CHAPTER 25 The Withered Heart!
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Not so still and death-like lay the sufferer now. He moaned frequently, was restless, and had several slight attacks of coughing, which alarmed Helen fearfully. But greatly to her encouragement and relief, no effusions of blood accompanied these paroxysms. During the latter part of the night, he became more composed, and even slept.
Patiently his angel-like watcher kept her post by his side, through all the weary hours. A little before day-dawn, the restlessness returned; and with the low moaning heretofore attendant on this condition, was the occasional utterance of words, and incoherent sentences. What a quick startle Helen gave, as her own name fell from his lips! Leaning close down, she looked into his face. But the eyes were closed. Again the pale lips moved, and again her name was spoken. It seemed as if a new life were born in her heart — a new life, with newer and sweeter emotions than had ever yet stirred the hidden depths of her feelings. Bending over the sleeper, she pressed her pure lips to his forehead. Was it the kiss of a sister?
Love and Duty, united, had given strength up to this hour. But, now, Duty went out from the sick chamber — Love alone remained; but Love was even stronger in her blessed isolation, than when her colder sister stood faithful at her side.
A new fear now took possession of Helen's mind. The life of the sick man hung only, as it were, by a single thread, which the slightest touch might sever. Up to this time, he had neither seemed conscious of where he was, nor of who were in attendance upon him. In the gradual flowing back of the current of life, that consciousness must come, and she trembled for the result.
The question of leaving him now wholly in the care of Jeanette presented itself, was viewed on every side, and held long in earnest debate. But there was danger in either alternative. He was still too feeble to bear any withdrawal of the wisest attentions. There was the constant danger of a recurring haemorrhage, in which case, were his attendant sleeping through oppressive weariness, he might suffocate.
Daylight set in, with its cold gray aspect; the wasted lamp no longer threw a shadow upon the wall; but still the patient watcher was in her place, every faculty of her mind alive. She feared to move, lest a sound should disturb the sleeper, and awaken him to conscious life. Her eyes were upon his pale face, every well-remembered feature of which had the old manly outline, and the old manly beauty, even though wasted by disease. Tears came into her eyes, and she turned her face away in order to shut out the image for a moment, and recover that calmness which her position required. Back to the past her thoughts took a sudden leap, and she lost herself for many minutes among old remembrances. A movement in the bed recalled her to the present. She turned to her patient, and met his eyes, clear and intelligent, looking steadily upon her. An electric thrill passed through her frame.
"Helen! Helen!" His lips moved, and the name was uttered in a half whisper, and with the manner of one who feared that a sound might cause the vision to fade away into airy nothingness. Helen only raised a finger to her lips, and looked a caution to be still.
"Helen!" The name was repeated, and in a tone of deeper interest.
"Be calm, Edward — very, very calm. Your life depends upon it," she said, bending towards him, and speaking in a voice that betrayed nothing of the tumult in her bosom.
A slight warmth came into his pale cheeks, and a brighter light into his eyes. Helen trembled, lest the quicker motions of his heart should send the blood with too vigorous an impulse into his lungs.
"You have been very ill, Edward," said Helen, speaking low and impressively, "and there must be no excitement now. Close your eyes — repress all feeling. There is a friend by your side, who will not leave you in your weakness, to the mercy of strangers."
"Where am I?" he whispered.
"In Marseilles." Helen placed a finger upon his lips, as she answered his question. She then added, "Do not speak again, Edward. You are in Marseilles. In the train from Avignon, you were taken dangerously ill; and on its arrival here, you were brought to this hotel, where I was passing a few days. Thank God that you are recovering; but everything depends upon your freedom from excitement. Do not let all our care for you be in vain."
The sick man did not attempt to speak again, but fixed his eyes upon Helen's countenance, never withdrawing them for an instant; until her glance fell beneath the fascination of his gaze, and she turned her face partly away. When she looked at him again, the lashes had fallen upon his pale cheeks, and there was a smile upon his lips. In a moment or two, he opened his eyes again, and they rested in such loving looks upon her face, that her heart began to burn within her, and the fluttering pulses to send the warm blood to mantle with new beauty a countenance which, to Edward Linton, shone already with more than angelic loveliness.
When Jeanette came in, half an hour afterwards, to relieve Miss Hardy, the sick man was in a quiet slumber.
"How is he?" she whispered.
"Better," was replied.
"Has he spoken?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?" asked the curious girl.
Helen evaded the question.
"I will take your place, now," said Jeanette; "you must be very weary."
"I will remain a little while longer," replied Helen. "Come back in an hour."
"Oh, no, no!" returned the kind-hearted girl. "You will make yourself ill. I have slept soundly all night; and I am young and strong."
"I had rather stay for the present, Jeanette," said Helen, firmly. "I wish to be here when he wakes again."
After further vain efforts to induce the watcher to resign her place, Jeanette, at her request, retired from the room.
For nearly an hour Edward slept on — his breathing much firmer than before. He awoke with the name of Helen on his lips, and opened his eyes to see her face bending over him.
"It is no dream," he whispered, while a feeble smile played over his countenance.
"No, Edward," she answered back in a whisper, "it is no dream, but a living reality. You are better, thank God! but very weak. There must be no excitement — no exertion. Everything depends on perfect quiet of mind and body. Even thought must repose."
He made a motion to reply, but she laid a finger on his lips, saying —
"I enjoin the strictest silence."
A pleased smile went flitting lightly over his wan face; and his eyes looked up into hers, tenderly and gratefully, where he read more than she wished to reveal.
"Do not leave me," he said, when Jeanette came in, and urged her to take some rest.
The girl turned to him quickly, and before Helen could prevent her from speaking, said with some warmth —
"She has already been up with you two whole nights. She will get ill and die. It is only a few days since she arrived here, so weak that she could not walk alone. The watching will kill her. I am well and strong. I will stay with you, but she must go to her room, and sleep."
A shadow fell instantly upon the sick man's face.
"Go, Helen," he said, feebly. "Go! Don't think of me."
"You will find Jeanette very kind," whispered Helen, bending close to his ear. "She will call me, if I am needed. I will get a few hours' sleep, and then be with you again."
She laid her hand upon his forehead, and held it there with a gentle pressure for some moments. Then giving him one tender glance, she turned away, and retired to her own room, but not to sleep. Thought was too busy — feeling too active — for mental oblivion.
"There is a divine Providence in this strange meeting," she said, as she pondered the past and the present. "Is it not wonderful that we should meet, in this far-off region, and under such peculiar circumstances? If he should recover, has not God made me the instrument of preserving his life?"
It was time for Helen to look down deeply into her heart, and she felt that it was so. She needed no wise one to inform her that Edward still cherished the old affection. And she doubted not that life had gone on with him, since their parting, in loneliness and isolation. The thought inspired a tenderness before unknown.
And how had life passed with her? Would she willingly live over again the years of their separation? Had the days, since she rejected, with an almost unwomanly firmness, the suit of Edward Linton, been days upon which she could look back with pleasing remembrance? No — no! Not for herself! — not for herself! She had been a kind sister, a loving aunt, a faithful friend, blessing others in her daily life, as she walked with unfaltering footsteps, the path of duty. But the green things of her own heart were withering all the while — the pleasant garden becoming a desert — the flowers fading before half opened — the fruit dropping from the sapless branches. Over what a waste of being, did Helen look back, with almost tearful eyes; and as thought turned from the desolation of her own life — to that of Edward Linton, and she remembered with what sad, hopeless eyes he had looked into her face, years before, when, from a false principle — originating in selfishness — she had said to him that she would never marry, the struggling affections of her nature broke the iron bands with which she had bound them, and with a freed impulse went springing to their goal.
Resistance, if she had felt inclined to resist, would have been vain. Former impressions were fast passing away. The strength of old purposes was dying out, because in suffering they were exhausted. And now, this new life, which was seizing upon the decaying elements of the old false womanhood, and consuming them as stubble — was bringing to her spirit new hopes, new joys, new aspirations.
When Helen returned to the bedside of Edward Linton, she found the physician in attendance. He pronounced all the symptoms favourable; and said that his patient was much better than he had expected to find him. From this period, restoration progressed rapidly; and by the time the little party, which had passed on to Italy, came back to Marseilles — he was able to sit up, and even to walk unassisted about the room. Not more surprised were the members of this party to meet their old friend, than to see the remarkable change in Helen. They had left her wasted and feeble; but now her graceful form had gained its old erectness; the flush of a healthy heart-beat was in her countenance; the light of a new life in her eyes; and a smile of more than former beauty, on lips long curved in sadness.
A week after the return of Helen's sister from Italy, a marriage was celebrated at the hotel, and the next day the American travellers, diminished in number by the loss of one member of the party, started for the Rhone, and Lyons, on their way back to England and America.
It was a month later before Edward Linton, whose health steadily improved, and his wife — the happiest wife living, we had almost said — left the soft, pure sea-breezes of southern France, and went to their home in London.
There is a divine Providence — a Providence extending to the minutest particulars of our lives — from the hour of birth to the hour of death. It is expressed with remarkable precision in the Divinely-spoken words, "The very hairs of your head are all numbered." Most people err in their estimates of the Divine procedure, and call those providences dark and mysterious which disappoint the selfish affections. But these are the clouds which have "a silver lining." It is behind these frowning providences, that God hides His smiling face. All His dealings with us — all His permissions — have special regard to the elevation and purification of our spiritual natures, and in no case do they regard merely the pleasures of our natural lives. Until some degree of spiritual affection is born in us — some love of what is true and good for its own sake — we are not able to see this; and therefore we walk in darkness, and murmur against God, as did the old Hebrews in the wilderness.
As painful as were the experiences of Edward Linton and his wife — sad, and weary, and almost desolate as a portion of their lives had been — each had an sinful propensity which needed for its purification, just this severe discipline. He had grown wiser through the elevation of his understanding as to the higher truths of spiritual wisdom; and she had grown more loving through self-denial, patience, and a devotion of her life to the work of blessing others. The union was a truer one than it could have been in the earlier days of their companionship; for theirs was the union of soul, which springs from a mutual perception of those wise, and loving, and mutually adapted qualities, which meet only once, and then conjoin forever.
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