"Helen!" he cried--"Helen! I feel very queer. Don't let them go on in this mist. Stop the carriage--I should like to get out. The air is so thick here I cannot breathe. Stop the carriage, girl, I say! Those d--d doctors, if they had but left me in England I should have been well by this time. That mist--"
Helen let down the window hastily, and called to the postilions to stop, but they did not hear her, and it was some time before she could catch the ear of the courier. At length, however, the carriage paused; and the door was opened, and, by a great effort, William Barham raised himself from his seat, and fell forward into the arms of the courier. The man carried him to the bank, and placed him at the foot of a tree, but the unhappy youth sunk back upon the grass with his eyes closed; while the same death-like pallor continued upon his countenance, and a quick, hard-drawn respiration shook his emaciated frame. Helen sprang from the carriage after her brother, and knelt beside him, her heart palpitating with apprehension, and her eyes filled with the tears of natural affection, no less keen and sensible because he who lay there dying before her had been so frequently the cause of pain, and sorrow, and anxiety. She bade the man bring water from the stream to throw upon his face; but though he went civilly to obey, yet he shrugged his shoulders, saying, in French--"It is of no use, mademoiselle--he is dying."
Oh! of all the many painful things of earth, there are few more terrible than to stand by the side of a being that we deeply love, watching the last struggles of departing life, looking round for aid, consolation, and support, and finding about us none but indifferent strangers, who view our sorrow and its cause but as a scene upon a theatre. Though she knew that medical aid was useless, what would not Helen Barham have given, at that moment, for the presence of a physician, for the presence of any friend! But all she could do was to clasp her hands, and gaze through her tears upon the unanswering countenance of her brother, expecting every moment to see the spirit depart. After the courier had been gone for a minute, however, a hasty step called her attention, and then a voice which seemed familiar to her ear, asking aloud, in English--"What's the matter--what's the matter?"
Helen looked up, and the face of Harry Martin met her eyes.
"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed. "My brother--my brother,--he is dying, I am afraid."
Harry Martin said, in his own heart, "And no bad job either!" But there was too much of the milk of human kindness, mingled with his rough nature, to let him utter one word which could pain poor Helen Barham at that moment.
"I am very glad to see you, ma'am," he replied; "but sorry to find you in such a state. But why did you take the young man out of the carriage? The place they call Steig is only two miles off; the doctor will be there in half an hour, to see our poor old woman who broke her leg. Better put him in again, Miss! Take the maid with you, inside; I'll jump up behind, and we'll soon be there."
The courier came back with some water in his hands, but though thrown upon the face of the unhappy youth, it produced no effect, except a slight shudder which passed over his frame. The suggestion of the man Harry Martin was then followed. He himself carried the almost lifeless body of William Barham to the carriage, and placed him in it; while Helen, taking her seat beside him, supported his head upon her arm, and the door being closed after the maid had entered, they proceeded on their way.
The postilions drove quick--much more so, indeed, than any money would have induced them to do--and in about twenty minutes the chariot stood before the little post-house. Much to the satisfaction of Harry Martin, the surgeon who had been attending old Mrs. More was seen, as they came up, in the very act of getting into his ancient caleche, to rumble back again to Friedburg, and, springing down, the Englishman stopped him, and told him what had occurred. The surgeon followed him instantly to the side of the vehicle, but when they came up, the post-master, the servants, and the courier were all whispering round, Helen's beautiful face was buried in her handkerchief, and the dead body of William Barham lay beside her, with the head resting upon her shoulder.
Harry Martin sprang round to the other side of the chariot, opened the door, and, raising the corpse in his powerful arms, bore it into the inn. Helen started, and looked round for a moment, as she felt the weight that had leaned upon her removed; but then bent down her head again, and once more covering her eyes, wept bitterly, without making any movement to quit the carriage. In another instant, however, Harry Martin was at the door again, and gently laying his hand upon her sleeve, he called her attention, saying--"You must get out, Miss Barham, I fear, for there is much to be done.--Be comforted, madam," he added, in a low tone--"be comforted. Ay, and thank God! Remember, it might have been worse--much worse."