And he seemed for ever thus. Whether the beautiful but expressionless eyes were open or closed his mental faculties were in that dulled dormant state, it might be said they slept.
“He is like that little statue of Jesus now,” she once said to me, pointing to a marble figure of Christ, “but some day God will awaken his soul. Ah, doctor, shall I live to see that day?”
I scarcely thought she could, but did not tell her so.
From the day on which she related the story of her husband’s death, she herself drooped visibly.
But grief kills very slowly. Five years passed by. Lord Welbury was dead. His wealth—with the exception of the annuity to his son’s widow—was left to his niece’s child; his title now by right became his grandson’s.
The boy grew fast; he was eight years old, but his mind still slumbered. He knew the sound of his mother’s voice, would come to the side of her couch when called; would lie for hours folded in her arms, whispering back her loving words, repeating her gentle admonitions like an echo. The words apparently conveyed no meaning, but they touched some hidden chord.
Weaker and weaker grew Mrs. Wilton.
On one of my daily visits the sick nurse, who was in constant attendance now, whispered to me that the end was near. I was startled, shocked, to perceive how near!
“Doctor, dear friend,” she gasped very faintly, as I pressed her poor transparent hand; but her whole attention was riveted on her son; she was gazing at him with eyes out of which the light of earth was fading fast. It was evident she desired to say something, but it was some time before the words would come. At last, gathering strength, she said in a low, penetrating voice that scarcely faltered: “I am going to leave you, Charlie. Here I could not help you, but when in heaven I see our dear Lord face to face—when on my knees before the great white throne—”
For an instant an expression of rapture irradiated her features; the next, with a slight sigh she sank back upon the pillow.