“Pooh! what does sex matter?” replied the doctor. “Does the fact of your being a girl alter love? Did not you love the dead boy? I die. It is the will of the Almighty to take me away before my work is accomplished; but I leave behind me a child, my lineal descendant, the loving playmate of the murdered boy, the girl into whose ears he whispered his young secrets, the girl who kissed his young lips. This girl is no weakling, she can take up my work; she shall. I insist, I command, I will listen to no silly cowardly entreaties. Do you hear me, Nancy? I die before another sun rises, but my unfinished work drops on to your shoulders; you dare not refuse me—do you hear what I am saying? You dare not.”
“The task you set me will kill me, father. I am dreadfully tired already. I am utterly weary of the misery of my life.”
“Kneel down, child,” said the doctor. His voice changed from its hard and ringing note; it grew all of a sudden soft, beseeching, tender.
“You have a woman’s heart and a woman’s spirit,” he said, touching one of the slim young hands and stroking it as he spoke; “but you have more than that, you have a man’s courage. I have seen that courage shine in your eyes in more than one sudden emergency; the day the blow fell I saw it. I have seen it since, when you have denied yourself and turned your back on the good things of youth, and followed me, step by step, uncomplainingly, up the narrow path of self-sacrifice and self-denial. You can do it—you shall. Think of Anthony, think for a moment of the old times.”
“Yes, I remember the old times,” replied Nancy. She began to sob as she spoke.
“That is right, child, cry away. I have touched your heart. When I touch a heart like yours courage soon re-animates it; you will not be a coward, you will not allow your brother’s blood to cry from the ground for vengeance; think of the old times, think of your mother, think of the old, gay, happy life.”
“Yes, yes, I remember it,” said the girl; “but it is all past and over.” She wept silently, bowing her head until it almost touched the bedclothes.
“I see the old times as I lie here,” said Dr. Follett. A meditative, gentle look stole the anxiety and some of the age out of his face. “Yes,” he continued, speaking in a dreamy tone, “the past rises before me. I see a picture. There are three people in the picture, Anthony, your mother, you. Our house is full of sunshine. Your mother is proud of her children, and I am proud of your mother and of the children. The picture is very vivid, it is almost like a vision, it fills the whole of my gaze. I see the room where we sit in the evening. I see people flitting about. I see our morning-room with the sunshine on it; there is your mother’s gentle face, there is Anthony like a young eagle, all romance, chivalry—a daring boy, a splendid lad. I see you full of courage, but pretty, soft, with hair like the sun. Yes, it is a lovely picture; it rests me, it supports me. Ah, but it is changing—your mother’s place is empty, she no longer sits by the fire, or takes the head of the table. She has gone. I am in one sense alone, but still I live, for Anthony lives, and you live, and I work for you, and my profession abounds with interest and it absorbs me. Here is another picture coming on fast. I see my consulting-room; here come the patients; I give them five minutes each, and I drop the golden sovereigns into my drawer, fast, faster and faster. I am a very successful doctor. You remember all about my success, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, you were grand, magnificent in those days,” said Nancy. She had raised her head now; her tears had dried on her cheeks.