'My own sweet wife, my Verena, as you have always been. We have been very happy together.'
'Indeed we have,' said she, a look of suffering crossing her face, as she thought of their unclouded happiness. 'It will not be so long before we meet again.'
'A few months, perhaps'--said Amabel, in a stifled voice, 'like your mother--'
'No, don't wish that, Amy. You would not wish it to have no mother.'
'You will pray--' She could say no more, but struggled for calmness.
'Yes,' he answered, 'I trust you to it and to mamma for comfort. And Charlie--I shall not rob him any longer. I only borrowed you for a little while,' he added, smiling. 'In a little while we shall meet. Years and months seem alike now. I am sorry to cause you so much grief, my Amy, but it is all as it should be, and we have been very happy.'
Amy listened, her eyes intently fixed on him, unable to repress her agitation, except by silence. After some little time, he spoke again. 'My love to Charlie--and Laura--and Charlotte, my brother and sisters. How kindly they have made me one of them! I need not ask Charlotte to take care of Bustle, and your father will ride Deloraine. My love to him, and earnest thanks, for you above all, Amy. And dear mamma! I must look now to meeting her in a brighter world; but tell her how I have felt all her kindness since I first came in my strangeness and grief. How kind she was! how she helped me and led me, and made me know what a mother was. Amy, it will not hurt you to hear it was your likeness to her that first taught me to love you. I have been so very happy, I don't understand it.'
He was again silent, as in contemplation, and Amabel's overcoming emotion had been calmed and chastened down again, now that it was no longer herself that was spoken of. Both were still, and he seemed to sleep a little. When next he spoke, it was to ask if she could repeat their old favourite lines in 'Sintram'. They came to her lips, and she repeated them in a low, steady voice.
When death, is coming near, And thy heart shrinks in fear, And thy limbs fail, Then raise thy hands and pray To Him who smooths the way Through the dark vale.
Seest thou the eastern dawn! Hear'st thou, in the red morn, The angel's song? Oh! lift thy drooping head, Thou, who in gloom and dread Hast lain so long.
Death comes to set thee free, Oh! meet him cheerily, As thy true friend And all thy fears shall cease, And In eternal peace Thy penance end.
'In eternal peace,' repeated Guy; 'I did not think it would have been so soon. I can't think where the battle has been. I never thought my life could be so bright. It was a foolish longing, when first I was ill, for the cool waves of Redclyffe bay and that shipwreck excitement, if I was to die. This is far better. Read me a psalm, Amy, 'Out of the deep.''
There was something in his perfect happiness that would not let her grieve, though a dull heavy sense of consternation was growing on her. So it went on through the night--not a long, nor a dreary one--but more like a dream. He dozed and woke, said a few tranquil words, and listened to some prayer, psalm, or verse, then slept again, apparently without suffering, except when he tried to take the cordials, and this he did with such increasing difficulty, that she hardly knew how to bear to cause him so much pain, though it was the last lingering hope. He strove to swallow them, each time with the mechanical 'Thank you,' so affecting when thus spoken; but at last he came to, 'It is of no use; I cannot.'
Then she knew all hope was gone, and sat still, watching him. The darkness lessened, and twilight came. He slept, but his breath grew short, and unequal; and as she wiped the moisture on his brow, she knew it was the death-damp.
Morning light came on--the church bell rang out matins--the white hills were tipped with rosy light. His pulse was almost gone--his hand was cold. At last he opened his eyes. 'Amy! he said, as if bewildered, or in pain.
'Here, dearest!'
'I don't see.'
At that moment the sun was rising, and the light streamed in at the open window, and over the bed; but it was 'another dawn than ours' that he beheld as his most beautiful of all smiles beamed over his face, and he said, 'Glory in the Highest!--peace--goodwill'--A struggle for breath gave an instant's look of pain, then he whispered so that she could but just hear--'The last prayer.' She read the Commendatory Prayer. She knew not the exact moment, but even as she said 'Amen' she perceived it was over. The soul was with Him with whom dwell the spirits of just men made perfect; and there lay the earthly part with a smile on the face. She closed the dark fringed eyelids--saw him look more beautiful than in sleep--then, laying her face down on the bed, she knelt on. She took no heed of time, no heed of aught that was earthly. How long she knelt she never knew, but she was roused by Anne's voice in a frightened sob--'My lady, my lady--come away! Oh, Miss Amabel, you should not be here.'
She lifted her head, and Anne afterwards told Mary Ross, 'she should never forget how my lady looked. It was not grief: it was as if she had been a little way with her husband, and was just called back.'
She rose--looked at his face again--saw Arnaud was at hand--let Anne lead her into the next room, and shut the door.
CHAPTER 36
The matron who alone has stood
When not a prop seemed left below,
The first lorn hour of widowhood,
Yet, cheered and cheering all the while,
With sad but unaffected, smile.--CHRISTIAN YEAR
The four months' wife was a widow before she was twenty-one, and there she sat in her loneliness, her maid weeping, seeking in vain for something to say that might comfort her, and struck with fear at seeing her thus composed. It might be said that she had not yet realized her situation, but the truth was, perhaps, that she was in the midst of the true realities. She felt that her Guy was perfectly happy--happy beyond thought or comparison--and she was so accustomed to rejoice with him, that her mind had not yet opened to understand that his joy left her mourning and desolate.
Thus she remained motionless for some minutes, till she was startled by a sound of weeping--those fearful overpowering sobs, so terrible in a strong man forced to give way.
'Philip!' thought she; and withal Guy's words returned-- 'It will be worse for him than for you. Take care of him.'
'I must go to him,' said she at once.
She took up a purple prayer-book that she had unconsciously brought in her hand from Guy's bed, and walked down-stairs, without pausing to think what she should say or do, or remembering how she would naturally have shrunk from the sight of violent grief.
Philip had retired to his own room the night before, overwhelmed by the first full view of the extent of the injuries he had inflicted, the first perception that pride and malevolence had been the true source of his prejudice and misconceptions, and for the first time conscious of the long-fostered conceit that had been his bane from boyhood. All had flashed on him with the discovery of the true purpose of the demand which he thought had justified his persecution. He saw the glory of Guy's character and the part he had acted,--the scales of self- admiration fell from his eyes, and he knew both himself and his cousin.
His sole comfort was in hope for the future, and in devising how his brotherly affection should for the rest of his life testify his altered mind, and atone for past ill-will. This alone kept him from being completely crushed,--for he by no means imagined how near the end was, and the physician, willing to spare himself pain, left him in hopes, though knowing how it would be. He slept but little, and was very languid in the morning; but he rose as soon as Arnaud came to him, in order not to occupy Arnaud's time, as well as to be ready in case Guy should send for him again, auguring well from hearing that there was nothing stirring above, hoping this was a sign that Guy was asleep. So hoped the two servants for a long time, but at length, growing alarmed, after many consultations, they resolved to knock at the door, and learn what was the state of things.
Philip likewise was full of anxiety, and coming to his room door to listen for intelligence, it was the 'e morto' of the passing Italians that first revealed to him the truth. Guy dead, Amy widowed, himself the cause--he who had said he would never be answerable for the death of this young man.
Truly had Guy's threat, that he would make him repent, been fulfilled. He tottered back to his couch, and sank down, in a burst of anguish that swept away all the self-control that had once been his pride. There Amabel found him stretched, face downwards, quivering and convulsed by frightful sobs.
