THREE HEARTS GO OUT TO LITTLE EDDIE.
Eddie only turned his beautiful head on the cushion, and went to sleep
again, with soft murmurs and a deeper breath.
“Shall I kiss him once more?” inquired Elsie, lifting her large,
pleading eyes to Catharine. “You don’t think it troubles him?”
“No, he will awake next time.”
Elsie bent down and pressed her lips like a burning seal upon the
child’s forehead, which flushed crimson beneath the pressure. He awoke
with a faint struggle, and starting up, began to rub his eyes with both
hands.
“Edward—Eddie!” exclaimed the widow.
The child scrambled up from the cushions as if to run toward her.
“Mamma, my own mamma!”
Elsie’s face darkened like a thunder-cloud; her pale lips began to
quiver, and she made a dart forward with her hand.
The child shrunk back on the cushions, frightened.
Catharine bent over Elsie, smiling.
“You see the child does not call her mother!”
“Don’t he? No; that is true; she is only the nurse. Take him away, he
must have a bath, you know; nurse, you will see to it.”
Even as Elsie said this, however, the strength went out from her limbs,
a delicious shiver ran through her whole frame, and as if the breath
inhaled from those rosy lips had been a sweet poison, she breathed a
sigh, and her head sunk slowly to the floor. Her hands dropped loose
from the child, and she lay among the billowy folds of her white robe
and crimson shawl, pale as snow, but with a smile of ineffable joy upon
her face. The draught of life she had drank from those warm, half-parted
lips was stealing like an elixir through her veins.
“Let us take the child away now!” said Catharine, stooping gently down
and lifting the boy from the cushions, where Elsie’s helplessness had
left him.
“God bless the dear little fellow, he has made her smile,” said the old
man, looking from Edward to the white face of his daughter, while his
features, usually so placid, quivered with a rush of affection. “Look at
her, mother. When did she smile so naturally before?”
“But how white she is,” said the dear, old lady, full of tender anxiety;
“if it were not for the smile, it would seem like death!”
“But the smile, look at it! Since the day we saw that face under its
wedding-veil, white as it is now, but so happy, she has never looked
like that,” said the old man.
“But what if it were death?” answered the old lady, constantly rendered
anxious by any change that fell upon her daughter, who, spite of her
sorrow and gray hair, always seemed a child to her. “I have heard that
those who suffer most on earth often look happy as angels the moment
they cease to breathe. Tell me, husband, tell me,” she continued,
clasping her hands with sudden affright, “is this sleep or death?”
“Neither,” said Catharine, who had resigned the boy to his mother, and
was kneeling beside Elsie. “She is insensible, that is all; a little
effort will bring her to.”
“Not yet—oh! not yet,” cried the old lady, with tears in her eyes,
drawing timidly toward the prostrate woman. “Let me kiss her while she
looks so natural. Husband, come!”
She fell upon her knees, holding up her arms for the old gentleman, who
knelt beside her; and the blended tears fell warm and fast on the poor
maniac. First one and then the other bent forward, pressing timid kisses
upon that pale face, thus assuring themselves that it still retained a
glow of life.
Meantime Catharine drew her visitor aside. “Take the boy away,” she
said, hurriedly, “she will not miss him, perhaps, if he is out of sight.
But let me come and see him sometimes; I will not trouble you often.”
“I would leave him with you, if it would do her good, that is for an
hour or two,” said the lady, who was trembling still with the joy of
having found her darling.
Catharine looked at the sleeping boy, with a keen desire to have him
with her a few hours longer; but a habit of self-control, which
suffering had matured, enabled her at once to suppress the wish.
“No,” she answered, “it would do no good, unless she had him always with
her. It is a wild fancy that may not return while he is out of sight;
besides, you look weary. Up all night, and _so_ anxious.”
“I will go then, if you think it best,” answered the widow, with an
effort; and she moved away with the child.
“One moment!” pleaded Catharine, for her heart sunk as she saw the boy
carried off. “If you will sit down in the breakfast-room a moment, while
I take care of poor Elsie, perhaps you will permit me to help you carry
him home. I should be so happy, and you are worn out!”
“He is heavy,” answered the widow, “but that is nothing. I am so glad to
get him in my arms again. I could carry him over the whole world without
feeling the weight.”
“I should like to carry him,” said Catharine, gently, “if you were
willing.”
“I will wait, of course I will wait. He _is_ heavy, and I am almost
tired out, as you say. It is very kind of you; I will wait!”
The widow saw how anxious Catharine was, and with gentle tact gave way
to her wishes.
They hurried into the breakfast-room together, and after Catharine had
arranged the cushions and white dainty couch for the child to rest on,
she returned to the library.