" said George, glancing at her dress.

"Yes, I am nursing your father. It has been a very bad case--diphtheria--a very acute and hopeless case from the first. There's a great deal of infection. Are you afraid?"

"No, no! don't talk of fear. I'll go to him. I--I was in trouble myself, but that must wait. I'll go to him at once."

"I want you to go to your mother."

"My mother! is she ill too?"

"She is not exactly ill--I mean she is not worse than usual, but her life is bound up in your father's. It would be a dreadful thing for your sisters and yourself if your mother were to die. Your coming here at this moment may mean her salvation. I have to go to her now, to tell her that her dying husband has sent for her. Will you follow me into the room? Will you act according to your own impulses? I am sure G.o.d will direct you. Stay where you are for a minute--try to be brave. Follow me into the room as soon as you can."

Dorothy left the drawing room. As she went away, she heard the young man groan. She did not give herself time to think--she opened the parlor door.

Mrs. Staunton was sitting in her favorite seat by the window. Her face was scarcely at all paler than it had been a week ago. She sat then by the window, looking out at her trouble, which showed like a speck in the blue sky. The shadow which enveloped her whole life was coming closer now, enveloping her like a thick fog. Still she was bearing up. Her eyes were gazing out on the garden--on the flowers which she and the doctor had tended and loved together. Some of the younger children had cl.u.s.tered round her knee--one of them held her hand--another played with a bunch of keys and trinkets which she always wore at her side.

"Go on, mother," said little Marjory, aged seven. "Don't stop."

"I have nearly finished," said Mrs. Staunton.

"But not quite. Go on, mother; I want to hear the end of the story,"

said Phil.

Mrs. Staunton did not see Dorothy, who stood motionless near the door.

"They got so tired," she began in a monotonous sort of voice--"so dreadfully tired, that there was nothing for them to do but to try and get into the White Garden."

"A _White Garden_!" repeated Phil. "Was it pretty?"

"Lovely!"

"Why was it called a White Garden?" asked Marjory.

"Because of the flowers. They were all white--white roses, white lilies, snowdrops, chrysanthemums--all the flowers that are pure white without any color. The air is sweet with their perfume--the people who come to live in the White Garden wear white flowers on their white dresses--it is a beautiful sight."

"It must be," said Marjory, who had a great deal of imagination. "Are the people happy?"

"Perfectly happy--rested, you know, Marjory. They are peaceful as you are when you are tucked up in your little bed."

"I like best to play and romp," said Marjory in a meditative voice; "but then, you see, I am never tired."

"Dorothy is standing at the door," exclaimed Phil. "Come in, Dorothy, and listen to mother's beautiful story."

"Do you want me?" asked Mrs. Staunton, standing up. She began to tremble--the children looked at her anxiously.

Dorothy went straight up and took her hand. "Dr. Staunton wishes to see you," she said. "Will you come with me?" She looked anxiously toward the door.

Mrs. Staunton put up her hand to her head. "Good-bye, my darlings," she said, looking at the little pair, who were gazing up at her with puzzled faces. "Go and play in the garden, and don't forget the White Garden about which we have been speaking." She stooped down and deliberately kissed both children, then she held out her hand to Dorothy. "I am quite ready," she said.

At that moment George entered the room. He put his arms round his mother. He was a big fellow--his arms were strong. The muscles in his neck seemed to start out, his eyes looked straight into his mother's.

"You have got _me_, mother; I am George," he said. "Come, let us go to my father together."

Mrs. Staunton tottered upstairs. She was not in the least surprised at seeing George, but she leaned very firmly on him. They went into the sickroom, and when George knelt down by his father's bedside, Mrs.

Staunton knelt by him.

The doctor was going deeper and deeper into the valley from which there is no return. Earthly sounds were growing dim to his ears--earthly voices were losing their meaning--earthly sights were fading before his failing eyes. The dew of death was on his forehead.

Mrs. Staunton, whose face was nearly as white, bent down lower and lower until her lips touched his hand. The touch of her lips made him open his eyes. He saw his wife; the look on her face seemed to bring him back to earth again--it was like a sort of return wave, landing him high on the sh.o.r.es of time.

His impulse was to say, "Come with me--let us enter into the rest of the Lord together;" but then he saw George. George had thrown his arm round his mother's waist.

"Let me keep her, father," said the young man. "Don't take her yet, let me keep her."

"Yes, stay with the lad, Mary," said the doctor.

It was a final act of self-renunciation. His eyelids drooped over his dying eyes--he never spoke again.

CHAPTER X.

George stayed at Whittington for a week; he followed his father to the grave. Mrs. Staunton clung to him with a sort of feverish tenacity; whenever he came into the room, her eyes followed him. A sort of wistful, contented expression came into them when he sat down beside her. During all the time George was in the house she never broke down.

At last, however, the time came when he must leave her.

"I must go back to my work," he said; "but you are coming to London soon, then I'll be with you every evening. You know my father has given you to me to take care of. It will be all right when we are in London together."