Avery Part 4

Avery looked at his wife, sleeping, as she, waking, would never see him look. All that was n.o.ble in shame, all that was permanent in love, harmonized in his eyes. Between his rapture and his reverence, resolve itself seemed to escape him, like a spirit winged for flight because no longer needed in a human heart, being invisibly displaced by stronger angels whose names are known only to the love of married man and woman when ultimate fate has challenged it and found defeat.

Avery's lips moved. He spoke inaudible things. "All I ask," he said, "is another chance." He was not what is called a praying man. But when he had said this, he added the words--"Thou G.o.d!"

Jean stirred at this moment. The morning was strong in the room. Her own smile swept across her face like a wing of light.

"Dear," she said distinctly, "did you have the tooth out? Did it hurt you very much? You poor, poor boy!"

She put up her weak hand and touched his cheek.

The doctor could not sleep. He stole in anxiously.

Jean had closed her eyes once more. They opened happily as he entered.

"Why, doctor! You here? What for?"

As if by accident Dr. Thorne's fingers brushed her wrist. The physician's face a.s.sumed a n.o.ble radiance. He looked affectionately at his old patient.

"Oh, I thought I 'd drop in and see how you were getting along." He smiled indulgently. "Go to sleep again," he said, in a comfortable tone.

But Avery followed the doctor; as love has pursued the healers of all ages from the sick-room to the garrison of the utter truth.

The two men stood in the dusky hall. The physician was the first to speak.

"Well, I 've done my part, Avery. Now"-- "You have wrought a miracle," said the husband, with much emotion.

"Work you a greater, then!" commanded Dr. Thorne. He did not speak gently. But a certain entreaty in the att.i.tude of the shaken man subdued him.

"With love all things are possible," persisted the physician in his other voice. "I have always said that she was not incurable. Now the difference is"-- Avery did not reply. It was not for the doctor to know what the difference was. That was for Jean ... only for Jean. He went back to his wife's room, and knelt beside her bed.

She seemed to have missed him, for she put out her hand wistfully; there was a touch of timidity in the motion, as if she were not sure that he would stay, or that he would be happy in staying; he perceived that she questioned herself whether she were an inconvenience to him. She tried to say something about ordering his breakfast, and to ask if she had kept him awake much. But Jean was very weak. She found it hard to talk. He remembered that she must not be agitated. He laid his cheek upon her hand, and hid his broken face.