“Not now, my dear,” said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. “Yes, my dear, the struggle is over.”
Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta’s waist, as if to strengthen her, as she stood quite passive and still.
Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter. “Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared to hope.”
Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her, she inarticulately murmured, “Oh! why did you not call me?”
“I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not to let you see him suffer.”
Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to rouse her, that she said, “I should like to go to bed.”
“Right—the best thing,” said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, “Go with her, but don’t try to rouse her—don’t talk to her. Come back to me, presently.”
He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she disappeared into her own room.
Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head, under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs asked her if she would have a light.
“No, no, thank you—the dark and alone. Good-night,” said Meta. Ethel went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her in his arms, and kissed her forehead. “And how is the poor little dear?” he asked.