Day after day he lay with that far-off look on his face that it made Fay weep to see, for she thought that he must surely die.
Hugh thought so too.
Hour by hour he felt himself drifting nearer to the dark valley which, to his tired eyes and heart, seemed only like some still haven of repose. Only to sleep, he said, to sleep—to rest—and with his white lips he murmured, “and may God have mercy on my soul.” And ever he longed and prayed that he might see Margaret again.
And one night he dreamed of her.
He dreamed that he was dying—as he surely believed he was—and that Margaret came to his bedside and looked at him. He could see her distinctly; the pale, beautiful face, the folds of her dress, the wave of her dead-brown hair. And when he awoke and saw only the spring sunshine filling the room, and quivering light under his eyelids, and knew that the fresh day was dawning brightly to all but him, he could not suppress the groan that rose to his lips, “Margaret, Margaret.”
Fay was sitting by him, but the curtain concealed her; she had been curled up for hours in the big arm-chair that stood at the head of the bed. It was her habit to rise early and go to her husband’s room and send the nurse to rest; indeed, Dr. Martin had to use all his authority to induce her to take needful exercise, for Fay begrudged every moment spent out of the sick-room.
She was looking out at the avenue and listening to the soft soughing of the spring breezes in the tree-tops, and thinking of the summer days that were to bring her a marvelous gift; but at the sound of Hugh’s agonized voice her day-dream vanished. “Margaret, Margaret,” he had said, and then almost with a sob, “my one and only love, Margaret.”
No! she was not asleep, the words were ringing in her ears. Hugh, her Hugh, had spoken them, “My one and only love, Margaret.”
He must take back those words, that was her first thought. Oh, no, he could not mean them; it would not be possible to go on living if she thought he meant them; but he was ill, and she must not agitate him, she must speak to him very quietly for fear the fever had returned, and his poor head was confused again.
“You have been dreaming,” she said, gently—oh, so gently. “What is it you want, my dearest.”