DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA.
The November day broke bleak and gloomy. The dismal dawn was laden with
thick, sodden fog, and wretched, drizzling rain. The wind, full of the
wail of coming winter, was cold and raw; and the sky, seen dimly through
the fog-bank, was of sullen lead, the earth black and dreary; and the
sea and the fog so mixed that you could hardly tell where one began and
the other ended.
In the Farmers' Hotel, a rambling wooden building, standing by itself on
a quiet country road, all was still as the grave at this early hour of
the miserable November morning. Even in the kitchen and halls there was
as yet no step, and the servants slept the sleep of the just in their
own dormitories. Perhaps of all in the house the man who stood at his
chamber window, blurred and smeared with clammy wet, and stared
hopelessly out through the full blank of fog and mist, was the only one
astir in the house.
In the murky dawn of this bad November morning, Paul Wyndham, with
hollow creases under his eyes, and deep plowshares of silent suffering
about his mouth and forehead, stood looking out of the stained window,
at the flat waste of desolation without. It was hardly two poor weeks,
but it seemed a lifetime; and a horrible numbness was coming over him
and blunting all sense of pain. Would it always go on like this--this
dull, dead blank in life--would it last forever? All things were
beginning to look unreal, and lose their significance, nothing seemed
palpable or as it used to be. He was conscious that the crisis had come;
that in the long, black, sluggish watches of that wet November night a
battle had been fought between life and death, in the cottage whose
lighted window he could see from his own; but only conscious in a dull,
numb sort of way, to which the sharpness of the torture had given force.
The pale, cold dawn crept shining in while he stood there blankly
staring out at the hopeless dreariness, and he roused himself from his
torpor by a great effort at last. A loud-voiced clock somewhere in the
silent house struck six as he put on his overcoat and hat and went down
stairs.
Paul Wyndham waded on through the sea of mud, in the cold morning rain,
not meeting a soul, until he stood before Rosebush Cottage. The red
light in the window burned still; but had that other light, that light
of a beloved life, gone out in the night? It had been the crisis of the
fever--that low, miserable, burning, delirious fever, in which for so
many weary days and endless nights, the poor, unconscious sufferer had
tossed. Ah! that dreary time of probation--when the faithful watchers
had seen her sink day by day; when they had to force her clenched teeth
apart to admit teaspoonfuls of beef-tea; when they had listened with
aching hearts to her meaningless babble, or the songs the weak voice
sang. But that sad time of waiting had dragged itself out, and the night
came which must end all suspense. Does hope ever entirely leave the
human heart, until the blank face actually grows rigid and the
death-rattle sounds? Those sad and silent watchers in that darkened room
hoped against hope through the slow lingering hours of that night. They
were all there--Dr. Leach, Val, Mrs. Marsh, Miss Rose, and Midge, all
mutely watching the pale shadow of Nathalie lying so still and white on
the bed. You might have thought her dead had you entered, and looked at
her lying with closed eyes, and no perceptible respiration. But she was
only sleeping, and a faint breath still came from the colorless
lips--sleeping a sleep from which the doctor, at least, knew she could
only awake to die. He had a strong hope she might awake free from fever,
and that reason might return before the last hour. He sat by the
bedside, holding her wrist in his fingers, never taking his eyes off her
face. Mrs. Marsh had fallen asleep quietly in her chair, and Mr. Blake
was dozing; so when, as the pale morning broke, and the blue eyes
opened to life once more, there was only the doctor and Miss Rose to
bend over her.
"Nathalie, darling!" the governess said, with trembling lips, "don't you
know me?"
The blue eyes turned upon the sweet face with the clear light of
restored reason, and a faint smile dawned on the wasted face.
"Miss Rose," she said, in a voice so faint that it sounded scarcely
above a whisper. "You here?"
"I am here, too, Natty," said the physician. "Don't you know the old
doctor?"
Yes, she knew him--she knew them all when they came crowding around her,
and looked up at them with faint wonder in her fever-dimmed blue eyes.
"I have been ill, haven't I?" she said, feebly, glancing at her poor,
transparent, wasted hands. "Have I been ill long?"
"Not very long, Natty dear," her mother answered, kissing her, "only two
weeks, and you will be better soon now, won't she, doctor?"
But Dr. Leach did not reply. How could he deceive that dying girl? She
looked into his grave, sad face, and a solemn shadow fell on her own, a
shadow of the dark truth.
"Oh, doctor!" she cried out, "am I dying?"
He bent over her, and stroked away tenderly the full dark hair off her
forehead.
"My poor child! my dear child! God knows I would save you if I could;
but the power of life and death lies in higher hands. Has this world
been such a pleasant place to you that you should wish to stay in it?
Think of that better world, my poor little girl, that lies beyond the
grave. It would be cruel in me to deceive you now."
She drew the hand he held out of his suddenly, and turned her face away
from them. Mrs. Marsh broke out into strong sobbing, but the doctor
sternly hushed her. But the dulled, dying ear caught the sound, and she
turned to them again.
"How long have I to live?" she asked.
He could not tell an untruth with those earnest eyes fixed on his face,
and his voice was husky as he replied:
"Not long! not long, my poor girl! But long enough to prepare for the
world to which you are going."
"Will I die to-day?"
Her mother's sobs broke out again; but Nathalie looked only at the
doctor.
"Yes, dear child, you will last to-day, I think; but try and be calm,
and not disturb yourself at the shortness of the time."
Her hands dropped in a kind of collapse of despair.
"So soon, so soon!" she said, "and so much to do--so much to atone for!"
"Shall we send for a clergyman?" the doctor asked.
"Shall I fetch you Father Lennard?" inquired Val, stooping over her.
Her face brightened a little. The gray old priest had baptized her, an
infant, had confirmed her a young girl, rind she had loved and
reverenced him more than any one else on earth.
"Yes, yes," she said, eagerly. "Bring Father Lennard. Oh, how short the
time is, and so much to be done."
Mr. Blake found Father Lennard at home, and had to go over again the
weary story of wrong-doings and falsehood. He was a very old man; his
hair had grown gray in his holy calling, and he was long used to tales
of sorrow and sin--sorrow and sin, that go so surely hand in hand. He
had learned to listen to such recitals--as a pitiful doctor, who knows
all the ailments poor human nature is subject to, does to stories of
bodily suffering--tenderly, sadly, but with no surprise. He had known
Nathalie Marsh from babyhood; he had had a father's affection for the
pretty, gentle, blue-eyed little girl, who had knelt at his confessional
so often, lisping out her childish faults; he had moaned for her tragic
fate; and he had nothing but pity, and prayer, and sorrow for her now.
Mrs. Marsh and Miss Rose were in the room with the dying girl when they
returned; Mrs. Marsh sitting at the foot of the bed, weeping
incessantly, and the pale governess kneeling beside the pillows,
holding the cold thin hands in hers, and reading prayers for the sick
out of a missal. Both arose when the Father entered, and the dying face
lit up with a sudden light of recognition and hope.
"My poor child! my poor baby!" the old man said, tenderly, bending over
her. "Is it thus I find my little Natty again? Thank God that reason has
returned to you in your last hours."
The mother and friend of the dying girl quitted the room, leaving the
old priest alone to prepare the departing soul for its last great
journey. Miss Rose knelt in silent, fervent prayer all the time; but
Mrs. Marsh--poor weak soul!--could do nothing but sit and cry. Val had
found Mr. Wyndham in the kitchen, leaning against the wooden
chimney-piece, with a white, despairing face; and, pitying him in spite
of his misdoings, turned comforter as best he could. He walked up and
down the hall restlessly between whiles, feeling in the solemn hush of
the house as if he were in the tomb. His watch, which he was perpetually
jerking out, pointed to ten; and he was thinking he would have to run
down to the office presently, when, opening the parlor-door to announce
that intention, he saw Father Lennard come out of the sick-room.
"Well, Father?" Val said, anxiously.
"All is well, thank God! She is quite resigned now; and if sincere
contrition ever atoned for sin, hers will surely be pardoned. Are you in
a hurry, Val?"
"I should be very much hurried indeed, Father, if I could not do
anything you or she may desire! What is it?"
"Will you go to Redmon, and fetch that unhappy young lady here. The poor
child says she cannot die until she has heard her pardon her."
"I'll go," said Val, "but I'm not so sure Mrs. Wyndham will come. You
see, she is one of your proud and high-stepping people, and is in such
trouble herself that----"
"Let me go with you, Mr. Blake," cried Miss Rose, starting up; "I think
she will come with me."
"All right, then! Put your bonnet on while I run round and make Peter
get out the buggy."
The buggy came round to the front door, and Val assisted the governess
in and drove off.
Father Lennard returned to the sick-room, and sat there holding the hand
of the dying, whose sad, sunken blue eyes never left his face, and
talking of that merciful Redeemer, who once said to another poor sinful
creature, "Neither do I condemn thee!" Nathalie lay, clasping a crucifix
to her breast, her pale lips moving in ceaseless inward prayer, while
she listened, her face calm and beautiful in its holy hope. The hours
that intervened seemed very short, and then the carriage wheels crunched
over the gravel, and Nathalie caught her breath with a sort of gasp.
"Oh, Father, do you think she has come?"
"I trust so, dear child! I will go and see."
As he entered the drawing-room, the front door opened. Val stalked in,
followed by Miss Rose and--yes, by a figure stately and tall, dressed
very plainly, and closely vailed. The priest knew that majestic figure,
although the face, seen dimly through the vail, was so changed that he
hardly knew it.
"You may go in," he said, in reply to Miss Rose's appealing look; "she
is waiting for you."
As the door closed upon the tall vailed form, and the two women, united
to the same man, were face to face, Father Lennard took his hat to go.
"I shall return again in the afternoon," he said; "I would stay all day
if I could, but it is impossible."
"I will drive you into town," said Val; "Peter can fetch the traps back.
Oh, here's the doctor!"
Dr. Leach opened the garden-gate as they came out, and lifted his hat to
the clergyman.
"How is she?" he asked.
"Failing fast," said Father Lennard. "I do not think she will wear the
night through!"
"You are coming back, I suppose?"
"I shall endeavor to do so. I promised her I would, poor child!"
The doctor went into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Marsh, through her
tears, told him who was with her. The old doctor looked dissatisfied.
"They'll agitate her too much--I know they will, with their crying and
taking on. If they stay long, I will go and turn them out!"
He waited for a quarter of an hour, watch in hand, frowning impatiently
at the dial-plate, and then the chamber-door reopened and the
half-sisters came out. The swollen eyes of the governess told how she
had been weeping, but the other had dropped her vail once more, and was
invisible. Dr. Leach bowed to her, but she passed on without seeming to
see him. Miss Rose followed her to the door, and looked wistfully out at
the wet, foggy November weather, and the hopeless slough of mud.
"You cannot walk back, Harriet. I will send Peter to Redmon for the
carriage. You will get your death of cold to walk there, unused as you
are to walking."
"What does it matter?" she said, in a strangely hollow voice, "the
sooner I get my death the better. If I could only die like her, I should
rejoice however soon it came!"
"But, Harriet----"
But Harriet was gone, even while she spoke, walking rapidly through the
drizzling rain and clammy mud--she, who had had a fastidious horror of
mud on her dainty boots--and knowing nothing of either. All that was
best in her nature had been roused into life by that dying-bed, but
still that utter sense of despair and desolation filled her soul. Her
life was done--there was no future for her--in all the wide universe
there was not such another miserable woman as herself, she
thought--desolate, unloved, and alone.
There were not many people abroad that bad November day; but those who
were, and who recognized Mrs. Wyndham through her vail, and bowed
ceremoniously, felt themselves outraged at receiving the cut direct. She
never saw them--she walked straight forward to that stately home that
was hers no longer, as people walk in sleep, with eyes wide open and
staring straight before her, but seeing nothing.
Dr. Leach went into the sick-room as the others left it; but he returned
presently, frowning again.
"Where is the fellow to be found?" he asked, impatiently; "she will
excite herself in spite of all I can say. She must see him, she says, if
only for ten minutes."
"Is it Mr. Wyndham?" asked Miss Rose; and the doctor nodded crossly.
It was the first time that the dying girl had spoken of him; and Miss
Rose, who knew he was in the house, left the room without a word.
"Oh, he is here, is he?" said Dr. Leach. "I might have known it! Hem!
Here he comes!"
Paul Wyndham followed the governess into the parlor, looking so haggard
that even the old doctor pitied him.
"Now, Mr. Wyndham," he said, "my patient is not to be unnecessarily
excited, remember! I give you just ten minutes, not a second more!"
Mr. Wyndham bowed his head and passed into the chamber; and Dr. Leach,
watch in hand, planted himself at the door, and grimly counted the
minutes. When the ten had passed, he opened the door.
"Time's up," he said; "say good-bye, Mr. Wyndham, and come out!"
They were all merciful enough not to look at him as he obeyed. Dr. Leach
went in and found poor Nathalie lying with her eyes closed, clasping her
crucifix, her lips still moving in voiceless prayer. She looked up at
him with her poor, pleading eyes.
The old doctor departed, and the two women were left alone with the
dying wife of Paul Wyndham. Miss Rose sat by the bedside, reading, in
her sweet, low voice, the consoling prayers for the sick, while poor,
weak, useless Mrs. Marsh only rocked backward and forward in the
rocking-chair, moaning and crying in feeble helplessness. And Paul
Wyndham, in the room on the other side of the hall, walking restlessly
up and down, or stopping to gaze out of the window, or running to Midge
every five minutes to go and inquire how she was--felt and suffered as
men only can feel and suffer once in a lifetime.
The leaden hours of the twilight deepened into night--black, somber,
starless. With the night came the wind and fell the rain. The storm had
been gathering sullenly all day, and broke with the night fast and
furious. The rain lashed the windows, and the melancholy autumn winds
shrieked and wailed alternately around the cottage, waking a surging
roar in the black cedar woods beyond. The feeble hands still fold
themselves over the precious crucifix--that "sign of hope to man"--but
the power of speech has gone. She cannot move, either; her eyes and lips
are all that seem alive, but her sense of hearing remains. She hears the
sound of carriage-wheels outside, and hears when Father Lennard, Dr.
Leach, and faithful Val enter the drawing-room. The old priest takes
Miss Rose's place, to administer the last solemn rites to the dying, and
Nathalie smiles faintly up in his face and kisses the cross he holds to
her lips. Val Blake goes into the room where he knows Paul Wyndham must
be, and finds him lying as Midge found him a quarter of an hour before.
He stoops down and finds he is asleep--Ah! when had he slept night or
day before?--and his face looks so haggard and heart-broken in repose
that Val says "Poor fellow!" and goes softly out.
And so, with death in their midst, the faithful watchers sit and keep
vigil, while the stormy night wore on. Ah! Heaven strengthen us all for
that dread death-watch, when we sit beside those we love, and watch and
wait for the soul to take its fight. No one spoke, except in hushed
whispers, and the roaring of the wild storm sounded awfully loud in the
stillness. They can hear the voice of the old priest as he reads, or
talks, or prays with that fluttering spirit, already in the shadow of
the valley of death. As the watch of Val points to eleven, Miss Rose
glides softly out, with a face like snow, and tells them to kneel, while
Father Lennard reads the prayers for the dying. So they kneel and bow
their heads with awe-struck spirits, while the solemn and beautiful
prayers of the old church are read, and thrill as they hear that awful
adjuration: "Depart, Christian soul, out of this world!" and then, as it
is finishing, there is a pause. What does it mean? The service for the
dying is not ended. A moment later and they know--Father Lennard goes
on, but it is prayers for the dead he renders now, and they know all is
over; and Val Blake leans his head on his arm and feels it grow wet,
while the sad and solemn voice of the old priest goes on. Then they all
arise, Father Lennard reverentially closes the blue eyes, that have
looked their last on this mortal life, and there is a wild outbreak of
motherly love from poor Mrs. Marsh; and Miss Rose, with her face buried
in the pillow, is crying as she has not cried for many a day; and Val
and the old doctor go softly in and look on the beautiful dead face, and
think of the bright, happy Nathalie Marsh of last year--for whom all the
world might have prophesied a long and happy life--and feel that neither
youth, nor health, nor beauty, nor all the glory of the world, can save
us one hour from death.