CHAPTER XXXVII.BEYOND FORGIVENESS.
Janetta, close against the door outside, caught low, passionate murmurs from within in her mistress’s voice, and guessed that she was pouring out her heart’s wild grief in the insensate ears of the unconscious man. It was pitiful, and tears overflowed Janetta’s eyes.
For some time the low murmuring continued, then all grew still as death.
She waited awhile, then fearful that the lady had fainted again, opened the door and went softly in.
Everard Dawn lay still and silent, just faintly breathing, as before, and Mrs. Varian’s dark head was bent down, resting upon the patient’s hand.
She motioned Janetta to her side, saying, gently:
“You may share my vigil, Janetta, and because I know this seems strange to you, I will confide in you. We loved each other very dearly once, this man and I, but a wicked woman came between us and wrecked my happiness. I tried to hate him, but now that he is dying, the old love rises in me again, and my heart is breaking.”
That was all; but she knew she was sure of the other woman’s sympathy.
Janetta might marvel at the utter breaking down of the proudest woman she had ever known, but she would love her better for her constancy and her womanly tenderness.
So they kept their lonely vigils by the sufferer, who for twenty-four hours gave no sign of knowing aught, until they began to fear that he would pass into the other world without a sign or token to those left on earth.
Mrs. Flint had been told that an old friend of her brother would help to nurse him; but when she saw that it was Mrs. Varian, she was filled with secret wonder that found expression in the words:
“He never told me that he knew you, madame; but I do not see how he could have forgotten one like you.”
Mrs. Varian smiled with transient bitterness, but made no reply to the frank compliment, only showing her appreciation of it by simple, unaffected kindness to the grieving sister.
The night and the day wore away, and in the early dusk of the December eve Everard Dawn suddenly opened his eyes with full consciousness in them, and met the eager glance of large, dark, sorrowful orbs.
“Oh, Everard, it is I—Paulina! Do you know me?” she murmured, prayerfully.
In a broken whisper, he answered:
“I know you.”
Then his eyes closed again, and with a stifled sob, Mrs. Varian sent Janetta to tell the doctor.
He hastened to his side, delighted to find that his patient had rallied; but he whispered to the anxious watcher:
“I do not dare bid you hope anything from this. The case is most uncertain.”
She bowed her head in silence; but from that moment not a movement of the invalid passed unwatched.
He had recovered his consciousness, but the doctor saw in him as yet no certain chance of recovery. He was very still and quiet, speaking only when addressed, and lying always with half-closed eyes that seemed to notice nothing. At times they opened wider and followed Mrs. Varian’s movements about the room, but he did not permit her to surprise that scrutiny.
She was tender, but very timid, scarcely daring to offer the least attention, lest it be repulsed. There rang in her memory always some words he had uttered long ago:
“Paulina, you have put upon me an unmerited disgrace and a cruel wrong. I will never forgive you as long as I live!”
Again, in the garden at Idlewild, three years ago, he had said to her most bitterly:
“Do not think I have come to forgive you!”
She had never forgotten the bitterness of those words. They dazed her, too, for in her own opinion she had been the only wronged one, he the transgressor.
He was going out of life now, and she read in his silence that he would keep his word, that for the grievance he cherished he would not grant forgiveness.
Neither would he plead with her for pardon for the wrong that he had done.
It was a cruel position for both, and she felt that he only endured her presence for cold pity’s sake, while secretly wishing her away.
“God help me. I can not bear to leave him!” she thought, despairingly.
The next morning the travelers from Florida arrived.
Cinthia and her aunt had a most affecting meeting, though it was the elder woman who broke down and forced the other to tears.
“Oh, Cinthy, you never loved him as I did! You never knew him at his best—before sorrow came to him and spoiled his nature,” she sobbed.
Cinthia could only weep.
“It is not my fault that I was lacking in sympathy. I was never told of his troubles.”
“He did not wish for you to know, dear, lest your young life should be saddened more than it was already.”
“Dear aunt, I am very sorry for him, and grieved to see you looking so pale and thin. Tell me how all this came about,” pleaded Cinthia. And while they are exchanging confidences, we will return to Arthur and his mother.
She had gone to her room to receive him alone, and he clasped her tenderly in his arms.
“Poor mother!” he sighed, with deep compassion, and then they sat down and talked awhile together.
“I have one pleasant piece of news for you. Cinthia and Fred are engaged,” he said.
“I am glad of it—under the circumstances,” she replied,exactly as he had replied to Frederick’s announcement of the betrothal.
She mused silently a moment, then added:
“It will be good news for her father. He can die easier.”
“You are sure that he must die, dear mother?”
“You will not doubt it when you see him, Arthur; and the physician does not hold out any hope, though he thinks that the end may be lingering.”
She spoke with the steady calmness of despair, and her son looked at her with uneasy eyes, wondering how she felt, how she was bearing it.
Perhaps she read his thoughts, for she said quickly:
“Go to him as soon as you can, dear. Perhaps it may give him some pleasure to see you by him now. Be kind and tender—for the sake of old days.”
“And you, mother?”
“I have done what I could—for duty’s sake.”
“Only for that?” he wondered, but dared not ask, and soon left her to seek Mr. Dawn.
Between the two there was a touching greeting—a strange one for two men who could only be supposed to harbor resentment against each other.
Arthur was not ashamed to shed tears when he saw that helpless form and pallid face with the bandaged head. His voice trembled while he talked, and Mr. Dawn’s replies were low and gentle.
“I have kept very quiet. I have saved my strength till you and Cinthia came. I felt I would have much to bear then,” he said feebly.
Arthur answered, hopefully:
“I have good news for you. Cinthia has promised to marry my cousin Frederick Foster. Perhaps she might bear to know our secret now.”
“Perhaps so,” he replied, with a heavy sigh; and just then the door opened softly again, admitting Mrs. Flint with his daughter and Madame Ray.
Arthur drew aside and returned to his mother, who was still alone, having sent Janetta to help with the wounded woman just across the hall—Rachel Dane.
Mrs. Varian clung to her son, whispering wildly:
“Tell me what brought her here, that beautiful Madame Ray? Is she aught to him?”
“His daughter’s friend—nothing more, dear mother.”
“Are you sure—quite sure? For Frederick hinted once that Cinthia wished them to marry. And she is so charming—perhaps he loves her, Arthur?” jealously.
“No, mother, they are nothing but friends. Her heart is in the grave. Come, let me tell you her sad, touching story.”
He drew her to a seat, and went over the sad details Madame Ray had given him in Florida, drawing bright tears from his mother’s eyes.
Then some one knocked on the door. It was Doctor Deane.
“I have been with my patient, Mr. Dawn,” he said, “and the coming of his daughter has greatly excited him, causing an improvement for the time, though how long it may last I can not say. It seems as if there is something on his mind that he wishes to communicate before he dies, and he begs you and your son to join him at once with the others.”