"Humph!" said the doctor, "humph!" as Ruth drew aside the curtain, and
the light fell full upon Harry's face. "Humph! it is all up with _him_;
he's in the last stage of the complaint; won't live two days;" and
stepping to the table, the doctor uncorked the different phials, applied
them to the end of his nose, examined the labels, and then returned
to the bed-side, where Ruth stood bending over Harry, so pallid, so
tearless, that one involuntarily prayed that death, when he aimed his
dart, might strike down both together.
"Humph!" said the doctor again! "when did he have his reason last?"
"A few moments, day before yesterday," said Ruth, without removing her
eyes from Harry.
"Well; he has been _murdered_,--yes murdered, just as much as if you
had seen the knife put to his throat. That tells the whole story, and
I don't care who knows it. I have been looking at those phials,--wrong
course of treatment altogether for typhoid fever; fatal mistake. His
death will lie heavy at _somebody's_ door," and he glanced at Ruth.
"Hush! he is coming to himself," said Ruth, whose eyes had never once
moved from her husband.
"Then I must tell him that his hours are numbered," said the doctor,
thrusting his hands in his pockets, and pompously walking round the bed.
"No, no," whispered Ruth, grasping his arm with both hands; "you will
kill him. The doctor said it might destroy the last chance for his life.
_Don't_ tell him. You know he is not afraid _to die_; but oh, spare him
the parting with me! it will be so hard; he loves me, father."
"Pshaw!" said the doctor, shaking her off; "he ought to settle up his
affairs while he can. I don't know how he wants things fixed. Harry!
Harry!" said he, touching his shoulder, "I've come to see you; do you
know me?"
"Father!" said Harry, languidly, "yes, I'm--I'm sick. I shall be better
soon; don't worry about me. Where's my wife? where's Ruth?"
"You'll _never_ be better, Harry," said the doctor, bluntly, stepping
between him and Ruth; "you may not live the day out. If you have got
anything to say, you'd better say it now, before your mind wanders. You
are a dead man, Harry; and you know that when I say _that_, I know what
I'm talking about."
The sick man gazed at the speaker, as if he were in a dream; then
slowly, and with a great effort, raising his head, he looked about the
room for Ruth. She was kneeling at the bedside, with her face buried in
her hands. Harry reached out his emaciated hand, and placed it upon her
bowed head.
"Ruth? wife?"
Her arm was about his neck in an instant--her lips to his; but her eyes
were tearless, and her whole frame shook convulsively.
"Oh, how _can_ I leave you? who will care for you? Oh God, in mercy
spare me to her;" and Harry fell back on his pillow.
The shock was too sudden; reason again wandered; he heard the shrill
whistle of the cars, recalling him to the city's whirl of business; he
had stocks to negotiate; he had notes to pay; he had dividends due. Then
the scene changed;--he could not be carried on a hearse through the
street, surrounded by a gaping crowd. Ruth must go alone with him, by
night;--why _must_ he die at all? He would take anything. Where was the
doctor? Why did they waste time in talking? Why not do something more
for him? How cruel of Ruth to let him lie there and die?
"We will try this new remedy," said one of the consulting physicians to
Harry's father; "it is the only thing that remains to be done, and I
confess I have no faith in its efficacy in this case."
"He rallies again!" said Ruth, clasping her hands.
"The children!" said Harry; "bring me the children."
"Presently," said the new physician; "try and swallow this first;" and
he raised his head tenderly.
They were brought him. Little Nettie came first,--her dimpled arms and
rosy face in strange contrast to the pallid lips she bent, in childish
glee, to kiss. Then little Katy, shrinking with a strange awe from the
dear papa she loved so much, and sobbing, she scarce knew why, at his
whispered words, "Be kind to your mother, Katy."
Again Harry's eyes sought Ruth. She was there, but a film--a mist had
come between them; he could not see her, though he felt her warm breath.
And now, that powerful frame collected all its remaining energies for
the last dread contest with death. So fearful--so terrible was the
struggle, that friends stood by, with suppressed breath and averted
eyes, while Ruth alone, with a fearful calmness, hour after hour, wiped
the death damp from his brow, and the oozing foam from his pallid lips.
* * * * *
"He is gone," said the old doctor, laying Harry's hand down upon the
coverlid.
"No; he breathes again."
"Ah; that's his last!"
"Take her away," said the doctor, as Ruth fell heavily across her
husband's body; and the unresisting form of the insensible wife was
borne into the next room.
Strange hands closed Harry's eyes, parted his damp locks, straightened
his manly limbs, and folded the marble hands over as noble a heart as
ever lay cold and still beneath a shroud.