He laid his hand upon the vicar’s shoulder, for the strong man’s head had gone down upon his hands. He had fought his grief back, and borne so much—now he had given way.
“I am weak,” said the vicar, gently. “Pray go.”
“Yes,” said the stout old fellow with animation; and the desponding feeling seemed to have gone. “Yes, I’ll go and watch while you pray; and between us, with God’s help, we may save her yet.”
As the night wore on, and the town grew stilled in sleep, the vicar rose and left the house, to go silently down the High Street, past the church, to his own home, where he could lean against the gate and watch for hour after hour the little lighted window with its drawn blind, and the one glowing spot where the candle burned.
Hour after hour, sometimes walking up and down, but always with the prayer upon his lip that she might be spared.
Sometimes a shadow crossed the blind, and a light went through the house. Then all was still again, and the night went on, with the stars that had risen as he watched passing over his head, and at last a faint, pearly light beginning to dawn in the east, and grow broader. The first chirp of a morning bird, as the pale light grew stronger, answering chirps, and the loud alarm-note of the blackbird that rose from the hedge beside him, dipped down, and skimmed rapidly along the ditch.
The light brightened in the east, but paled in the window of the sick girl’s room; and the watcher’s heart sank low, for he knew too well that this was the hour when vitality was at its lowest ebb, and that, perhaps, at this very time the gentle spirit of Eve might be winging its way to a purer realm.
“My poor love—my love!” he murmured, as he leaned upon the gate; and if ever man prayed fervently, that was a heartfelt prayer breathed from his lips, and it seemed, in his weak worn state, borne upwards by a winged messenger which rose from the field hard by, singing its morning song of joy and praise.
He watched that lark as it rose higher and higher, its clear notes ringing far and wide, but growing gradually fainter and fainter, till the bird seemed lost to his gaze, as the song was to his ear. But as he watched the sky turned from its pale dawn, tinged with a warmer flush, to one glorious damask fret of orange and gold, lighting up the trees and flowers of his garden as he let his eyes fall to earth, and then, as they rested on the window, it was to see that it was blank and cold and grey.
He could not stir, only stand gazing there with a horrible sinking feeling—a terrible dread, and though the sun rose slowly, his light seemed pale and sickly to the heart-stricken man, whose worst fears seemed confirmed when the door opened, and the heavy, burly figure of the doctor appeared, coming softly down the gravel-walk.