Part 2 (1/2)

”Yes, my darling, it is true,” he said, in a low voice.

”I am dying--really dying--when I have my baby and you?” she questioned.

”Oh, Hubert, is it really true?”

Nothing but his sobs answered her; dying as she was, all sweet, womanly compa.s.sion awoke in her heart.

”Hubert,” she whispered--”oh, my darling, if you could come with me!--I want to see you kiss the baby while it lies here in my arms.”

He bent down and kissed the tiny face, she watching him all the time.

”You will be very kind to her, darling, for my sake, because you have loved me so much, and call her by my name--Madaline. Tell her about me when she grows up--how young I was to die, how dearly I loved you, and how I held her in my arms. You will not forget?”

”No,” he said, gently; ”I shall not forget.”

The hapless young mother kissed the tiny rosebud face, all the pa.s.sion and anguish of her love s.h.i.+ning in her dying eyes; and then the nurse carried the babe away.

”Hubert,” said Lady Charlewood, in a low, soft, whisper, ”may I die in your arms, darling?”

She laid her head on his breast, and looked at him with the sweet content of a little child.

”I am so young,” she said, gently, ”to die--to leave you Hubert. I have been so happy with you--I love you so much.”

”Oh, my wife, my wife!” he groaned, ”how am I to bear it?”

The white hands softly clasped his own.

”You will bear it in time,” she said. ”I know how you will miss me; but you have the baby and your father--you will find enough to fill your life. But you will always love me best--I know that, Hubert. My heart feels so strange; it seems to stop, and then to beat slowly. Lay your face on mine, darling.”

He did just as she requested, whispering sweet, solemn words of comfort; and then, beneath his own he felt her lips grow cold and still.

Presently he heard one long, deep-drawn sigh. Some one raised the sweet head from his breast, and laid it back upon the pillow. He knew she was dead.

He tried to bear it; he said to himself that he must be a man, that he had to live for his child's sake. He tried to rise, but the strength of his manhood failed him. With a cry never forgotten by those who heard it, Lord Charlewood fell with his face on the ground.

Seven o'clock. The full light of day was s.h.i.+ning in the solemn chamber; the faint golden sunbeams touched the beautiful white face, so still and solemn in death; the white hands were folded, and lay motionless on the quiet heart. Kindly hands had brushed back the golden-brown hair; some one had gathered purple chrysanthemums and laid them round the dead woman, so that she looked like a marble bride on a bed of flowers. Death wore no stern aspect there; the agony and the torture, the dread and fear, were all forgotten; there was nothing but the sweet smile of one at perfect rest.

They had not darkened the room, after the usual ghostly fas.h.i.+on--Stephen Letsom would not have it so--but they had let in the fresh air and the suns.h.i.+ne, and had placed autumn flowers in the vases. The baby had been carried away--the kind-hearted nurse had charge of it. Dr. Evans had gone home, haunted by the memory of the beautiful dead face. The birds were singing in the morning sun; and Lord Charlewood, still crushed by his great grief, lay on the couch in the little sitting-room where he had spent so weary a night.

”I cannot believe it,” he said, ”or, believing, cannot realize it. Do you mean to tell me, doctor, that she who only yesterday sat smiling by my side, life of my life, soul of my soul, dearer to me than all the world, has gone from me, and that I shall see her no more? I cannot, I will not believe it! I shall hear her crying for me directly, or she will come smiling into the room. Oh, Madaline, my wife, my wife!”

Stephen Letsom was too clever a man and too wise a doctor to make any endeavor to stem such a torrent of grief. He knew that it must have its way. He sat patiently listening, speaking when he thought a word would be useful; and Lord Charlewood never knew how much he owed to his kind, unwearied patience.

Presently he went up to look at his wife, and, kneeling by her side, nature's great comforter came to him. He wept as though his heart would break--tears that eased the burning brain, and lightened the heavy heart. Dr. Letsom was a skillful, kindly man; he let the tears flow, and made no effort to stop them. Then, after a time, disguised in a gla.s.s of wine, he administered a sleeping potion, which soon took effect. He looked with infinite pity on the tired face. What a storm, a tempest of grief had this man pa.s.sed through!

”It will be kinder and better to let him sleep the day and night through, if he can,” said Stephen to himself. ”He would be too ill to attend to any business even if he were awake.”

So through the silent hours of the day Lord Charlewood slept, and the story spread from house to house, until the little town rang with it--the story of the travelers, the young husband and wife, who, finding no room at the hotel, had gone to the doctors, where the poor lady had died. Deep sympathy and pity were felt and expressed; kind-hearted mothers wept over the babe; some few were allowed to enter the solemn death chamber; and these went away haunted, as Dr. Evans was, by the memory of the lovely dead face. Through it all Lord Charlewood slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion and fatigue, and it was the greatest mercy that could have befallen him.

The hour of wakening was to come--Stephen Letsom never forgot it. The bereaved man was frantic in his grief, mad with the sense of his loss.

Then the doctor, knowing how one great sorrow counteracts another, spoke of his father, reminding him that if he wished to see him alive he must take some little care of himself.

”I shall not leave her!” cried Lord Charlewood. ”Living or dead, she is dearer than all the world to me--I shall not leave her!”