Then she knew all hope was gone, and sat still, watching him. The darkness lessened, and twilight came. He slept, but his breath grew short, and unequal; and as she wiped the moisture on his brow, she knew it was the death-damp.
Morning light came on--the church bell rang out matins--the white hills were tipped with rosy light. His pulse was almost gone--his hand was cold. At last he opened his eyes. 'Amy! he said, as if bewildered, or in pain.
'Here, dearest!'
'I don't see.'
At that moment the sun was rising, and the light streamed in at the open window, and over the bed; but it was "another dawn than ours" that he beheld as his most beautiful of all smiles beamed over his face, and he said, 'Glory in the Highest!--peace--goodwill'--A struggle for breath gave an instant's look of pain, then he whispered so that she could but just hear--'The last prayer.' She read the Commendatory Prayer. She knew not the exact moment, but even as she said 'Amen' she perceived it was over. The soul was with Him with whom dwell the spirits of just men made perfect; and there lay the earthly part with a smile on the face. She closed the dark fringed eyelids--saw him look more beautiful than in sleep--then, laying her face down on the bed, she knelt on. She took no heed of time, no heed of aught that was earthly. How long she knelt she never knew, but she was roused by Anne's voice in a frightened sob--'My lady, my lady--come away! Oh, Miss Amabel, you should not be here.'
She lifted her head, and Anne afterwards told Mary Ross, 'she should never forget how my lady looked. It was not grief: it was as if she had been a little way with her husband, and was just called back.'
She rose--looked at his face again--saw Arnaud was at hand--let Anne lead her into the next room, and shut the door.
CHAPTER 36
The matron who alone has stood
When not a prop seemed left below,
The first lorn hour of widowhood,
Yet, cheered and cheering all the while,
With sad but unaffected, smile.--CHRISTIAN YEAR
The four months' wife was a widow before she was twenty-one, and there she sat in her loneliness, her maid weeping, seeking in vain for something to say that might comfort her, and struck with fear at seeing her thus composed. It might be said that she had not yet realized her situation, but the truth was, perhaps, that she was in the midst of the true realities. She felt that her Guy was perfectly happy--happy beyond thought or comparison--and she was so accustomed to rejoice with him, that her mind had not yet opened to understand that his joy left her mourning and desolate.
Thus she remained motionless for some minutes, till she was startled by a sound of weeping--those fearful overpowering sobs, so terrible in a strong man forced to give way.
'Philip!' thought she; and withal Guy's words returned-- 'It will be worse for him than for you. Take care of him.'
'I must go to him,' said she at once.
She took up a purple prayer-book that she had unconsciously brought in her hand from Guy's bed, and walked down-stairs, without pausing to think what she should say or do, or remembering how she would naturally have shrunk from the sight of violent grief.
Philip had retired to his own room the night before, overwhelmed by the first full view of the extent of the injuries he had inflicted, the first perception that pride and malevolence had been the true source of his prejudice and misconceptions, and for the first time conscious of the long-fostered conceit that had been his bane from boyhood. All had flashed on him with the discovery of the true purpose of the demand which he thought had justified his persecution. He saw the glory of Guy's character and the part he had acted,--the scales of self- admiration fell from his eyes, and he knew both himself and his cousin.
His sole comfort was in hope for the future, and in devising how his brotherly affection should for the rest of his life testify his altered mind, and atone for past ill-will. This alone kept him from being completely crushed,--for he by no means imagined how near the end was, and the physician, willing to spare himself pain, left him in hopes, though knowing how it would be. He slept but little, and was very languid in the morning; but he rose as soon as Arnaud came to him, in order not to occupy Arnaud's time, as well as to be ready in case Guy should send for him again, auguring well from hearing that there was nothing stirring above, hoping this was a sign that Guy was asleep. So hoped the two servants for a long time, but at length, growing alarmed, after many consultations, they resolved to knock at the door, and learn what was the state of things.
Philip likewise was full of anxiety, and coming to his room door to listen for intelligence, it was the "e morto" of the passing Italians that first revealed to him the truth. Guy dead, Amy widowed, himself the cause--he who had said he would never be answerable for the death of this young man.
Truly had Guy's threat, that he would make him repent, been fulfilled. He tottered back to his couch, and sank down, in a burst of anguish that swept away all the self-control that had once been his pride. There Amabel found him stretched, face downwards, quivering and convulsed by frightful sobs.
'Don't--don't, Philip,' said she, in her gentle voice. 'Don't cry so terribly!'
Without looking up, he made a gesture with his hand, as if to drive her away. 'Don't come here to reproach me!' he muttered.
'No, no; don't speak so. I want you to hear me; I have something for you from him. If you would only listen, I want to tell you how happy and comfortable it was.' She took a chair and sat down by him, relieved on perceiving that the sobs grew a little less violent.
'It was very peaceful, very happy,' repeated she. 'We ought to be very glad.'
He turned round, and glanced at her for a moment; but he could not bear to see her quiet face. 'You don't know what you say,' he gasped. 'No; take care of yourself, don't trouble yourself for such as me!'
'I must; he desired me,' said Amabel. 'You will be happier, indeed, Philip, if you would only think what glory it is, and that he is all safe, and has won the victory, and will have no more of those hard, hard struggles, and bitter repentance. It has been such a night, that it seems wrong to be sorry.'
'Did you say he spoke of me again?'
'Yes; here is his Prayer-book. Your father gave it to him, and he meant to have told you about it himself, only he could not talk yesterday evening, and could not part with it till--'
Amy broke off by opening the worn purple cover, and showing the name, in the Archdeacon's writing. 'He's very fond of it,' she said; 'it is the one he always uses.' (Alas! she had not learnt to speak of him in the past tense.)
Philip held out his hand, but the agony of grief returned the next moment. 'My father, my father! He would have done him justice. If he had lived, this would never have been!'
'That is over, you do him justice now,' said Amy. 'You did, indeed you did, make him quite happy. He said so, again and again. I never saw him so happy as when you began to get better. I don't think any one ever had so much happiness and it never ceased, it was all quiet, and peace, and joy, till it brightened quite into perfect day--and the angel's song! Don't you remember yesterday, how clear and sweet his voice came out in that? and it was the last thing almost he said. I believe'--she lowered her voice--'I believe he finished it among them.'
The earnest placid voice, speaking thus, in calmness and simplicity, could not fail in soothing him; but he was so shaken and exhausted, that she had great difficulty in restoring him. After a time, he lay perfectly still on the sofa, and she was sitting by, relieved by the tranquillity, when there was a knock at the door, and Arnaud came in, and stood hesitating, as if he hardly knew how to begin. The present fear of agitating her charge helped her now, when obliged to turn her thoughts to the subjects on which she knew Arnaud was come. She went to the door, and spoke low, hoping her cousin might not hear or understand.