The quilt that had been hung in front to shield her eyes from the ruddy blaze of the fire on the previous night, when repose was so necessary to her shattered nervous system, was now removed to give her more air; for the time had come when it would be well for her to awake. The bed had been straightened into perfect order and the white counterpane drawn up, so that only the lovely face, laying with its right cheek on the pillow, and forehead towards the front of the bed, was visible. The golden hair had been drawn away from the nape of the neck and carried up over the pillow, where it lay a shining mass of curls. A very pathetic face it was, with the tender eyes half shut, the sweet lips half closed. Her sleep looked like the “deep deliciousness of death”; though had it been really that, it might have been said with equal truth that it looked like the sweetest sleep.
David Lindsay sank on his knees beside the bed and gazed on the beautiful, unconscious face turned towards him, as he never would have dared to gaze had those features been instinct with wakeful intelligence. And then, out of the fullness of his heart, he began to murmur words of passionate love to those sealed ears that he never would have ventured to utter had they been listening—words of reverential, worshiping love, that for their incoherence and extravagance could scarcely bear repetition here. He lifted a tress of the floating golden hair and pressed it to his lips, while his tears fell thick and heavily.
“Why do I love you?” he sighed at length. “I know it is vain, and worse than vain! I am but a clod of the earth! And you, what are you? I scarcely know. Something so pure, so precious, so sacred, that it seems sacrilege to touch this halo around your head, these peerless tresses. Yet I love you! I love you! Clod as I am, I love you, oh! unattainable blessing! I might as well love a queen on her throne, the sun in the heavens, the moon, or any glorious, infinitely distant star! Oh, Gloria! Gloria! Bright seraph, why did you come and shine on this poor earth that I am, to quicken it with a living soul—to wake it to such love, such suffering, such despair?”
Down went his head again upon the side of the bed, while his bosom heaved with heavy sobs, and his tears fell like rain.
“David Lindsay.”
Her sweet voice fell on his ears like a benediction.
He lifted his head. She was awake, and gazing gently on his troubled face.
“What is the matter, David Lindsay? What has happened?” she inquired, with a look of sympathy and deep perplexity.
“Nothing; I mean—yes, something has happened, but it is well over, and, oh, how I thank heaven to hear you speak again!” he said, with an effort to recover his self-control, as he arose from his knees.
“What? Is the little lady awake at last? Well, it is time. It would not have been good for her to have slept longer,” said the voice of Dame Lindsay, who had just entered the room and approached the bed.