"You had better not let _him_ sit up to-night," said the first physician, looking compa.s.sionately at Charley; "he won"t be able to stand it. He is worn out now, poor fellow, and looks fit for a sick-bed himself."
"He knows it is the crisis," Trixy answered; "he won"t go."
"He has watched the last two nights," Miss Seton, interposed: "he _must_ go, doctor; leave me an opiate--I will administer it. If--if the worst comes, it will be but a moment"s work to arouse him."
The doctor obeyed.
"I will return at day dawn," he said, "if she be still alive. If not--send me word."
The twilight was falling. Solemn and shadowy it crept into the sombre, silent room. They went back to the bedside, pale and tearless; they had wept, it seemed, until they could weep no more. This last night the two girls were to watch alone.
She lay before them. Dead and in her shroud she would never look more awfully death-like than now. He sat beside her--ah, poor Charley!
in a sort of dull stupor of misery, utterly worn out. The sharp pain seemed over--the long, dark watches, when his pa.s.sionate prayers had ascended for that dear life, wild and rebellious it may be, when he had wrestled with an agony more bitter than death, had left their impress on his life forever. He could not let her go--he could not!
"O G.o.d!" was the ceaseless cry of his soul, "have mercy--spare!"
Nellie Seton"s cool, soft hands fell lightly on his head--Nellie"s soft, gentle voice spoke:
"Charley, you are to leave us for a little, and lie down. You must have some rest, be it ever so short; and you have had nothing to eat, I believe all day; you will let me prepare something, and take it, and go to your room."
She spoke to him coaxingly, almost as she might to a child. He lifted his eyes, full of dull, infinite misery, to hers.
"To-night?" he answered: "the last night! I will not go."
"Only for an hour then," she pleaded; "there will be no change. For _my_ sake, Charley!"
All her goodness, all her patience, came back to him. He pressed her hand in his own gratefully, and arose.
"For your sake, Nellie, then--for no other. But you promise to call me if there is the slightest change?"
"I promise. Drink this and go."
She gave him a gla.s.s of mulled wine, containing the opiate. He drank it and left the room. They listened breathlessly until they heard his door, further down the pa.s.sage, open and shut--then both drew a deep breath.
"Thank Heaven," Trix said; "I couldn"t bear to see him here to-night.
Nellie, if she dies it will kill him--just that."
The girl"s lips quivered. What Charley had been to her--how wholly her great, generous, loving heart had gone out to him, not even Trix ever knew. The dream of her life"s best bliss was at an end forever.
Whether Edith Stuart lived or died, no other woman would ever take her place in his heart.
The hours of the night wore on. Oh! those solemn night watches by the dying bed of those we love. The faint lamp flickers, deepest stillness reigns, and on his bed, dressed as he was, Charley lies deeply, dreamlessly asleep.
It was broad day when he awoke--the dawn of a cloudless November day.
He sat up in bed suddenly, for a moment, bewildered, and stared before him. Only for a moment--then he remembered all. The night had pa.s.sed, the morning come. They had let him sleep--it seemed he _could_ sleep while she lay dying so near. Dying! Who was to tell him that in yonder distant room Edith was not lying dead. He rose up, reeling like a drunken man, and made for the door. He opened it, and went out, down the pa.s.sage. It was entirely deserted, the great household was not yet astir. Profound stillness reigned. Through the windows he could see the bright morning sky, all flushed, red and golden with the first radiance of the rising sun. And in that room there what lay--death or life?
He stood suddenly still, and looked at the closed door. He stood there motionless, his eyes fixed upon it, unable to advance another step.
It opened abruptly--quickly but noiselessly, and Nellie Seton"s pale, tired face looked out. At sight of him she came forward--he asked no questions--his eyes looked at her full of a dumb agony of questioning she never forgot.
"Charley!" she exclaimed, coming nearer.
The first ray of the rising sun streaming through the windows fell full upon her pale face, and it was as the face of an angel.
"Charley!" she repeated, with a great tearless sob, holding out both hands; "Oh, bless G.o.d! the doctor says we may--_hope_!"
He had braced himself to hear the worst--not this. He made one step forward and fell at her feet like a stone.
CHAPTER XII.
THE MORNING.
They might hope? The night had pa.s.sed, the morning had come, and she still lived.
You would hardly have thought so to look at her as she lay, deathly white, deathly still. But as the day broke she had awakened from a long sleep, the most natural and refreshing she had known for weeks, and looked up into the pale anxious face of Trix with the faint shadow of a smile. Then the eyelids swayed and closed in sleep once more, but she had recognized Trix for the first time in days--the crisis was over and hope had come.
They would not let her see him. Only while she slept would they allow him now to enter her room. But it was easily borne--Edith was not to die, and Heaven and his own grateful happy heart only knew how infinitely blessed he was in that knowledge. After the long bitter night--after the darkness and the pain, light and morning had come.
Edith would live--all was said in that.
"There are some remedies that are either kill or cure in their action," the old doctor said, giving Charley a facetious poke. "Your marriage was one of them, young man. _I_ thought it was Kill--it turns out it was Cure."
For many days no memory of the past returned to her, her existence was as the existence of a new-born babe, spent alternately in taking food and sleep. Food she took with eager avidity after her long starvation, and then sank back again into profound, refreshing slumber.
"Let her sleep," said the doctor, with a complacent nod; "the more the better. It"s Nature"s way of repairing damages."
There came a day at last when thought and recollection began to struggle back--when she had strength to lie awake and think. More than once Trix caught the dark eyes fixed in silent wistfulness upon her--a question in them her lips would not ask. But Miss Stuart guessed it, and one day spoke:
"What is it, Dithy?" she said; "you look as if you wanted to say something, you know."
"How--how long have I been sick?" was Edith"s question.
"Nearly five weeks, and an awful life you"ve led us, I can tell you!
Look at me--worn to skin and bone. What do you suppose you will have to say for yourself when Angus comes?"
Edith smiled faintly, but her eyes still kept their wistful look.
"I suppose I was delirious part of the time, Trixy?"
"Stark, staring crazy--raving like a lunatic at full moon! But you needn"t look so concerned about it--we"ve changed all that. You"ll do now."
"Yes," she said it with a sigh; "you have all been very kind. I suppose it"s only a fancy of the fever after all"
"What?"
"I--Trixy! don"t laugh at me, but I thought Charley was here."
"Did you?" responded Trix; "the most natural thing in life. He _is_ here."