When the joyful news of Roger's safety reached Edith at Salem, she was slowly recovering from a long and dangerous illness, which anxiety and sorrow had brought on her a few weeks after the birth of her child. Through all her sufferings of mind end body, Dame Elliot had been her nurse and her comforter; and she and her husband had sacrificed their own domestic comfort, and their own humble but cherished home, to lessen the sorrows of their afflicted friend.
All the consolation that human sympathy and affection could afford to Edith, was given by these true Christian friends; and all the spiritual strength that the prayers end exhortations of such a minister as Elliot could impart to a sorrowing spirit, were received, and gratefully appreciated, by the object of his solicitude and care. But when weeks and months had elapsed, and still no tidings came of the beloved wanderer, what hope could be given to the desolate heart of Edith Her friends had themselves given up all hope of Roger's having survived the toils end privations of the journey; and how could they bid his wife cheer up, and look for brighter days, which they believed would never come? A letter which Edith received from her parents, by the captain of a fishing-boat from Plymouth, too clearly proved that Williams had never reached that settlement; and from that day the health and spirits of his wife visibly declined. She did not give way to violent grief; but a settled melancholy dwelt on her pale and lovely countenance, and all the thoughtful abstraction of her early year, which happiness had chased from her features, returned again. No object but her infant seemed to rouse her; and then it was only to tears: but tears were better than that look of deep and speechless sorrow that generally met the anxious gaze of her friends, and made them, at times, apprehensive for her reason. At length her physical powers gave way, and a violent attack of fever brought Edith to the brink of the grave.
During this period both Elliot and his wife devoted themselves, day and night, to the poor sufferer, whose mind wandered continually, and whose deeply-touching lamentations for the beloved one, whom she mourned as dead, brought tears to the eyes of her faithful friends. They had no hope of her recovery, nor could they heartily desire it; for they believed her earthly happiness was wrecked for ever, and they could ask no better fate for her than a speedy reunion with her Roger in a home beyond the grave.
Her child they looked on as their own, and cherished her with almost a parent's love and care; while they resolved to bring her up in those high and holy principles that had been so nobly contended for by her unfortunate father, and so beautifully exemplified in the amiable character of her mother.
The fever ran high, and bore down all the strength—both moral and physical—of its victim. At length, after days and nights of restlessness and delirium, a deep and heavy sleep came on; and Edith lay still and motionless for hours, while her untiring friends sat watching her in silence, and offering up fervent prayers for the soul that seemed to be departing. During this anxious period, a gentle knock was made at the door; and Elliot, on opening it, was presented by Edith's single attendant with the small packet that Roger's Indian messenger had brought for her mistress.
In trembling agitation, the pastor showed the direction—which he knew to be in his friend's handwriting—to his wife: and now, indeed, they lifted up their hearts to the God who heareth prayer, that He would be pleased to recall the precious life that seemed to be fast ebbing away; and to permit His tried and faithful servants again to be united, and enjoy the happiness that yet might be their portion on earth.
Noiselessly Elliot glided from the room—for he feared to awaken the sleeper—and sought the friendly Indian, from whom he learnt the good news of Roger's safety, and all the particulars that the red man could relate concerning him. He then returned to Edith's chamber, and, in a low whisper, communicated all that he had heard to his wife, and consulted with her as to the best method of communicating the startling tidings to Edith, should she ever awake from her present death-like slumber.
They were still engaged in earnest, but scarcely audible, conversation, when Dame Elliot, who did not cease from watching her patient, observed her open her large eyes, and fix them with a look of intelligent inquiry on herself and her husband. She made a sign to him; and he likewise was struck with the evident change in Edith's countenance, and filled with hope that her reason had perfectly returned. This hope was quickly confirmed by the invalid saying in a very low voice, but in a collected manner—
'I have slept very long, and my dreams have been very painful. I dreamt that I was alone in the world, and that an angel came to take my soul where he had gone to dwell. And then—just as I bade farewell to earth—a little form came between me and the angel, and held me back. Where is that little being? Dame Elliot, let me look on her, that my trembling spirit may be stayed. No, Roger; no—I must not ask to follow you yet.'
Edith seemed too weak for tears, or for any strong emotion; but she closed her eyes, and slowly clasped her almost transparent hands upon her breast, and looked so still and colorless, that she might have been taken for a marble monument, but for the dark waving hair that fell upon her pillow, and shaded her snowy neck. Dame Elliot took up the infant from its little wicker cradle, and held it towards Edith, saying gently—