I FALL INTO A DISMAL SICKNESS, AND RECOVER THEREOF.
When we were got into our cavern, my dear lady, of her own hand and wit, cut some strips of bark to serve as splints, and some of that grass which she used to shred for threads; then ripping up the sleeve of my doublet she, with her gentle, soft fingers, set the bone of my broken arm, and bound it up in the bark as ably and well as any clever surgeon could have served me. After that, seeing that the sweat of agony stood on my face, despite the joy it gave me to feel the touch of her sweet hand, and to note how admirably skillful she was in this business (as in all else), she would have me lie down awhile; and to this end she spread one of our mats on the floor of our living-room, that I might get the benefit of the air, and made up a pillow for my head with a bundle of soft herbs that we kept in store for the conies; and scarce had I laid my head down with a look and a little murmur to express my heartfelt gratitude (for I had no power to speak) when the things about me seemed to swim round and round, and I lost consciousness.
I lay in a foolish dream some time (though what absurdity was in my mind I cannot recall), and waking at length to my proper senses, the first thing I observed was that something cool and soft pressed my forehead, and looking up I perceived my little comrade kneeling beside me, with grave wistfulness in her deep eyes.
"What o'clock is it?" says I, like any fool.
"Nay, never mind about the hour, dear Benet," says she tenderly; and with that she shifts her hand, which was that I felt so gratefully cool on my forehead. But she shifted it only to set the other in its place, whereupon I sighed with comfort. Seeing I was pleased, she smiled sweetly, and says she:
"D'ye know me, Benet?"
"Ay, cousin," says I, "why should I not?"
"'Tis three days since you last called me 'cousin.' Your mind has been wandering away from me."
"Is it possible?" says I.
"I feared you were going to leave me here alone for ever," says she, her voice trembling, and her eyes twinkling with a tear. "But you've come back to me after all," adds she with a faint laugh, and a little gulp as she turned aside to dash the tears away with her unoccupied hand.
"God be praised!" says I.
"Amen, amen, amen!" says she with passion. "And now do you taste of this broth I have made."
So I quickly made a shift to sit up, with her help, and eagerly emptied the gourd of the broth she had prepared; for not only was I prodigious hungry, but a stout determination seized me that I would overcome my weakness, and give this dear, dear companion no further anxiety.
"Give me some more if you have it, cousin," says I.
"To be sure I have more," says she. "What sort of a housewife should I be if my larder were empty when I expected company?"
Watching her narrowly as she hurried herself to refill the gourd, I observed, with a keen pang of sorrow, that her sweet face was thin and worn with care, albeit her fair countenance was overspread with a glow of happy contentment.
She bade me lie down again when I had emptied the second bowl of broth; and then, to please me, she brought her breakfast (for 'twas early morning), and ate it sitting on the ground beside me, which was her will and not mine. And when I asked her what had been amiss with me, she told me I had been light-headed, and would for ever be a-starting off to find my uncle Sir Bartlemy, though too weak to rise, and obedient to her hand, though I knew her not. "But," says she, "since yesterday morning you have had no strength even to speak, and I have heard no sound but—" She stopped, but I knew by the sound that rose from her tender bosom it was her own sobs she had heard. "But all that is past," says she cheerily; "and now you will soon be well again, and strong, won't you?"
"Ay," says I, "I promise you I'll be master of those mountains in a week."
"Benet," says she earnestly, "you must grant me a favor."
"With all my soul," says I.
"Then promise me you will never again essay to pass those terrible mountains. Promise!" says she. "And this also—that you will not approach that pestilent marsh, for I do think 'tis the fetid mists from the corruption there which has thrown you into this sickness."
"You ask too much of me," says I, "for how, but by one of these ways, can I hope to carry you hence? You have not reflected on that."
"Yes, I have," says she quietly. "I know that I am asking you to stay with me in the captivity to which our fortunes have brought us. Have we not sought by all the means in our power to escape? If Providence willed us to go hence, should we be thus cruelly rebuffed? Is it not better, Benet, to live here together than to perish singly? Oh, I cannot bear the thought of that. To be left alone—no one to speak to—no voice to cheer me! Have we been unhappy? Can we ever be without comfort, striving each to make the other happy? We may yet improve our cabin: the summer is at hand."
"Say not another word," says I; "I ask no more than to continue as we have lived." Indeed, I was like to have become light-headed again with the prospect revealed to me and the overflow of joy in my heart; and this tumult of emotion threw me back again, not yet being quit of my fever, so that I lay down exhausted in a kind of lethargy, from which I could not arouse myself even to taste the food from my dear lady's hand, which she has prepared for me. Nay, towards evening I felt as if my last hour had come for weakness, and when she, kneeling by my side, laid her sweet, cool hand upon my head as before, asking me how I did, 'twas with much ado I could open my eyes to reply by a look that I was very easy in my mind, as indeed I was, suffering no sort of pain, but only a very sweet dreaminess to think she was to be my companion always. So I lay with my drowsiness growing on me, never moving a hand-stir till the moon rose and shone upon me through the mouth of the cavern, where doubtless I looked like one dead, as I think, for my dear lady, still kneeling beside me, began to weep softly, which, though I heard it, I could find no check by any hopeful sign, because of my heaviness. Then, taking my hand and bending low, she murmurs with a broken voice, and such disconsolate tones as were enough to move the heart of the dead:
"You won't leave me, Benet dear—you won't leave me!"
And at that I managed to open my eyes and say "No"; therewith making bold to lift her hand a little. Then she, seeing what I would be at, aided me, so that I laid her lovely hand on my mouth and kissed it.
So, animated with a new vigor, and a sturdy determination that I would not yield to this faintness, but would master it for her sake, I contrived to ask her if she would make me a potion of those herbs the Ingas had given us, which I thought would do me good.
"I have it here ready," says she, "if you can but raise your head to drink of it. Wait; let me slip my arm under your head and around your neck—so."
In this tender fashion she helped me to rise, and set the gourd to my lips, from which I drank the brew to the bottom, which was as good as any apothecaries' drugs, and full as bitter.
This potion, together with my persevering resolution, did me a world of good, so that in a couple of hours I felt strong enough to get up on my feet, if needs be; perceiving which, my lady acceded to my entreaty, and laid herself down to take some repose, which she needed sorely, for I doubt if she had closed an eye all through my sickness. For my own part, I had no longer inclination to sleep, but lay devising means for improving our cavern as my lady had suggested, for one thing resolving I would try to make a partition to my lady's chamber that would let in the light, and yet secure her privacy, which I proposed to do with a sash of canes stretched over with bladder-skin; "and thereon," thinks I, "may she paint some pretty devices with such juice-stains as we can get, that it may have all the pleasant gay look of a painted glass window."
'Twas a great pleasure to me devising all this, but the telling of it the next morning to my lady was yet greater joy, for the delight she showed in the scheme. She brought her chair up, and sitting beside me listened with sparkling eyes a whole hour to all I had to say on this trumpery; but no matter seemed paltry to her which interested me, and I do believe she would have given her serious thought to discourse on a fiddlestick's end if my mind had been bent that way, so entire was her sympathy.
"Benet," says she in the end, "I do think there is no man in the world so ingenious as you in the service of a friend, nor so unselfish neither. For while you thought I wished to quit this place, naught could exhaust your patience in seeking the means; and now that you find I would stay, your first moments of consciousness are devoted to making my life here agreeable. Nay, it seems to me that you have overcome your sickness because you saw that my happiness, my very life, depended on it."
"Why, so I have," said I; and therewith I told her how that I had taken that resolution to live when I felt myself sinking into the heaviness of death.
She looked at me with kind, wondering eyes as I spoke, and for some moments sat in silence, her hands folded on her knees, and bending towards me. Then says she, "Oh! Benet, if we all strove to live for our friends as readily as we offer to die for them, how much more should we merit their love!"
Soon after this she took her bow and arrows and went off in the canoe to seek food for our supper in the wooded slope; but the dear girl did so steer her course that I might as long as possible see her from where I lay by the mouth of the cavern.