‘My fears are realised,’ said the physician, gravely.
‘Peritonitis has supervened.’
Before long it became manifest that White was sinking; as the hours progressed he grew weaker and weaker, until the end seemed likely to come in stupor. With despairing love and pity, but almost with dry eyes, Madeline sat by the bedside; and as she gazed upon the wild, worn face, watched the thin, white hand laying outside the coverlet, and heard the quiet, monotonous breathing, she already seemed to feel the shadow of death upon her life. As one standing safe on some dark river’s shore watches the struggles of an almost spent drowning man, and forgets everything in the intense dread and horror of the contemplation, so she watched the sick bed; unable to weep, unable to pray (for, indeed, her hopes and fears seldom at any time took the shape of prayer), but feeling always as if with the slow ebb of her guardian’s life her life was ebbing too. For White, she felt, was her only friend in this hard world, the only being who knew the full extent of her own sorrow, the only kind soul for whom she cared to live. In all her gentle theatrical ambition her thought had been of him; how she could bring comfort to his heart, see the pride and pleasure kindle on his face, make his old age pleasant, and walk by his side the dark descent to the grave. And now, if he left her, what remained?
In these hours of sorrow the frequent presence of Forster was a secret source of irritation to the troubled girl. His very devotion troubled her, for she seemed to read in it, not merely friendly kindness and affection, but an ever-encroaching assumption of a higher sympathy. He was a good man, a true friend, she knew, but she would have loved him far better if he had loved her less, and her mind was quite made up—if her dear guardian died, no living man, friend or husband, should ever take his place.
The shadow came nearer, and it became clear at last that White was drifting away beyond all human hope. He suffered little or no pain, but momentarily grew weaker. At last one morning he seemed to rally a little, and spoke clearly and collectedly on his approaching end.
‘I am going to leave you, my dear,’ he said softly, while she held his hand fondly in her own. ‘I wanted to live a little longer, just to see a dear girl at the top of the tree, but I suppose it is all for the best. Well, I want you to promise me one thing before I go.’
‘Do not talk so,’ cried Madeline, kissing the hot hand and sobbing wildly. ‘You will get well! We will be so happy together.’
‘Don’t cry, Madeline! I’m not afraid to die, and after all I’m an old fogey, and the world has left me far behind. I used to think I should live to regenerate the drama. Ah, well! that dream is over. I shan’t even finish “Semiramis,” the best thing I ever wrote; but you’ll give the first two acts and the scenario to Eugene Aram when I am gone.’
He paused, and Madeline cried between her sobs—
‘If you die, I shall die too! You are my only friend.’