NURSING THE SICK.
The figure that lay upon the bed as Hilda entered the room sent a
shock to her heart at the first glance. Very different was this one
from that tall, strong man who but lately, in all the pride of manly
beauty and matured strength, overawed her by his presence. What was
he now? Where now was all that virile force, and strong, resistless
nature, whose overmastering power she had experienced? Alas! but
little of it could be seen in this wasted and emaciated figure that
now lay before her, seemingly at the last verge of life. His features
had grown thin and attenuated, his lips were drawn tight over his
teeth, his face had the stamp of something like death upon it. He was
sleeping fitfully, but his eyes were only half closed. His thin, bony
hands moved restlessly about, and his lips muttered inarticulate
words from time to time. Hilda placed her hand on his forehead. It
was cold and damp. The cold sent a chill through every nerve. She
bent down low over him. She devoured him with her eyes. That face,
worn away by the progress of disease, that now lay unconscious, and
without a ray of intelligence beneath her, was yet to her the best
thing in all the world, and the one for which she would willingly
give up the world. She stooped low down. She pressed her lips to his
cold forehead. An instant she hesitated, and then she pressed her
lips this time to the white lips that were before her. The long,
passionate kiss did not wake the slumberer. He knew not that over him
was bending one who had once sent him to death, but who now would
give her own life to bring him back from that death to which she had
sent him.
Such is the change which can be worked in the basest nature by the
power of almighty love. Here it was made manifest. These lips had
once given the kiss of Judas. On this face of hers the Earl of
Chetwynde had gazed in horror; and these hands of hers, that now
touched tremblingly the brow of the sick man, had once wrought out on
him that which would never be made known. But the lips which once
gave the kiss of Judas now gave that kiss which was the outpouring of
the devotion of all her soul, and these hands were ready to deal
death to herself to rescue him from evil. She twined her arms around
his neck, and gazed at him as though her longing eyes would devour
every lineament of his features. Again and again she pressed her lips
to his, as though she would thus force upon him life and health and
strength. But the sick man lay unconscious in her arms, all unheeding
that full tide of passionate love which was surging and swelling
within her bosom.
At last footsteps aroused her. A woman entered. She walked to the
bedside and looked with tender sympathy at Hilda. She had heard from
Gretchen that this was Lady Chetwynde, who had come to nurse her husband.
"Are you the nurse?" asked Hilda, who divined at one glance the
character of the newcomer.
"Yes, my lady."
"Well, I am to be the nurse after this, but I should like you to
remain. You can wait in one of the ante-rooms."
"Forgive me, my lady, if I say that you yourself are in need of a
nurse. You will not be able to endure this fatigue. You look overworn
now. Will you not take some rest?"
"No," said Hilda, sharply and decisively.
"My lady," said the nurse, "I will watch while you are resting."
"I shall not leave the room."
"Then, my lady, I will spread a mattress on the sofa, and you may lie
down."
"No, I am best here by his side. Here I can get the only rest and the
only strength that I want. I must be near enough to touch his hand
and to see his face. Here I will stay."
"But, my lady, you will break down utterly."
"No, I shall not break down. I shall be strong enough to watch him
until he is either better or worse. If he gets better, he will bring
me back to health; if he gets worse, I will accompany him to the
tomb."
Hilda spoke desperately. Her old self-control, her reticence, and
calm had departed. The nurse looked at her with a face full of
sympathy, and said not a word. The sight of this young and beautiful
wife, herself so weak, so wan, and yet so devoted, so young and
beautiful, yet so wasted and emaciated, whose only desire was to live
or die by the side of her husband, roused all the feelings of her
heart. To some Hilda's conduct would have been unintelligible; but
this honest Swiss nurse was kind-hearted and sentimental, and the
fervid devotion and utter self-abnegation of Hilda brought tears to
her eyes.
"Ah, my lady," said she, "I see I shall soon have two to nurse."
"Well, if you have, it will not be for long," said Hilda.
The nurse sighed and was silent.
"May I remain, my lady, or shall I go?" she asked.
"You may go just now. See how my maid is doing, and if she wants any
directions."
The nurse retired, and Hilda was again alone with the sick man. She
sat on the bedside leaning over him, and twined her arms about him.
There, as he lay, in his weakness and senselessness, she saw her own
work. It was she, and no other, who had doomed him to this. Too well
had her agent earned out the fatal commission which she had given. As
his valet he had had constant access to the person of Lord Chetwynde,
and had used his opportunities well. She understood perfectly how it
was that such a thing as this had been brought about. She knew every
part of the dread process, and had read enough to know the inevitable
results.
And now--would he live or die? Life was low. Would it ever rally
again? Had she come in time to save him, or was it all too late? The
reproaches which she hurled against herself were now overwhelming
her, and these reproaches alternated with feelings of intense
tenderness. She was weak from her own recent illness, from the
unwonted fatigue which she had endured, and from the excitement of
that recent interview with Gualtier. Thus torn and tossed and
distracted by a thousand contending emotions, Hilda sat there until
at length weakness and fatigue overpowered her. It seemed to her that
a change was coming over the face of the sick man. Suddenly he moved,
and in such a way that his face was turned full toward her as he lay
on his side. At that moment it seemed to her that the worst had
come--that at last death himself had placed his stamp there, and that
there was now no more hope. The horror of this fancy altogether
overcame her. She fell forward and sank down.
[Illustration: "No; I Am Best Here By His Side."]
When at length the nurse returned she found Hilda senseless, lying on
the bed, with her arm still under the head of Lord Chetwynde. She
called Gretchen, and the two made a bed on the sofa, where they
lifted Hilda with tenderest care. She lay long unconscious, but at
last she recovered. Her first thoughts were full of bewilderment, but
finally she comprehended the whole situation.
Now at length she found that she had been wasting precious moments
upon useless reflections and idle self-reproaches. If she had come to
save, that safety ought not to be delayed. She hurriedly drew from
her pocket a vial and opened it. It was the same which she had
obtained from the London druggist. She smelled it, and then tasted
it. After this she rose up, in spite of the solicitations of the
nurse and Gretchen, and tottered toward the bed with unsteady steps,
supported by her attendants. Then she seated herself on the bedside,
and, asking for a spoon, she tried with a trembling hand to pour out
some of the mixture from the vial. Her hands shook so that she could
not. In despair she allowed the nurse to administer it, while
Gretchen supported her, seating herself behind her in such a way that
Hilda could lean against her, and still see the face of the sick man.
In this position she watched while the nurse put the liquid into Lord
Chetwynde's mouth, and saw him swallow it.
"My lady, you must lie down, or you will never get over this," said
the nurse, earnestly, and passing her arms around Hilda, she gently
drew her back to the sofa, assisted by Gretchen. Hilda allowed
herself to be moved back without a word. For the remainder of that
day she watched, lying on her sofa, and gave directions about the
regular administration of the medicine. At her request they drew the
sofa close up to the bedside of Lord Chetwynde, and propped her up
high with pillows. There she lay weakly, with her face turned toward
him, and her hand clasping his.
Night came, and Hilda still watched. Fatigue and weakness were fast
overpowering her. Against these she struggled bravely, and lay with
her eyes fixed on Lord Chetwynde. In that sharp exercise of her
senses, which were all aroused in his behalf, she became at last
aware of the fact that they were getting beyond her control. Before
her eyes, as she gazed upon this man, there came other and different
visions. She saw another sick-bed, in a different room from this,
with another form stretched upon it--a form like this, yet unlike,
for it was older--a form with venerable gray hairs, with white,
emaciated face, and with eyes full of fear and entreaty. At that
sight horror came over her. She tried to rouse herself from the
fearful state into which she was drifting. She summoned up all that
remained of her physical and mental energy. The struggle was severe.
All things round her seemed to change incessantly into the semblances
of other things; the phantoms of a dead past--a dead but not a
forgotten past--crowded around her, and all the force of her will was
unavailing to repel them. She shuddered as she discovered the full
extent of her own weakness, and saw where she was drifting. For she
was drifting helplessly into the realm of shadowy memories; into the
place where the past holds its empire; surrounded by all those forms
which time and circumstance have rendered dreadful; forms from which
memory shrinks, at whose aspect the soul loses all its strength. Here
they were before her; kept back so long, they now crowded upon her;
they asserted themselves, they forced themselves before her in her
weakness. Her brain reeled; the strong, active intellect, which in
health had been so powerful, now, in her hour of weakness, failed
her. She struggled against these horrors, but the struggle was
unavailing, and at last she yielded--she failed--she sank down
headlong and helplessly into the abyss of forgotten things, into the
thick throng of forms and images from which for so long a time she
had kept herself apart.
Now they came before her.
The room changed to the old room at Chetwynde Castle. There was the
window looking out upon the park. There was the door opening into the
hall. Zillah stood there, pale and fearful, bidding her good-night.
There was the bed upon which lay the form of a venerable man, whose
face was ever turned toward her with its expression of fear, and of
piteous entreaty. "Don't leave me," he murmured to the phantom form
of Zillah. "Don't leave me with her," and his thin finger pointed to
herself. But Zillah, ignorant of all danger, promised to send Mrs.
Hart. And Zillah walked out, standing at the door for a time to give
her last look--the look which the phantom of this vision now had.
Then, with a momentary glance, the phantom figure of Zillah faded
away, and only the prostrate figure of the Earl appeared before her,
with the white face, and the venerable hair, and the imploring eyes.
Then she walked to the window and looked out; then she walked to the
door and looked down the hall. Silence was every where. All were
asleep. No eye beheld her. Then she returned. She saw the white face
of the sick man, and the imploring eyes encountered hers. Again she
walked to the window; then she went to his bedside. She stooped down.
His white face was beneath her, with the imploring eyes. She kissed
him.
"Judas!"
That was the sound that she heard--the last sound--for soon in that
abhorrent vision the form of the dead lay before her, and around it
the household gathered; and Zillah sat there, with a face of agony,
looking up to her and saying:
"I am the next victim!"
Then all things were forgotten, and innumerable forms and phantoms
came confusedly together.
She was in delirium.