Part 56 (1/2)

The following evening he was at home, but so enfeebled with the exertions of the last two days, as to be obliged to take to his bed immediately after his arrival. His sister greeted him affectionately, threw her arms about his neck and kissed him tenderly; years of coldness and estrangement were forgotten in that moment, and they were once more to each other as they were before they parted.

Emily tried to appear as though she did not notice the great change in his appearance, and talked cheerfully and encouragingly in his presence; but she wept bitterly, when alone, over the final separation which she foresaw was not far distant.

The nest day Doctor Burdett called, and his grave manner and apparent disinclination to encourage any hope, confirmed the hopeless impression they already entertained.

Aunt Ada came from Sudbury at Emily's request; she knew her presence would give pleasure to Clarence, she accordingly wrote her to come, and she and Emily nursed by turns the failing sufferer.

Esther and her husband, Mrs. Ellis and Caddy, and even Kinch, were unremitting in their attentions, and did all in their power to amuse and comfort him. Day by day he faded perceptibly, grew more and more feeble, until at last Doctor Burdett began to number days instead of weeks as his term of life. Clarence antic.i.p.ated death with calmness--did not repine or murmur. Father Banks was often with him cheering him with hopes of a happier future beyond the grave.

One day he sent for his sister and desired her to write a letter for him.

”Em,” said he, ”I am failing fast; these fiery spots on my cheek, this scorching in my palms, these hard-drawn, difficult breaths, warn me that the time is very near. Don't weep, Em!” continued he, kissing her--”there, don't weep--I shall be better off--happier--I am sure! Don't weep now--I want you to write to little Birdie for me. I have tried, but my hand trembles so that I cannot write legibly--I gave it up. Sit down beside me here, and write; here is the pen.” Emily dried her eyes, and mechanically sat down to write as he desired. Motioning to him that she was ready, he dictated--

”My Dear Little Birdie,--I once resolved never to write to you again, and partially promised your father that I would not; then I did not dream that I should be so soon compelled to break my resolution. Little Birdie, I am dying! My physician informs me that I have but a few more days to live. I have been trying to break away from earth's affairs and fix my thoughts on other and better things. I have given up all but you, and feel that I cannot relinquish you until I see you once again. Do not refuse me, little Birdie! Show this to your father--he must consent to a request made by one on the brink of the grave.”

”There, that will do; let me read it over,” said he, extending his hand for the note. ”Yes, I will sign it now--then do you add our address. Send it now, Emily--send it in time for to-night's mail.”

”Clary, do you think she will come?” inquired his sister.

”Yes,” replied he, confidently; ”I am sure she will if the note reaches her.” Emily said no more, but sealed and directed the note, which she immediately despatched to the post-office; and on the following day it reached little Birdie.

From the time when the secret of Clarence's birth had been discovered, until the day she had received his note, she never mentioned his name. At the demand of her father she produced his letters, miniature, and even the little presents he had given her from time to time, and laid them down before him without a murmur; after this, even when he cursed and denounced him, she only left the room, never uttering a word in his defence. She moved about like one who had received a stunning blow--she was dull, cold, apathetic. She would smile vacantly when her father smoothed her hair or kissed her cheek; but she never laughed, or sang and played, as in days gone by; she would recline for hours on the sofa in her room gazing vacantly in the air, and taking apparently no interest in anything about her. She bent her head when she walked, complained of coldness about her temples, and kept her hand constantly upon her heart.

Doctors were at last consulted; they p.r.o.nounced her physically well, and thought that time would restore her wonted animation; but month after month she grew more dull and silent, until her father feared she would become idiotic, and grew hopeless and unhappy about her. For a week before the receipt of the note from Clarence, she had been particularly apathetic and indifferent, but it seemed to rouse her into life again. She started up after reading it, and rushed wildly through the hall into her father's library.

”See here!” exclaimed she, grasping his arm--”see there--I knew it! I've felt day after day that it was coming to that! You separated us, and now he is dying--dying!” cried she. ”Read it--read it!”

Her father took the note, and after perusing it laid it on the table, and said coldly, ”Well--”

”Well!” repeated she, with agitation--”Oh, father, it is not well! Father!”

said she, hurriedly, ”you bid me give him up--told me he was unworthy--pointed out to me fully and clearly why we could not marry: I was convinced we could not, for I knew you would never let it be. Yet I have never ceased to love him. I cannot control my heart, but I could my voice, and never since that day have I spoken his name. I gave him up--not that I would not have gladly married, knowing what he was--because you desired it--because I saw either your heart must break or mine. I let mine go to please you, and have suffered uncomplainingly, and will so suffer until the end; but I _must_ see him once again. It will be a pleasure to him to see me once again in his dying hour, and I _must_ go. If you love me,” continued she, pleadingly, as her father made a gesture of dissent, ”let us go. You see he is dying--begs you from the brink of the grave. Let me go, only to say good bye to him, and then, perhaps,” concluded she, pressing her hand upon her heart, ”I shall be better here.”

Her father had not the heart to make any objection, and the next day they started for Philadelphia. They despatched a note to Clarence, saying they had arrived, which Emily received, and after opening it, went to gently break its contents to her brother.

”You must prepare yourself for visitors, Clary,” said she, ”no doubt some of our friends will call to-day, the weather is so very delightful.”

”Do you know who is coming?” he inquired.

”Yes, dear,” she answered, seating herself beside him, ”I have received a note stating that a particular friend will call to-day--one that you desire to see.”

”Ah!” he exclaimed, ”it is little Birdie, is it not?”

”Yes,” she replied, ”they have arrived in town, and will be here to-day.”

”Did not I tell you so?” said he, triumphantly. ”I knew she would come. I knew it,” continued he, joyfully. ”Let me get up--I am strong enough--she is come--O! she has come.”