St. Elmo Part 75

She gave him a stimulating potion, and arranged his head comfortably. Ere long his heavy breathing told her that he slept, and, stealing from his side, she sat down in a large chair near the head of his bed, and watched him.

For many months he had been failing, and they had travelled from place to place, hoping against hope that each change would certainly be beneficial.

Day and night Edna had nursed him, had devoted every thought, almost every prayer to him; and now her heart seemed centred in him.

Scenery, music, painting, rare MSS., all were ignored; she lived only for that poor dependent boy, and knew not a moment of peace when separated from him. She had ceased to study aught but his comfort and happiness, had written nothing save letters to friends; and notwithstanding her anxiety concerning the cripple, the frequent change of air had surprisingly improved her own health. For six months she had escaped the attacks so much dreaded, and began to believe her restoration complete, though the long banished color obstinately refused to return to her face, which seemed unable to recover its rounded outline. Still, she was very grateful for the immunity from suffering, especially as it permitted more unremitting attendance upon Felix.

She knew that his life was flickering out gently but surely; and now, as she watched the pale, pinched features, her own quivered, and she clasped her hands and wept, and stifled a groan.

She had prayed so pa.s.sionately and continually that he might be spared to her; but it seemed that whenever her heart-strings wrapped themselves around an idol, a jealous G.o.d tore them loose, and s.n.a.t.c.hed away the dear object, and left the heart to bleed. If that boy died, how utterly desolate and lonely she would be; nothing left to care for and to cling to, nothing to claim as her own, and anoint with the tender love of her warm heart.

She had been so intensely interested in the expansion of his mind, had striven so tirelessly to stimulate his brain, and soften and purify his heart; she had been so proud of his rapid progress, and so ambitious for his future, and now the mildew of death was falling on her fond hopes. Ah! she had borne patiently many trials, but this appeared unendurable. She had set all her earthly happiness on a little thing--the life of a helpless cripple; and as she gazed through her tears at that shrunken, sallow face, so dear to her, it seemed hard! hard! that G.o.d denied her this one blessing. What was the praise and admiration of all the world in comparison with the loving light in that child's eyes, and the tender pressure of his lips?

The woman's ambition had long been fully satisfied, and even exacting conscience, jealously guarding its shrine, saw daily sacrifices laid thereon, and smiled approvingly upon her; but the woman's hungry heart cried out, and fought fiercely, famine-goaded, for its last vanis.h.i.+ng morsel of human love and sympathy. Verily, these bread-riots of the heart are fearful things, and crucified consciences too often mark their track.

The little figure on the bed was so motionless that Edna crept nearer and leaned down to listen to the breathing; and her tears fell on his thick, curling hair, and upon the orange-blossoms and violets.

Standing there she threw up her clenched hands and prayed sobbingly:

"My Father! spare the boy to me! I will dedicate anew my life and his to thy work! I will make him a minister of thy word, and he shall save precious souls. Oh! do not take him away! If not for a lifetime, at least spare him a few years! Even one more year, O my G.o.d!"

She walked to the window, rested her forehead against the stone facing, and looked out; and the wonderful witchery of the solemn night wove its spell around her. Great, golden stars cl.u.s.tered in the clear heavens, and were reflected in the calm, blue pavement of the Mediterranean, where not a ripple s.h.i.+vered their s.h.i.+ning images.

A waning crescent moon swung high over the eastern crest of the Apennines, and threw a weird light along the Doria's marble palace, and down on the silver gray olives, on the glistening orange-groves, snow-powdered with fragrant bloom, and in that wan, mysterious, and most melancholy light--

"The old, miraculous mountains heaved in sight, One straining past another along the sh.o.r.e The way of grand, dull Odyssean ghosts, Athirst to drink the cool, blue wine of seas, And stare on voyagers."

From some lofty campanile, in a distant section of the silent city, sounded the angelus bell; and from the deep shadow of olive, vine, and myrtle that clothed the amphitheatre of hills, the convent bells caught and reechoed it.

"Nature comes sometimes, And says, 'I am amba.s.sador for G.o.d';"

and the splendor of the Italian night spoke to Edna's soul, as the glory of the sunset had done some years before, when she sat in the dust in the pine glades at Le Bocage; and she grew calm once more, while out of the blue depths of the starlit sea came a sacred voice, that said to her aching heart:

"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

The cup was not pa.s.sing away; but courage to drain it was given by Him who never calls his faithful children into the gloom of Gethsemane without having first stationed close at hand some strengthening angel. The governess went back to the bed, and there, on the pillow, rested the moth, which at her approach flew away with a humming sound, and disappeared.

After another hour she saw that a change was stealing over the boy's countenance, and his pulse fluttered more feebly against her cold fingers. She sprang into the next room, shook his mother, and hastened back, trying to rouse the dying child, and give him some stimulants. But though the large, black eyes opened when she raised his head, there was no recognition in their fixed gaze; for the soul was preparing for its final flight, and was too busy to look out of its windows.

In vain they resorted to the most powerful restoratives; he remained in the heavy stupor, with no sign of animation, save the low irregular breath, and the weak flutter of the thread-like pulse.

Mrs. Andrews wept aloud and wrung her hands, and Hattie cried pa.s.sionately, as she stood in her long white nightgown at the side of her brother's bed; but there were no tears on Edna's cold, gray face. She had spent them all at the foot of G.o.d's throne; and now that He had seen fit to deny her pet.i.tion, she silently looked with dry eyes at the heavy rod that smote her.

The night waned, the life with it; now and then the breathing seemed to cease, but after a few seconds a faint gasp told that the clay would not yet forego its hold on the soul that struggled to be free.

The poor mother seemed almost beside herself, as she called on her child to speak to her once more.

"Sing something, Edna; oh! perhaps he will hear! It might rouse him!"

The orphan shook her head, and dropped her face on his.

"He would not hear me; no, no! He is listening to the song of those whose golden harps ring in the New Jerusalem."

Out of the whitening east rose the new day, radiant in bridal garments, wearing a star on its pearly brow; and the sky flushed, and the sea glowed, while silvery mists rolled up from the purple mountain gorges, and rested awhile on the summits of the Apennines, and suns.h.i.+ne streamed over the world once more.

The first rays flashed into the room, kissing the withered flowers on the bosom of the cripple, and falling warm and bright on the cold eyelids and the pulseless temples. Edna's hand was pressed to his heart, and she knew that it had given its last throb; knew that Felix Andrews had crossed the sea of gla.s.s, and in the dawn of the Eternal day wore the promised morning-star, and stood in peace before the Sun of Righteousness.

During the two days that succeeded the death of Felix, Edna did not leave her room; and without her knowledge Mrs. Andrews administered opiates that stupefied her. Late on the morning of the third she awoke, and lay for some time trying to collect her thoughts.

Her mind was clouded, but gradually it cleared, and she strained her ears to distinguish the low words spoken in the apartment next to her own. She remembered, as in a feverish dream, all that pa.s.sed on the night that Felix died; and pressing her hand over her aching forehead, she rose and sat on the edge of her bed.

The monotonous sounds in the neighboring room swelled louder for a few seconds, and now she heard very distinctly the words:

"And I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth."

She s.h.i.+vered, and wrapped around her shoulders a bright blue shawl that had been thrown over the foot of the bed.

Walking across the floor, she opened the door, and looked in.

The boy's body had been embalmed, and placed in a coffin which rested in the centre of the room; and an English clergyman, a friend of Mr. Manning's, stood at the head of the corpse, and read the burial service.

Mrs. Andrews and Hattie were weeping in one corner and Mr. Manning leaned against the window, with his hand on Lila's curls. As the door swung open and Edna entered, he looked up.

Her dressing gown of gray merino trailed on the marble floor, and her bare feet gleamed like ivory, as one hand caught up the soft merino folds sufficiently to enable her to walk. Over the blue shawl streamed her beautiful hair, making the wan face look even more ghastly by contrast with its glossy jet ma.s.ses.

She stood irresolute, with her calm, mournful eyes riveted on the coffin, and Mr. Manning saw her pale lips move as she staggered toward it. He sprang to meet and intercept her, and she stretched her hands in the direction of the corpse, and smiled strangely, murmuring like one in a troubled dream:

"You need not be afraid, little darling, 'there is no night there.'"

She reeled and put her hand to her heart, and would have fallen, but Mr. Manning caught and carried her back to her room.

For two weeks she hovered on the borders of eternity; and often the anxious friends who watched her, felt that they would rather see her die than endure the suffering through which she was called to pa.s.s.

She bore it silently, meekly, and when the danger seemed over, and she was able to sleep without the aid of narcotics, Mrs. Andrews could not bear to look at the patient white face, so hopelessly calm.

No allusion was made to Felix, even after she was able to sit up and drive; but once, when Mr. Manning brought her some flowers, she looked sorrowfully at the snowy orange-blossoms, whose strong perfume made her turn paler, and said faintly:

"I shall never love them or violets again. Take them away, Hattie, out of my sight; put them on your brother's grave. They smell of death."

From that day she made a vigorous effort to rouse herself, and the boy's name never pa.s.sed her lips; though she spent many hours over a small ma.n.u.script which she found among his books, directed to her for revision. "Tales for Little Cripples," was the t.i.tle he had given it, and she was surprised at the beauty and pathos of many of the sentences. She carefully revised and rewrote it, adding a brief sketch of the young writer, and gave it to his mother.

About a month after Felix's death the governess seemed to have recovered her physical strength, and Mrs. Andrews announced her intention of going to Germany. Mr. Manning had engagements that called him to France, and, on the last day of their stay at Genoa, he came as usual to spend the evening with Edna.

A large budget of letters and papers had arrived from America; and when he gave her the package containing her share, she glanced over the directions, threw them unopened into a heap on the table, and continued the conversation in which she was engaged, concerning the architecture of the churches in Genoa.

Mrs. Andrews had gone to the vault where the body of her son had been temporarily placed, and Edna was alone with the editor.

"You ought to look into your papers; they contain very gratifying intelligence for you. Your last book has gone through ten editions, and your praises are chanted all over your native land. Surely, if ever a woman had adulation enough to render her perfectly happy and pardonably proud, you are the fortunate individual. Already your numerous readers are inquiring when you will give them another book."