Wives and Widows; or The Broken Life Part 47

Again that s.h.i.+ver 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 n.o.ble head was uplifted, and, looking tenderly into those wistful eyes, he said, "I have always loved you, my wife. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 superst.i.tion, but it seems to me impossible to doubt that the dead are often with us on this side the eternal sh.o.r.e.

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 cus.h.i.+ons, 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.

CHAPTER LIV.

MRS. LEE'S FUNERAL.

As I sat buried in miserable thoughts, a faint stir in the bed draperies made me start and hold my breath. It was Lottie, who had been all the time crouching close to the floor, guarding the remains of her mistress in profound stillness. The light was so dim that I had not been aware of her presence till then. Such companions.h.i.+p did not disturb me; indeed, without the faithful girl that death-chamber would have been desolate indeed.

"Lottie," I said, in a whisper,--"Lottie, is it you?"

She was sitting on the floor, with both arms locked around her knees, on which her forehead rested. The girl looked up, and her heavy eyes met mine.

"Yes, it's me, Miss Hyde; I haven't left her a minute since then," she said, drearily. "Don't ask me to go away--I couldn't do it."

"Ask you to go away, Lottie? Oh! no, my poor girl! We have watched together in this room many a time; but never in this sad way."

"I know it," she said; "you were always good to her, and she felt it.

But tell me, Miss Hyde, do you think it was the letter I brought that laid her there?"

"I cannot tell. Still it must have been, she was so well only a moment before it touched her hand. Who could have written it?"

"I have been thinking and thinking, Miss Hyde. The writing was like Miss Jessie's; I thought so at the time."

"Miss Jessie's? Are you sure?"

"So it seemed to me; but I've got the envelope, look for yourself."

I took the crumpled envelope which she took from her bosom and held toward me. It was of creamy-white paper, very thick, and with an inner lining of blue, a color that Jessie affected where it could be delicately introduced among her stationery. The writing was like hers, but with a slight appearance of disguise.

"You see," said Lottie, still in a whisper, "it looks like Miss Jessie's; but what could she write to _her_ about?"

"It is strange," I murmured.

"Terribly strange! I can't make it out. All the time, for two whole nights and days, I have thought of it; and the more I think the darker it all grows. Oh, if she could only speak; but that will never be again--"

Her voice broke here, and clasping her knees tighter, she began rocking to and fro, uttering faint, dry moans, that went to my heart. Lottie had not shed a tear since her mistress's death.

"Never again--never again!" she kept whispering.

"Don't Lottie," I said; "it breaks my heart to hear you go on in this way."

She looked at me earnestly; then dropped her face and said, with infinite pathos,--

"Oh! that _my_ heart could break!"

I bent over her.

"Be comforted, Lottie. If our friend could speak, this is what she would say--"