The sufferer was still sleeping, and Mrs. Wayne was watching by the
bedside. Harold seated himself beside her, and gazed mournfully upon the
pale, still features that already, but for the expression of pain that
lingered there, seemed to have passed from the quiet of sleep to the
deeper calm of death.
"Each moment that I look," said Mrs. Wayne, wiping her tears away, "I
seem to see the grey shadows of the grave stealing over his brow. The
doctor was here a few moments before you came. The minister, too, sat
with him all the morning. I know from their kind warning that I shall
soon be childless. He has but a few hours to be with me. Oh, my son! my
son!"
She bent her head upon the pillow, and wept silently in the bitterness
of her heart. Harold forebore to check that holy grief; but when the
old lady, with Christian resignation, had recovered her composure, he
pressed her to seek that repose which her aged frame so much needed.
"I will sit by Arthur while you rest awhile; you have already overtasked
your strength with vigil. I will awake you should there be a change."
She consented to lie upon the sofa, and soon wept herself to sleep, for
she was really quite broken down with watching. Everything was hushed
around, save the monotones of the insects in the fields, and the
breathing of those that slept. If there is an hour when the soul is
lifted above earth and communes with holy things, it is in the stillness
of the country night, when the solitary watcher sits beside the pillow
of a loved one, waiting the coming of the dark angel, whose footsteps
are at the threshold. Harold sat gazing silently at the face of the
invalid; sometimes a feeble smile would struggle with the lines of
suffering upon the pinched and haggard lineaments, and once from the
white lips came the murmur of a name, so low that only the solemn
stillness made the sound palpable--the name of Oriana.
Toward midnight, Arthur's breathing became more difficult and painful,
and his features changed so rapidly that Harold became fearful that the
end was come. With a sigh, he stepped softly to the sofa, and wakened
Mrs. Wayne, taking her gently by the hand which trembled in his grasp.
She knew that she was awakened to a terrible sorrow--that she was about
to bid farewell to the joy of her old age. Arthur opened his eyes, but
the weeping mother turned from them; she could not bear to meet them,
for already the glassy film was veiling the azure depths whose light had
been so often turned to her in tenderness.
"Give me some air, mother. It is so close--I cannot breathe."
They raised him upon the pillow, and his mother supported the languid
head upon her bosom.
"Arthur, my son! are you suffering, my poor boy?"
"Yes. It will pass away. Do not grieve. Kiss me, dear mother."
He was gasping for breath, and his hand was tightly clasped about his
mother's withered palm. She wiped the dampness from his brow, mingling
her tears with the cold dews of death.
"Is Harold there?"
"Yes, Arthur."
"You will not forget? And you will love and guard her well?"
"Yes, Arthur."
"Put away the sword, Harold; it is accursed of God. Is not that the
moonlight that streams upon the bed?"
"Yes. Does it disturb you, Arthur?"
"No. Let it come in. Let it all come in; it seems a flood of glory."
His voice grew faint, till they could scarce hear its murmur. His
breathing was less painful, and the old smile began to wreathe about his
lips, smoothing the lines of pain.
"Kiss me, dear mother! You need not hold me. I am well enough--I am
happy, mother. I can sleep now."
He slept no earthly slumber. As the summer air that wafts a rose-leaf
from its stem, gently his last sigh stole upon the stillness of the
night. Harold lifted the lifeless form from the mother's arms, and when
it drooped upon the pillow, he turned away, that the parent might close
the lids of the dead son.
THE END.