THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 40.
It was a large, handsome room, but it seemed gloomy and cheerless now,
with only a night-lamp burning on the table, casting weird shadows here
and there, and only partially revealing the form upon the bed of a tall
young man, who lay with his face turned from the light and half buried
in the pillow. Outside the counterpane one arm and hand were lying, and
Queenie noticed that the latter was white and shapely as a woman’s, and
noticed, too, the mass of light brown, slightly curling hair, which
clustered around the sick man’s head and sent an indescribable thrill
through her veins, as of something familiar. The man was young, she
knew, though she had not seen his face, and dared not see it lest she
should disturb him.
“Let him sleep; it will do him good and keep back the dreadful vomit,”
Christine had said, and not for worlds would Queenie disobey her. She
held a human life in her keeping, and with her finger on her lip to
Pierre, who crouched almost at her feet, she seated herself in an
arm-chair just where she could see the outline of the figure upon the
bed, and there for hours she sat and watched, and listened to the
irregular breathing, while every kind of wild fancy danced through her
brain, and her limbs began at last to feel prickly and numb, and a sense
of cold and faintness to steal over her.
The air in the room was hot and oppressive though the windows were
opened wide. Outside, the rain was falling heavily, and the sky as black
as ink; there was no sound to break the awful stillness, except the
occasional tread of some physician or nurse on duty, or the crash of
distant wheels, whose meaning Queenie understood full well, shuddering
as she thought of the rapid burials which the peril made necessary, and
remembering what she had read of the great plague in London, where the
death-cart rolled nightly through the street, while the dreadful cry was
heard:
“Bring out your dead; bring out your dead.”
The words kept repeating themselves over and over in Queenie’s mind
until her brain became confused; the present faded away into the far-off
past, and she was one of those weary watchers in London, listening to
the cry:
“Bring out your dead.”
And she was bringing hers—was carrying the young man whose long limbs
dragged upon the floor, and whose head drooped upon her shoulder, while
his dead face, not yet cold, touched hers with a caressing motion which
brought with it a thought of poor Phil, lying beneath the Indian waters.
It was a horrid nightmare, and Queenie struggled with it a moment, and
then awoke with a cry of Phil upon her lips—a cry so loud that the
sleeper upon the bed started a little, and moaned, and said something
indistinctly, and moved uneasily, then settled again into slumber, and
all was quiet as ever.
But Queenie stood erect upon her feet, rigid as a piece of marble, and
almost as white, while her eyes, which seemed to Pierre to shoot out
gleams of fire, were turned wildly toward the form lying so motionless
across the room, with the white, shapely hand still outside the
counterpane, and the light brown wavy hair upon the pillow. He had
spoken—had called a name, which the excited girl had recognized as her
own. She could _not_ be mistaken. In answer to her cry for _Phil_ the
fever patient had aroused a little and responded:
“Queenie.”
She was sure of it. He might not have meant _her_, it is true. There
were other Queenies in the world, no doubt, but he had called her
name—this man, who in her dream she was carrying to the death-cart, and
who might perhaps, go there when the morning dawned.
There was a clock upon the mantel, and Queenie saw that it was half-past
two. The early summer morning would soon break, and then she would see
the face of this stranger who had called for Queenie, and whose head and
hair were so like her lost Phil’s that, as she looked, with straining,
eager eyes, and whirling brain, it seemed to her at last that it was
Phil himself—Phil, drowned and dead, perhaps, but still Phil, come back
to her in some incomprehensible manner, just to mock her a moment, and
then to be snatched away again forever. But she would see him first
distinctly, would know if it were a phantom or a reality lying there
upon the bed within her reach, for she had advanced a few steps forward,
and could have touched the head upon the pillow.
“Pierre,” she said, at last, when she could endure the suspense no
longer—“Pierre,” and her voice sounded to herself like the echo of
something a thousand miles away, “am I going mad, or is that—is that—”
and she pointed to the tall form on the bed.
Not comprehending her in the least, Pierre stared at her, with a great
fear that her mind was really unsettled by all the terrible scenes
through which she had passed.
“Is it what?” he asked, coming to her side, and she replied:
“Bring the light. I must see the face of this young man. I cannot wait
till morning.”
“But, mademoiselle,” Pierre remonstrated, “think of the danger to him.
Christine’s orders were to let him sleep; he was not to be disturbed.”
“Nor shall I disturb him; but I shall see him. Bring the light!” Queenie
said, peremptorily, as she moved to the other side of the bed, toward
which the sick man’s face was turned.
Carefully pushing down the pillow, so as to bring the features more
distinctly to view, Queenie stood for one brief instant gazing upon
them; then, turning to Pierre, she whispered:
“Nearer, Pierre; hold the lamp a little nearer, please.”
He obeyed her, and as the full rays of the light fell upon the white,
pinched face of the sleeper, Queenie threw her arms high in the air,
and, in a voice Pierre would never have recognized as hers, cried out:
“Oh, Pierre, Pierre! _it is—it is—my Phil_—come back to me again!
Christine! Christine! come, and help!”
It was a loud, wailing cry, and the next moment Queenie lay across the
foot of the bed, where she had fallen in a death-like swoon, while over
her bent Christine. She had not left the house at all, but had sat
below, waiting for some such denouement when the truth should become
known to Queenie.
Christine had found the young man late the previous afternoon, and
recognized him at once, experiencing such a shock as had set every nerve
quivering, and made her feel that at last her own strength was giving
way. To save him for Queenie was her great desire, and, with a prayer on
her lips, and a prayer in her heart, she worked as she had never worked
before to allay the burning fever and quiet his disordered mind.
Once, during a lucid interval, he looked into her face, and knew her.
“Christine,” he said, faintly, “where is Queenie? I came to find her.
Don’t let me die till I have seen her.”
“Queenie is here. I will send for her at once. Do not be afraid; I will
not let you die. Your case is not very bad,” Christine replied, speaking
thus emphatically and against her own convictions, because she saw how
frightened he was himself, and knew that this would only augment the
disease and lessen his chances for recovery.
“Keep very quiet, and I’ll soon have you well,” she said, and Phil did
whatever she bade him do, though his mind began to wander again, and he
talked constantly of Queenie, whom he had come to find.
At last, however, he fell away to sleep, and then it was that Christine
sent for Queenie, and establishing her in the room, went out into the
adjoining chamber and waited, knowing that sooner or later she would be
needed. All through the weary hours which preceded Queenie’s cry for
help she sat alone in the darkness, alternately shaking with cold and
burning with fever, while in her heart was a feeling amounting to
certainty that her work was done, that the deadly faintness stealing
over her at intervals, and making her so sick and weak, was a precursor
of the end. But she must live long enough to save Philip Rossiter, and
give him back to Queenie, who might think more kindly of her when she
was gone. So she fought back her symptoms bravely, and rubbed her cold,
damp face when it was the coldest, and then leaned far out of the open
window into the falling rain when it was the hottest.
And thus the time passed on until her quick ear caught the sound of
voices and footsteps in the sick-room, and she heard Queenie’s wild cry
for _her_ as if in that hour of peril she was the one person in all the
world of whom there was need. Queenie had turned to her at last as the
child turns to its mother in peril, and with swift feet Christine went
to the rescue, and almost before Pierre knew she was there, she had the
unconscious girl in her arms and was bearing her into the room, where
for hours she had waited so patiently. Fixing her in a safe and upright
position upon a cushion, she ran back to Phil, who, she knew, must be
her first and principal care.
When Queenie’s shriek echoed through the room so near to him, he had
roused from his sleep, and was moaning and talking to himself, without,
apparently, any real consciousness as to where he was. But Christine’s
soothing hands, and the medicine she administered quieted him, and
leaving him in Pierre’s care, she went back to Queenie, who was
recovering from her swoon.
“Tell me,” she gasped, when she was able to speak, “Was it a dream, or
was it Phil? Tell me, Christine, is it Phil, and will he die?”
“It is Phil,” Christine replied, “saved from the sea, I know not how,
only that he is here, that he came seeking for you, and I found him with
the fever, late yesterday afternoon, and did for him what I could. Then
I sent for you, and the rest you know. Only be quiet now. I do not think
he will die.”
“Oh, save him, save him, and you shall have my love forever. I have been
cold and proud, but I will be so no longer if you give me back my Phil,”
Queenie said, with choking sobs, as she knelt at Christine’s feet and
clasped the hem of her dress.
“I will do what I can,” Christine replied, while again through every
nerve throbbed the old, sick feeling which she could not put aside, even
in her exquisite joy that Queenie might at last be won.
“Too late; it has come too late,” she thought to herself, while to
Queenie she said: “I must go to him now, for what I do must be done
quickly. A few hours later and it will be too late.”
So they went together to the sick-room, where Phil lay with his face
turned more fully to the light and showing distinctly how pinched and
pallid it was. Had Queenie’s own life depended upon it, she could not
have forborne going up to him and softly kissing his pale forehead; then
she knelt down beside him, and so close to him that her dark hair
touched the curls of light brown as she buried her face in her hands,
and Christine knew that she was praying earnestly that he might be
spared to her. At last, just as the dawn was breaking and the first gray
of the morning was stealing into the room, he moved as if about to
waken, and with a quick, imperative movement of her hand Christine put
Queenie behind her, saying as she did so: “He must not see you yet. Keep
out of his sight till I tell you to come.”
Fearful lest she should attract his attention if she left the room,
Queenie crouched upon the floor, close beside the bed, and waited with a
throbbing heart for the moment when she might speak and claim her love.
Phil was better; the long sleep had done him good, but there was a
drowsiness over him still, and he only opened his eyes a moment, and,
seeing Christine bending over him, smiled gratefully upon her, and said:
“You are so good to me.”
Then he took the draught she gave him and slept again, this time quietly
and sweetly as a child, while Queenie sat upon the floor, fearing to
move or stir lest she should disturb him. Slowly the minutes dragged on
until at last it was quite light in the room. The heavy rain had ceased;
the dense fog had lifted, and the air which came in at the window was
cool and pure, and seemed to have in it something of life and
invigoration.
“The weather has changed, thank God,” Christine murmured, while Queenie,
too, whispered, “Thank God! thank God!”
Phil must have felt the change, for he breathed more naturally and there
came a faint color to his lips, and at last, just as a ray of sunlight
stole into the room and danced upon the wall above his head, he woke to
perfect consciousness, and, stretching his hand toward Christine said:
“You have saved my life and I thank you; but for you I should have died
when the dreadful sickness came. How long have I been here, and where is
Queenie? I dreamed she was here.”
As the tones of the voice she had never expected to hear again fell upon
her ear Queenie could no longer restrain herself, but springing up, she
bent over Phil and said:
“I am here—Phil, _my love, my darling_, and nothing shall part us again.
I am _not_ your cousin, and I can love you now.”
She was kneeling beside him, with one arm under his neck, while with the
other hand she caressed his face, and kissing him passionately
continued:
“O, Phil, I thought you were dead, and it broke my heart, for I did love
you all the time, and I found it out when it was too late and you were
gone, and I mourned for you so much, and all the brightness went out
from my life; but it will come back again with you, my darling! my
darling!”
Her tears were falling like rain upon his face, and her voice was choked
with sobs, as she made this avowal of her love, without a shadow of
shame or feeling that she was doing anything unmaidenly. Phil was
_hers_. Nothing could change that, or his love for her. She was as sure
of him as she was that she breathed, and she had no hesitancy in pouring
out the full measure of her affection for him. Both Christine and Pierre
had stolen from the room, leaving the lovers alone in that first
blissful moment of their reunion. For a time Phil lay perfectly still
and took her caresses and kisses in silence. Then summoning all his
strength, he wound his arms around the little girl, and hugging her
close to him whispered:
“Heaven can scarcely be better than this. Oh, Queenie! my darling! my
pet!”
He was very weak, and Queenie saw it, and drawing herself from him said:
“You must not talk any more now. You must get well, and then I can hear
it all—where you have been and why you are not dead. Oh, Phil, it was so
horrible—everything which has happened to me since you went away. I am
nobody—_nobody_, Phil; no name, no right to be born, and I was once so
proud. Did they tell you, Phil? Do you know _who_ I am?”
“Yes, they told me; I know, poor little Queenie,” Phil replied, with a
tighter clasp of the hand which lay in his.
She did not ask him if it would make any difference with his love. She
knew it would not. She had always felt sure of Phil; he was hers for
ever, and the old joy began to come back, and the old light sparkled in
her eyes, which shone like stars as she went on:
“It was so dreadful when I found it out, and I wanted to die, because
you, too, were dead, or I thought you were, and I used to whisper to you
in the dark nights, when I could not sleep, and I thought maybe you
would come and let me know in some way that you were sorry for me. Where
were you, Phil, when I was wanting you so much?”
“Very, very far away, but I cannot tell you now,” said Phil, knowing
himself that he must not talk longer then; but he would not let her
leave him; he wanted her there beside him, where he could touch her
hands, and look into her face and beaming eyes, which dazzled and
bewildered him with their brightness.
So Queenie sat by him all that morning, seldom speaking to him, but
often bending over him to kiss his forehead or hands, and occasionally
murmuring;
“Dear Phil, and I am so glad—so happy. Nothing will ever trouble me
again.”
“Not even the Fergusons?” Phil answered her once, with his old, teasing
smile, which made him so like the Phil of other days that Queenie
laughed aloud, and, shaking her head gayly, said:
“No, not even grandma’s purple gloves can ever worry me again. Oh, Phil,
I have repented so bitterly of all my pride, and I shall never, never be
so any more—shall never be angry with you, or any one, or indulge in one
of my moods! I wish I could make you understand how changed I am, for I
see you do not quite believe me.”
Nor did he, though he smiled lovingly upon her, and lifting his hand
feebly smoothed her fair round cheek, where her blushes were burning so
brightly. He knew that Queenie could not change her nature any more than
the leopard can change his spots—knew that at times she would be the
same little willful, imperious girl she had always been, defying his
authority and setting at naught his wishes. And he would not have her
otherwise if he could; he should not know her if the claws were always
sheathed and she was gentle and sweet as she was now. Loving and true
she would always be, and so repentant when her moods were over that it
would be well worth his while to bear with them occasionally, as he was
sure to have to do. But he did not tell her so; he did not tell her
anything, for he was too weak to talk, so he only looked his love and
happiness through his eyes, which rested constantly upon her face, until
at last even that became to him as something seen through a mist, not
altogether real, and he again fell into a quiet sleep, with his hand
resting in Queenie’s.