A flush comes to Lauraine's pale cheeks; her eyes grow dark and indignant. "She! Did you actually suppose she would risk her convenience or comfort for the sake of any human being? She has found other consolation." He tries to spring up, but weakness overpowers him. "The curse of hell be upon her—fiend, she-devil, temptress!" and then once again the ravings of delirium crowd his brain, and he knows nothing of her who is beside him.
It is a terrible time for Lauraine. She takes scarcely food or rest. She tends and watches the sick man with untiring patience; all the more stern is she in her task of self-denial because she knows it is a task, because she will not spare herself one iota of the pain and weariness that her labours demand. The physicians praise her devotion, and in his lucid moments the sick man murmurs blessings on her, and utters such vows of penitence and remorse as might gladden the heart of any wife whose love and patience had reclaimed her husband from his errors. But they do not gladden Lauraine.
The weary burden presses more heavily; the iron enters more deeply into her soul. But she has resolved to go through with her task, and she dares not count the cost.
"He is better," say the physicians. "He will live."
The news comes to her, and she is silent, then sinks on her knees and hides her face from sight. They think she is overpowered with emotion, and go softly away and leave her—leave her fighting out a weary battle, sick at heart with shame that in her mind is no gladness, only a duller, sadder despair.
CHAPTER XXXV
No man sees
Beyond the gods and fate.
It is night, and in the sick-room all is hushed and still.
Lauraine, in her soft grey dress is sitting beside the bed. She is alone; the first three hours are her watch. She thinks her husband is asleep—he lies so still, and his eyes are closed. She looks white and frail as a broken lily. Her head leans on her hands; the whole expression of her face is one so sad, so heart-crushed, that it might have made any one who loved her weep to read it.