Part 30 (1/2)
IN THE DARK
”Yes, Mrs. Yocomb, good nursing and nourishment are all that he now requires,” were the rea.s.suring words that greeted my waking later in the evening. I opened my eyes, and found that a physician was feeling my pulse.
I turned feebly toward my kind hostess, and smilingly whispered:
”There's no fear of my wanting these where you are, Mrs. Yocomb; but don't let me make trouble. I fear I've made too much already.”
”The only way thee can make trouble, Richard, is to worry about making trouble. The more we can do for thee the better we shall be pleased.
All thee's got to do is to get well and take thy time about it.”
”That's just like you. How long have I been ill?”
”That's none of thy business at present. One thing at a time. The doctor has put thee in my hands, and I'm going to make thee mind.”
”I've heard that men were perfect bears when getting well,” I said.
”Thee can be a bear if thee feels like it, but not another word to-night--not another syllable; am I not right, doctor?”
”Yes, I prescribe absolute quiet of mind and body; that and good living will bring you around in time. You've had a narrow graze of it, but if you will mind Mrs. Yocomb you will yet die of old age. Good-night.”
My nurse gave me what she thought I needed, and darkened the room. But it was not so dark but that I saw a beautiful face in the doorway.
”Miss Warren,” I exclaimed.
”It was Adah,” said Mrs. Yocomb quietly; ”she's been very anxious about thee.”
”You are all so kind. Please thank her for me,” I replied eagerly.
”Mother, may I speak to Richard Morton?” asked a timid voice from the obscurity of the hallway.
”Not to-night, Adah--to-morrow.” ”Forgive me if I disobey you this once,” I interrupted hastily. ”Yes, Miss Adah, I want to thank you.”
She came instantly to my side, and I held out my hand to her. I wondered why hers throbbed and trembled so strangely.
”It's I who should thank thee: I can never thank thee enough. Oh, I feared I might--I might never have a chance.”
”There, Adah, thee mustn't say another word; Richard's too weak yet.”
Her hand closed tightly over mine. ”Good-by,” she breathed softly, and vanished.
Mrs. Yocomb sat down with her knitting by a distant and shaded lamp.
Too weak to think, or to realize aught except that I was surrounded by an atmosphere of kindness and sympathy, I was well content to lie still and watch, through the open window, the dark foliage wave to and fro, and the leaves grow distinct in the light of the rising moon, which, though hidden, I knew must be above the eastern mountains. I had the vague impression that very much had happened, but I would not think; not for the world would I break the spell of deep quietude that enthralled every sense of my body and every faculty of my mind.
”Mrs. Yocomb,” I said at last, ”it must be you who creates this atmosphere of perfect peace and restfulness. The past is forgotten, the future a blank, and I see only your serene face. A subdued light seems to come from it, as from the shaded lamp.”
”Thee is weak and fanciful, Richard. The doctor said thee must be quiet.”
”I wish it were possible to obey the doctor forever, and that this exquisite rest and oblivion could last, I am like a s.h.i.+p becalmed on a summer sea in a summer night. Mind and body are both motionless.”
”Sleep, Richard Morton, and when rested and well, may gales from heaven spring up and carry thee homeward. Fear not even rough winds, if they bear thee toward the only true home. Now thy only duty is to rest.”