CHAPTER LIII.

DEATH IN THE TOWER-CHAMBER.

The woman did inquire, and the very sound of her voice made the poor victim on the bed shake till the counterpane moved like snow disturbed by the wind. Jessie was holding the pale hand, and, feeling it quiver, she clasped it closer, and said to Mrs. Dennison,--

"Madam, your voice troubles my mother; please to leave us alone."

Mr. Lee looked from his daughter to the woman; but it was no time for anger--he only lifted one hand to deprecate further noise, and bent over his wife with such solemn tenderness in his eyes as I had never seen there before.

"My wife, my poor wife!" he said, sheltering the frail form with his arm, as if that could keep death away.

She heard him, and the tension on her delicate nerves relaxed. The letter, which had hitherto been clenched in one hand, fell away and rustled to the floor. Mrs. Dennison picked it up, folded it deliberately, and held it toward Mr. Lee.

"This has just fallen from her hand," she said; "it may have some reference to this strange attack."

Again that shiver ran through Mrs. Lee's form, and her face contracted with the pain, while fresh drops of crimson gathered on her lips.

"Madam, your presence tortures her," said Jessie; "these attacks come and go with your voice."

"My friend, my dear, sweet friend; will you not give me one look before I go?"

Mrs. Dennison bent over the bed as she spoke, and, sure enough, Mrs. Lee opened her eyes wide, and turned them on the woman's face. Never shall I forget that look! Its wounded expression haunts me yet. Those great, mournful eyes dwelt on that face, which grew slowly pallid, for a full half-minute, and then turned away.

Mrs. Dennison was awed; but, feeling our eyes upon her, she took strength, and, with a pathetic "Farewell!" on her lips, pressed them to those of Mrs. Lee.

There was a faint struggle, a gasping cry broke from the bed, and when Mrs. Dennison lifted her face, a drop of fresh blood crimsoned her lips. She did not know it; but with the red blood burning there, retreated into Lottie's room, where she hovered over the scene as if afraid to leave it entirely.

Mr. Lee forgot everything in keen anxiety for his wife. When her eyes turned sorrowfully upon him, he cried out,--

"Oh! speak to me, speak to me, my wife! Give some sign that I have not come too late!"

The most wonderful expression I ever saw stole over that face; it came like moonlight on dark waters,--a gleam of hope breaking through the agonies of death. Her lips moved. He bent down and listened.

"You have loved me?"

There was no noise; but we knew that she was saying this by the movement of her lips.

For an instant, Mr. Lee seemed stunned. The question struck him to the soul; then his noble head was uplifted, and, looking tenderly into those wistful eyes, he said, "I have always loved you, my wife. God is my witness, I have always loved you."

That expression deepened on her face. She lifted her hands feebly, and, understanding the sign, he raised her to his bosom. The muslin drapery of her sleeve got entangled in his dress. I attempted to disengage it while her face lay on his bosom. In doing this I touched her hand; the frail fingers clasped mine with the tenacious feebleness of an infant's; and, laying my palm on Mr. Lee's hand, she pressed them softly together, whispering,--

"Be good to her."

He shook all over, while my poor hand lay quivering on his. I drew it away with hushed breath.

She was dying on his bosom; her eyes were uplifted to his; her breath came in faint gasps; the two frail hands folded themselves; and, as the mists of night settle on a lily, that dear face hardened into the marble of death.

I cannot remember all that passed after this, who came into the room, or who went out. I only know that the stillness of death was in the house, the pain of life in our hearts. Sweet sufferer, gentle lady! How white and still she lay on the pretty French bed, with its volumes of lace brooding over her like the clouds in which we imagine seraphs to be sleeping! There was no noisy grief in the room. Even Mrs. Dennison had fled to her own apartment; the suddenness of our calamity shocked even her.

Lottie knelt by the bed, her face buried in the clothes, dumb and still. Jessie clung to her father, who was striving to comfort her; but struggle against it as he would, the force of a mighty anguish spoke out in his broken words.

Those were mournful days during which she lay in that tower-room. We had the dead to ourselves--that woman never intruded on us. Cora came each day informing us that her mistress was ill from grief. _He_ heard the message, but gave no sign beyond a grave inquiry. The sadness in his face deepened every hour; stern thoughts perhaps had stamped the sorrow deeply in his soul. There was something more than natural grief there; gleams of remorse broke through all the rest.

The night before Mrs. Lee was buried, I went into her room; to sleep was impossible, and I longed to be alone with her once more. I am no enthusiast, and have little superstition, but it seems to me impossible to doubt that the dead are often with us on this side the eternal shore. We feel their presence in our heart of hearts without caring to see it with the sense.

How young she looked--how good and quiet! Some white flowers lay on the pillow with rich colors burning in their hearts, that cast a sort of illumination over the frozen stillness of her face. The white draperies gathered above her, the shaded lights stealing like star-gleams through the room, made the stillness of death holy!

I sat down by the bed, in the great easy-chair which she had occupied when Lottie came in with the letter. A faint perfume of violets hung about the cushions, and on the seat lay the delicate handkerchief she had been using. It seemed only a moment since I had seen her resting tranquilly upon the seat that supported me. Could death be so cruelly sudden?

I wept quietly as these thoughts filled my mind, and with them came vague conjectures regarding the letter which had apparently produced a result so fatal. Who had written that letter? What could the subject have been? Where was it now? I remembered that Mr. Lee had taken it mechanically from Mrs. Dennison's hand and put it in his pocket, evidently unconscious of its mysterious importance. Surely the woman could have nothing to fear from that letter; at any rate, she had held no part in its fatal delivery. Then who could have possessed the power to break the frail life which had been quenched? It was all a painful enigma, impossible to solve; but the great, mournful fact lay before me,--my friend--the best friend I had ever known on earth--was dead.