She fell into a troubled sleep, and waking, said the same words over again, only with more difficult utterance. She spoke to his mother now and then in her painful whisper, sending messages to Violet and Jem and all the rest; and once she asked her if she had a message for the minister, whom she was sure so soon to see. But the only words that David heard her speak were these, and he answered:
“I will try, Aunt Bethia;” but he had not voice for more.
It was like a dream to him to be there in the very room where he had watched that last night with his father. It seemed to be that night again, so vividly did it all come back.
“Mamma,” he whispered, “can you bear it?”
By and by they went up-stairs, and into the study, which was still kept as they had left it two years ago.
“Mamma,” said David, again, “it is like a dream. Nothing in the whole world seems worth a thought—standing where we stood just now.”
“Except to keep one’s armour bright, my David,” said his mother. “Happy Miss Bethia! She will soon be done with all her trouble now.”
They watched that night and the next day, scarcely knowing whether she recognised them, or whether she were conscious of what seemed terrible suffering to those who were looking on; and then the end came.
It was all like a dream to David, the coming and going of the neighbours, the hush and pause that came at last, the whispered arrangements, the moving to and fro, and then the silence in the house. He seemed to be living over the last days of his father’s life, so well remembered—living them over for his mother, too, with the same sick feeling that he could not help or comfort her, or bear her trouble for her, or lighten it. And yet, seeing her there so calm and peaceful in every word and deed; so gentle, and helpful, and cheerful, he knew that she was helped and comforted, and that it was not all sorrow that the memory of the other death-bed stirred.
When he went out into the air again, he came to himself, and the dazed, dreamy feeling went away. It was their good and kind old friend who had gone to her rest, and it would be wrong to regret her. There were many who would remember her with respect and gratitude, and none more than he and his mother and the children at home. But her death would leave no great gap, that could never be filled as his father’s had done. She had been very kind to them of late years, and they would miss her; and then—it suddenly came into David’s mind about his father’s books, and about the sum that had three times been paid to his mother since they had been in Miss Bethia’s care. He was ashamed because of it; but he could not help wondering whether it would be paid still, or whether they would take the books away or leave them where they were. He did not like to speak to his mother. It seemed selfish and ungrateful to think about it even; but he could not keep it out of his mind.