He felt the change that was drawing him from earth, and rejoiced in it. It were better that she should think of him as a spirit, divested of the covering that made him a loathsome mortal! Even if he could know that her every affection clung to him, he would pray to go hence before her eyes could be so cleared of the mists of love as to see the hideousness of his imperfections. He had seen her shudder as her cousin's arm was placed around her; and was he not more repulsive still? Oh, how could he ever dream of allying himself to an angel?
The very thought of his "vanity" and forgetfulness was humiliating, and Archibald Mackie shut himself up in his chamber, and suffered, and prayed, and struggled alone; and came forth with a radiant brow, and a cheerful, peaceful heart. He had done with the things of this life. The dearest and best he had dropped from his grasp, and now it was so easy to part with the rest. The dreams of his youth had made his pathway green, and kept his mind off the real evils. What if they were but transient and fading visions? They had been of sufficient duration and brightness to cheer him in many an otherwise dreary walk; and they had not been without their influence upon the inner soul that perchance would have sunk into an utter despondency and gloom but for these incentives to energy and action.
No more dreaming now; but a constant looking forward to the end of life's journey, and a steady and unwearied preparation for the final summons.
CHAPTER XIII.
The summer was unspeakably beautiful to the dying youth. To sit in his easy-chair beside the low window of his loved chamber, and let his eyes wander over the greenness and glory of nature, while his thoughts went upward to the Paradise of immortal joys, or to rove languidly about the grounds of his patron, supported by the kind old man whose tenderness and care were ever ready, or to recline upon a couch beside the door while Kittie Fay talked to him in her pleasant sympathetic way, or read to him in a low soft tone—these things made up the sum of his waning life, and imparted a quiet sort of rapture to every moment. Mahan Doughty—now grown a large and bashful girl—came again with some simple flowers, that recalled to him the distant years, and Sally Bunt stood often beside him, not as of old with the newly-laid egg; but with nice broth from some favorite chicken, whose head was as nothing, when the word came to the old playmate that Archie was fading away. A great gulf had separated them since he lived on the plain, for none of his former associates had dared venture an intimacy after his removal within the precincts of the "great house;" but an undying sympathy made a bridge over the wide gulf, and they crossed and recrossed fearlessly, to minister to their friend.
The imbecile old grandmother played with the thin fingers of her idol boy, and laughed with an idiotic chuckle as she looked upon the white face, calling him her "gentleman," and wondering "how he came to have such a delicate skin, when his father was brown and tawny."
Patrick and Molly discussed the case of the sick youth as often as they were left alone, with disconsolate and saddened hearts; and all that could cheer him with the words of a comfort which they were far from feeling in their own spirits, were the mother and daughter, who had learned to look away from themselves in every grief and sorrow, that they might be a blessing to others. The day had been terribly oppressive, and both had been watching the youth as he lay fainting and exhausted upon his couch. Not one moment had they ceased fanning him gently lest the weak breath would take its flight; but now a refreshing breeze was stirring the locks upon his temples, and imparting to him a little strength, so that Kittie could leave for a few moments to attend to her cousin Willie, whose demands were more importunate upon her than ever, since her time was required in the sick presence.
"How is Archie, to-night, Kittie?" asked he, as his cousin stepped lightly over the threshold, and seated herself on the sofa beside him.
"He seems to revive a little," said she; "Doctor Fincke thinks he may yet linger for a few days, but I am fearful it can not be—to me he seems very weak and low."