We have seen that Edward Langdale had little to do but to think. The surgeons would not let him read. He was enjoined to speak as little as possible, for there was a shrewd suspicion that the sword which wounded him had passed through, or very near, one of the lungs. But he employed thought to good purpose,—to calm all angry feelings, to quench repinings, to humble himself to God's will. He was naturally led by this train of thought to follow, in reference to his own case, some of the fine threads out of which the great network of cause and effect is wrought.
"Why should I be so angry with my brother?" he thought. "If he had not taken from me my property, what a different creature I should have been!—a country squire with a pack of hounds; a justice of the peace some day, to hear old women's plaints about robbed orchards and violated hen-roosts! I should never have been Lord Montagu's page; I should never have met with dear, dear Lucette. Sweet girl! where is she now? Does she think of me still? Does she ever regret the indissoluble bond that binds us together?"
Then the train of thought became somewhat more gloomy. He recollected that for two long years—how sadly, sadly long they seemed in prospect!—he was not to see her. And what might happen in the interval? All means, all arts, would be used to induce her to forget him, to break their union, perhaps to make her love some other; and he felt for an instant, as he thus pondered, the little, sharp sting of jealousy,—the most poignant of pangs.
The world has always been full of tales of woman's fickleness, and Edward had heard them,—tales in which her firmness and her truth are often forgotten altogether. But speedily came better thoughts and nobler confidence. Lucette was full of gentleness, was of a tender, loving nature, he knew; but he thought he had remarked, in the various scenes through which they had passed,—scenes well calculated to try a young girl to the utmost,—a strength, a constancy of purpose which bade him trust.
"She will not abandon me," he thought. "She will not bestow that love upon another which was first mine,—is mine by right. Dear, beautiful girl! there is truth and enduring love in those clear, liquid eyes. Oh that I could see her again but for one moment! Oh for one embrace, one kiss!"
The day declined, and night came on. They brought the invalid the scanty supper that was allowed him, and, an hour or two after, Pierrot came to take away the light; for Edward, who had slept very lightly for several nights, had expressed a wish that the night-lamp and the good folks who had hitherto watched him might be withdrawn. He thought he should rest better, he said, if he were quite alone and in darkness. He was not mistaken. From ten till twelve he slept more soundly than he had done for many days. He heard the abbey clock strike twelve, however, but it was but a momentary interruption of his slumber; and he was turning round to sleep again, when the door of the chamber creaked a little upon its hinges. The room was large and the windows well shaded; but, as Edward lay with his face toward the door, he could see a gleam of moonlight partly interrupted at the door-way, and he gazed to discover who was coming in. The figure was small, the garments those of a woman; and the youth thought, "One of the good sisters, to see if I am sleeping well. She means it kindly; but I wish she had not come."
Unwilling to have any conversation, he shut his eyes again and affected to be still asleep; but the door was gently closed, and then a light footfall crossed the floor. It stopped near his bedside, and then a hand lightly touched him; for the room was very dark, and probably the visitor, whoever it was, did not see any thing distinctly.
"This is strange," thought Edward: "the sisters commonly have a lamp with them."
The stranger paused where she stood, and seemed to be gazing down upon the spot where he lay; and then she quietly crossed the room to where a small crack between the blind and the wall showed a very narrow ray of moonshine. She quietly and softly pulled back the blind a very little farther, so as to admit the slightest possible light into the room, and then returned to the bedside and gazed down again. A moment or two after, Edward felt the pressure of a cool, delicious kiss upon his cheek. He could affect sleep no longer, and opened his eyes; but it was in vain. He could neither see the face nor distinguish the garments of his visitor; and, stretching forth his hand, he caught her dress, saying, "Who are you? what is it you seek?"
She answered not; but, kneeling down by his bedside, she threw her arms round him, covering his lips and brow with kisses; and he thought he felt a warm drop or two fall from her eyes upon his cheek.