For the first time Imelda’s mind was free. She had left Alice sleeping.
Not in a dull, feverish stupor, constantly interrupted with delirious
mutterings but sleeping, actually and really sleeping. And although her
breathing was only a gentle fluttering, it was so weak, it was a quiet
sleep, and she knew that for a few hours, at least, she could safely
trust her to the faithful nurse. So Imelda slept the sleep of the just.
When the morning sunlight streamed through the open window, flooding the
room with its bright glory, a servant had softly entered and with deft
fingers closed the shutters, darkening the room so that the slumbers of
the completely exhausted girl might not be disturbed; the nurse
meanwhile remaining faithful and true to her trust. Now and then a maid
softly opened the door to listen, but Imelda slept on, and when the
doctor came he gave the order to let her sleep by all means, until she
should awake of herself. So the hours of the day passed and the evening
shades were falling ere that death-like sleep was lifted and Imelda
opened her eyes. The deep hush and darkness that prevailed left her for
a long time in semi-unconsciousness, a delicious drowsiness folding her
in its power, but by and by it passed away, leaving her brain more
clear, and presently, all in an instant, she knew and remembered.
But how long had she slept? It was three o’clock when she sought her bed
and only two hours before the morning light would appear. It was still
dark, yet she did not feel as if she had slept only a short time, but
rather had the sensation of having slept a long while, she was so wide
awake, and—yes! she was hungry, very hungry. She reached out her hand
for her watch, which she remembered having placed upon the stand near
the bedside. It was there, but when she placed it to her ear she made
the discovery that it had stopped. Then she struck a light, having a
lucifer always within reach. By the flickering flame she saw that her
watch had stopped at twenty minutes of two. A puzzled look overspread
her face. What did it mean? Just then she thought she heard a footstep
outside her door; the next instant the door was softly opened.
“Who is there?” she hastily inquired, her heart giving a bound, as she
was not in the habit of leaving her door unlocked. Could she have
forgotten it? A soft laugh answered her.
“Is it you, Mary?” she asked, recognizing the voice.
“Yes, Miss Imelda, it is I. Have you decided to return to life? I was
beginning to fear you were going to sleep right over into the next
world.”
“Why, what time is it?” was Imelda’s next question, still surprised and
puzzled.
“Almost eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock! Why, Mary, you ought to have called me ere this. Mrs.
Boswell ought to have been relieved some time ago. But why is it so
dark? I thought I had the windows open.”
“So you had. I made free to close them but will open them now,” saying
which the girl unfastened and opened the shutters. Instead of the bright
sunshine, as Imelda had expected, only a hazy twilight filled it with
dim shadows.
“What does this mean?” she stammered. “Why, it is quite dark. Did you
not say that it is almost eight o’clock?” She was growing impatient.
Mary’s laugh again rang through the room.
“Yes,” she said “it is eight o’clock, not in the morning but in the
evening.”
Imelda was sitting bolt upright in bed now.
“What! Do you mean to say that I have slept all day through?”
“Just that, and nothing else.”
“O, that was wrong! I ought to have been called long ago. How is——” she
stopped, a sudden fear holding her tongue a prisoner.
“Mrs. Westcot is getting better,”—supplementing the unfinished question
and answering it at the same time. “She, like yourself, has been
sleeping all day.”
“And Mrs. Boswell——?”
“Has also had a nap while I sat with Mrs. Westcot, and if you will rise
and dress I will prepare you some—breakfast,” and laughing again she
disappeared leaving Imelda to her own reflections, but first having lit
the gas overhead. No hesitation now. Hastily she arose and quickly made
her toilet. Donning a wrapper she twisted the dark hair into a shining
coil, and in a few minutes descended to the dining room where Mary had
spread for her a tempting meal.
Imelda was a favorite with the servants, who were always willing to do a
favor for this fair girl from the west, who was so considerate. It was
well known that Mrs. Westcot was also from the western metropolis, and
they often wondered if people in the west generally were so kind and
considerate. It would have been impossible for the gentle-hearted Alice
to assume aristocratic airs, therefore she could always depend upon her
servants, and all hearts were filled with fear while the gentle mistress
was raving of real or fancied woes, and when at last, after weary weeks,
the crisis was over, it was as if a heavy cloud had passed away, and the
gloomy faces were bright.
Having done ample justice to the generous repast, and feeling much
refreshed, Imelda sped to the chamber above. Softly she opened the door
and moved to the bedside. Mrs. Boswell was sitting with her elbow
resting upon the bed, her head upon her hand. She never moved as Imelda
stepped to her side. Bending down she found that the nurse was fast
asleep. A pang smote her that while she, in the strength of youth, had
slept the day away the much older woman had continued at her post. True,
Mary had said that she had relieved her for awhile, but Imelda knew that
she, like herself, needed a good long rest, and she decided that she
should have it. Seeing that Alice too was sleeping, she gently touched
Mrs. Boswell on the shoulder and slightly shaking her the nurse awoke
with a start. Imelda held up a warning finger to prevent her from making
an outcry. But the woman was frightened. She felt guilty at having been
found asleep at her post of duty. Hastily reaching for her watch she
breathed a sigh of relief.
“Only ten minutes,” she whispered. “She has been sleeping so long,”
indicating Alice, “that I suppose the quiet has overpowered me.”
“And no wonder,” said Imelda,—“you are certainly in need of rest. I will
now take your place while you sleep all night and all day tomorrow, too,
if you wish. So just give me the directions for tonight, and then away
to your couch.” The woman smiled.
“Thank you. I am only too glad to accept.” After giving the proper
directions she added: “And now if you will excuse me I will accept your
kind offer and sleep. Mary took my place for several hours or I fear I
could not have held out. In the morning I will be ready to take my place
again.”
So the nurse withdrew and left Imelda alone with her sick friend, and as
she largely imitated the example of the young girl and slept until the
afternoon of the next day, Imelda had a long watch before her.
But we are forestalling. While the nurse has gone to recruit her
strength in sleep we will remain with Imelda and follow the outline of
her thoughts as she watched her sick friend. Over three weeks have now
passed since the promenade of the lovers in the moonlight under the
silver maples,—the evening after that on which for the first time she
had discarded her mourning garments, when they had spent two happy hours
together, Imelda adroitly preventing a repetition of the pleadings of
the night before. She was happy, and was willing that Norman should know
it. He in turn had been content to drink the kisses from the dewy lips
and leave the morrow to take care of itself.
Since that evening Imelda had seen but little of her lover. If he came
in the evening she scarcely ever had longer than a half hour to give
him. The cloud that hung above this house was too dark to admit of much
happiness or joy for them. On the other hand it did not give them the
leisure to discuss the question nearest their hearts, and Imelda did not
wish it just now.
Long ere this, had the answer come to the long letter that she had
written to Margaret. But not alone in Margaret’s delicate tracing had
the answer come. A long letter had also come in the bolder handwriting
of Wilbur Wallace. Her heart gave a bound as she recognized the hand,
while the rich blood rushed in a hot wave to her face dyeing her
temples, ears and neck. What would he have to say? With a beating heart
she had opened it. Something impelled her to lay Margaret’s aside until
she first perused Wilbur’s letter.