CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE HEIRESS OF SUNSET HALL.
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still and bright,
With something of an angel light."—Wordsworth.
he darkened rooms, the hushed footfalls, the whispered words, the anxious faces, betoken the presence of sickness. Like some long, dark effigy, Miss Hagar lies on her bed, prostrated in body and mind, and sick unto death. By her side sits Celeste, in a quiet dress of soft gray, her golden hair lying in bands on her fair cheeks, pale and thin with long days and nights of unceasing watching.
Never had the tender love and cherishing care of the young girl been so manifested as in the sick-room of her benefactress. Night and day, like some angel of mercy, she hovered over the couch of the invalid—ready at the slightest motion to hold the cup to her parched lips, or bathe her burning brow. Nothing could induce her to leave her side, save, when tired Nature could watch no longer, she sought her couch to catch a few moments' sleep. And Miss Hagar, with the usual fretful waywardness of illness, would have no one near her but Celeste. Gipsy had offered her services as assistant nurse, but was most promptly rejected.
"I want Celeste. Where is Celeste?" was ever the cry of the invalid.
It was the second week of Miss Hagar's illness. For days she had been raving deliriously, recognizing no one, not even Celeste. Toward the close of the tenth day she grew worse, and the doctor pronounced the crisis of her disease at hand.
Evening was approaching, the evening of a bleak January day. The snow was falling drearily without; and the cold wind wailed and moaned around the lonely house. The fire, burning low in the grate, cast a red, fitful, uncertain light through the room, giving everything an unearthly, spectral appearance. Celeste sat by the window, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the desolate prospect without, her mind and heart far away—far away. Her face was wet with tears, but she knew it not; sobs, long and deep, that she struggled in vain to repress, swelled her bosom. Never in her life had she felt so utterly desolate; yet a sort of awe mingled with her tears, as she felt herself in the presence of death.
Night fell in storm and darkness. In the deep gloom, nothing could be discerned save the white; unearthly light of the drifting snow. Celeste arose, drew the curtain, lit a small lamp, and was about to resume her seat, when she heard her name pronounced by the lips of the invalid.