"Better in one sense of the word, in so far as that he is now conscious;
worse in another. He is sinking fast."
A tremor shook Helen from head to foot. She turned away to hide it. I
spoke.
"Do you mean--dying?"
"I fear so."
"Are his friends with him?"
"Not any of them. His father was sent to yesterday, but he has not yet
come. We did not write before, not having anticipated danger."
"Why don't they have Henry Carden to him?" cried Helen in passionate
agitation as the doctor walked away. "_He_ could have cured him."
"No, no, Helen; don't think that. Other men are just as clever as Henry
Carden. They have only one treatment for fever."
A servant-girl answered the door, and asked us into the parlour. She
took us for the relations from the north. Mr. Leafchild was lying in a
room near--a comfortable bed-chamber. Three doctors were attending him,
she said; but just now the nurse was alone with him. Would we like to go
in? she added: we had been expected all day.
"Come with me, Johnny," whispered Helen.
He was lying in bed, white and still, his eyes wide open. The nurse, a
stout old woman in light print gown and full white apron, stood at a
round table in the corner, noiselessly washing a wine-glass. She turned
her head, curtsied, and bustled out of the room.
But wasn't he weak, as his poor thin hands clasped Helen's! His voice
was hollow as he tried to speak to her. The bitter tears, running down
her checks, were dropping on to the bed-clothes.
"You should not have come", he managed to say. "My love, my love!"
"Is there no hope?" she sobbed. "Oh, Charles, is there _no_ hope?"
"May God soothe it to you! May He have you always in His good keeping!"
"And is it no trouble to you to die?" she went on, reproach in her
anguished tone. "Have you no regret for the world, and--and for those
you leave behind?"
"It is God's will," he breathed. "To myself it is no trouble, for He has
mercifully taken the trouble from me. I regret you, my Helen, I regret
the world. Or, rather, I should regret it, but that I know I am going to
one brighter and better. You will come to me there, my dear one, and we
shall live together for ever."
Helen knelt down by the bed; he was lying close on the edge of it; and
laid her wet face against his. He held her to him for a moment, kissed
her fervently, and then motioned to me to take her away.
"For your own sake, my dear," he whispered. "You are in danger here.
Give my dear love to them all."
Helen just waved her hand back at me, as much as to say, Don't _you_
interfere. But at that moment the fat old nurse bustled in again, with
the announcement that two of the doctors and Mr. Leafchild's rector were
crossing the road. That aroused Helen.
One minute's close embrace, her tears bedewing his dying cheeks, one
lingering hand-clasp of pain, and they parted. Parted for all time. But
not for eternity.
"God be with you ever!" he breathed, giving her his solemn blessing.
"Farewell, dear Johnny Ludlow!"
"I am so sorry! If you could but get well!" I cried, my eyes not much
dryer than Helen's.
"I shall soon be well: soon," he answered with a sweet faint smile, his
feeble clasp releasing my hand, which he had taken. "But not here. Fare
you well."
Helen hid herself in a turn of the passage till the doctors had gone in,
and then we walked down the street together, she crying softly. Just
opposite Salt Lane, a fly passed at a gallop. Dr. Leafchild sat in it
muffled in coats, a cloud of sorrow on his generally pompous face.
* * * * *
And that was the abrupt end of poor Charles Leafchild, for he died at
midnight, full of peace. God's ways are not as our ways; or we might
feel tempted to ask why so good and useful a servant should have been
taken.
And so, you perceive, there was another marriage of Helen Whitney
frustrated. Fortune seemed to be against her.