“The question now is what we should give him,” said Mary. “He must want something. It would have been wrong to disturb him in that beautiful sleep, but now that he is awake he must have something. What shall we do? Go down and forage for him, or wake this poor woman, who will be ready to kill herself——”
“I cannot be sorry for her,” said Agnes, “to sleep all through the night when she could not know how much she might be wanted.”
“It is not her fault; and it will be dreadful for her when she knows. Do you think his eyes will bear a little more light? Do you feel the light upon your eyes, my dear boy? Open that window there where it will shine upon him—Ah,” Mary cried, turning round upon the nurse, who began to move and stir. Mar felt less shy when his mother’s eyes were not upon him. He was able to take a little timid initiative of his own. He put his two thin hands upon hers, which was so soft and white and round. How soft it was to touch, a hand like velvet, no, a hand much softer than any vulgar image—like a mother’s hand, and no less; and drawing it towards him by degrees, shyly, yet with increasing boldness, got it to his pillow and laid his cheek upon it, holding it there as sometimes an infant will do. Mary withdrew her eyes from the woman, who was slowly coming to herself. She looked at her boy, pillowing his head upon her hand with that infantile movement, and a tender delight filled her heart. With her disengaged hand she pulled her sister’s sleeve, and attracted her attention. Mar gave them both a look of blessedness in his ecstasy of weakness and satisfaction, and then closed his eyes and lay as if he slept, his cheek upon that softest of pillows, and happiness in his heart. Agnes stood by and looked on, the old maid, the grim old spinster (as young men had been known to call her) with a pang which was almost insupportable, made up of pain and of pleasure. Ah, more than pleasure and more than pain—the bliss of heaven to see them thus restored to each other, and all the claims of nature set right, and yet, for she was but human, a sharp stab like a knife to see how little a part she herself had in it. She who alone had been Mar’s mother, who had worshipped the boy and was nothing to him. This keen cut forced a tear into the corner of each eye, which it filled and through which she saw everything, a medium which enlarged and softened, yet somewhat blurred the picture which was so full of consolation.
At this moment the nurse sprang to her feet with a cry. She said, “Where am I? What has happened?” and then, with a wild outcry subdued but shrill with misery, added, “I have been asleep. Oh, God forgive me, I have been asleep.”
“There is no harm done,” said Agnes coldly, advancing a step and almost glad there was some one she could be harsh to, without wrong, “his mother has been with him all the night.”
“Oh, God forgive me,” said the nurse. “Oh, what will become of me—I have slept all through the night!”
“It is very true,” said Mary, with her voice which was soft with great happiness, “but I don’t think it is your fault. Say nothing, and we will say nothing. I have been here in your place.”
“Bestir yourself, now,” said Agnes, “and tell us what he ought to have.”
“Oh, ladies,” said the unfortunate, “I never did such a thing before—never—never! You may not believe me, but it is true, and if he is the worse for it, oh, goodness, it will kill me! What shall I do? What shall I do?” She came forward to the bedside wringing her hands. Her mob cap had been pushed to one side in her sleep—an air of dissipation of having been up all night, such as never comes to the dutiful watcher, was in her whole appearance. Tears were dropping upon her white apron, making long streaks where they fell with a splash like rain. Mar, with his cheek pillowed on his mother’s hand, opened his eyes and looked at her. And there came into the too large, too lustrous eyes of the sick boy, a light that had not been in them for long, that had been rare in them at any time—the light of laughter. It was almost cruel that he should be aroused, but he was so. He raised his head a little and laughed. “She looks so funny,” he said, under his breath. It was very good for Mar to be brought down from the superlative in this casual way by a laugh.
“Bless the boy,” said Mary; “do you hear him laugh? And bless you for making him laugh, you poor soul. He is none the worse; he has slept all the time. But make haste now, and tell us what has to be done to him: what is he to take? She is dazed still; she has not got back her senses.”