BACK TO LIFE.
On the next day, according to the doctor's promise, Hilda was taken
into Lord Chetwynde's room. She was much stronger, and the newfound
hope which she possessed of itself gave her increased vigor. She was
carried in, and gently laid upon the sofa, which had been rolled up
close by the bedside of Lord Chetwynde. Her first eager look showed
her plainly that during the interval which had elapsed since she saw
him last a great improvement had taken place. He was still
unconscious, but his unconsciousness was that of a deep, sweet sleep,
in which pleasant dreams had taken the place of delirious fancies.
His face had lost its aspect of horror; there was no longer to be
seen the stamp of death; the lips were full and red; the cheeks were
no longer sunken; the dark circles had passed away from around the
eyes; and the eyes themselves were now closed, as in sleep, instead
of having that half-open appearance which before was so terrible and
so deathlike. The chill damp had left his forehead. It was the face
of one who is sleeping in pleasant slumber, instead of the face of
one who was sinking rapidly into the realm where the sleep is
eternal. All this Hilda saw at the first glance.
Her heart thrilled within her at the rapture of that discovery. The
danger was over. The crisis had passed. Now, whether he lay there for
a longer or a shorter period, his recovery at last was certain, as
far as any thing human and mortal can be certain. Now her eyes, as
they turned toward him, devoured him with all their old eagerness.
Since she had seen him last she too had gone down to the gates of
death, and she had come back again to take her place at his side. A
strange joy and a peace that passed all understanding arose within
her. She sent the nurse out of the room, and once more was alone with
this man whom she loved. His face was turned toward her. She flung
her arms about him in passionate eagerness, and, weak as she was, she
bent down her lips to his. Unconscious he lay there, but the touch of
his lips was now no longer like the touch of death.
She herself seemed to gain new strength from the sight of him as he
thus lay in that manly beauty, which, banished for a time, had now
returned again. She lay there on her sofa by his bedside, and held
his hand in both of hers. She watched his face, and scanned every one
of those noble lineaments, which now lay before her with something
like their natural beauty. Hopes arose within her which brought new
strength every moment. This was the life which she had saved. She
forgot--did not choose to think--that she had doomed this life to
death, and chose only to think that she had saved it from death. Thus
she thought that, when Lord Chetwynde came forth out of his
senselessness, she would be the first object that would meet his
gaze, and he would know that he had been saved from death by her.
Here, then, she took up her place by his bedside, and saw how every
day he grew better. Every day she herself regained her old strength,
and could at length walk about the room, though she was still thin
and feeble. So the time passed; and in this room the one who first
escaped from the jaws of death devoted herself to the task of
assisting the other.
At last, one morning as the sun rose, Lord Chetwynde waked. He looked
around the room. He lifted himself up on his elbow, and saw Hilda
asleep on the sofa near his bed. He felt bewildered at this strange
and unexpected figure. How did she get here? A dim remembrance of his
long sickness suggested itself, and he had a vague idea of this
figure attending upon him. But the ideas and remembrances were too
shadowy to be grasped. The room he remembered partially, for this was
the room in which he had sunk down into this last sickness at
Lausanne. But the sleeping form on the sofa puzzled him. He had seen
her last at Chetwynde. What was she doing here? He scanned her
narrowly, thinking that he might be mistaken from some chance
resemblance. A further examination, however, showed that he was
correct. Yes, this was "his wife," yet how changed! Pale as death was
that face; those features were thin and attenuated; the eyes were
closed; the hair hung in black masses round the marble brow; an
expression of sadness dwelt there; and in her fitful, broken slumber
she sighed heavily. He looked at her long and steadfastly, and then
sank wearily down upon the pillows, but still kept his eyes fixed
upon this woman whom he saw there. How did she get here? What was she
doing? What did it all mean? His remembrance could not supply him
with facts which might answer this question. He could not understand,
and so he lay there in bewilderment, making feeble conjectures.
When Hilda opened her eyes the first thing that she saw was the face
of Lord Chetwynde, whose eyes were fixed upon hers. She started and
looked confused; but amidst her confusion an expression of joy darted
across her face, which was evident and manifest to Lord Chetwynde. It
was joy--eager, vivid, and intense; joy mingled with surprise; and
her eyes at last rested on him with mute inquiry.
"Are you at last awake, my lord?" she murmured. "Are you out of your
stupor?"
"I suppose so," said Lord Chetwynde. "But I do not understand this. I
think I must be in Lausanne."
"Yes, you are in Lausanne, my lord, at the Hôtel Gibbon."
"The Hôtel Gibbon?" repeated Lord Chetwynde.
"Yes. Has your memory returned yet?"
"Only partially. I think I remember the journey here, but not very
well. I hardly know where I came from. It must have been Baden." And
he tried, but in vain, to recollect.
"You went from Frankfort to Baden, thence to Munich, and from Munich
you came here."
"Yes," said Lord Chetwynde, slowly, as he began to recollect. "You
are right. I begin to remember. But I have been ill, and I was ill at
all these places. How long have I been here?"
"Five weeks."
"Good God!" cried Lord Chetwynde. "Is it possible? I must have been
senseless all the time."
"Yes, this is the first time that you have come to your senses, my
lord."
"I can scarcely remember any thing."
"Will you take your medicine now, my lord?"
"My medicine?"
"Yes," said Hilda, sitting up and taking a vial from the table; "the
doctor ordered this to be given to you when you came out of your
stupor."
"Where is my nurse?" asked Lord Chetwynde, abruptly, after a short
but thoughtful silence.
"She is here, my lord. She wants to do your bidding. I am your
nurse."
"You!"
"Yes, my lord. And now--do not speak, but take your medicine," said
Hilda; and she poured out the mixture into a wine-glass and handed it
to him.
He took it mechanically, and without a word, and then his head fell
back, and he lay in silence for a long time, trying to recall his
scattered thoughts. While he thus lay Hilda reclined on the sofa in
perfect silence, motionless yet watchful, wondering what he was
thinking about, and waiting for him to speak. She did not venture to
interrupt him, although she perceived plainly that he was fully
awake. She chose rather to leave him to his own thoughts, and to rest
her fate upon the course which those thoughts might take. At last the
silence was broken.
"I have been very ill?" he said at last, inquiringly.
"Yes, my lord, very ill. You have been down to the very borders of
the grave."
"Yes, it must have been severe. I felt it coming on when I arrived in
France," he murmured; "I remember now. But how did you hear about
it?"
"Your valet telegraphed. He was frightened," said she, "and sent for
me."
"Ah?" said Lord Chetwynde.
Hilda said nothing more on that subject. She would wait for another
and a better time to tell him about that. The story of her devotion
and of her suffering might yet be made known to him, but not now,
when he had but partly recovered from his delirium.
Little more was said. In about an hour the nurse came in and sat near
him. After some time the doctor came and congratulated him.
"Let me congratulate you, my lord," said he, "on your favorable
condition. You owe your life to Lady Chetwynde, whose devotion has
surpassed any thing that I have ever seen. She has done every
thing--I have done nothing."
Lord Chetwynde made some commonplace compliment to his skill, and
then asked him how long it would be before he might recover.
"That depends upon circumstances," said the doctor. "Rest and quiet
are now the chief things which are needed. Do not be too impatient,
my lord. Trust to these things, and rely upon the watchful care of
Lady Chetwynde."
Lord Chetwynde said nothing. To Hilda, who had listened eagerly to
this conversation, though she lay with closed eyes, his silence was
perplexing, She could not tell whether he had softened toward her or
not. A great fear arose within 'her that all her labor might have
been in vain; but her matchless patience came to her rescue. She
would wait--she would wait--she should at last gain the reward of her
patient waiting.
The doctor, after fully attending to Lord Chetwynde, turned to her.
"You are weak, my lady," he said, with respectful sympathy, and full
of pity for this devoted wife, who seemed to him only to live in her
husband's presence. "You must take more care of yourself for _his_
sake."
Hilda murmured some inarticulate words, and the doctor, after some
further directions, withdrew.
Days passed on. Lord Chetwynde grew stronger every day. He saw Hilda
as his chief attendant and most devoted nurse. He marked her pale
face, her wan features, and the traces of suffering which still
remained visible. He saw that all this had been done for his sake.
Once, when she was absent taking some short rest, he had missed that
instant attention which she had shown. With a sick man's impatience,
he was troubled by the clumsiness of the hired nurse, and contrasted
it with Hilda's instant readiness, and gentle touch, and soft voice
of love.
At last, one day when Hilda was giving him some medicine, the vial
dropped from her hands, and she sank down senseless by his bedside.
She was carried away, and it was long before she came to herself.
"You must be careful of your lady, my lord," said the doctor, after
he had seen her. "She has worn herself out for you, and will die some
day by your bedside. Never have I seen such tenderness, and such fond
devotion. She is the one who has saved you from death. She is now
giving herself to death to insure your recovery. Watch over her. Do
not let her sacrifice herself now. The time has come when she can
spare herself. Surely now, at last, there ought to be some peace and
rest for this noble-hearted, this gentle, this loving, this devoted
lady!"
And as all Hilda's devotion came before the mind of this
tender-hearted physician he had to wipe away his tears, and turn away
his head to conceal his emotion.
But his words sank deep into Lord Chetwynde's soul.