Ruth Hall Part 8

"How's Harry?" said the doctor, to a white-jacketted waiter, who stood gossipping on the piazza steps with a comrade.

"Funny old chap!" said the waiter, without noticing the doctor's query; "I say, Bill, look how his hair is cut!"

"'Taint hair," said Tom, "it is a wig."

"Bless my eyes! so it is; and a red one, too! Bad symptoms; red wigs are the cheapest; no extra fees to be got out of _that_ customer, for blacking boots and bringing hot beafsteaks. Besides, just look at his baggage; you can always judge of a traveler, Bill, by his trunks; it never fails. Now, _I_ like to see a trunk thickly studded with bra.s.s nails, and covered with a linen overall; then I know, if it is a lady's, that there's diamond rings inside, and plenty of cash; if 'tis a gentleman's, that he knows how to order sherry-cobblers in the forenoon, and a bottle of old wine or two with his dinner; and how to fee the poor fellow who brings it, too, who lives on a small salary, with large expectations."

"How's Harry?" thundered the doctor again, (after waiting what he considered a reasonable time for an answer,) "or if _you_ are too lazy to tell, you whiskered jackanapes, go call your employer."

The word "employer" recalled the rambling waiter to his senses, and great was his consternation on finding that "the old chap with the red wig" was the father of young Mr. Hall, who was beloved by everything in the establishment, down to old Neptune the house-dog.

"I told you so," said the doctor, turning to his wife; "Harry's no better--consultation this morning--very little hope of him;--so much for _my_ not being here to prescribe for him. Ruth shouldered a great responsibility when she brought him away out of reach of _my_ practice.

You go into that room, there, Mis. Hall, No. 20, with your traps and things, and take off your bonnet and keep quiet, while I go up and see him."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Humph!" said the doctor, "humph!" as Ruth drew aside the curtain, and the light fell full upon Harry's face. "Humph! it is all up with _him_; he's in the last stage of the complaint; won't live two days;" and stepping to the table, the doctor uncorked the different phials, applied them to the end of his nose, examined the labels, and then returned to the bed-side, where Ruth stood bending over Harry, so pallid, so tearless, that one involuntarily prayed that death, when he aimed his dart, might strike down both together.

"Humph!" said the doctor again! "when did he have his reason last?"

"A few moments, day before yesterday," said Ruth, without removing her eyes from Harry.

"Well; he has been _murdered_,--yes murdered, just as much as if you had seen the knife put to his throat. That tells the whole story, and I don't care who knows it. I have been looking at those phials,--wrong course of treatment altogether for typhoid fever; fatal mistake. His death will lie heavy at _somebody's_ door," and he glanced at Ruth.

"Hus.h.!.+ he is coming to himself," said Ruth, whose eyes had never once moved from her husband.

"Then I must tell him that his hours are numbered," said the doctor, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and pompously walking round the bed.

"No, no," whispered Ruth, grasping his arm with both hands; "you will kill him. The doctor said it might destroy the last chance for his life.

_Don't_ tell him. You know he is not afraid _to die_; but oh, spare him the parting with me! it will be so hard; he loves me, father."

"Pshaw!" said the doctor, shaking her off; "he ought to settle up his affairs while he can. I don't know how he wants things fixed. Harry!

Harry!" said he, touching his shoulder, "I've come to see you; do you know me?"

"Father!" said Harry, languidly, "yes, I'm--I'm sick. I shall be better soon; don't worry about me. Where's my wife? where's Ruth?"

"You'll _never_ be better, Harry," said the doctor, bluntly, stepping between him and Ruth; "you may not live the day out. If you have got anything to say, you'd better say it now, before your mind wanders. You are a dead man, Harry; and you know that when I say _that_, I know what I'm talking about."

The sick man gazed at the speaker, as if he were in a dream; then slowly, and with a great effort, raising his head, he looked about the room for Ruth. She was kneeling at the bedside, with her face buried in her hands. Harry reached out his emaciated hand, and placed it upon her bowed head.

"Ruth? wife?"

Her arm was about his neck in an instant--her lips to his; but her eyes were tearless, and her whole frame shook convulsively.

"Oh, how _can_ I leave you? who will care for you? Oh G.o.d, in mercy spare me to her;" and Harry fell back on his pillow.

The shock was too sudden; reason again wandered; he heard the shrill whistle of the cars, recalling him to the city's whirl of business; he had stocks to negotiate; he had notes to pay; he had dividends due. Then the scene changed;--he could not be carried on a hea.r.s.e through the street, surrounded by a gaping crowd. Ruth must go alone with him, by night;--why _must_ he die at all? He would take anything. Where was the doctor? Why did they waste time in talking? Why not do something more for him? How cruel of Ruth to let him lie there and die?

"We will try this new remedy," said one of the consulting physicians to Harry's father; "it is the only thing that remains to be done, and I confess I have no faith in its efficacy in this case."

"He rallies again!" said Ruth, clasping her hands.

"The children!" said Harry; "bring me the children."

"Presently," said the new physician; "try and swallow this first;" and he raised his head tenderly.

They were brought him. Little Nettie came first,--her dimpled arms and rosy face in strange contrast to the pallid lips she bent, in childish glee, to kiss. Then little Katy, shrinking with a strange awe from the dear papa she loved so much, and sobbing, she scarce knew why, at his whispered words, "Be kind to your mother, Katy."

Again Harry's eyes sought Ruth. She was there, but a film--a mist had come between them; he could not see her, though he felt her warm breath.

And now, that powerful frame collected all its remaining energies for the last dread contest with death. So fearful--so terrible was the struggle, that friends stood by, with suppressed breath and averted eyes, while Ruth alone, with a fearful calmness, hour after hour, wiped the death damp from his brow, and the oozing foam from his pallid lips.

"He is gone," said the old doctor, laying Harry's hand down upon the coverlid.

"No; he breathes again."

"Ah; that's his last!"

"Take her away," said the doctor, as Ruth fell heavily across her husband's body; and the unresisting form of the insensible wife was borne into the next room.

Strange hands closed Harry's eyes, parted his damp locks, straightened his manly limbs, and folded the marble hands over as n.o.ble a heart as ever lay cold and still beneath a shroud.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"It is really quite dreadful to see her in this way," said Hyacinth, as they chafed Ruth's hands and bathed her temples; "it is really quite dreadful. Somebody ought to tell her, when she comes to, that her hair is parted unevenly and needs brus.h.i.+ng sadly. Harry's finely-chiseled features look quite beautiful in repose. It is a pity the barber should have been allowed to shave off his beard after death; it looked quite oriental and picturesque. But the sight of Ruth, in this way, is really dreadful; it quite unnerves me. I shall look ten years older by to-morrow. I must go down and take a turn or two on the piazza." And Hyacinth paced up and down, thinking--not of the bereaved sister, who lay mercifully insensible to her loss, nor yet of the young girl whose heart was to throb trustfully at the altar, by his side, on the morrow,--but of her broad lands and full coffers, with which he intended to keep at bay the haunting creditors, who were impertinent enough to spoil his daily digestion by asking for their just dues.

One o'clock! The effect of the sleeping potion administered to Ruth had pa.s.sed away. Slowly she unclosed her eyes and gazed about her. The weary nurse, forgetful of her charge, had sunk into heavy slumber.

Where was Harry?

Ruth presses her hands to her temples. Oh G.o.d! the consciousness that _would_ come! the frantic out-reaching of the arms to clasp--a vain shadow!

Where had they lain him?

She crossed the hall to Harry's sick room; the key was in the lock; she turned it with trembling fingers. Oh G.o.d! the dreadful stillness of that outlined form! the calm majesty of that marble brow, on which the moonbeams fell as sweetly as if that peaceful sleep was but to restore him to her widowed arms. That half filled gla.s.s, from which his dying lips had turned away;--those useless phials;--that watch--_his_ watch--moving--and _he_ so still!--the utter helplessness of human aid;--the dreadful might of Omnipotence!

"Harry!"