In the morning the young doctor found his patient in the same feeble, slumberous state. There was no apparent change either for better or worse, and he thought it probable she might linger days and even weeks, gradually sinking, till she slept the last great sleep.
“You look weary and languid, Helen,” said he, anxiously regarding the young watcher, “I hope nothing disturbed your lonely vigils. I endeavored to return, that I might relieve you, in some measure, of your fatiguing duty, but was detained the whole night.”
Helen thought of the terror she had suffered from Clinton’s intrusion, but she did not like to speak of it. Perhaps he had already left the neighborhood, and it seemed ungenerous and useless to betray him.
“I certainly had no ghostly visitors,” said she, “and what is more, I did not fear them. All unreal phantasies fled before that sad reality,” looking on the wan features of Miss Thusa.
“I see you have profited by the discipline of the last twelve hours,” cried Arthur, “and it was most severe, for one of your temperament and early habits. I have heard it said,” he added, thoughtfully, “that those who follow my profession, become callous and indifferent to human suffering—that their nerves are steeled, and their hearts indurated—but I do not find it the case with me; I never approach the bedside of the sick and the dying without deep and solemn emotion. I feel nearer the grave, nearer to Heaven and God.”
“No—I am sure it cannot be said of you,” said Helen, earnestly, “you are always kind and sympathizing—quick to relieve, and slow to inflict pain.”
“Ah, Helen, you forget how cruel I was in forcing you back, where the deadly viper had been coiled; in making you take that dark, solitary walk in search of the sleeping Alice; and even last night I might have spared you your lonely night watch, if I would. Had I told you that you were too inexperienced and inefficient to be a good nurse, you would have believed me and yielded your place, or at least shared it with another. Do you still think me kind?”
“Most kind, even when most exacting,” she replied. Whenever her feelings were excited, her deep feelings of joy as well as sorrow, Helen’s eyes always glistened. This peculiarity gave a soft, pensive expression to her countenance that was indescribably winning, and made her smile from the effect of contrast enchantingly sweet.
The glistening eye and the enchanting smile that followed these words, or rather accompanied them, were not altogether lost on Arthur.
Mrs. Gleason came to relieve Helen from the care of nursing, and insisted upon her immediate return home. Helen obeyed with reluctance, claiming the privilege of resuming her watch again at night. She wanted to be with Miss Thusa in her last moments. She had a sublime curiosity to witness the last strife of body and soul, the separation of the visible and the invisible; but when night came on, exhausted nature sought renovation in the deepest slumbers that had ever wrapped her. Arthur, perceiving some change in his patient, resolved to remain with her himself, having hired a woman to act as subordinate nurse during Miss Thusa’s sickness. She occupied the kitchen as bed-room—an apartment running directly back of the sick chamber.