Black and white is not the dress for lovers' nothings, especially the sweet almost childish nothings that would flow from lips like Adèle's and Arthur's. They should be written in such colors as the blushing east can give, inscribed by the pen of one of God's angels.
For young as Adèle and Arthur were, they knew what they were doing. They had passed through the hand of the Great Instructor, so terrible in His aspect, so wise, even loving, in His ways of dealing with weak humanity. In the furnace of suffering their hearts had been tried, and they knew how to value their happiness, how to prize one another.
[CHAPTER XII.]
A LONG SLEEP.
O wind!
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Everything was ready in Margaret's room—warm blankets, steaming cans of water, hot fomentations, cordials of many a different kind—for her nurses were afraid that the unconsciousness of which Adèle had spoken might, after her previous excitement, be very difficult to conquer. They were surprised, then, when Maurice at last carried her in and laid her down, to find that she bore every appearance of being wrapped in a quiet, healthy sleep; indeed, so convinced was her husband that this, and this only, was the cause of her unconsciousness, that he would allow no means to be used for her restoration, at least until the morning, when the doctor from the neighboring town had already promised to look in upon them.
Nurse Martha shook her head. There was something mysterious about it all. "Who ever heard," she asked Jane in whispers, "of a body sleeping awa' that gait, and she in a dangerous fever that had wellnigh ta'en her life?"
But in spite of protest Maurice's wishes were obeyed, Margaret's wet things were removed as quietly as possible by the experienced old woman, and she only stirred once during the process. Her husband watched her sleep that night. Kindly but peremptorily he sent everyone away, and sat himself by his wife's side, counting the very pulsations of her heart as the hours of the night passed by. The old nurse and the landlady (they had insisted upon sending the younger people to bed) watched by turns during the night in the little parlor adjoining the bedroom, for neither of them had much belief in the efficiency of this new care-taker. But no sound came from the room where the husband was watching the death-like repose of her he had wronged and deserted, the woman who was suffering, as he told himself bitterly, for his uncomprehending folly. Once or twice during that long watch he grew alarmed, the rest was so deep; but putting his ear to her heart he heard the pulsations, faint yet regular, and he was comforted.
So the night went by, and in the morning he could no longer keep his treasure to himself; they would all come in to know how she was, to watch and wonder. The little Laura was the first to creep into the room. She had been told on the preceding night that her mother had been found, but was too ill to see her—that she would doubtless be better in the morning. Submitting to the inevitable had become a habit with Laura. She had allowed herself to be undressed and put to bed, but very early, in night-dress and bare toes, she made a voyage of discovery to find out where her mamma could be.