Chapter 54

NURSING THE SICK.

The figure that lay upon the bed as Hilda entered the room sent a shock to her heart at the first glance. Very different was this one from that tall, strong man who but lately, in all the pride of manly beauty and matured strength, overawed her by his presence. What was he now? Where now was all that virile force, and strong, resistless nature, whose overmastering power she had experienced? Alas! but little of it could be seen in this wasted and emaciated figure that now lay before her, seemingly at the last verge of life. His features had grown thin and attenuated, his lips were drawn tight over his teeth, his face had the stamp of something like death upon it. He was sleeping fitfully, but his eyes were only half closed. His thin, bony hands moved restlessly about, and his lips muttered inarticulate words from time to time. Hilda placed her hand on his forehead. It was cold and damp. The cold sent a chill through every nerve. She bent down low over him. She devoured him with her eyes. That face, worn away by the progress of disease, that now lay unconscious, and without a ray of intelligence beneath her, was yet to her the best thing in all the world, and the one for which she would willingly give up the world. She stooped low down. She pressed her lips to his cold forehead. An instant she hesitated, and then she pressed her lips this time to the white lips that were before her. The long, passionate kiss did not wake the slumberer. He knew not that over him was bending one who had once sent him to death, but who now would give her own life to bring him back from that death to which she had sent him.

Such is the change which can be worked in the basest nature by the power of almighty love. Here it was made manifest. These lips had once given the kiss of Judas. On this face of hers the Earl of Chetwynde had gazed in horror; and these hands of hers, that now touched tremblingly the brow of the sick man, had once wrought out on him that which would never be made known. But the lips which once gave the kiss of Judas now gave that kiss which was the outpouring of the devotion of all her soul, and these hands were ready to deal death to herself to rescue him from evil. She twined her arms around his neck, and gazed at him as though her longing eyes would devour every lineament of his features. Again and again she pressed her lips to his, as though she would thus force upon him life and health and strength. But the sick man lay unconscious in her arms, all unheeding that full tide of passionate love which was surging and swelling within her bosom.

At last footsteps aroused her. A woman entered. She walked to the bedside and looked with tender sympathy at Hilda. She had heard from Gretchen that this was Lady Chetwynde, who had come to nurse her husband.

"Are you the nurse?" asked Hilda, who divined at one glance the character of the newcomer.

"Yes, my lady."

"Well, I am to be the nurse after this, but I should like you to remain. You can wait in one of the ante-rooms."

"Forgive me, my lady, if I say that you yourself are in need of a nurse. You will not be able to endure this fatigue. You look overworn now. Will you not take some rest?"

"No," said Hilda, sharply and decisively.

"My lady," said the nurse, "I will watch while you are resting."

"I shall not leave the room."

"Then, my lady, I will spread a mattress on the sofa, and you may lie down."

"No, I am best here by his side. Here I can get the only rest and the only strength that I want. I must be near enough to touch his hand and to see his face. Here I will stay."

"But, my lady, you will break down utterly."

"No, I shall not break down. I shall be strong enough to watch him until he is either better or worse. If he gets better, he will bring me back to health; if he gets worse, I will accompany him to the tomb."

Hilda spoke desperately. Her old self-control, her reticence, and calm had departed. The nurse looked at her with a face full of sympathy, and said not a word. The sight of this young and beautiful wife, herself so weak, so wan, and yet so devoted, so young and beautiful, yet so wasted and emaciated, whose only desire was to live or die by the side of her husband, roused all the feelings of her heart. To some Hilda's conduct would have been unintelligible; but this honest Swiss nurse was kind-hearted and sentimental, and the fervid devotion and utter self-abnegation of Hilda brought tears to her eyes.

"Ah, my lady," said she, "I see I shall soon have two to nurse."

"Well, if you have, it will not be for long," said Hilda.

The nurse sighed and was silent.

"May I remain, my lady, or shall I go?" she asked.

"You may go just now. See how my maid is doing, and if she wants any directions."

The nurse retired, and Hilda was again alone with the sick man. She sat on the bedside leaning over him, and twined her arms about him. There, as he lay, in his weakness and senselessness, she saw her own work. It was she, and no other, who had doomed him to this. Too well had her agent earned out the fatal commission which she had given. As his valet he had had constant access to the person of Lord Chetwynde, and had used his opportunities well. She understood perfectly how it was that such a thing as this had been brought about. She knew every part of the dread process, and had read enough to know the inevitable results.

And now--would he live or die? Life was low. Would it ever rally again? Had she come in time to save him, or was it all too late? The reproaches which she hurled against herself were now overwhelming her, and these reproaches alternated with feelings of intense tenderness. She was weak from her own recent illness, from the unwonted fatigue which she had endured, and from the excitement of that recent interview with Gualtier. Thus torn and tossed and distracted by a thousand contending emotions, Hilda sat there until at length weakness and fatigue overpowered her. It seemed to her that a change was coming over the face of the sick man. Suddenly he moved, and in such a way that his face was turned full toward her as he lay on his side. At that moment it seemed to her that the worst had come--that at last death himself had placed his stamp there, and that there was now no more hope. The horror of this fancy altogether overcame her. She fell forward and sank down.

When at length the nurse returned she found Hilda senseless, lying on the bed, with her arm still under the head of Lord Chetwynde. She called Gretchen, and the two made a bed on the sofa, where they lifted Hilda with tenderest care. She lay long unconscious, but at last she recovered. Her first thoughts were full of bewilderment, but finally she comprehended the whole situation.

Now at length she found that she had been wasting precious moments upon useless reflections and idle self-reproaches. If she had come to save, that safety ought not to be delayed. She hurriedly drew from her pocket a vial and opened it. It was the same which she had obtained from the London druggist. She smelled it, and then tasted it. After this she rose up, in spite of the solicitations of the nurse and Gretchen, and tottered toward the bed with unsteady steps, supported by her attendants. Then she seated herself on the bedside, and, asking for a spoon, she tried with a trembling hand to pour out some of the mixture from the vial. Her hands shook so that she could not. In despair she allowed the nurse to administer it, while Gretchen supported her, seating herself behind her in such a way that Hilda could lean against her, and still see the face of the sick man. In this position she watched while the nurse put the liquid into Lord Chetwynde's mouth, and saw him swallow it.

"My lady, you must lie down, or you will never get over this," said the nurse, earnestly, and passing her arms around Hilda, she gently drew her back to the sofa, assisted by Gretchen. Hilda allowed herself to be moved back without a word. For the remainder of that day she watched, lying on her sofa, and gave directions about the regular administration of the medicine. At her request they drew the sofa close up to the bedside of Lord Chetwynde, and propped her up high with pillows. There she lay weakly, with her face turned toward him, and her hand clasping his.

Night came, and Hilda still watched. Fatigue and weakness were fast overpowering her. Against these she struggled bravely, and lay with her eyes fixed on Lord Chetwynde. In that sharp exercise of her senses, which were all aroused in his behalf, she became at last aware of the fact that they were getting beyond her control. Before her eyes, as she gazed upon this man, there came other and different visions. She saw another sick-bed, in a different room from this, with another form stretched upon it--a form like this, yet unlike, for it was older--a form with venerable gray hairs, with white, emaciated face, and with eyes full of fear and entreaty. At that sight horror came over her. She tried to rouse herself from the fearful state into which she was drifting. She summoned up all that remained of her physical and mental energy. The struggle was severe. All things round her seemed to change incessantly into the semblances of other things; the phantoms of a dead past--a dead but not a forgotten past--crowded around her, and all the force of her will was unavailing to repel them. She shuddered as she discovered the full extent of her own weakness, and saw where she was drifting. For she was drifting helplessly into the realm of shadowy memories; into the place where the past holds its empire; surrounded by all those forms which time and circumstance have rendered dreadful; forms from which memory shrinks, at whose aspect the soul loses all its strength. Here they were before her; kept back so long, they now crowded upon her; they asserted themselves, they forced themselves before her in her weakness. Her brain reeled; the strong, active intellect, which in health had been so powerful, now, in her hour of weakness, failed her. She struggled against these horrors, but the struggle was unavailing, and at last she yielded--she failed--she sank down headlong and helplessly into the abyss of forgotten things, into the thick throng of forms and images from which for so long a time she had kept herself apart.

Now they came before her.

The room changed to the old room at Chetwynde Castle. There was the window looking out upon the park. There was the door opening into the hall. Zillah stood there, pale and fearful, bidding her good-night. There was the bed upon which lay the form of a venerable man, whose face was ever turned toward her with its expression of fear, and of piteous entreaty. "Don't leave me," he murmured to the phantom form of Zillah. "Don't leave me with her," and his thin finger pointed to herself. But Zillah, ignorant of all danger, promised to send Mrs. Hart. And Zillah walked out, standing at the door for a time to give her last look--the look which the phantom of this vision now had. Then, with a momentary glance, the phantom figure of Zillah faded away, and only the prostrate figure of the Earl appeared before her, with the white face, and the venerable hair, and the imploring eyes.

Then she walked to the window and looked out; then she walked to the door and looked down the hall. Silence was every where. All were asleep. No eye beheld her. Then she returned. She saw the white face of the sick man, and the imploring eyes encountered hers. Again she walked to the window; then she went to his bedside. She stooped down. His white face was beneath her, with the imploring eyes. She kissed him.

"Judas!"

That was the sound that she heard--the last sound--for soon in that abhorrent vision the form of the dead lay before her, and around it the household gathered; and Zillah sat there, with a face of agony, looking up to her and saying:

"I am the next victim!"

Then all things were forgotten, and innumerable forms and phantoms came confusedly together.

She was in delirium.