"Pooh, pooh," returned the doctor, but his eyes glistened a little in sympathy; "Juniper Lodge is only next door, you are not going to be separated. Come, Miss Charity, you are a kind soul, and have courage enough for ten Faiths, say something comforting to your sister, to give her a good heart over this."
Dr. Stewart knew how to treat Miss Charity. Underneath the sharpness and irritability there was the true metal of a good womanly nature, and a courage few women could boast. Years ago she had fought out her own battle, and had laid herself down on her bed of pain with a breaking heart but unmurmuring lips. Had she ever forgotten poor George since the day she had given him up? had she ever believed the stories they had brought her of his unworthiness?
The small world of Hepshaw only saw in Miss Charity a little bright-eyed woman, with a caustic tongue and a temper soured by disappointment and suffering; but no one but Faith, and perhaps Dr. Stewart, knew what the martyred body and nerves bore day and night.
"I feel sometimes like St. Lawrence on his gridiron; I wish it were a bed of roses to me too," she said once grimly to her sister; but not even to her did she speak of the slow agonies that consumed her. What would be the use, she thought; pain is sent to be borne, not to be talked about.
Neither to Faith did she speak of the strange thoughts and dreams that haunted her nights. Sometimes, half lulled by opiates, it would seem to her as though the walls and roof of her chamber were thrown down; through the room rushed the cold winds of heaven; above her was the dark midnight sky seamed with glittering stars. How they wavered and shone! Voices sounded through them sometimes. Grey and white shadows moved hither and thither, silent, but with grave, speaking eyes pitying and full of love. "Poor Charity!" they seemed to say, "still fastened to the cross and waiting for the angel of peace and rest. Will he be long?" And the echo seemed to be caught up and passed on shuddering: "will he be long?"
Ah, yes; those were her parents! and poor George, how plainly she could see him! He had died a drunkard's death they had told her, with a sorry attempt at comfort. He had ridden after a night's debauch, and his seat and hand had been unsteady; but she had shaken her head incredulously. What mattered how he died? he was at rest, she knew that, she was sure of it; he could not have sinned as they said he had—her poor George, on whom she had brought such misery!
And now, because her cup was not yet full, this farther sacrifice was demanded of her. She must give up Faith, the patient nurse and companion of all these years of suffering. True, she was often cross and irritable, but could any one be to her what Faith was? could any one replace that soft voice and gentle hand that had lulled and made bearable many an hour when the pain threatened to be intolerable? would any other bear her harsh humors with such patience and loving resignation? The thought of this new deprivation paled the poor invalid's cheek and swelled in her throat as Dr. Stewart uttered his persuasive protest.
"Oh, Cara! I shall never have the heart to leave you when it comes to the point," cried Faith, clinging to her with fresh tears. What did it matter that they were middle-aged women, and that Cara's hair, at least, was streaked with grey, and that Dr. Stewart was regarding them with eyes that alternately twinkled and glistened. Had they not their feelings? was not Cara her own sister? "Oh, Cara! I never shall be able to leave you!"
"Nonsense," returned Miss Charity, pushing her away, but with tears in her eyes too. "Get up, Faith, do; what will Dr. Stewart think of us? Of course you must have him if you want him; and a good husband at your age is not to be despised, let me tell you that."
"But what will you do without me? and Hope reads so badly," sighed her sister.