“Is she better, Doctor?”
“No; worse. Can’t last through the night, I’m afraid.”
The forester’s wife pauses a moment, looking after the physician’s
carriage as it whirls out of sight in the gathering darkness along the
road; then, exclaiming sadly, “Poor, dear young lady!” she closes again
the heavy iron gates, and retires to her own happy hearthside within
the lodge.
Night has all but fallen, and though it is still only dusk upon the
open road outside, within the avenue the gloaming is already deepening
into mirk, and under the shadows of the limes it will soon be quite
dark. A quiet spring night. When the wheels of the doctor’s carriage
have retreated in the distance, no sound is to be heard amid the
shadows but the twitter of a blackbird settling itself again to roost
in its perfumed dreaming-place among the spruce branches, and the
silvery tinkle of a streamlet making its way at hand through the ferny
under-tangle of the wood. The air is rich with the fresh sweetness
of budding life--the breath of unseen primroses opening their creamy
petals upon dewy moss-banks in the darkness. Born amid the stillness,
new, vague hopes stir within the heart; everywhere seems the delicious
promise of the time of blossom and leaf that is to be; and the
motionless night itself seems conscious of the coming of desire. It is
a night to inspire a poet or a lover; every faint wood-scent, the cool
touch of the night air itself upon the cheek, bringing with it some
subtle suggestion, the more delightful that it is undefined, setting
the pulse of youth a-beating with thoughts of a glad to-morrow.
Alas for those to whom no morrow will come!
At the upper end of the long avenue a faint light is shining yet in two
windows of the many-gabled mansion-house. One of the windows is open,
and within, at a small table, leaning his head upon his hand, can be
seen the figure of a man. It is the master of the house. He has just
received the last sentence of the physician, “I can be of no further
service. The end will probably come before to-morrow”; and the words
are still in his ears, beating like a leaden pendulum against his
heart. Straight before him into the dark night he is gazing; but the
eyes that look are tearless; only the drawn line about his mouth and
the pitiful twitching of his lip bespeak the emotion that is working
within. Yet he is not altogether left to himself. The air from the open
window stirs his hair and fans his pale cheek--Nature, like a sweet and
gentle friend, would offer him the soothing of her sympathy. Probably
he is unconscious of it--drowning in the hopeless flood-tide of his
grief; but, with the gentle air stealing in from the darkness outside,
the influence of the great Reconciler, mother-heart of all mankind,
is already touching him. While his ear takes in the soft movements
of the nurse in the next room, tending all that is dearest to him on
earth, his heart, stirred unconsciously by the subtle suggestions of
the incoming night-scents, is travelling, torn with regret, through
the tender avenues of the past. And strangely fresh in every detail
reappear those scenes imprinted upon the pages of memory by the
sunshine of love.
He is in a cottager’s garden, listening, amid the hum of the hives
and the glory of old-fashioned wallflower borders, to the gossip of
the simple old soul who is showing him her little domain. There is
the quick trotting of a pony. A low phaeton drives past on the road
beneath. And he has seen and shared the smiling glance of a gentle,
lovely face--a sunny glimpse to be remembered. Again, he has been
picnicking with friends, a family party, on the shore of a Highland
loch, and has noticed with mingled admiration and resentment that while
all others have been seeking their own enjoyment, one pair of frank
and willing little hands has wrought the whole comfort of the group.
They are in the shallops, rowing home, and as, pulling at his oar, he
listens to the innocent freshness of a shy young voice singing some
Highland boat-song, he becomes conscious for the first time of a vista
before him of wondrous new and fair possibilities--of a path in life
which is not to be trodden alone. Once more. It is a secluded spot. He
has wandered in happy company, from his party. Clear as yesterday comes
back the memory of the scene. In front some tented waggons, rust-brown
with wandering years, trail down the woodland by-road. The gipsy woman
has taken his silver coin, and, with a keen, shrewd glance, has wished
the “lady and gentleman a happy bridal!” He has seized the moment, has
whispered the secret which was no secret, and has read in shining eyes
the answer of his hopes.
All that was a year ago, little more--woodland and lake and garden,
with a hundred other scenes and episodes as tender, which, crowding
back, fill his heart to bursting; and now----
He rises, closing the window, and passes into the adjoining room.
Treading softly on the thick carpet, a glance assures him that nothing
has altered in the sick-chamber since he left it with the physician.
Only amid the momentous stillness, in the subdued light by the fire,
the trim, white-aproned nurse is trying to read. A whisper to her--she
will be called if required; and, closing the door noiselessly behind
her, she leaves him to watch alone.
Alone, for the last time, with all that is dear to him, the flower that
is fading out of his life so soon! He turns to the bed. There, pale
with preternatural loveliness, her dark hair spread like a cloud upon
the pillow, lies the sunny sweetheart, the shy bride of a year ago.
A faint moan, the glistening of a tear between the closed eyelids,
betrays the grief that is haunting that strange shadowland between this
world and the next--grief for that which was not to be! He can look
no more! Sinking into a chair by the fire, he buries his face in his
hands. It is the hour of his despair.
Midnight has long passed; the fire is sinking unheeded in the grate;
and he has not moved.
“Arthur!”
In a moment he is by the bed, that thin, hot hand in his, gazing
heartbroken into the face of his wife. In those grey eyes of hers there
is no second thought. Love, for the time is short, has dropped his last
disguise, and looks forth from them with unutterable tenderness and
regret. “Arthur!” She lingers fondly upon his name, and her fingers
push the hair tenderly from his brow--“Arthur!”
But there is a sudden change. A look of terror springs to her eyes,
and she clings wildly to his arm. Is this the end? She would have
fallen back upon the pillow had not his arm been round her. With a
despairing effort, her eyes filling with tears, she articulates, “We
have--been--very--happy--my dear!” Their lips meet for the last
time--a long, long farewell. Then a second shadow passes over her face.
He lays her gently back upon the pillow. The wistful, eager look dies
away out of her eyes. It is all over. He is alone, kneeling by the bed,
his face pressed deep into his hands. A gust of wind, rising outside,
shakes the sash of the window; the crow of chanticleer is heard far off
at the stables: it is three o’clock, the coldest hour of the night.
And in the lodge at the foot of the avenue, at that hour, the young
forester’s wife, stirring softly in her sleep, presses the month-old
babe beside her closer to her heart.
[Illustration]