Sweethearts and Wives CHAPTER 16.
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When Mrs. Milnor awoke, it was past the hour of midnight. Some moments elapsed before she could sufficiently collect her thoughts to be truly conscious of where she was. A dim light pervaded the chamber, caused by the rays of a small lamp, which was so placed as to throw the whole room into deep shadow. All was as still as the grave. After resting upon her arm, listening intently for nearly a minute, she got up, and stepped noiselessly across the room to the bed upon which lay her husband. As faint as the light was, it was strong enough to show his face — paler, more sunken, and death-like in its expression. A cry of agony was just rising to her lips, as the warning look and raised finger of the nurse arrested her attention, and caused her, by a strong effort, to control herself.
"On your life, be composed!" whispered the nurse in her ear, as she glided with soundless tread to her side. "The crisis is past! The fever has left him, but he is as weak as an infant. The feeblest shock now would inevitably destroy his life."
Grace sunk into a chair with a feeling as if a giant hand had crushed her down, and left her powerless in every nerve. After a little while, she rose up and stole quietly to the bedside, where she stood for many minutes looking down into the almost expressionless face of her husband. His breath came quick and shallow, with a gasping effort. As she stood there, she felt fully the force of the attendant's remark, that he was as weak as an infant, and that the feeblest shock would inevitably destroy his life.
No persuasion could induce her again to lie down. Not once did she remove from a chair, brought close to his side, until daylight; nor for a moment, withdraw her eyes from his face during that period. The solar light of morning revealed more palpably than they had yet appeared, the ravages of the disease, which had, while it preyed upon his system, given to it a degree of artificial excitement, which seemed like physical stamina. Now every muscle and fibre was so completely relaxed, that life seemed scarcely to linger in the vital organs, much less to flow down freely into the vitals of the body.
Soon after daylight, the doctor came in. He asked no question, but approached noiselessly, and with evident anxiety. The moment he laid his hand upon the patient's arm, a thrill passed through his frame. For a long time he sat with his fingers upon his pulse, and his eyes fixed upon the sick man's face. Poor Grace scarcely breathed. At length a long inspiration, followed by a still longer expiration, gave indication that the physician was satisfied as to the result.
"Doctor," said Grace, who had instinctively perceived that a conclusion had been made in the physician's mind, speaking in a husky whisper, "Is there any hope?"
"Everything to hope from care and quiet," was the instant response.
Grace clasped her hands together, lifted her eyes upward, and then hiding her face, wept long and silently.
Before the doctor left, he took Mrs. Milnor aside, and fully explained to her the condition of her husband, enforcing again and again the necessity of his being kept perfectly free from all excitement. Thus kept free, and his directions followed as to diet, etc. — all would be well.
Since the recession of the fever at midnight, the patient had lain in a quiet sleep, which seemed almost like death. About ten o'clock, he awoke from this, when a small portion of nourishment, with some wine, was given. In a little while after, he fell off to sleep again, without having taken notice of anything. From this, he awoke towards five in the afternoon, and seemed refreshed. More nourishment was given, and after laying a little while, he again went off to sleep.
At the suggestion of the physician, the nurse, who had slept but little for many days, went to bed at dark, leaving the patient in the charge of Grace, who was directed to wake her up at midnight. Hour after hour, the young wife now sat, a lonely and patient watcher, by the side of her husband. She could not refrain from taking his hand in hers, nor from laying her head down upon the pillow beside his, nor from kissing his pale forehead over and over again. How deep, and yearning, and tender — was the love she bore him! Far deeper, more yearning, and tenderer than anything that had ever pervaded her bosom. It seemed as if she could freely sacrifice her life for his sake; that for him she could be happy in a wilderness or in a palace; that, without him, existence would be a dreary blank.
Midnight came, and still her husband slept; but she could not tear herself from his side; she could not yield up to another, the watcher's station. And thus she sat until the first pale rays of morning stole in at the window. These awakened the nurse, who instantly arose to resume her charge, chiding as she did so, the young wife for not having called her hours before; but it was all in vain that she urged her to retire and take rest. She was too anxious to see the eyes, whose glances had not greeted her in many weeks, open again to the light. Fondly had she cherished the hope, all night long, of seeing those dear eyes unclose, and receiving from them looks of intelligence and love. She could not, therefore, give up her place, until the sleeper had again aroused himself, but continued seated by his side, holding one of his emaciated hands, upon which every blue vein was distinctly seen, in hers.
Thus she had remained for an hour after daylight, looking earnestly into his face, and hoping every moment to see his eyes open; but still he slept on. Disappointed at his long-continued unconsciousness, she at length let her eyes fall to the floor, as her bosom heaved with a feeble sigh. A dreamy revery stole over her, from which a slight pressure of her hand at length aroused her. Turning quickly towards her husband, she found that his eyes were open, and resting, with a look of affectionate intelligence, upon her. Instantly recollecting herself, she restrained the wild rush of her feelings, and only gave vent to them by returning the pressure of her husband's hand, and stooping down and kissing his with earnest tenderness. Tears were in her eyes, and flowing over her cheeks. Oh, how eagerly did she desire to clasp him to her arms; to lay his head upon her bosom, and pour out to him her whole heart! But a counselor was quickly by her side, and whispered words of caution in her ears, to give weight to her own sense of prudence.
The nourishment which the feeble body of her husband now required, was given by her own hands, and as it touched the quickening nerve of taste with a grateful sensation, her reward was in the glances of pleasure and affection that were feebly cast upon her. When he again composed himself to rest, he did so, weak and helpless as he was both in mind and body, under the sweet consciousness that the heart which was dearest to him in the whole world, beat close beside his, and was full of tenderness.
From that time, his recovery was steady, but very gradual. In a few days, he was able to converse a little, at the end of a week to sit up in bed supported by pillows, and in twelve days to walk across his room.
We will not record the many tender words that passed between the young husband and his wife; they would alone fill a volume. Let young husbands and wives, for whose especial benefit this volume is written, imagine these things for themselves — it will require for them no very ardent stretch of imagination.
Nothing, however, had yet been said on the subject of the differences which had so cruelly wrung both of their hearts. They had purposely avoided any allusion to them.
It was on the twelfth day of his convalescence, that Grace drew from her bosom the letter she had found unopened on her arrival in New York — her letter of confession, so full of tender assurances of love — and handed it to him, saying, in a voice that perceptibly trembled as she did so,
"This was written and sent to New York three weeks ago, as you will see by the postmark. I found it in your room when I came here. Take it as written then — and affirmed now."
While Milnor read over the letter of his wife, which was full of confessions of error and assurances of affection, Grace sat by his side, her hand shading her face, and concealing the drops that slowly coursed their way down her cheeks; but they were not tears of grief, but of pleasure. Milnor remained in deep thought for some time after he had read the letter, in earnest exploration of his own heart.
"I, too," he at length said, "have my confessions to make. My — "
"Nothing of this! Nothing of this!" Grace instantly said, smiling tenderly through her tears, as she placed her hand upon his mouth. "Let the past go. You are restored to me, as from the grave. I take the gift from above, with thankfulness, resolved hereafter to do a wife's duty, and love my husband with a wife's pure love. Where you go — I will go; and where you lodge — I will lodge; your people shall be my people — and your God shall be my God."
"But I have one confession to make — "
<p align="justify">"I will not hear it!" Grace instantly returned. "If you have acted wrong — then I have been the cause. Let the past sleep. It needed that I should lay my heart bare. That is done, and now let the past suffice. The future is before us, full of a blessed hope. With my husband, I go into that future, resolved to stand ever by his side."
With such assurances, Grace strove often to add to the force of her letter; and she was deeply in earnest. She had seen her errors, and had commenced a faithful struggle against the inward evils which had produced them. The illness, and narrow escape of her husband from death, had tried and proved her affection, developing even to herself, its deeper depths, and showing her how intimately blended with his interests and happiness — was her own; that they were really one, or in the effort to become one; and that anything which divided their ends of action, thus tending to prevent their true union — must inevitably make them both miserable. This was a discovery not dearly bought, even at the price which had been paid for it.
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