ON A STRANGE BED
Will she again,
From that death-like repose,
When those sealed eyes unclose,
Awake to pain?
ANON.
It was late in the afternoon of the same day that saw Gloria de la Vera
swept away by the tide.
In the cosy cottage on the sandy islet, old Dame Lindsay sat over the
bright, open wood fire, knitting busily; the tea-kettle hung over the
blaze, singing merrily; the covered “spider” sat upon the hearth,
emitting a spicy odor of baking ginger-bread; the black “pussy” was
coiled up in one corner, and the white puppy in the other.
The tea-table stood in the middle of the floor, set for two persons, gay
with the best cups and saucers on the bright japanned waiter, and
tempting with plates full of delicately sliced ham and cold bread, and a
pretty print of fresh butter.
Dame Lindsay at length rolled up her knitting and laid it aside on the
mantel-shelf; took off her spectacles and put them in their case, and
that into her pocket, then picked up the little iron tongs and lifted
the lid from the spider to examine the progress of her cakes, found them
doing well, and covered them again.
Finally she went to the window and looked out across the sea to the
shore where the wooded hills rolled backward to the western horizon,
behind which the setting sun was dropping out of sight.
“Well, now, I do wonder what can keep David? He promised to be back
before sunset, and he never broke a promise nor missed an appointment
before,” she said, as she held one hand above her eyes and scanned the
track of waters between the main shore and the little landing-place on
the islet.
She watched until the sun held set, the faint after-glow had faded from
the sky and sea, and the short winter twilight of the shortest days had
darkened into night.
“Something has happened. I trust in the Lord it is nothing ill,” she
said, as she left the window and went to the fireplace, and lighted the
two home-dipped tallow candles that stood on the mantelpiece.
She did not pull down the blue window blind; she left it up, saying to
herself:
“He shall see the light of home to cheer him across the dark sea, poor
lad.”
She had scarcely said so much when the sound of hurrying footsteps smote
her ears, and before she had time to cross the room, the door was
violently pushed open, and David Lindsay strode into the house,
bareheaded, with disordered hair, haggard face and starting eyes;
wearing nothing but a wet and frozen shirt and trowsers, and bearing in
his arms a girl’s lifeless form, wrapped closely in his own great-coat.
“Gloria is dead! She is dead! I saw her drowned before my eyes! I saw
her drowned before I could reach her! My darling! My darling! My angel!
Oh, my little angel!” he groaned, as he bore her to the bed, laid her on
it and dropped on his knees, burying his head beside her.
“Father of mercies! how did it happen?” cried the old dame, clasping her
hands in anguish, as she came up.
“Oh, don’t ask me now! Try to recover her, try! Oh, she must not! shall
not die!” exclaimed the young man, starting like a maniac from his
kneeling posture, and staring around him with a wild manner, half
prayerful, half defiant, wholly insane.
“Yes, we must try! We must never give up,” quickly replied Dame Lindsay,
who in her long life as a fisherman’s daughter, wife and mother, had had
varied experience in drowned persons, resuscitated or buried.
And fast as age and infirmities would permit, she scrambled up the
narrow stairs that led to the loft and quickly drew the blankets and
mattress from David’s bed and rolled them down to the room below.
Then she followed them in their descent, and straightened the mattress
on the floor, and laid the blankets over it.
“Now lift her up, and lay her here, David, and then leave the room. I
must take off her wet clothes, wind her in a warm blanket, and roll her.
That I must do without your help,” said the dame, with a calm authority
that would have compelled obedience from any one.
But the young man indeed was so stupefied and distracted by anguish and
despair, that he was more than willing to be led or driven.
Moaning and groaning in bitterest woe, he lifted the lifeless form and
laid it on its right side on the blanket over the mattress on the floor,
and then went up stairs and threw himself down near the landing to pray
with all his soul for her revival, and to listen with all his senses for
any murmur of her returning life that might reach him there.
Meanwhile the dame rolled the drowned girl over on her face, with her
wrist bent under her forehead to raise it, and then leaving her so for a
moment, went and hung a large blanket over several chairs before the
fire. Then she removed the wet raiment from the victim, and laid down
the hot blanket, and rolled her over and wrapped her in it, and rolled
and rubbed until some good results began to appear, and her own strength
to wane.
Then she called to the anxious watcher above:
“Come down, David, and help me now. There is hope, my lad. There is
hope!”
“Oh, thank the Lord! Thank the Lord! From this time forth I will live to
the Lord!” exclaimed the young man in an earnest outburst of gratitude,
too deep for gladness, as he hurried down the stairs.
“Ah! my boy, I said there was hope, not certainty,” sighed the dame.
“If there is hope, there is certainty. If the Lord ‘is not mocked,’
neither does he mock his children. I have prayed, oh! how I have prayed!
And the answer is, there is hope! So there is certainty!” exclaimed
David Lindsay, as he dropped on his knees before the prostrate form that
lay wound in the blanket on the mattress.
“You know what to do, David. Lay your hand between her shoulders and
continue to move her gently to and fro, if you wish to save her life.
When I get the bed ready we will lay her in it,” said the old woman, as
she spread more blankets to heat before the fire.
When they were ready she put one over the bottom sheet in the bed, and
called her grandson to lift the precious burden just as it was and lay
it there.
When he had obeyed her, she spread another warm blanket over the form,
which now began to quiver slightly as from pain.
“She lives! Oh, thank Heaven, she does live!” cried David.
“Easy, lad! Easy! There is more hope, but no certainty yet. I could not
feel any pulse, as I held her wrist just now,” said Dame Lindsay,
cautiously.
In mad haste, David thrust his hand amid the wrappings and found and
felt the delicate wrist.
“It beats! It beats! Her pulse does beat! I can scarcely feel it, it is
so small—but it beats!” he cried.
“I hope it may be so,” said the dame, who had taken a little brandy from
a small bottle that she kept for emergencies and put it into a mug with
some boiling water, sugar and spice.
When the highly stimulating cordial was ready, she brought it to the
bedside and looked at the face of the girl.
That face had changed from its white repose to a look of helpless,
intense suffering.
“You see she is recovering!” exclaimed David, triumphantly.
“Yes, I see she is, poor child!” replied the dame, as with a small
teaspoon she tried to pass a little of the spiced brandy, drop by drop,
between the pale and writhen lips.
Much has been falsely said and written about the agony of death, when
every doctor knows that death, in itself, is no agony at all; and every
true Christian feels that it is a release from all pain, a delicious
falling asleep, for a few hours, to awake in the glad and glorious
surprise of the higher and better life.
But no one who has not experienced it knows, or can know, the
insufferable anguish of resuscitation from apparent death. The almost
stagnant blood beginning to circulate again through nearly collapsed
veins and arteries, inflicts tortures upon every nerve—tortures unheard
of in the cruelest inquisition. Red-hot needles seem to be piercing
every nerve of the body and pore of the skin. It is an agony that even
the torpor of the brain does not overcome. And the victim writhes and
moans with anguish, while quite unconscious of his condition or
surroundings. He only feels; he knows nothing.
As soon as the sufferer, struggling through pain back to life, began to
breathe more freely, Dame Lindsay, without speaking to her, or in any
way disturbing her, quietly administered a composing drink that soon
sent her into a sweet, natural sleep. Then she placed bottles of hot
water to her feet and between her shoulders, covered her up very warmly,
and hung a clean quilt before the bed to shade her from the light of the
fire.
“Now, lad, she is comfortable, and when she wakes up, whether to-night
or to-morrow morning, she will be all right. She will want nourishment
the very first thing. Fortunately, I have got that piece of beef ’ee
brought for to-morrow’s dinner. I will cut the lean pieces from it and
make some beef tea, and keep it by the fire ready for her. But now carry
the mattress and things back up stairs and come back to ’ee supper. ’Ee
must be hungry by this time, and—— Eh? Why there ’ee stands in ’ee wet
clothes all this time, and I taking no notice. Go change ’em, boy! Go
change ’em this minute, or ’ee’ll get ’ee death of cold. Eh! to think I
should ’a forgot ’ee! But the lass was so near dead! Go, lad, go!”
“Don’t be uneasy, grandmother. I don’t catch cold from sea water; and
now I am so fired with joy and gratitude that I couldn’t take cold,”
said the young man, as he cleared the floor of bedding and carried the
bundle up stairs.
Meanwhile, the dame put the supper—hot ginger-bread and all—on the
table; and by the time she had finished the work, David came down in dry
clothing to join her.
She refrained from questioning him until he had got through with his
evening meal, and she had cleared away the table.
Then, when they were seated together before the cheerful fire, Dame
Lindsay knitting, and occasionally watching the saucepan which contained
the beef tea she had made and set to simmer on the coals, and David busy
with a bit of bone carving in his hand, the old woman said:
“Now, lad, tell me how all this happened.”
“I was in the boat coming from the main when I happened to look towards
the Rogues’ Neck, and there I saw some one attempting to cross. The
passenger was about half-way over and the tide was rising rapidly. I
knew, of course, whoever it might be, could never succeed in reaching
either shore, but would certainly be overtaken by the tide and drowned
unless I could reach the Neck in time for rescue.”
“And ’ee didn’t know it was she?” inquired the dame.
“No, I did not even know whether it was a man or a woman. I could only
see that it was some one. But I turned and rowed as fast as I could for
the Neck. Then I saw it was a woman, and I rowed faster than ever; for
the tide was so high even then that she could scarcely keep her feet.”
“Poor lass! Go on, David.”
“I pulled on the oars as hard as I could and made the best speed; I
shouted to her to take courage. She did not seem to hear or see me; but,
oh, grandmother, when I got within a few yards of that spot I recognized
her—in the same instant that I saw her whelmed off and whirled away!
Indeed, for a moment, I seemed to have lost my senses. But soon I
rallied and rowed to the spot where I had seen her disappear. Then I
threw off my overcoat and jacket to be ready, and I watched to see her
rise. I knew she would rise near the Neck, or be thrown upon it by the
returning wave, so there I watched. I saw her rise at last. I threw
myself into the sea, dived as she went down again, caught her raiment,
dragged her to the surface, and drew her toward the boat. I had some
difficulty in recovering the boat, and getting into it with my precious
burden. She was quite insensible and cold, but I wrapped her in my
jacket and overcoat, and laid her down in the bottom of the boat on her
right side, with her breast and face turned downward, and her wrists
bent under her forehead, and I kept one of my hands between her
shoulders, moving her gently from time to time—as we do to recover the
drowned, you know—while I rowed as well as I could with the other hand,
and so reached our landing at last. I brought her here because it was so
much nearer than her own home. But, oh, granny, when I lifted her out of
the boat I thought she was dead!”
“So she would have been, lad, if it hadn’t been for ’ee care,” said the
dame.
“And have I, by the Lord’s help, saved her life? Are you sure she will
take no fatal harm from that ice-cold plunge in the sea?” inquired the
young man, in a painful doubt, strangely inconsistent with his expressed
confidence at a less hopeful time.
Before replying to his question the dame went to the bedside and
examined her patient, then she came back and said:
“Yes, lad, ’ee has certainly saved the little lady’s life. She will take
no harm now. She is in a sound sleep and a gentle perspiration. She is
perfectly safe now. So ’ee may rest satisfied.”
“‘Satisfied,’ dear granny!” exclaimed the youth, with a look of radiant
happiness on his face. “‘Satisfied?’ Why, I am overjoyed, crowned,
blessed! I would rather have saved her precious life than to have won
all the wealth, fame, power and glory of this world!”
“I believe ’ee, lad! I believe ’ee!”
“But, what do I say? The glory of this world? Why, I would rather have
saved her sacred life than have won Heaven!”
“Eh! Stop there, lad! ’Ee’s growing profane! Is that ’ee gratitude to
the Lord? Stop at the glory of this world, lad, and do not compare any
earthly good with the heavenly blessedness,” said the dame, laying down
her knitting and placing her spectacles high on her cap that she might
look him straight in the face with her earnest blue eyes.
“I did not mean to be profane,” said David, meekly.
The good woman resumed her work, and David took up his own, and they
worked in silence until the hour for retiring drew near, when Dame
Lindsay finally rolled up her knitting, took off her spectacles and put
them both away, and said:
“Now, David, read a chapter from the Word, and then get ’ee to bed,
lad.”
“And you, granny? Where will you sleep?” inquired the young man.
“I shall sit in my old arm-chair by the fire as long as I can keep up,
and then I shall lie down on the bed beside the lassie, so as to wake
readily if she should stir.”
“Don’t sit up too long, dear granny. You are not able.”
“Don’t ’ee fear, Davie; I’ll lie down when I grow weary.”
David brought the Bible and seated himself at the table opposite his
aged relative, and read parts of the first and second chapters of
Matthew, recording the genealogy and birth of our Saviour. Then the dame
folded her hands and reverently prayed for both, that they might be able
to receive the Lord in their affections in that sacred Christmas season,
and be led by Him forever.
“Now, David, lad, get ’ee to bed,” she said, as she arose from her
knees.
“If I can be of any use during the night, will you call me, granny?”
“Ay, lad, be sure of that.”
Then David kissed her withered hand and went up to his loft; but instead
of going into bed, he placed himself on the floor with his feet through
the trap-door, resting on the highest step, and there he sat and watched
and listened until Christmas Eve passed into Christmas Morn.
About midnight he heard his grandmother rise from her chair and cross
the room, to lie down beside the sleeping girl.
Then he bent his head and called:
“Granny! granny!”
“Ay, lad, what is it?”
“Can I do anything at all?”
“Nay, boy. Get ’ee back to bed.”
She did not suspect that he had not been in bed.
He resumed his watch and kept it up until daylight. He scarcely heard a
sound from below, except an occasional slight sigh, or motion from the
old woman, who, like all aged persons, was a very light sleeper.
When morning dawned, David heard his grandmother rise and open the
windows.
Then he called down the stairs once more:
“Granny——”
“Ay, lad.”
“Can I help you now?”
“Ay, lad, put on ’ee clothes and come down.”
David had not taken off his clothes, and therefore had not to put them
on. He instantly descended the narrow stairs and stood before his
grandmother.
“I never knew ’ee to dress so quick, lad,” she said.
“That was because I was not undressed. What can I do first, granny?”
“Ay, indeed! ’Ee’s been sitting up all night! It was a useless loss of
rest, Davie, but well meant. Take ’eeself off now to the shed and bring
in some wood, lad.”
The young man went out to do her bidding, and soon returned with an
armful of brown hickory logs, which he laid upon the fire.
Then he took the tea-kettle out and filled it from the cistern and
brought it back and hung it over the blaze.
Every movement of the old woman and the young man was made quietly and
noiselessly, so as not to disturb the calm sleeper, who as yet gave no
signs of waking.
“Now, lad, I’ll leave ’ee here to watch the kettle. Take it off as soon
as it boils, and don’t forget to turn the johnny cake,” said Dame
Lindsay, as she took her fresh sweet pail and went out to milk the cow,
a duty she would never allow David to do for her. Indeed, the act of
setting a man or boy to milk would have shocked her ideas of the fitness
of things. She would have thought it an insult to the cow.
When she had closed the door behind her, David Lindsay gave a glance to
the fireplace, to see that all was right there, and then he went on
tiptoe to the side of the bed and gazed reverently on “the sleeping
beauty.”
The quilt that had been hung in front to shield her eyes from the ruddy
blaze of the fire on the previous night, when repose was so necessary to
her shattered nervous system, was now removed to give her more air; for
the time had come when it would be well for her to awake. The bed had
been straightened into perfect order and the white counterpane drawn up,
so that only the lovely face, laying with its right cheek on the pillow,
and forehead towards the front of the bed, was visible. The golden hair
had been drawn away from the nape of the neck and carried up over the
pillow, where it lay a shining mass of curls. A very pathetic face it
was, with the tender eyes half shut, the sweet lips half closed. Her
sleep looked like the “deep deliciousness of death”; though had it been
really that, it might have been said with equal truth that it looked
like the sweetest sleep.
David Lindsay sank on his knees beside the bed and gazed on the
beautiful, unconscious face turned towards him, as he never would have
dared to gaze had those features been instinct with wakeful
intelligence. And then, out of the fullness of his heart, he began to
murmur words of passionate love to those sealed ears that he never would
have ventured to utter had they been listening—words of reverential,
worshiping love, that for their incoherence and extravagance could
scarcely bear repetition here. He lifted a tress of the floating golden
hair and pressed it to his lips, while his tears fell thick and heavily.
“Why do I love you?” he sighed at length. “I know it is vain, and worse
than vain! I am but a clod of the earth! And you, what are you? I
scarcely know. Something so pure, so precious, so sacred, that it seems
sacrilege to touch this halo around your head, these peerless tresses.
Yet I love you! I love you! Clod as I am, I love you, oh! unattainable
blessing! I might as well love a queen on her throne, the sun in the
heavens, the moon, or any glorious, infinitely distant star! Oh, Gloria!
Gloria! Bright seraph, why did you come and shine on this poor earth
that I am, to quicken it with a living soul—to wake it to such love,
such suffering, such despair?”
Down went his head again upon the side of the bed, while his bosom
heaved with heavy sobs, and his tears fell like rain.
“David Lindsay.”
Her sweet voice fell on his ears like a benediction.
He lifted his head. She was awake, and gazing gently on his troubled
face.
“What is the matter, David Lindsay? What has happened?” she inquired,
with a look of sympathy and deep perplexity.
“Nothing; I mean—yes, something has happened, but it is well over, and,
oh, how I thank heaven to hear you speak again!” he said, with an effort
to recover his self-control, as he arose from his knees.
“What? Is the little lady awake at last? Well, it is time. It would not
have been good for her to have slept longer,” said the voice of Dame
Lindsay, who had just entered the room and approached the bed.
“She has just this instant opened her eyes, and has scarcely yet
collected her thoughts, I think,” said the young man, in a low tone, as
he gave place to the old woman, and went out of the house to conceal
from her the traces of his strong emotion.
“How does ’ee feel, dearie?” inquired the dame, bending over the revived
girl.
“I don’t think I quite know,” answered Gloria, with a bewildered look,
as she passed her hand over her forehead, as if to clear away some
mental mist of forgetfulness, and opened her eyes, half raised herself
in bed and gazed around her.
“Does ’ee know me, dearie?”
“Oh, yes, dee-ar, good Dame Lindsay, but I don’t remember——”
“Does ’ee know where ’ee is, darling?”
“To be sure I do know this dee-ar old cottage, but I can’t remember
coming here at all!”
“As how should ’ee, indeed, darling? ’Ee knowed nothing about it! Now,
don’t talk any more, and don’t even think, if ’ee can help it; but lie
still until I bring ’ee some strong beef tea to nourish ’ee and give
strength,” said the good woman, as she laid the girl’s head back on the
pillow and drew the counterpane up to her chin.
But a change came over Gloria’s face. Dark memory, like a cloud, arose
and overcast it; yet she mistook the reality for a dream, and she
shuddered as she said:
“Oh, dee-ar Granny Lindsay, don’t go yet! Give me your hand, and let me
hold you fast! I am frightened—I am frightened——”
“What is the matter with ’ee, dearie?” inquired the sympathetic woman,
as she gave her hand, which the girl clasped spasmodically, and held
fast.
“Oh, Granny, Granny Lindsay, I have had such a horrid, horrid nightmare!
I dreamed that I was drowning, and, oh, I saw and felt it all, as if it
had been real! Oh, Granny Lindsay, don’t leave me yet, but tell me what
has happened, and how I came to be here? Have I been ill a long
time?—and delirious? I have heard of people being so ill and delirious
that they could know nothing of the passage of time. Uncle was so, you
know, after auntie died. Have I been so long?”
“No, dearie, ’ee couldn’t talk so fast, if ’ee had been,” replied the
dame, with a smile.
“Then what has happened, and how is it that I am here instead of at
home?”
“’Ee has had a ducking in the sea, lassie, no worse. ’Ee was swept off
the Rogue’s Neck by the tide, when ’ee was too late in trying to cross,
and ’ee might have——”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, it was no nightmare, but an awful fact!” murmured
the girl to herself, as she pressed her hands upon her face.
“And ’ee might have been drowned sure enough if Davie hadn’t seen ’ee
from his boat and picked ’ee up, dearie.”
“David Lindsay?” breathed the girl.
“Ay, dearie, David Lindsay. He picked ’ee up and brought ’ee home here,
because it was so much nearer than the hall, ’ee knows, dearie.”
“David Lindsay saved my life!” murmured the girl, dreamily.
“Ay, little lady, he did; and so ’ee got no worse harm than a cold
ducking—though indeed ’ee was quite insensible, and seemed lifeless when
’ee was brought here in the arms of Davie. But ’ee’s all right now,
dearie.”
“David Lindsay saved my life!” reiterated the girl, dwelling fondly on
the words, and on the thought.
“Eh! lass, surely yes, and we must thank the Lord that ’ee was saved.”
“Yes; and David Lindsay, too! Oh! I am pleased that it was he, my old
playmate, and no other. What will uncle say now?” muttered the girl,
still dreamily.
“Eh! dearie, he would say that ’ee ought to take some nourishing food
immediately. Ain’t ’ee hungry now, say?”
“Yes,” promptly replied Gloria.
“Now ’ee knows all about it, ’ee’ll not be afeard to let me go?”
“Oh, no!” said Gloria, smiling; for she was every moment growing better.
The dame brought her the beef tea and dry toast from the fire, and made
her take that first, saying:
“’Ee shall have a cup of coffee or tea, whichever ’ee likes, presently;
but this is the best for ’ee now.”
Gloria obediently consumed all the beef tea and dry toast, and relished
both.
“Now I feel well; but I think I would rather lie here a few minutes
longer, and not try to get up yet, if you will let me, dee-ar Dame
Lindsay.”
“To be sure, little lady. ’Ee should lie there quietly all the morning,
and when ’ee rises should rest quietly in the house for a day or two.
Could ’ee be satisfied to stay here till ’ee gets over the shock?”
“Oh, yes, dee-ar Dame Lindsay, I was always so happy when here with you.
Oh, I wish there would come a snow-storm, and I would be snow-bound here
for a long time. But, oh, poor uncle! Does he know that David Lindsay
saved my life?”
“No, dearie; there has been no time to tell him. It is early in the
morning yet, ’ee knows; but after breakfast Davie must go and tell him
that ’ee’s safe.”
“And that I must stay here for a few days,” added Gloria.
“Surely, dearie,” replied the old woman.
At this moment the two were startled by a loud knock.
Dame Lindsay got up to answer the summons, but before she could cross
the floor, the door was thrown violently open and Colonel de Crespigney
strode into the room, looking pale, haggard, hurried, and at least
thirty years older than when we saw him last.