“‘I knew that all this was but the effect of a brain fever—that there could be no meaning in your words. Yet it seemed to me that my master should have striven to tranquillize you more than he did. Had he promised all you required, it might have had a soothing influence; for you were strangely anxious that he should give a pledge not to hate or even condemn some person who was not named. Yet, though you would at moments plead for mercy and protection with a piteous helplessness that might have won the heart of an enemy to compassion, he stood over you unchanged in that look of stern sorrow which had struck me so forcibly in the library. He scarcely seemed to comprehend the wild pathos of your words, but his composure was stern and painful to look upon.
“‘At last you appeared to become more quiet, but still kept your eyes fixed pleadingly on his face and a wild, sweet strain breathed from your lips with a rise and fall so sad and plaintive that it seemed as if half your voice must have dissolved to tears and a broken heart was flowing away in its own low melody.
“‘While the music yet lingered about your lips you began to talk of your mother, of a stone church where she had first taught you to pray—of a coffin, and a large white rose-tree that grew beneath a window which you had loved because her dear hand had planted it; then you besought him to bring some of those roses—white and pure, you said—that they might be laid upon your heart and take the fever away; then none need be ashamed to weep when you died, and perhaps they might bury you beside your mother.
“‘It was enough to break one’s heart to hear you plead in that sad, earnest way, and I saw, through the tears which almost blinded me, that my master was losing his self-command. The veins began to swell on his forehead, and a tremulous motion became visible about his mouth, which had till then remained as firm and almost as white as marble. He made a movement as if about to go away; but just then you raised your arms and, winding them about his neck, said: “Nay, Varnham, you will not leave me to die here. Let us go to our own old home. I will be very quiet, and will not try to live—only promise me this: bury me beneath the balcony, and let that lone, white rose-tree blossom over me forever and ever. I cannot exactly tell why, but they will not let me rest beside my mother, so my spirit shall stay among those pure flowers in patient bondage till all shall proclaim it purified and stainless enough to go and dwell with her. Kiss me once more, and say that you will go.”
“‘My master could but feebly resist the effort with which his face was drawn to yours; but when your lips met his he began to tremble again, and strove to unwind your arms from his neck; but you laid your head on his bosom, and that low, sad melody again broke from your lips, and your arms still wound more clingingly about him at every effort to undo their clasp.
“‘He looked down upon the face that would not be removed from its rest; his bosom heaved, he wound his arms convulsively about your form for a moment, then forced you back to the pillow, and fell upon his knees by the bedside. His face was buried in the counterpane, but the sound of his half-stifled sobs grew audible throughout the room, and the bed shook beneath the violent trembling of his form. I beckoned the maid, and we stole from his presence, for it seemed wrong to stand by and gaze upon such grief.
“‘When we returned you were silent and apparently asleep. He was sitting by the bed, and his eyes were fixed on your face with the same mournful, forgiving look with which I have seen him regard you a thousand times since. He spoke in his usual gentle way, and told us to tread lightly, that we might not disturb you. It was many hours before you awoke. My master was concealed by the drapery; you started up with a wild cry, and asked if he had gone to do murder. He caught you in his arms as you were about to spring from the bed, and with gentle violence forced you back to the pillows again. Then he waved his hand for us to draw back, and spoke to you in a solemn and impressive voice; but the last words only reached me. They were:
“‘“I have promised, solemnly promised, Caroline—try to comprehend me and be at rest.”
“‘Your fever raged many days after that, and you were constantly delirious, but never violent, and that frightful dread of some impending evil seemed to have left you entirely. Your disease at length abated, and the bloom gradually returned to your cheek, but every new mark of convalescence only seemed to deepen the melancholy which had settled on my master.
“‘When the physicians decided that your mind would never regain its former strength, but that it would ever remain wandering and gentle, and full of beautiful images as the fever had left it, my master became almost cheerful. He would allow no restraint to be placed upon you, and gave orders that you should be attended with all the respect and deference that had ever been rendered to your station. He never seemed more happy than while wandering with you about the gardens, and in the park; yet there were times when he would sit and gaze on your face as you slept, with a sad, regretful look that betrayed how truly he must have sorrowed over your misfortune. There was a yearning tenderness in his eye at such times, more touching far than tears. I could see that he struggled against these feelings, as if there existed something to be ashamed of in them, but they would return again.’