Roland Graeme: Knight. A Novel of Our Time

by Agnes Maule Machar

"She took me by surprise to-day," Dr. Blanchard continued, "when I found him so ill that I thought there was no hope for him but in the last resort—trying to suck out the membraneous stuff with an instrument."

"Oh, Will," exclaimed his wife, "I can't bear to have you do such things! You have no right to risk your life in that way—and all our lives!"

"If I had done it, I should not have told you now. I've done it before. Don't you know, we doctors are all under orders to risk life when it's necessary? We couldn't do much, if we weren't ready for that. And I should be a degenerate descendant of the brave Blanchards who fought for freedom, if I couldn't face death as readily to save life, as they did to destroy it. However, I haven't told you yet what surprised me. Just as I was going to do it, this poor woman pressed forward, whispering—"Oh, let me! It's my place!"—in such an agonized way, that I had not the heart to refuse her. I saw it was a real comfort to her. I hardly know whether I was right or not, but I let her do it."

"Of course you were right!" Mrs. Blanchard said, much relieved. "It was her place, as she said. I should have felt just so!"

Nora said nothing; but as she silently listened, the tears started to her eyes, at the thought of the words, "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much!"

Whether or not it was this "last resort" that saved the clergyman's life, he began from that time slightly to improve. The violence of the attack abated, leaving it possible for him to secure the soothing and strengthening rest he so much needed. And, at last, Miss Spencer, who had been watching with deep interest the course of events, told the poor shy watcher that she need not continue to practise such caution in avoiding recognition. It would not hurt him, now, she thought, and it might as well come soon as late. But it happened, after all, in a way entirely accidental and unpremeditated.

With the first light of morning, Mr. Chillingworth awoke, at length, from a long, restful sleep. He had no idea that his wife was in the hospital, for he had not, of course, felt sufficiently interested in Miss Blanchard's protégée, to keep track of her history. And, since the disclosure, he had not yet dared to ask any questions.

But very probably, some chance token of a once familiar presence may have stolen into his mind, even through the prostration of disease. It is curious, what slight touches will start the springs of old associations. Mr. Chillingworth, at any rate, had been dreaming a long pleasant dream of the old happy days of his youthful love and marriage, of wanderings in English lanes and saunterings in leafy garden-walks, always with one fair face and graceful figure by his side, that had then seemed to hold the whole charm of life for him. As he awoke, he had been, in his dream, looking down at the familiar upturned face, with its gaze of happy, trustful love.

It seemed to him, when he opened his eyes in the bare hospital room, that he must be dreaming still. For, in a low chair beside the bed, sat, with her head resting on it, in a quiet sleep that had stolen irresistibly over her—the very original of his dreams. In the soft light that penetrated through the drawn blinds, the traces left by years and suffering on the still lovely face were almost unperceived; the soft rings of dark hair curled low on the forehead just as he so well remembered them—lovely even in their slight disorder. And, even as he looked, the long lashes were raised, and the beautiful gray eyes were opened, in a shy, half-frightened, but fascinated gaze.

Mr. Chillingworth was just in that weak and helpless state, when—if ever in his life—a man yearns for the tender ministrations of a loving woman. Suffering and prostration had broken down the hard coldness of his nature, and it seemed as if he had become like a dependent child. The old love of the former days, stirred up by his vivid dream, seemed to thrill once more through his whole being, sweeping away all the barriers that years and circumstances had interposed. He feebly stretched out his arms, and by the irresistible impulse—strange influence that love can exert over the hardest will!—the long severed husband and wife were reunited in a close, instinctive, passionate embrace.