These questions quivered on my tongue, and would have utterance.
"Tell me, Doctor,—I cannot live in this dreadful suspense."
He sat down by me, still holding my hand in his, and promised to tell me, if I would be calm and passive. He told me that for two months I had been in a state of alternate insensibility and delirium, that they had despaired of my life, and that they welcomed me as one risen from the grave. He told me that Ernest had left home, in consequence of the prayers of his mother, till Richard should recover from the effects of his wound, which they at first feared would prove fatal; that Richard was convalescent, was under the same roof with me, and would see me as soon as I could bear the meeting.
"Ernest knows that he is my brother,—he knows that I am innocent," I exclaimed, my whole soul trembling on his answer.
"I trust he knows it now," he replied, with a troubled countenance. "His mother has written and told him all. We were ignorant ourselves of this, you must recollect, till Richard was able to explain it."
"And he went away believing me a wretch!" I cried, in a tone of unutterable agony. "He will never, never return!"
"My dear child," replied Dr. Harlowe, in an accent of kind authority, "you have no right to murmur; you have been spared the most awful infliction a sovereign God could lay upon you,—a brother's life taken by a husband's hand. Praise the Almighty day and night, bless Him without ceasing, that He has lifted from your bosom this weight of woe. Be reconciled to your husband's absence. Mourn not for a separation which may prove the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon both. All may yet be well. It will be, if God wills it; and if He wills it not, my dear child, you must then lay your hand on your mouth, and your mouth in the dust, and say, 'It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth good in His sight.'"
"I know it,—I feel it," I answered, tears raining on my pillow; "but let me see my brother. It will do me good."
"By and by," said he; "he is not very strong himself yet. The young rascal! if he had only confided to me the secret with which his heart was bursting! But there is no use in crying over burnt bread. We must keep it out of the fire next time."
The entrance of Edith checked this conversation, and it was well. She came with her usual gentle motion, and fair, pitying countenance, and diffused around her an atmosphere of divine repose. My brain, relieved of the dreadful tension of suspense, throbbed soft and cool beneath the snow of her loving fingers. She, too, was pale and wan, but she smiled upon me with glistening eyes, and whispered words of sweetest consolation.