FUTILE PLEADINGS.
Elsie was better that morning. When the physician arrived he pronounced
her much improved, and confessed to Mellen that he had at first feared
an attack upon the brain, but he believed now it was only the result of
a severe nervous paroxysm. This time he made no inquiries of Mellen
concerning his wife; the manner in which they had been received on the
previous day did not invite a renewal of the subject.
Elsie was eager to get up, after her usual habit, the moment she began
to feel better; but the doctor ordered her to lie in bed, at least for
that day.
"But I want to get up so badly," said she, when her brother returned to
the chamber; "I am so tired of lying here."
"Just have patience for to-day; the doctor would not allow the least
exertion."
"He's a cross old thing!" pouted Elsie, with a faint return to her old
manner, which made Mellen both sigh and smile.
"You will soon be able to put him at defiance. But, indeed, you are so
weak now you could not attempt too much."
"Oh, that's nonsense! I don't believe anything about it. You shall stay
here with me; if I have to be kept prisoner I will hold you fast, too."
"There is no fear of my attempting to leave the room," he replied.
Elsie felt much improved. She sat up in bed, made her brother play at
various games of cards with her, talked and looked herself again.
But into the conversation, in which Mellen did his best to hold a share,
there crept some chance mention of that name which those walls must no
longer hear. It fell from Elsie's lips thoughtlessly, and at once
dispelled her faint attempt at cheerfulness, throwing her into the gloom
which she had succeeded in shutting out for a little time.
"Did you write that letter, Grant?" she asked, quickly.
"Yes; I sent it down to the village, to go by the morning's mail."
"Thank you, Grant, thank you!"
She attempted to console herself with thinking she had done something in
Elizabeth's behalf, but when her conscience compared it with all that
she ought to have done, her coward heart shrank back at the contrast.
"I am tired of cards," she said, sweeping the bits of pasteboard off the
bed with one of her abrupt movements, which would have been rude in
another, but seemed graceful and childish in her. "Cards are stupid
things at the best!"
Mellen patiently collected the scattered pack and laid it away, trying
to think of some other means of relieving her _ennui_.
"Shall I read to you?" he asked.
"I don't believe I could listen," she said, tossing her head wearily
about. "I don't know--just try."
There was a pile of new novels and magazines on the table in the centre
of the room, for Elsie always kept herself liberally supplied with these
sources of distraction, though it must be confessed that she generally
carried the recreation to an extreme, reading her romance to the
exclusion of more solid studies, just as she preferred nibbling
bon-bons, to eating substantial food.
"There certainly is opportunity for a choice," Mellen said, glancing at
the pile. "What book will you choose?"
"Oh, bring a magazine; read me some short story."
Mellen seated himself, opened the periodical and commenced reading the
first tale he lighted upon. It was a story by a popular author,
beginning in a light, pleasant way, and promising the amusement his
listener needed. But as the little romance went on it deepened into a
pathetic tragedy. It was an account of a noble-born Sicilian woman who,
during the Revolution, endured, silently, every species of suffering, at
last death itself, rather than betray her husband to his enemies, yet
the husband had bitterly wronged her and half-broken her heart during
their married life.
Elsie did not listen at first, but as the story went on her thoughts
became so painful that she tried to fasten her attention upon the
reading. When she began to take notice Mellen was just in the midst of
the account of this Sicilian woman's martyrdom in prison, bearing up
with such serene patience, faithful to her vow, firm in her
determination to save the man who had injured her.
Elsie fairly snatched the volume from his hand.
"Don't read it!" she exclaimed. "What made you choose such a doleful
thing; it makes my flesh creep."
He saw the change which had come over her face, and reproached himself
for his carelessness in having chosen so sad a tale; but the truth was,
in his absorption, he had not the slightest idea of what he was reading,
his voice sounded in his own ears mechanical, and as if it belonged to
some other person.
He went to the table to make a more fortunate selection.
"Here is a volume of parodies," he said, "shall I try those?"
"Anything; I don't care."
He commenced a mischievous travestie of a poem, but though it was
wittily done, its lightness jarred so terribly on both reader and
listener that it was speedily thrown aside. For some time they remained
in gloomy silence, then Elsie began to moan and move restlessly about,
then Mellen tried to rouse himself and be cheerful again.
The afternoon passed very much in the same way. At last Elsie declared
that she would sleep awhile.
"Anything to wear away the time!" she said.
Mellen wondered if he should ever find anything that would shorten the
hours to him, but he held his peace.
"I have such an odd, horrible feeling," said Elsie; "just as if I were
waiting anxiously for something--every instant expecting it."
"That is because you are nervous."
"Perhaps so," she said, fretfully.
He was waiting. Henceforth life would be but one long waiting just for
revenge, then to be free from the dull pressure of this existence.
"How white you are!" Elsie said suddenly. "I don't believe you have
slept at all."
It was true. For nights Mellen had not closed his eyes, but he felt no
approach towards drowsiness even now.
"You will fall sick!" cried Elsie. "What shall I do then?"
"Don't be afraid; I am well and strong."
He said the words with a loathing bitterness of his own ability to
endure.
The more powerful his physical organization, the more years of
loneliness and pain would be left for him to bear. His mind flew on to
the future; he pictured the long, long course towards old age; the
dreary lapse of time which would bring only a cold exterior over his
sufferings, like a crust of lava hardening above the volcanic fires
beneath.
"Don't sit so, looking at nothing," cried Elsie.
"Yes, dear. There, do you think you can go to sleep?"
"I won't try, unless you go to sleep too. Draw the sofa up by the bed
and lie down."
He obeyed her command, willing to gratify her least caprice. She gave
him one of her pillows, threw a part of the counterpane over him, and
made him lie there, holding fast to his hand, afraid to be alone, even
in her dreams.
"Do you feel sleepy, Grant?" she asked, after a pause.
"Perhaps so; I am resting, at all events."
"Don't you remember when I was sick once, years ago, I never would sleep
unless I held your hand?"
"Yes, dear."
How far back the time looked--he had been a mere youth then--what a
fearful waste lay between that season and the present!
Suddenly Elsie started up again.
"You sent the letter, Grant?"
"Yes, yes; be content."
She was so much afraid even to sleep, that it relieved her to turn her
last waking thoughts upon some little good she was doing Elizabeth.
"Good-night, now," she said; "I can go to sleep. Kiss my hand, Grant.
You love me, don't you?"
"Always, darling, always; nothing can part you and me."
She fell away into a tranquil slumber, and Mellen lay for a long time
watching her repose; it was a brief season of peace to her, for burning
thoughts had not followed her into her dreams.
The extreme quiet, the sight of her placid face soothed him
imperceptibly. A dreary weakness began to make itself felt after that
long continued excitement. At length the lids drooped over his eyes, and
he slept almost as profoundly as Elsie herself. For a long time there
was no sound in the chamber; the brother and sister lay slumbering while
the day wore on and the twilight crept slowly around.
When Elsie awoke it was to rouse him with the cry which had been so
often on her lips during the previous day--
"Bessie, Bessie!"
He started up, spoke to her, and his voice brought her back to the
reality.
"I was so happy," she moaned; "I dreamed that Bessie and I were
gathering pond lilies--she was wreathing them about my head--then just
as I woke I saw a snake sting her--before that it was all bright. Oh,
dear, if I could only sleep forever!"