"Wasting away--away--away,
Slowly, silently, day after day.
Fainter, and fainter and fainter the flow,
Of the current of life more sluggish and slow,
And a ghastly glare in the glassy eye,
And the wan cheek tinged with a hectic dye."
In the dim gloom of a soft spring evening, a slender, graceful form bent
silently over a low, curtained couch, gently fanning the annoying
insects from the pale brow of its slumbering occupant. The apartment was
furnished with almost princely magnificence. Curtains of the richest
blue-wrought damask, hung in massy folds from ceiling to floor, before
the deep bay-windows. Rosewood sofas and fauteuils, in costly coverings
of the same soft color, rested on the brilliantly interwoven flowers of
the Persian carpet, whose velvety softness echoed not the slightest
tread. A fairy chandelier hung suspended from the lofty, corniced
ceiling. Rare statuary decorated the mantel. Large mirrors and pictures
in broad gilt frames adorned the walls. Marble stands, covered with
deep-fringed cloths of gold, on which lay books in superb bindings,
graced the several corners, and the carved mahogany bedstead, behind
whose ample curtains of azure velvet the sleeper reposed, among
white-piled cushions of softest down, vied in elegant luxury with the
couch of an eastern princess. And there, with one white, wasted arm
thrown above the head, all shorn of its bright wealth of auburn curls,
and the other concealed 'neath the silken coverings, lay Edith Malcome,
the blue veins almost starting from her pale brow, and a bright crimson
spot on the sunken cheek. Alas, that earth's most lovely should fall the
earliest victims to the withering hand of disease! The door did softly
asunder, and her father entered. With an expression of deep care and
suffering depicted on his handsome features, he approached the bed-side.
"Is she still sleeping?" demanded he, in a whisper which would have been
inaudible to an ear less quick than that of the silent watcher.
"She is," was the ready answer, in the same hushed tone. He gazed
intently for several moments on the attenuated form before him, while
every variety of expression passed over his countenance.
"If she dies," said he, at length, in a voice broken with grief, "what
will be left on earth to me?"
The watcher was deeply affected by his grief-stricken appearance. "O,
speak not thus!" she said, bursting into tears. "She will not die; the
doctor has given us better hopes to-day. But even if she were to be
taken to her home in the skies, you must not say there's nothing left on
earth for you. You, so bright in soul and intellect, surrounded by
admiring friends and all the luxuries of princely wealth, with a son to
perpetuate your name"----
"Say no more," interrupted the afflicted man. "I cannot endure your
words."
Louise was grieved to see she had only wounded where she meant to
soothe, and, with a gentle, impulsive movement, placed her hand on the
soft black curls of the head that was bowed among the cushions of the
bed, and said, "Forgive me, I meant not to afflict."
Silently he took the little hand in his, and placed it on his throbbing
temples. Louise trembled.
"Your brow is feverish," said she at length, seeking an excuse to
withdraw the imprisoned hand; "let me bathe it in some cooling lotion."
"No," said he, "this moist little palm is better than any lotion," still
detaining it, as she sought to reach the stand which contained a
quantity of vials on a silver tray. The slight movements aroused Edith.
Opening her large, spiritual eyes, she gazed up in the faces of the
watchers at her bed-side, with a vague, dreamy expression.
"Don't you know me, Edith?" asked her father, bending quickly over her.
"O, yes, father!" answered she faintly; "and that lady is my mother,"
she added, staring confusedly upon Louise, as if not yet in full
possession of her waking faculties.
Louise looked embarrassed, and the colonel hastened to say, "That is
Mrs. Edson, my dear, who watches with you to-night. You are wandering a
little, I fear."
"Well, where is my mother, then?" continued Edith, in the same strange
manner, which appeared to agitate her father deeply.
"My child," said he, in a soothing tone, "have I not often told you your
mother died when you was a very little girl?"
"I don't know," said Edith, "but last night I dreamed she came with a
pale face and bloody lips and stared so mournfully upon me. I wish you
would go and bring her to me, father."
"My daughter, do I not tell you she is in her grave?" said the father,
trembling with emotion. "How can I bring her to you?"
"Hannah Doliver told Rufus she would come if you would let her,"
continued the sick girl, in a reproachful tone, apparently not
understanding her father's words.
On hearing this, Col. Malcome started with a violent exclamation, which
alarmed Edith, and brought her at once into full possession of her
senses. Louise, who had marked, with her quick eye, the colonel's
strange excitement, approached and administered a reviving cordial to
the invalid. The father soon retired, leaving the watcher alone with her
charge.
As the hours dragged slowly on, many were the thoughts which passed
through Mrs. Edson's active brain, as to the cause of Edith's singular
words, and the anger and excitement evinced by her father. At length the
gray morning dawned, and Sylva, Edith's attendant, appeared to relieve
the watcher from her post.
As Louise was passing through the hall to gain the street, the door
suddenly opened, and Col. Malcome entered in cap and overcoat. He paused
and inquired if his daughter had passed a comfortable night, and, on
receiving an affirmative answer, proceeded to the drawing-room.