Part 31 (2/2)
”Neither Grace nor her father must ever know of this,” she said, with a shudder.
”Certainly not; but Dr. Markham should know. As her physician, he should know the whole truth.”
”I think that phase of her trouble has pa.s.sed,” said the doctor, thoughtfully; ”but, as you say, I must be on my guard. Pardon me, you do not look well yourself. Indeed, you look faint;” for Graham had sunk into a chair.
”I fear I have been losing considerable blood,” said Graham, carelessly; ”and now that this strong excitement is pa.s.sing, it begins to tell. I owe my leave of absence to a wound.”
”A wound!” cried his aunt, coming to his side. ”Why did you not speak of it?”
”Indeed, there has been enough to speak of beyond this trifle. Take a look at my shoulder, doctor, and do what you think best.”
”And here is enough to do,” was his reply as soon as Graham's shoulder was bared: ”an ugly cut, and all broken loose by your exertions this evening. You must keep very quiet and have good care, or this reopened wound will make you serious trouble.”
”Well, doctor, we have so much serious trouble on hand that a little more won't matter much.”
His aunt inspected the wound with grim satisfaction, and then said, sententiously: ”I'm glad you have got it, Alford, for it will keep you home and divert Grace's thoughts. In these times a wound that leaves the heart untouched may be useful; and nothing cures a woman's trouble better than having to take up the troubles of others. I predict a deal of healing for Grace in your wound.”
”All which goes to prove,” added the busy physician, ”that woman's nature is different from man's.”
When he was gone, having first a.s.sured the major over and over again that all danger was past, Graham said, ”Aunt, Grace's hair is as white as yours.”
”Yes; it turned white within a week after she learned the certainty of her husband's death.”
”Would that I could have died in Hilland's place!”
”Yes,” said the old lady, bitterly; ”you were always too ready to die.”
He drew her down to him as he lay on the lounge, and kissed her tenderly, as he said, ”But I have kept my promise 'to live and do my best.'”
”You have kept your promise _to live_ after a fas.h.i.+on. My words have also proved true, 'Good has come of it, and more good will come of it.'”
CHAPTER x.x.xII
A WOUNDED SPIRIT
Grace's chief symptom when she awoke on the following morning was an extreme la.s.situde. She was almost as weak as a violent fever would have left her, but her former unnatural and fitful manner was gone. Mrs.
Mayburn told Graham that she had had long moods of deep abstraction, during which her eyes would be fixed on vacancy, with a stare terrible to witness, and then would follow uncontrollable paroxysms of grief.
”This morning,” said her anxious nurse, ”she is more like a broken lily that has not strength to raise its head. But the weakness will pa.s.s; she'll rally. Not many die of grief, especially when young.”
”Save her life, aunty, and I can still do a man's part in the world.”
”Well, Alford, you must help me. She has been committed to your care; and it's a sacred trust.”
Graham was now installed in his old quarters, and placed under Aunt Sheba's care. His energetic aunt, however, promised to look in upon him often, and kept her word. The doctor predicted a tedious time with his wound, and insisted on absolute quiet for a few days. He was mistaken, however. Time would not be tedious, with frequent tidings of Grace's convalescence and her many proofs of deep solicitude about his wound.
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