Chapter 57

BACK TO LIFE.

On the next day, according to the doctor's promise, Hilda was taken into Lord Chetwynde's room. She was much stronger, and the newfound hope which she possessed of itself gave her increased vigor. She was carried in, and gently laid upon the sofa, which had been rolled up close by the bedside of Lord Chetwynde. Her first eager look showed her plainly that during the interval which had elapsed since she saw him last a great improvement had taken place. He was still unconscious, but his unconsciousness was that of a deep, sweet sleep, in which pleasant dreams had taken the place of delirious fancies. His face had lost its aspect of horror; there was no longer to be seen the stamp of death; the lips were full and red; the cheeks were no longer sunken; the dark circles had passed away from around the eyes; and the eyes themselves were now closed, as in sleep, instead of having that half-open appearance which before was so terrible and so deathlike. The chill damp had left his forehead. It was the face of one who is sleeping in pleasant slumber, instead of the face of one who was sinking rapidly into the realm where the sleep is eternal. All this Hilda saw at the first glance.

Her heart thrilled within her at the rapture of that discovery. The danger was over. The crisis had passed. Now, whether he lay there for a longer or a shorter period, his recovery at last was certain, as far as any thing human and mortal can be certain. Now her eyes, as they turned toward him, devoured him with all their old eagerness. Since she had seen him last she too had gone down to the gates of death, and she had come back again to take her place at his side. A strange joy and a peace that passed all understanding arose within her. She sent the nurse out of the room, and once more was alone with this man whom she loved. His face was turned toward her. She flung her arms about him in passionate eagerness, and, weak as she was, she bent down her lips to his. Unconscious he lay there, but the touch of his lips was now no longer like the touch of death.

She herself seemed to gain new strength from the sight of him as he thus lay in that manly beauty, which, banished for a time, had now returned again. She lay there on her sofa by his bedside, and held his hand in both of hers. She watched his face, and scanned every one of those noble lineaments, which now lay before her with something like their natural beauty. Hopes arose within her which brought new strength every moment. This was the life which she had saved. She forgot--did not choose to think--that she had doomed this life to death, and chose only to think that she had saved it from death. Thus she thought that, when Lord Chetwynde came forth out of his senselessness, she would be the first object that would meet his gaze, and he would know that he had been saved from death by her.

Here, then, she took up her place by his bedside, and saw how every day he grew better. Every day she herself regained her old strength, and could at length walk about the room, though she was still thin and feeble. So the time passed; and in this room the one who first escaped from the jaws of death devoted herself to the task of assisting the other.

At last, one morning as the sun rose, Lord Chetwynde waked. He looked around the room. He lifted himself up on his elbow, and saw Hilda asleep on the sofa near his bed. He felt bewildered at this strange and unexpected figure. How did she get here? A dim remembrance of his long sickness suggested itself, and he had a vague idea of this figure attending upon him. But the ideas and remembrances were too shadowy to be grasped. The room he remembered partially, for this was the room in which he had sunk down into this last sickness at Lausanne. But the sleeping form on the sofa puzzled him. He had seen her last at Chetwynde. What was she doing here? He scanned her narrowly, thinking that he might be mistaken from some chance resemblance. A further examination, however, showed that he was correct. Yes, this was "his wife," yet how changed! Pale as death was that face; those features were thin and attenuated; the eyes were closed; the hair hung in black masses round the marble brow; an expression of sadness dwelt there; and in her fitful, broken slumber she sighed heavily. He looked at her long and steadfastly, and then sank wearily down upon the pillows, but still kept his eyes fixed upon this woman whom he saw there. How did she get here? What was she doing? What did it all mean? His remembrance could not supply him with facts which might answer this question. He could not understand, and so he lay there in bewilderment, making feeble conjectures.

When Hilda opened her eyes the first thing that she saw was the face of Lord Chetwynde, whose eyes were fixed upon hers. She started and looked confused; but amidst her confusion an expression of joy darted across her face, which was evident and manifest to Lord Chetwynde. It was joy--eager, vivid, and intense; joy mingled with surprise; and her eyes at last rested on him with mute inquiry.

"Are you at last awake, my lord?" she murmured. "Are you out of your stupor?"

"I suppose so," said Lord Chetwynde. "But I do not understand this. I think I must be in Lausanne."

"Yes, you are in Lausanne, my lord, at the Hotel Gibbon."

"The Hotel Gibbon?" repeated Lord Chetwynde.

"Yes. Has your memory returned yet?"

"Only partially. I think I remember the journey here, but not very well. I hardly know where I came from. It must have been Baden." And he tried, but in vain, to recollect.

"You went from Frankfort to Baden, thence to Munich, and from Munich you came here."

"Yes," said Lord Chetwynde, slowly, as he began to recollect. "You are right. I begin to remember. But I have been ill, and I was ill at all these places. How long have I been here?"

"Five weeks."

"Good God!" cried Lord Chetwynde. "Is it possible? I must have been senseless all the time."

"Yes, this is the first time that you have come to your senses, my lord."

"I can scarcely remember any thing."

"Will you take your medicine now, my lord?"

"My medicine?"

"Yes," said Hilda, sitting up and taking a vial from the table; "the doctor ordered this to be given to you when you came out of your stupor."

"Where is my nurse?" asked Lord Chetwynde, abruptly, after a short but thoughtful silence.

"She is here, my lord. She wants to do your bidding. I am your nurse."

"You!"

"Yes, my lord. And now--do not speak, but take your medicine," said Hilda; and she poured out the mixture into a wine-glass and handed it to him.

He took it mechanically, and without a word, and then his head fell back, and he lay in silence for a long time, trying to recall his scattered thoughts. While he thus lay Hilda reclined on the sofa in perfect silence, motionless yet watchful, wondering what he was thinking about, and waiting for him to speak. She did not venture to interrupt him, although she perceived plainly that he was fully awake. She chose rather to leave him to his own thoughts, and to rest her fate upon the course which those thoughts might take. At last the silence was broken.

"I have been very ill?" he said at last, inquiringly.

"Yes, my lord, very ill. You have been down to the very borders of the grave."

"Yes, it must have been severe. I felt it coming on when I arrived in France," he murmured; "I remember now. But how did you hear about it?"

"Your valet telegraphed. He was frightened," said she, "and sent for me."

"Ah?" said Lord Chetwynde.

Hilda said nothing more on that subject. She would wait for another and a better time to tell him about that. The story of her devotion and of her suffering might yet be made known to him, but not now, when he had but partly recovered from his delirium.

Little more was said. In about an hour the nurse came in and sat near him. After some time the doctor came and congratulated him.

"Let me congratulate you, my lord," said he, "on your favorable condition. You owe your life to Lady Chetwynde, whose devotion has surpassed any thing that I have ever seen. She has done every thing--I have done nothing."

Lord Chetwynde made some commonplace compliment to his skill, and then asked him how long it would be before he might recover.

"That depends upon circumstances," said the doctor. "Rest and quiet are now the chief things which are needed. Do not be too impatient, my lord. Trust to these things, and rely upon the watchful care of Lady Chetwynde."

Lord Chetwynde said nothing. To Hilda, who had listened eagerly to this conversation, though she lay with closed eyes, his silence was perplexing, She could not tell whether he had softened toward her or not. A great fear arose within 'her that all her labor might have been in vain; but her matchless patience came to her rescue. She would wait--she would wait--she should at last gain the reward of her patient waiting.

The doctor, after fully attending to Lord Chetwynde, turned to her.

"You are weak, my lady," he said, with respectful sympathy, and full of pity for this devoted wife, who seemed to him only to live in her husband's presence. "You must take more care of yourself for _his_ sake."

Hilda murmured some inarticulate words, and the doctor, after some further directions, withdrew.

Days passed on. Lord Chetwynde grew stronger every day. He saw Hilda as his chief attendant and most devoted nurse. He marked her pale face, her wan features, and the traces of suffering which still remained visible. He saw that all this had been done for his sake. Once, when she was absent taking some short rest, he had missed that instant attention which she had shown. With a sick man's impatience, he was troubled by the clumsiness of the hired nurse, and contrasted it with Hilda's instant readiness, and gentle touch, and soft voice of love.

At last, one day when Hilda was giving him some medicine, the vial dropped from her hands, and she sank down senseless by his bedside. She was carried away, and it was long before she came to herself.

"You must be careful of your lady, my lord," said the doctor, after he had seen her. "She has worn herself out for you, and will die some day by your bedside. Never have I seen such tenderness, and such fond devotion. She is the one who has saved you from death. She is now giving herself to death to insure your recovery. Watch over her. Do not let her sacrifice herself now. The time has come when she can spare herself. Surely now, at last, there ought to be some peace and rest for this noble-hearted, this gentle, this loving, this devoted lady!"

And as all Hilda's devotion came before the mind of this tender-hearted physician he had to wipe away his tears, and turn away his head to conceal his emotion.

But his words sank deep into Lord Chetwynde's soul.