THE BUNDLE OF MYRRH
"'If he sleep, he shall do well,'" quoted the doctor, quietly. "Nothing but this could give him a chance of pulling through."
Diana looked up, dazed.
Sir Deryck was bending over her, scrutinizing closely, in the dim light, the quiet face upon her breast.
"Is he alive?" she whispered.
The doctor's fingers had found David's pulse.
"Alive? Why, yes," he said; "and better than merely alive. He has fallen into a natural sleep. His pulse is steadying and strengthening every moment. If he can but sleep on like this for a couple of hours, we shall be able to give him nourishment when he wakes. Don't move! I can do what has to be done, without disturbing him.... So! that will do. Now tell me. Can you remain as you are for another hour or two?"
"All night, if necessary," she whispered.
"Good! Then I will place a chair behind the screen, and either a nurse, or Walters, or myself will be there, without fail; so that you can call softly, if you need help or relief."
He bent, and looked again closely at the sleeping face.
"Poor boy," he whispered, gently. "It seems to me he has, in God's providence, reached, just in time, the only thing that could save him. Keep up heart, Mrs. Rivers. Remember that every moment of contact with your vital force is vitalizing him. It is like pouring blood into empty veins; only a more subtle and mysterious process, and more wonderful in its results. Let your muscles relax, as much as possible. We can prop you with pillows, presently."
The doctor went softly out.
"All night, if necessary," repeated Diana's happy heart, in an ecstasy of hope and thankfulness. "A bundle of myrrh is my well-belovèd unto me; he shall lie all night—all night—Oh, God, send me strength to kneel on, and hold him!"
She could feel the intense life and love which filled her, enveloping him, in his deathly weakness. She bent her whole mind upon imparting to him the outflow of her vitality.
The room was very still.
Distant clocks struck the hour of midnight.
It was Christmas-day!
From an old church, just behind the hospital, where a midnight carol service was being held, came the sound of an organ, in deep tones of rolling harmony. Then, softened by intervening windows into the semblance of angelic music, rose the voices of the choristers, in the great Christmas hymn:
"Hark, the herald angels sing,
Glory to the new-born King!"
And kneeling there, in those first moments of Christmas morning; kneeling in deepest reverence of praise and adoration, Diana's womanhood awoke, at last, in full perfection.
"Glory to the new-born King,"
the helpless Babe of Bethlehem, pillowed upon a maiden's gentle breast, clasped in a virgin mother's arms; the Babe Whose advent should hallow the birth of mortal infants, for all time;
"Born to raise the sons of earth;
Born to give them second birth."
Diana hardly knew, as she knelt on, listening to the quiet breathing at her bosom, whether the rapture which enfolded her was mostly mother-love, or wifely tenderness.
But she knew that her heart beat in unison with the heart of the Virgin Mother in Bethlehem's starlit stable.
She had seen, in one revealing ray of eternal light, the true vocation of her womanhood.
And again the organ pealed forth triumphant chords; while the voices of the distant choir carolled:
"Hark, the herald angels sing,
Glory to the new-born King."