His eye met that of the widow; it was mild and calm as ever, but no smile returned his greeting, and she turned away immediately towards the object that then engrossed her heart, and perhaps intending thereby to direct his notice thither also.
It was enough, indeed, to have chained a mother's attention; for on the bed by which she was sitting, lay her only son, for whose sake she lived thus alone, senseless, but still alive; his pallid countenance and sunken eye and cheek, his short faint breathing, all plainly indicated that life was held but by a slender thread—so slender, that a trifle might sunder it for ever. Close by the head of the sufferer stood his sister, gently waving a large fan, and thereby relieving in some measure the closeness of the atmosphere, which, to one so weak as he appeared, must have been oppressive in the extreme. Neither mother nor daughter attempted to offer any explanation of the circumstances; and Henry had too much delicacy, and was too sincerely affected by what he saw, to intrude any questions, or interrupt the perfect silence of the sick chamber.
Gently rising from her seat, the widow touched the arm of her Hettie, who resigned the place and the fan, and turning her sad yet beautiful eyes toward the young minister, and stepping lightly to the door, signified that she wished him to follow.
He offered his arm, and in silence she led him to a shade sufficiently removed, so that the sound of their voices could not reach the cottage. Resigning her arm, he motioned her to a seat.
'Thank you; I cannot sit, but must return immediately. You have heard of my brother's illness?' looking full at Henry.
'Not a word. But tell me what could have brought him so low in so short a period. When I was here a few days since, your mother said nothing of his being sick.'
'He was brought home two days ago in the condition you now see him.'
Hettie was much affected, and it was some time before she could command her feelings so as to give a clear recital of all she knew: 'That he was found lying by the road—that he was at first supposed to be dead—that a litter was made, and upon it he was brought home—that the ground where he lay was covered with blood, and other marks of a violent scuffle—that he had not spoken a word, nor could any one give the least explanation of the matter.'
'Let me go with you to him at once,' said Henry.
Henry entered the cottage with her. Little, however, could be done besides keeping the sufferer as quiet as possible, and administering some slight nourishment; and thus he lay from week to week, living, breathing, barely able to make himself understood by sign or word, and nothing more. But Henry was not the only male friend who clung to them in this their hour of need. David Cross had been almost a constant attendant from the moment William had been brought home. David had always been a visitor at the cottage; he had been invariably kind to the widow, watching over her in her loneliness, seeing to her little wants, calling and sitting many long hours, and apparently not unwilling to listen to her instructions, and ready to do any act of kindness, insomuch that she felt for him almost the affection of a mother. She pitied him, too, in his peculiar situation; he had no mother, or none that he had ever known as such—it was said that she had died many years ago; he had no brother, sister, or other relative beside his father; from him he had never received many tokens of affection. He would no doubt have been proud to see him rise in the world: and, as we have seen, was very willing to accomplish this end at the expense of others; but he was morose in his disposition, often unkind to the young man, supplying him indeed with money, but as often lavishing his curses upon him as any thing else.