Would that he might see her once more, and, having met, part from her in peace!
Where was that wandering one, who bound him with so heavy a bond, to break which he strove in vain? Why would she not, in mercy, stretch forth her frail hands and unlink it, that his bark might go where’er he guided it and not drift to unknown seas, where, at times, the softest winds foretell the coming storm, the gentlest waves carry you on towards the shore, where, finally, they become terrible breakers, which wreck you among the reefs of despair! So he must drift, drift ever on, “even unto death,” at whose gloomy portals there was no respite.
Like a tired boy, he laid his head upon his arms, thrown above the railing, against which he sat. At that moment, he heard some one enter the parlor; and, presently, a few chords on the piano reached him, and then a voice arose in song—a sweet, low voice, not strong, but clear and true. It stole out into the midnight air and thrilled his throbbing breast. His wife used to sing, but not like that. Her voice was rich and full, soaring away, in high, passionate tones, when such a mood was on her, or filled with witchery at other times.
But this woman’s notes partook of neither of these sentiments. Almost a wail in its witching music did it sound; high and clear, soft and low—dying—dying—and then it ceased, and she began to cough two or three times, then convulsively. Emory stood up to listen. Would this never end? Would she sing again? No, for at that moment a man came out from the parlor, half supporting a woman, her head and shoulders enveloped in black lace, with a handkerchief to her face. There was no other chair, and Neil offered his. As she sank into the seat, she took the cambric from her mouth and looked at it—there were a few dark spots on its folds.
“Ouch!” she said, “it looks like blood,”—and then she began to cough again; a rattling sound smote the listener’s ear, as a deep red stream issued from her lips, finding its way to the floor. In a moment, she fell back in her companion’s arms, quite insensible. He supported her gently, and, turning to Neil, asked where he could take her.
“In here,” and, drawing aside the curtains of his own window, he motioned to the man to enter. He did so at once, advancing to the bed, upon which he placed the still insensible form of the woman, whose dark dress streamed around her like a pall.
“Will you have a physician?” asked Emory.
“No,” replied the gentleman; “I do not think he could do anything. Have you some ice water?”
Neil handed him a glassful from the table near by.
The man saturated his handkerchief and bathed the blood-stained lips.