RECONCILIATION.
A few days before Mr. Chillingworth's removal to the hospital, a very
different patient had been taken thither, also sent in by Dr. Blanchard.
This was poor Lizzie Mason, who had been taken ill during Nora's
absence, and of whose illness Nora first heard from Miss Pomeroy, who
had been specially active in looking after the "Girls' Club" while Miss
Blanchard was on duty elsewhere. The story of Lizzie's illness was a sad
one. The needs of the family had made her very anxious to earn a little
more, if possible, and she had undertaken a kind of work that commanded
higher wages on account of its inconvenience. It was that of spinning
silk which had to be kept constantly wet by a spray of water, which, of
course, kept the garments of the spinner more or less wet also. The
obvious precaution of providing a water-proof suit, for this work, had
not been deemed necessary by Mr. Willett; and Lizzie could not think of
affording the outlay. So she worked on all day in damp clothes, running
home afterwards, as quickly as she could, to exchange them. While the
mild spring weather continued, no great harm resulted; but, as often
happens in spring, it had suddenly become extremely raw and cold.
Lizzie, leaving the overheated room in her damp clothing, had taken a
chill, which in her weakened constitution had brought on a attack of
pneumonia. Miss Pomeroy had been told of her illness, had gone to see
her, and, by dint of cross-examination, had ascertained its origin. She
went home in a white-heat of indignation, and told her mother the whole
story, which, at first, Mrs. Pomeroy refused to believe. Yet when she
was compelled to realize it, she suddenly burst into tears, for she was,
after all, a good and well-meaning woman; and intermingled
self-reproaches and self-defence in a most incoherent manner.
She wouldn't have believed Willett would have permitted such a
thing--but how could she know anything about it? Only to think that such
things should happen at her own door! She had been pitying the poor
women on the other side of the globe, and here were girls in their own
mill sacrificed like this! If she had only thought of looking into
things a little more! Well, such a thing would never happen again, if
she could help it!
"And, in the meantime, Clara," she said, "you will go to Doctor
Blanchard, and ask him, for me, to see this poor girl at once, and to do
the very best he can for her. And she must get everything she needs, or
fancies, to set her up again."
The result of which was, that Lizzie, after much persuasion, consented
to go to the hospital for care and treatment, one inducement being the
promise that she should be placed in the room of her friend, Mrs.
Travers, who had been doing her best to assist the tired nurses in the
busy time that the great increase of sickness had brought upon them. It
need scarcely be said that she at once became Lizzie's devoted
attendant--scarcely relaxing her watch for a moment, till Lizzie was
pronounced somewhat better, with a tolerable possibility of recovery.
It was well that she had improved before Mr. Chillingworth's arrival.
When Miss Spencer had learned that his case was pronounced an extremely
severe and dangerous one, she thought it only right to tell his wife,
who, from that moment, seemed to have no thought but for him. Indeed,
she begged so hard to be allowed to take a share in the constant
attendance he required, that Miss Spencer arranged for her doing so, on
the express condition that she should keep well out of his sight, till
the issue of the attack should be determined. Mr. Chillingworth, indeed,
was not likely to notice any one just then. He was very ill, indeed, and
lay most of the time with closed eyes, in a state of great suffering and
prostration. His wife's whole being seemed absorbed in watching him with
intense anxiety, doing everything for him that it was possible for her
to do without being observed by him, and evidently availing herself
greedily of the opportunity of once more gazing on his face--so changed,
in some respects, yet so familiar, and still to her so dear.
"That poor thing is a heroine in her way," said Dr. Blanchard, on his
return from one of his visits. "I never knew greater devotion, and after
such an experience!"
He was of the three or four people who had heard the sad story, and Nora
had to depend on him for all her information about the invalids; for
Mrs. Blanchard, nervously afraid of infection, would not hear of her
going near the hospital, even to see Lizzie Mason.
"Poor thing," exclaimed Mrs. Blanchard, sympathetically; "well, she has
her turn now! How oddly things seem to come round!"
"She took me by surprise to-day," Dr. Blanchard continued, "when I found
him so ill that I thought there was no hope for him but in the last
resort--trying to suck out the membraneous stuff with an instrument."
"Oh, Will," exclaimed his wife, "I can't bear to have you do such
things! You have no right to risk your life in that way--and all our
lives!"
"If I had done it, I should not have told you now. I've done it before.
Don't you know, we doctors are all under orders to risk life when it's
necessary? We couldn't do much, if we weren't ready for that. And I
should be a degenerate descendant of the brave Blanchards who fought for
freedom, if I couldn't face death as readily to save life, as they did
to destroy it. However, I haven't told you yet what surprised me. Just
as I was going to do it, this poor woman pressed forward,
whispering--"Oh, let _me_! It's _my_ place!"--in such an agonized way,
that I had not the heart to refuse her. I saw it was a real comfort to
her. I hardly know whether I was right or not, but I let her do it."
"Of course you were right!" Mrs. Blanchard said, much relieved. "It
_was_ her place, as she said. I should have felt just so!"
Nora said nothing; but as she silently listened, the tears started to
her eyes, at the thought of the words, "_Her sins, which are many, are
forgiven; for she loved much!_"
Whether or not it was this "last resort" that saved the clergyman's
life, he began from that time slightly to improve. The violence of the
attack abated, leaving it possible for him to secure the soothing and
strengthening rest he so much needed. And, at last, Miss Spencer, who
had been watching with deep interest the course of events, told the poor
shy watcher that she need not continue to practise such caution in
avoiding recognition. It would not hurt him, now, she thought, and it
might as well come soon as late. But it happened, after all, in a way
entirely accidental and unpremeditated.
With the first light of morning, Mr. Chillingworth awoke, at length,
from a long, restful sleep. He had no idea that his wife was in the
hospital, for he had not, of course, felt sufficiently interested in
Miss Blanchard's _protégée_, to keep track of her history. And, since
the disclosure, he had not yet dared to ask any questions.
But very probably, some chance token of a once familiar presence may
have stolen into his mind, even through the prostration of disease. It
is curious, what slight touches will start the springs of old
associations. Mr. Chillingworth, at any rate, had been dreaming a long
pleasant dream of the old happy days of his youthful love and marriage,
of wanderings in English lanes and saunterings in leafy garden-walks,
always with one fair face and graceful figure by his side, that had then
seemed to hold the whole charm of life for him. As he awoke, he had
been, in his dream, looking down at the familiar upturned face, with its
gaze of happy, trustful love.
It seemed to him, when he opened his eyes in the bare hospital room,
that he must be dreaming still. For, in a low chair beside the bed, sat,
with her head resting on it, in a quiet sleep that had stolen
irresistibly over her--the very original of his dreams. In the soft
light that penetrated through the drawn blinds, the traces left by years
and suffering on the still lovely face were almost unperceived; the soft
rings of dark hair curled low on the forehead just as he so well
remembered them--lovely even in their slight disorder. And, even as he
looked, the long lashes were raised, and the beautiful gray eyes were
opened, in a shy, half-frightened, but fascinated gaze.
Mr. Chillingworth was just in that weak and helpless state, when--if
ever in his life--a man yearns for the tender ministrations of a loving
woman. Suffering and prostration had broken down the hard coldness of
his nature, and it seemed as if he had become like a dependent child.
The old love of the former days, stirred up by his vivid dream, seemed
to thrill once more through his whole being, sweeping away all the
barriers that years and circumstances had interposed. He feebly
stretched out his arms, and by the irresistible impulse--strange
influence that love can exert over the hardest will!--the long severed
husband and wife were reunited in a close, instinctive, passionate
embrace.