Janetta, close against the door outside, caught low, passionate murmurs
from within in her mistress’s voice, and guessed that she was pouring
out her heart’s wild grief in the insensate ears of the unconscious
man. It was pitiful, and tears overflowed Janetta’s eyes.
For some time the low murmuring continued, then all grew still as death.
She waited awhile, then fearful that the lady had fainted again, opened
the door and went softly in.
Everard Dawn lay still and silent, just faintly breathing, as before,
and Mrs. Varian’s dark head was bent down, resting upon the patient’s
hand.
She motioned Janetta to her side, saying, gently:
“You may share my vigil, Janetta, and because I know this seems strange
to you, I will confide in you. We loved each other very dearly once,
this man and I, but a wicked woman came between us and wrecked my
happiness. I tried to hate him, but now that he is dying, the old love
rises in me again, and my heart is breaking.”
That was all; but she knew she was sure of the other woman’s sympathy.
Janetta might marvel at the utter breaking down of the proudest woman
she had ever known, but she would love her better for her constancy and
her womanly tenderness.
So they kept their lonely vigils by the sufferer, who for twenty-four
hours gave no sign of knowing aught, until they began to fear that he
would pass into the other world without a sign or token to those left
on earth.
Mrs. Flint had been told that an old friend of her brother would help
to nurse him; but when she saw that it was Mrs. Varian, she was filled
with secret wonder that found expression in the words:
“He never told me that he knew you, madame; but I do not see how he
could have forgotten one like you.”
Mrs. Varian smiled with transient bitterness, but made no reply to
the frank compliment, only showing her appreciation of it by simple,
unaffected kindness to the grieving sister.
The night and the day wore away, and in the early dusk of the December
eve Everard Dawn suddenly opened his eyes with full consciousness in
them, and met the eager glance of large, dark, sorrowful orbs.
“Oh, Everard, it is I--_Paulina_! Do you know me?” she murmured,
prayerfully.
In a broken whisper, he answered:
“I know you.”
Then his eyes closed again, and with a stifled sob, Mrs. Varian sent
Janetta to tell the doctor.
He hastened to his side, delighted to find that his patient had
rallied; but he whispered to the anxious watcher:
“I do not dare bid you hope anything from this. The case is most
uncertain.”
She bowed her head in silence; but from that moment not a movement of
the invalid passed unwatched.
He had recovered his consciousness, but the doctor saw in him as yet no
certain chance of recovery. He was very still and quiet, speaking only
when addressed, and lying always with half-closed eyes that seemed to
notice nothing. At times they opened wider and followed Mrs. Varian’s
movements about the room, but he did not permit her to surprise that
scrutiny.
She was tender, but very timid, scarcely daring to offer the least
attention, lest it be repulsed. There rang in her memory always some
words he had uttered long ago:
“Paulina, you have put upon me an unmerited disgrace and a cruel wrong.
I will never forgive you as long as I live!”
Again, in the garden at Idlewild, three years ago, he had said to her
most bitterly:
“Do not think I have come to forgive you!”
She had never forgotten the bitterness of those words. They dazed her,
too, for in her own opinion she had been the only wronged one, he the
transgressor.
He was going out of life now, and she read in his silence that he would
keep his word, that for the grievance he cherished he would not grant
forgiveness.
Neither would he plead with her for pardon for the wrong that he had
done.
It was a cruel position for both, and she felt that he only endured her
presence for cold pity’s sake, while secretly wishing her away.
“God help me. I can not bear to leave him!” she thought, despairingly.
The next morning the travelers from Florida arrived.
Cinthia and her aunt had a most affecting meeting, though it was the
elder woman who broke down and forced the other to tears.
“Oh, Cinthy, you never loved him as I did! You never knew him at his
best--before sorrow came to him and spoiled his nature,” she sobbed.
Cinthia could only weep.
“It is not my fault that I was lacking in sympathy. I was never told of
his troubles.”
“He did not wish for you to know, dear, lest your young life should be
saddened more than it was already.”
“Dear aunt, I am very sorry for him, and grieved to see you looking so
pale and thin. Tell me how all this came about,” pleaded Cinthia. And
while they are exchanging confidences, we will return to Arthur and his
mother.
She had gone to her room to receive him alone, and he clasped her
tenderly in his arms.
“Poor mother!” he sighed, with deep compassion, and then they sat down
and talked awhile together.
“I have one pleasant piece of news for you. Cinthia and Fred are
engaged,” he said.
“I am glad of it--under the circumstances,” she replied, exactly as he
had replied to Frederick’s announcement of the betrothal.
She mused silently a moment, then added:
“It will be good news for her father. He can die easier.”
“You are sure that he must die, dear mother?”
“You will not doubt it when you see him, Arthur; and the physician does
not hold out any hope, though he thinks that the end may be lingering.”
She spoke with the steady calmness of despair, and her son looked at
her with uneasy eyes, wondering how she felt, how she was bearing it.
Perhaps she read his thoughts, for she said quickly:
“Go to him as soon as you can, dear. Perhaps it may give him some
pleasure to see you by him now. Be kind and tender--for the sake of old
days.”
“And you, mother?”
“I have done what I could--for duty’s sake.”
“Only for that?” he wondered, but dared not ask, and soon left her to
seek Mr. Dawn.
Between the two there was a touching greeting--a strange one for two
men who could only be supposed to harbor resentment against each other.
Arthur was not ashamed to shed tears when he saw that helpless form and
pallid face with the bandaged head. His voice trembled while he talked,
and Mr. Dawn’s replies were low and gentle.
“I have kept very quiet. I have saved my strength till you and Cinthia
came. I felt I would have much to bear then,” he said feebly.
Arthur answered, hopefully:
“I have good news for you. Cinthia has promised to marry my cousin
Frederick Foster. Perhaps she might bear to know our secret now.”
“Perhaps so,” he replied, with a heavy sigh; and just then the door
opened softly again, admitting Mrs. Flint with his daughter and Madame
Ray.
Arthur drew aside and returned to his mother, who was still alone,
having sent Janetta to help with the wounded woman just across the
hall--Rachel Dane.
Mrs. Varian clung to her son, whispering wildly:
“Tell me what brought her here, that beautiful Madame Ray? Is she aught
to him?”
“His daughter’s friend--nothing more, dear mother.”
“Are you sure--quite sure? For Frederick hinted once that Cinthia
wished them to marry. And she is so charming--perhaps he loves her,
Arthur?” jealously.
“No, mother, they are nothing but friends. Her heart is in the grave.
Come, let me tell you her sad, touching story.”
He drew her to a seat, and went over the sad details Madame Ray had
given him in Florida, drawing bright tears from his mother’s eyes.
Then some one knocked on the door. It was Doctor Deane.
“I have been with my patient, Mr. Dawn,” he said, “and the coming of
his daughter has greatly excited him, causing an improvement for the
time, though how long it may last I can not say. It seems as if there
is something on his mind that he wishes to communicate before he dies,
and he begs you and your son to join him at once with the others.”