At length the crisis of the disease came. The delirium arose to a frenzy. His spirit, as well as his flesh, seemed to be passing through the very fires of purgatory. He raved incessantly—now of Carolyn, now of Georgia, then of his mother, and always of Catherine—sometimes calling down the bitterest imprecations upon his own head, sometimes severely reproaching Georgia, sometimes pleading his cause with his mother, and always breaking off to soothe and coax Catherine, as if she were circled in his arm.
At length the frenzy fairly exhausted itself, and he sank into a comatose state, to dream of Catherine, to see visions of Catherine, to feel her gentle presence, and healing ministrations all about him. Then came insensibility, which lasted he did not know how long, for all sense of time and place and existence itself was blotted out.
And at last he awoke—the burning fever had gone out from his blood, and a delicious coolness ran through all his veins—the terrible nervous excitement had subsided, and a luxurious calm lay upon mind and body, until memory came to disturb it, perhaps to torture it. He was experiencing the delightful sensations of restoration and convalescence, and his physical state alone would have been a sufficient cause for happiness, but for one aching, aching spot, one sharp point of agony as it were in his heart’s core. And when the cry in his bosom found its corresponding expression, the word was “Catherine!” “Catherine!”
His eyes had opened on his darkened chamber, where, upon the hearth, glimmered a feeble taper, that scarcely sent its weak rays beyond the edges of the hearth. He knew it must be near day, for the low, melodious detonating sounds of early morning were echoing through the mountains. The chamber seemed deserted—not if Catherine had been living would his sick bed have been so abandoned, he thought. He turned and groaned from the depths of his bosom—“Oh, Catherine! Catherine.” His room was very dusky—he could not see the presence by his couch—but now gentler than “tired eyelids upon tired eyes” fell a soft hand upon his brow.
Surely there was but one touch like that in the world!
A new born, feeble hope was trembling at his heart, a hope that he feared to disturb lest it should die in disappointment; that he dared scarcely submit to the test of certainty, lest that certainty should bring not joy but despair. At last, trembling with doubt, he murmured, “Am I dreaming, or, dear Kate, are you here?”
“I am here,” she answered softly.
“Darling, are you well?”
“Very well—but you are not well enough to talk yet,” said Kate, gently.
“Dear Kate—how long have you been home?”