Brian was very anxious to have the patient moved across to his father's house; but, though Charles Osmond said all he could in favor of the scheme, the other doctors would not consent, thinking the risk of removal too great.And, besides, it would be useless, they maintained the atheist was evidently dying.Brian, who was the youngest, could not carry out his wishes in defiance of the others, but he would not deny himself the hope of even yet saving Erica's father.He devised punkahs, became almost nurse and doctor in one, and utterly refused to lose heart.Erica herself was the only other person who shared his hopefulness, or perhaps her feeling could hardly be described by that word; she was not hopeful, but she had so resolutely set herself to live in the present that she had managed altogether to crowd out the future, and with it the worst fear.
One day, however, it broke upon her suddenly.Some one had left a newspaper in the sick-room; it was weeks since she had seen one, and in a brief interval, while her father slept, or seemed to sleep, she took it up half mechanically.How much it would have interested her a little while ago, how meaningless it all seemed to her now."Latest Telegrams," "News from the Seat of War,""Parliamentary Intelligence" a speech by Sir Michael Cunningham, one of her heroes, on a question in which she was interested.She could not read it, all the life seemed gone out of it, today the paper was nothing to her but a broad sheet with so many columns of printed matter.But as she was putting it down their own name caught her eye.All at once her benumbed faculties regained their power, her heart began to beat wildly, for there, in clearest print, in short, choppy, unequivocal sentences, was the hideous fear which she had contrived so long to banish.
"Mr.Raeburn is dying.The bulletins have daily been growing less and less hopeful.Yesterday doctor R______, who had been called in, could only confirm the unfavorable opinion of the other doctors.In all probability the days of the great apostle of atheism are numbered.It rests with the Hyde Park rioters, and those who by word and example have incited them, to bear the responsibility of making a martyr of such a man as Mr.Luke Raeburn.Emphatically disclaiming the slightest sympathy with Mr.
Raeburn's religious views, we yet--"
But Erica could read no more.Whatever modicum of charity the writer ventured to put forth was lost upon her.The opening sentence danced before her eyes in letters of fire.That morning she met Brian in the passage and drew him into the sitting room.
He saw at once how it was with her.
"Look," she said, holding the newspaper toward him, "is that true?
Or is it only a sensation trap or written for party purposes?"Her delicate lips were closed with their hardest expression, her eyes only looked grave and questioning.She watched his face as he read, lost her last hope, and with the look of such anguish as he had never before seen, drew the paper from him, and caught his hand in hers in wild entreaty.
"Oh, Brian, Brian! Is there no hope? Surely you can do something for him.There MUST be hope, he is so strong, so full of life."He struggled hard for voice and words to answer her, but the imploring pressure of her hands on his had nearly unnerved him.
Already the grief that kills lurked in her eyes he knew that if her father died she would not long survive him.
"Don't say what is untrue," she continued." Don't let me drive you into telling a lie but only tell me if there is indeed no hope no chance.""It may be," said Brian."You must not expect, for those far wiser than I say it can not be.But I hope yes, I still hope."On that crumb of comfort she lived, but it was a weary day, and for the first time she noticed that her father, who was free from fever, followed her everywhere with his eyes.She knew intuitively that he thought himself dying.
Toward evening she was sitting beside him, slowly drawing her fingers through his thick masses of snow-white hair in the way he liked best, when he looked suddenly right into her eyes with his own strangely similar ones, deep, earnest eyes, full now of a sort of dumb yearning.
"Little son Eric," he said, faintly, "you will go on with the work I am leaving.""Yes, father," she replied firmly, though her heart felt as if it would break.
"A harmful delusion," he murmured, half to himself, "taking up our best men! Swallowing up the money of the people.What's that singing, Erica?""It is the children in the hospital," she replied."I'll shut the window if they disturb you, father.""No, " he said."One can tolerate the delusion for them if it makes their pain more bearable.Poor bairns! Poor bairns! Pain is an odd mystery."He drew down her hand and held it in his, seeming to listen to the singing, which floated in clearly through the open window at right angles with the back windows of the hospital.Neither of them knew what the hymn was, but the refrain which came after every verse as if even the tinies were joining in it was quite audible to Luke Raeburn and his daughter, "Through life's long day, and death's dark night, Oh, gentle Jesus, be our light."Erica's breath came in gasps.To be reminded then that life was long and that death was dark!
She thought she had never prayed, she had never consciously prayed, but her whole life for the past three years had been an unspoken prayer.Never was there a more true desire entirely unexpressed than the desire which now seemed to possess her whole being.The darkness would soon hide forever the being she most loved.Oh, if she could but honestly think that He who called Himself the Light of the world was indeed still living, still ready to help!
But to allow her distress to gain the mastery over her would certainly disturb and grieve her father.With a great effort she stifled the sobs which would rise in her throat, and waited in rigid stillness.When the last notes of the hymn had died away into silence, she turned to look at her father.He had fallen asleep.
