"Ernest! Richard!" burst in anguish from my feeble lips.
"They live! my child, they live!" said Mrs. Linwood, rising from her knees and taking my passive hand in both hers; "but ask nothing now; you have been very ill, you are weak as an infant; you must be tranquil, patient, and submissive; and grateful, too, to a God of infinite mercy. When you are stronger I will talk to you, but not now. You must yield yourself to my guidance, in the spirit of an unweaned child."
"They live!" repeated I to myself, "my God, I bless thee! I lie at thy footstool. I am willing to die; I long to die. Let the waves of eternity roll over my soul."
Husband and brother! they lived, and yet neither came to me on my couch of sickness. But Richard! had not I seen him bleeding, insensible, the image of death? he lived, yet he might be on the borders of the grave. But she had commanded me to be silent, submissive, and grateful; and I tried to obey her. My physical weakness was such, it subdued the paroxysms of mental agony, and the composing draught which she gave me was a blessed Nepenthe, producing oblivion and repose.
The next day I recognized Dr. Harlowe, the excellent and beloved physician. When I called him by name, as he stood by the bed, counting my languid pulse, the good man turned aside his head to hide the womanish tears that moistened his cheeks. Then looking down on me with a benignant smile, he said, smoothing my hair on my forehead, as if I were a little child—
"Be a good girl; keep quiet; be patient as a lamb, and you will soon be well."
"How long have I been ill, Doctor?" I asked. "I am very foolish, I know; but it seems as if even you look older than you did."
"Never mind, my dear, how long you have been sick. I mean to have you well in a short time. Perhaps I do look a little older, for I have forgotten to shave this morning."
While he was speaking, I caught a glimpse of the lawn through a slight opening in the window curtain, and I uttered an exclamation of amazement and alarm. The trees which I had last beheld clothed in a foliage of living green, were covered with the golden tints of autumn; and here and there a naked bough, with prophetic desolation, waved its arm across the sky.
Where had my spirit been while the waning year had rolled on? Where was Ernest? Where was Richard? Why was I forsaken and alone?