University of Virginia Library

50. L.
META AND HER PHYSICIAN.

Meta was lying on a small couch beside
the fire, in her little apartment in
one of the wings; and Lady Brand, who
had succeeded in soothing Honoria's agitation,
and had intrusted her to the care
of her bridesmaids, had come for a few
moments to see Meta before the ceremony.
The child was very thin and
white, and her black hair, lying in profuse
curls upon the snowy pillow, framed
the sweet countenance, lit up by a tender
smile.

Lady Brand was engaged in conversasation
with Meta, sighing deeply from
time to time, as she thought of Honoria,
when steps were heard approaching.
The door suddenly opened, and a hearty
voice cried:

“Well, my little snow-drop, how are
we to-day?”

With the words, Dr. Vandyke clattered
into the apartment, shook hands
vigorously with Lady Brand, and then
went to Meta.

“Oh, I am very glad to see you, doctor,”
said the child, with a bright smile.
“Do you know there is something about
you—I don't know what, but I think it
is sunshine!”

This seemed to highly please Dr. Vandyke.

“Hear her!” he exclaimed. “And
this is your boasted invalid—your pining
sick girl!”

“I am not pining, doctor!”

“I should think not! Pining? Ha,
ha! You are radiant, inspiring, sunbeam
like—positively jolly!” exclaimed
the doctor, in search of a word.

“Then I am better?”

“You are getting well so fast that it
is a perfect farce for me to be coming all
the way from Williamsburg, through the
snow, to look after you. But I knew
'twas unnecessary. I came to the wedding.”

Meta looked a little sad at this, and
sighed.

“Yes, Cousin Honoria is to be married,”
she said, pensively; “and mamma
tells me everybody in the neighborhood
is here.”

Dr. Vandyke's preternaturally acute
ear caught the sigh, and his penetrating
intelligence comprehended it.

“Edmund Innis is the only one absent,”
he said; “but that is easily accounted
for: he's left the country, for a
time.”

“Left the country, doctor?”

“Yes; some time since. You see,
my dear, he had a sort of weakness for
Mam'selle Honoria, and was unwilling to
be present on this joyous occasion. At
first he was unhappy about the affair,
and would see nobody — not even his
friend Phil Cary. When he perceived
the approach up the mountain-road of
that young man, he shut up doors and
windows, retired to his inner den, and
would not open. I went to see him,
however, and he did me the honor to receive
me.”

“And—?” began Meta, eagerly.

“We talked about the matter—discussed
it in every form; and I found my
young friend quite resigned. The affair
was unlucky, he said, but such things
would occasionally occur. He had loved
Honoria—but that was over now. He
could still love her as her brother.”

Meta closed her eyes, murmuring to
herself:

“And I have changed too. I love
him only as a sister might.”

“What did you say, my dear?”

“Nothing, doctor. I am so glad that
—Edmund — is resigned, and does not
grieve.”

“Grieve? I think not! Why, my
dear little one, only conceive that we
spent a jolly night together. I give you
my word of honor, we made a bowl of
punch, and, as well as I remember—the
punch was rather strong—we, or I, at

least, chanted a bacchanalian song—ha!
ha!”

What Dr. Vandyke stated “on his
word of honor” was always the truth—
omitting that phrase, he considered himself,
on certain occasions, and for certain
purposes, justifiable, we are sorry to say,
in telling lies.

“The song sung on this occasion was,
I believe, `The Jolly Miller,”' he continued.
“You have not heard it? It
commences thus—”

And, in a powerful voice, gesticulating
as he sung, Dr. Vandyke chanted:

At which point he suddenly stopped, exclaiming:

“But the fine company will be startled
by my mellifluous strains! Let us
respect the rules of good society, my
friends.”

And, looking sidewise at Meta, Dr.
Vandyke saw that she was ready to
laugh.

“Good!” he muttered; “who says
there's no advantage in playing the buffoon?”

And, in his careless, hearty voice, he
said aloud:

“In fact, my dear, we made a night
of it, and I came near inducing our
young friend Innis to be present at the
wedding, take things philosophically,
and not go on his travels. He determined,
nevertheless, to adhere to his
original intention not to come, and to
make a brief tour, at least, with a view
of coming back home when he had
quieted down. So he went—won't be
here — and now let us talk of other
things. You are fast recovering, my
dear. I am going to feel your pulse,
and put my ear on your chest, just for
the form of the thing.”

Dr. Vandyke then enclosed the thin
wrist of Meta in his immense hand, the
index-finger touching the vein. At the
same moment he bent down and placed
his ear upon the child's breast.

“Pulse, excellent; breathing, all that
could be wished,” he said. “Only keep
up your spirits, my little snow-bird, and
you'll soon be well.”

Meta smiled. The intelligence in
reference to Innis had inexpressibly relieved
her, and now the good news of
her condition further cheered her.

“You are very changeable in your
comparisons, doctor,” she said; “you
make me out at one moment a snow-
drop, and then a snow-bird.”

“And are you not both? say, little
Miss White-face, with your little chirping
voice.”

“You must be trying to make me
laugh, doctor.”

“To make you laugh? Not a bit—
I am telling you the truth. You are
getting well.”

Meta's face was lit up by a tender,
happy light.

“I am very, very glad, doctor,” she
said, gently. “I am not afraid to die,
for God is kind and good, and I do not
fear Him—I love Him, and think He
would receive me, a poor little child.
But I would like to live—to be with
mamma, and all I love so—now.”

Dr. Vandyke's face slightly flushed.

“Right,” he said, no longer able to
preserve his jocular air, and gazing, as
he spoke, at the child with great tenderness.
He then looked at his watch, and
turned to Lady Brand, who had just
risen.

“I must retire and change my dress
now, madam. Will you show me my
chamber?”

“At once, doctor.”

And, assuring Meta that she would
send her her old nurse, who generally
remained in the chamber, Lady Brand
went out with the doctor, closing the
door. When they were thus alone, the
lady said:

“You do not think as favorably of

the poor child's condition as you seem to
do, doctor?”

“No,” said Dr. Vandyke.

“Why, then—”

“Tell her lies? Because, if she lives,
'twill smooth the way; if she dies, 'twill
do no harm. I make it a point to tell
lies in my profession, madam. There is
no change for the worse, that is all.”

Lady Brand sighed.

“And what you said of Edmund?”

“Was a lie also,” returned Dr. Vandyke,
with candor. “He is wretched
enough. I tried to cheer him and console
him, but could do nothing; and can
only say, I think nothing unfortunate
will happen, which I feared.”

“Heaven grant it! Whither did he
go, doctor?”

“I do not know.”

“This sad, sad business!”

“Very sad, madam; but life is a sad
affair, however you take it. Now, time
is passing, and I have an appointment
with Lord Ruthven, who wishes to see
me, he says, for a few moments. Which
is his chamber?”

“The second door on the right after
ascending the main staircase. You will
scarcely have time, doctor. Honoria's
toilet is made, and the ceremony will
soon take place.”

“There will be time, doubtless.”

With which words Dr. Vandyke
gained the hall, mounted the great staircase,
which wound up to the area above,
and knocked at Lord Ruthven's door just
at the moment when Fergus had replaced
the Highland dirk in the trunk, and asked
his master if any change was necessary
in his dress.