THE BUNDLE OF MYRRH
"'If he sleep, he shall do well,'" quoted the doctor, quietly. "Nothing
but this could give him a chance of pulling through."
Diana looked up, dazed.
Sir Deryck was bending over her, scrutinizing closely, in the dim light,
the quiet face upon her breast.
"Is he alive?" she whispered.
The doctor's fingers had found David's pulse.
"Alive? Why, yes," he said; "and better than merely alive. He has fallen
into a natural sleep. His pulse is steadying and strengthening every
moment. If he can but sleep on like this for a couple of hours, we shall
be able to give him nourishment when he wakes. Don't move! I can do what
has to be done, without disturbing him.... So! that will do. Now tell
me. Can you remain as you are for another hour or two?"
"All night, if necessary," she whispered.
"Good! Then I will place a chair behind the screen, and either a nurse,
or Walters, or myself will be there, without fail; so that you can call
softly, if you need help or relief."
He bent, and looked again closely at the sleeping face.
"Poor boy," he whispered, gently. "It seems to me he has, in God's
providence, reached, just in time, the only thing that could save him.
Keep up heart, Mrs. Rivers. Remember that every moment of contact with
your vital force is vitalizing him. It is like pouring blood into empty
veins; only a more subtle and mysterious process, and more wonderful in
its results. Let your muscles relax, as much as possible. We can prop
you with pillows, presently."
The doctor went softly out.
"All night, if necessary," repeated Diana's happy heart, in an ecstasy
of hope and thankfulness. "A bundle of myrrh is my well-belovèd unto me;
he shall lie all night--all night--Oh, God, send me strength to kneel
on, and hold him!"
She could feel the intense life and love which filled her, enveloping
him, in his deathly weakness. She bent her whole mind upon imparting to
him the outflow of her vitality.
The room was very still.
Distant clocks struck the hour of midnight.
It was Christmas-day!
* * * * *
From an old church, just behind the hospital, where a midnight carol
service was being held, came the sound of an organ, in deep tones of
rolling harmony. Then, softened by intervening windows into the
semblance of angelic music, rose the voices of the choristers, in the
great Christmas hymn:
"Hark, the herald angels sing,
Glory to the new-born King!"
And kneeling there, in those first moments of Christmas morning;
kneeling in deepest reverence of praise and adoration, Diana's womanhood
awoke, at last, in full perfection.
"Glory to the new-born King,"
the helpless Babe of Bethlehem, pillowed upon a maiden's gentle breast,
clasped in a virgin mother's arms; the Babe Whose advent should hallow
the birth of mortal infants, for all time;
"Born to raise the sons of earth;
Born to give them second birth."
Diana hardly knew, as she knelt on, listening to the quiet breathing at
her bosom, whether the rapture which enfolded her was mostly
mother-love, or wifely tenderness.
But she knew that her heart beat in unison with the heart of the Virgin
Mother in Bethlehem's starlit stable.
She had seen, in one revealing ray of eternal light, the true vocation
of her womanhood.
* * * * *
And again the organ pealed forth triumphant chords; while the voices of
the distant choir carolled:
"Hark, the herald angels sing,
Glory to the new-born King."