It was not until after many days of wild delirium that Fred Chester
unclosed his eyes with the light of reason to make things clear once
more. He was in his own room, and he lay wondering why he was unable to
raise a hand or turn his head without difficulty.
He lay for some time trying to think out what had happened in an
untroubled way, for a restful sensation pervaded his being, and it did
not seem to matter much till he became conscious of a peculiar, soft,
clicking sound, which he knew at last to be caused by a needle coming in
contact with a thimble.
It came from somewhere to his left behind the curtain, which was drawn
to keep the sunshine which came through the open window from his face.
This afforded him fresh food for thought, and by degrees he turned his
head a little, till he could lie and watch the curtain, and wonder who
was beyond.
That was all. He felt no temptation to try and speak, for it seemed, in
a pleasant, dreamy way, that sooner or later he would know.
It was sooner. For all at once, as he lay watching, the sewer bent
forward a little, so that she could gaze at the face upon the pillow,
and their eyes met, those of the nurse turning wild and dilated as she
started up and hurried from the room.
"Isabel--you!" he said, in a mere whisper of a voice, but she did not
stay, and the next minute, as the sick man still lay wondering, the door
was opened again and Laura entered.
"Oh, Fred, Fred, my own brother!" she cried, as she sank upon her knees
by the bedside and pressed her lips to the thin white hand lying outside
the sheet.
"Laury," he said, feebly; "you, dear? Wasn't that Bel?"
"Yes, yes; but you must not talk. Oh, thank God! thank God, you know us
once again!"
"Know you?" he said, smiling, "of course. Where's aunt?"
"Downstairs, dear, asleep. She is so worn-out with watching you."
"Watching me?" he said, with a little child-like laugh. "Yes, of
course, she is always watching."
He gently raised his hand, to place it upon his sister's head, and it
lay there passive for some time, till Laura realised that her brother
was fast asleep; and then she stole away to join Isabel in the next
room.
The next day Chester was a little stronger, but it was as if his mind
was passing through the early stages once more, he was so child-like and
weak; and it was not until the third day of his recovering his senses
after the terrible brain fever through which he had passed that he
remembered Isabel again, and asked if he had not seen her there.
Laura told him yes, that she had been there, and he asked no more; but
as the days went on he learned all. That his sister had returned to
town with his aunt and written to the servant from their hotel to pack
up the clothes and books they had left behind, and received an answer
back that Chester was dying of brain fever.
This brought sister and aunt to his side, to find that Isabel had been
with him from the first, watching him night and day. Then they shared
the task with her, till the first rays of reason began to shine out of
his eyes.
"But where is she now? Why does she not come?" he said rather
fretfully.
"She left directly you seemed to be out of danger, Fred."
"But how unkind. Why should she do that?"
"Why, Fred--why?" said his sister gazing at him wonderingly. "Oh,
brother, brother, you do not grasp all yet."
Laura Chester was wrong; he did grasp it at that moment, for the past
came back like a flash, and he uttered a low groan as he recalled the
contents of that letter, the words seeming to stand out vividly before
his eyes.
From that hour his progress towards recovery was slower than before, and
he lay thinking that the words contained in that letter were true--that
it was good-bye for ever and that his life was hopelessly wrecked.
The return of health and strength contradicted that, though, as a year
passed away, and then another year, in the course of which time he
learned that the discoveries in Highcombe Street had been forgotten by
the crowd, other social sensations having blurred them out.
His own troubles had grown fainter, too, as the time wore on; but for
two years he did not see Isabel again. Then they met one day by
accident and another day not by accident, and by slow degrees, while
tortured by shame and remorse at having, as he told himself, thrown
everything worth living for away, he learned what a weak, foolish
creature a woman who has once truly loved a man can be, and said, as
many of us say--
"What a miserable desert this world would be if there was no forgiveness
for such a sin as mine!"
The End.