I sat up in bed; frightened at the wild confusion of my brain, I passed my hands over my eyes to remove the illusion, but in vain. The massy wardrobe changed to the rocky walls of the Rip Raps, and above it I saw the tall form of the white-locked chief. The carpet, with its clusters of mimic flowers, on a pale gray ground, was a waste of waters, covered with roses, among which St. James was swimming and trying to grasp them.
"What is the matter?" I cried, clasping my burning hands. "Am I asleep, and are these images but the visions of a feverish imagination?"
"You dream, my love," answered the low, deep voice of Ernest; "but my mother is coming to awaken you with a cold and icy hand. I have scattered roses over you while you slept, but her blighting touch has withered them."
Thus vision after vision succeeded each other, hurrying along like clouds in a tempestuous sky. I suppose I must have slept at last, but the morning found me in a state of utter exhaustion. Nervous excitement, sitting so long on the damp grass, and lingering out in the dewy evening air, brought on an illness which confined me to my bed many days. Dr. Harlowe threatened to put me in a strait-jacket and send me to a lunatic asylum, if I did not behave better in future.
"I must take you home with me," he said; "our quiet, humdrum mode of life is better for you, after all. Your little rocking chair stands exactly where you used to sit in it. I do not like to see any one else occupy it. I get in disgrace with my wife every day, now you are not by me to hang up my hat and remind me by a glance to shake the dust from my feet. Such a quick pulse as this will never do, my child."
For a week I was kept in a darkened room, and perfect quietude was commanded. The doctor came every day, and sometimes several times a day, with his smiling, sunny countenance, and anxious, affectionate heart. Mrs. Linwood and Edith stole gently in and out, with steps soft as falling snowflakes, and Margaret Melville was not permitted to enter at all. Every morning fresh flowers were laid upon my pillow, which I knew were gathered by the hand of Ernest, and they whispered to me of such sweet things my languid senses ached to hear them.
One day, while in this passive, languishing, dreamy condition, having fallen into tranquil slumbers, I was left a few moments alone. I was awakened by a stronger touch than that of Edith's fairy hand.
"Why, how do you do, darling? How do you do?" cried a hearty, gay voice, that echoed like a bugle in the stillness of the room. "The doctor said you were getting well, and I determined I would not be kept out any longer. What in the world do they banish me for? I am the best nurse in the universe, strong as a lion, and wakeful as an owl. What do they shut you up in this dark room for?—just to give you the blues!—It is all nonsense. I am going to put back these curtains, and let in some light,—you will become etiolated. I want to see how you look."
Dashing at the curtains, she tossed two of them back as high as she could throw them, letting in a flood of sunshine to my weak and dazzled eyes.
"Don't! don't!" I entreated, getting dreadfully nervous and agitated; "I cannot bear it,—indeed I cannot."