YOUNG BOSWORTH'S SICK-ROOM.
When we entered the sick-room, it was a shock to Jessie. In spite of all
I had said, she was not prepared to find Bosworth so changed. They had
put a dressing-gown upon him, but its gay colors only increased the
ghastliness of his face, already wasted and worn by fever.
He was so happy to see us--so like a child that fears to give pain by
its own pleasure. I think Jessie took heart after the first few moments;
and I could see the old lady watching her in secret, as if she thought
that, unless she were only a beautiful piece of marble, she must be
softened now.
"It was very selfish of me, Miss Jessie," he said, "to call you away
from your amusements to visit a poor, sick fellow."
"I was very glad to come," she replied; "my mother is so anxious about
you, she could not rest till some of us had been here."
"She is very kind," he said, with the touching smile of illness.
At last we fell to talking quite cheerfully. I did my best to prevent
the restraint we were all under becoming perceptible; I dare say it was
blunderingly done, but it succeeded tolerably well.
Bosworth made Jessie tell him all about her flowers--he was a great
botanist--and I chimed in with the wonderful history of a nest of young
birds I had found, and really made him laugh at my nonsense.
But he was weak, and soon grew weary,--I saw it, and made Jessie a sign
to go.
"Not yet," he said, as we rose; "stay a while longer, please."
So we sat down again, but I saw by his eyes that his senses began to
cloud a little.
"What is that hymn you sing, Miss Jessie?" he asked, suddenly; "it has
been running in my head all the morning."
Jessie could not speak; she was trying with all her might to keep back
her tears; so I said,--
"You mean that little gem of Mrs. Hemans--'Child Amid the Flowers at
Play.'"
"Yes," he replied, "that is it. Won't you sing it for me?"
It really was heroic, the way that poor girl struggled with herself and
forced back her composure. She turned her face a little from the light
and began to sing; her voice was very low and tremulous, but I never
heard it sound so sweet; Bosworth lay back on his pillow and listened
with a happy smile.
"Thank you," he said, when she finished; "I can sleep now--you were very
kind to come."
He tried to take her hand, said a few more broken words, and then we
went away. I saw that Jessie could endure nothing more. Old Mrs.
Bosworth detected it too; she must have felt for the girl, and was
grateful to her for that visit. She did not accompany us down-stairs,
and I was glad to make our farewell as short as possible.
The moment we were out of the house, Jessie gave way completely, and
sobbed and wept as I never before saw her.
"Do you think he will die, Aunt Matty?" she asked.
"I do not; he is certainly better."
"But he looks dreadfully; I never saw anybody altered so much."
"You are not accustomed to fevers, my dear. I am, and he will get
better. I am glad you have made this visit; it will do him good."
"Then I am glad, too," she replied, wiping away her tears. "Oh! if
anything had happened, I never should have forgiven myself."
In reality, there was no blame to be attached to her; she had been
guilty of no encouragement or coquetry. I could not bear that she should
brood over his illness, until she accused herself as the cause, and
really grew horrified at what she might fancy her own wickedness.
"He is in God's hands," I said; "either way it would have been as He
willed."
"Then you do not think that any trouble--any--"
"I think he would have been sick," I replied, seeing her unable to go
on; "he has not looked well for some time past, and his grandmother told
me that he had always been somewhat subject to fevers."
Jessie breathed heavily, and looked relieved.
In our preoccupation we had passed from the grounds into the high-road,
instead of taking the footpath.
"We must strike into the clover-field at the turn," I said, when I
observed our error; "it would make too long a walk to follow the road."
Jessie did not answer. I heard the tramp of horses' hoofs, and looking
up saw Mr. Lawrence riding rapidly toward us. He did not check his
horse, but lifted his riding-cap, gave a low, stately bow, a quick
glance at Jessie's tear-stained face, and galloped on.
I heard Jessie utter a smothered exclamation, but she did not speak a
word.
"Mr. Lawrence seems in great haste," I observed, but she did not answer.
I was confident Mrs. Dennison had been besetting him again, for he was
pale and looked fiercely excited.
"Here is the path," said Jessie, suddenly.
We turned into it and walked home, scarcely once breaking that unusual
silence.