Five days had passed, days of raging fever and delirium so violent
that already the powerful frame seemed nearly exhausted; the sufferer
calling almost incessantly for the loved ones of his old home, but
oftenest for his mother. Some faint glimmer of recognition must
occasionally have reached those darkened chambers of the brain, since
when attended by Mr. Cameron, Houston or Lyle, he rested more quietly,
though never calling Lyle by her own name, but always by that of his
sister, Edna.
The fever had subsided, and he was now rapidly passing into a
death-like stupor, hovering between life and death, unconscious of
skilled physicians and trained nurses that came and went, unconscious
of loving friends bending above him, their prayers and efforts
combined with the skill of the former, in the terrible combat against
the mighty foe.
The physicians watching by the bedside, shook their heads, as they
felt the pulse, fluttering more and more faintly.
"He is sinking, failing rapidly," they said, "to-night will be the
crisis, the turning point; unless there is a change then for the
better, he will never see the dawning of another day."
To Mrs. Cameron, journeying westward with Morton Rutherford, the
moments had seemed like hours, the hours like days, since learning for
whose sake had come the summons to that distant country. Only the
speed of the lightning could have satisfied the heart of the mother
hastening to her long-lost son.
They had been kept informed along the route of Guy's condition, and
now, upon their arrival at Silver City, on the noon train, they found
a special car awaiting them, to convey them at once to the Y, which
had been ordered by telegraphic dispatch from Mr. Cameron.
The watchers by the bedside heard the sound of swiftly approaching
wheels; Mr. Cameron and Houston stepped quickly out to greet the
sweet-faced woman hastening toward the house on the arm of Morton
Rutherford.
"Am I in time? Is our boy still living?" were her first words, as her
husband met her with outstretched arms, his face working with deep
emotion.
"Just in time, thank God!" was the broken reply.
"Oh, Walter, is there no hope?" she queried, understanding his words
only too well.
"I must not deceive you, Marjorie, there is the barest possibility
that he may live, no more."
"He must live, and he will," replied the mother, in tones that
reminded both Houston and Morton Rutherford wonderfully of Lyle.
Turning toward Houston, Mrs. Cameron greeted him affectionately, and
gently touching the wounded arm, exclaimed:
"My poor, dear boy, what a terrible risk you have run!"
To which he replied, "I would go through it all again, Aunt Marjorie,
for the joy I believe it will bring you and yours."
A few moments later, Mr. Cameron led his wife into the sick-room. Lyle
had already left the room, and there remained only Leslie Gladden,
sitting quietly near the foot of the bed, and the nurse, who
respectfully withdrew from his place beside the patient, as Mrs.
Cameron approached.
Calmly, though through fast-falling tears, the mother gazed for a
moment upon her son; then dropping upon her knees beside the bed, she
slipped one arm underneath the pillows, and gently drew the wounded
head upon her own breast, tenderly kissing the brow and cheeks; then
taking his hand within her own, she stroked and caressed it,
meanwhile crooning over him in low, murmuring tones, as though he had
been an infant.
There were no dry eyes in that little room, not excepting even the
nurse, while from the door-way of the adjoining room, Morton
Rutherford, Lyle and Everard Houston watched the scene with hearts too
full for utterance. Something in that gentle touch must have carried
the troubled mind of the sufferer back to the days of his childhood;
gradually the faint moaning ceased, the drawn, tense features relaxed,
and a sweet, child-like smile stole over his face now assuming a
death-like pallor.
For hours the mother knelt there, her husband by her side, Everard and
Leslie standing near, while in the background, in the dim light, was
Lyle with Morton Rutherford.
At last, Mr. Cameron, bending over his wife, entreated her to take a
few moments' rest and a little food. She hesitated, but Everard
spoke:
"You must take some refreshment, Aunt Marjorie, you have had no food
for hours; Leslie and I will watch here, and if there should be the
slightest change, I will call you."
At the name of Leslie, Mrs. Cameron looked up, with a sweet, motherly
smile, into the beautiful but tear-stained face beside her, and gently
withdrawing from the bedside, she turned and clasped Miss Gladden in
her arms, saying:
"My dear Leslie, I did not think we would meet for the first time
under such circumstances as these, but I am more than glad to find you
here. Everard has always been, and still is as our own son, and I
welcome you, my dear, as a daughter."
On entering the dining-room, Mr. and Mrs. Cameron found a most
tempting luncheon prepared for them, but no one in the room, Lyle
having judged they would prefer to be by themselves for awhile.
As Mrs. Cameron, having partaken of some slight refreshment, was
preparing to return to the sick-room, her husband said:
"Wait a moment, my dear; there is another joy in store for you,
Marjorie, in that, through Everard's coming out into this country, we
have received back from the dead, as it were, not only our son, but
also a daughter. I want you to meet her now, my dear, so prepare
yourself for a great surprise, and perhaps, something of a shock."
"I do not understand you, dear," replied Mrs. Cameron, looking
bewildered, "you certainly do not refer to Leslie, I have met her."
"No, my love, Leslie is a beautiful girl, and will be to us a lovely
daughter, but I refer to a daughter of our own flesh and blood."
Stepping to an adjoining room, Mr. Cameron called in a low tone,
"Lyle, my dear," returning immediately to his wife's side to support
her in case the shock should prove too much in her present agitated
condition.
Lyle glided into the room, slowly approaching Mrs. Cameron, who sat
speechless, pale as death, but controlling herself by a visible
effort.
"Edna, my child! my own Edna!" she cried, rising with outstretched
arms, and clasping Lyle to her breast; then turning toward her
husband, she asked:
"What does this mean, Walter? Can this be Edna's child?"
"Yes, my love," he replied, "this is the little Marjorie we have
mourned as dead for so many years."
For a while they sat clasped in each other's arms, their tears
commingling, while Mr. Cameron briefly explained to his wife the main
facts in Lyle's strange history.
"She shall be our own daughter, shall she not, Walter? She shall be to
us just what Edna was?"
"Certainly," was the response, "she is our own daughter, Marjorie Lyle
Cameron."
They returned to Guy's room, Mrs. Cameron resuming her old place, with
Guy's head upon her breast, his hand in hers, only that now Lyle knelt
beside her. At their side, and very near his son, was Mr. Cameron,
while just back of them were Everard, Leslie and Morton Rutherford.
Ned Rutherford and Van Dorn lingered in the door-way watching, while
at the foot of the bed stood Mike, the tears coursing down his rugged
face. On the other side of the bed stood the physicians and nurse,
their keen eyes watching the subtle changes passing over the face, now
white as marble, and almost as motionless.
Fainter and shorter grew the gasping breaths, more and more feeble the
pulse, until at last it was evident to every one within that little
room, that life had very nearly ebbed away.
But there was one who did not, for one instant, lose faith or hope.
The sublime faith which had upheld her through all those years of a
sorrow greater than death, did not desert her now. Lyle seemed to
share her faith, and they alone remained calm and tearless, the
saint-like face of the mother shining with love and trust.
Suddenly, upon that death-like stillness, her voice rang out, with
startling clearness:
"Guy! oh, Guy, my darling!"
And to that soul, slipping through the fast-darkening shadows, almost
within the grasp of the great enemy, there seemed to have come some
echo of those tones, with their piercing sweetness, recalling him to
life; for, with a long, quivering breath, Guy slowly opened his eyes,
gazing, for an instant, with a dreamy smile, upon the faces
surrounding him. His eyes closed with a gentle sigh, but while those
about him anxiously awaited the next breath, they again opened, full
of the light of recognition, while a rapturous smile grew and deepened
upon his face, irradiating his features with joy, his lips moving in a
whisper so faint that only the mother's ear could catch the words:
"I thought--it was--all--a dream,--but--it--is true," then, exhausted,
he sank into a deep sleep like a child's, his breathing growing more
and more regular and natural, moment by moment.
The physicians withdrew from the bedside, their vigil was over; "He
will live," they said briefly, while in response, there rose from all
parts of the room, deep sobs of joy.