The Soldier's Wife — page 115: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

TILE SOLDIER'S WIFE. displave | your character to me in all its most her tears dropping on his cheeks, and her bosom glorious ec'ors. God bless you, my beloved Frederick! Oh, that such a one as you should ever have gone through so much!” “And you, my sweet Luey,” replied our hero, —“have you vot also shown the kindest of sympathies for the afiliction of others? After all, we have but done our duty; and in our hearts’ satisfaction is there an adequate re- ward ” They proceeded to the nearest physician’s house, and at once despatched him to the in- valid,—Lonsdale guaranteeing the payment of his fees. The benevolent couple then returned to their own house: but for all the rest of that evening they could talk and think of nuthing except the sad scene of which they had been spectators As soon as Frederick was dressed on the fei- lowing morning, he called upon the physician to Inquire cuncerning his patient. The medi- eal gentleman told him precisely what he already expected to hear; namely, that Mr. Neagrave was beyond the possibility of hope— that it was evident a naturally vigorous cousti- tution had been broken down by a career of inveterate dissipativn and reckless debauchery —and that recent sufferings, privations, and miseries had hurried the unfortunate man on towards the crowning catastrophe. The phy- sician added that it was searcelv possible Mr. Seagrave could exist throughout the day—that a great change for the worse had taken place in him during the nisht—and that he (the medical man) was immediately about to return to the couch of his dying patient. Frederick, much shocked to learn that the issue was so near at hand, inquired if the doctor had in any way prepared Mrs. Seagrave for it?—to which the medical gentleman replied that he had felt it his duty to do so, and that the poor young creature was in a state bordering on distrac- tion. Frederick besought him to lose not a minute in returning to Mr. Seagrave’s lodgings, while he hurried home to tell Lucy all he had just heard. Tue ‘“T will go and do my best to soothe poor Anna,” said Mrs. Lonsdale: then taking her husband’s hand, and looking up earnestly in bis face, she added, “Frederick, that unfortu- nate girl, who is doubtless far more to be pitied than blamed, will soon be without a home.” “No, my dear wife,” answered Lonsdale, at ence anticipating Luey’s meaning: “henceforth she raust have a home with us.” Our heroine enbraced her noble-hearted husband, and then lost no time in speeding away or her msvion of benevolence and Chris- tian charity. When she reached the house in which Courtenay and Anna dwelt, the old woman, who opened the door, shook her head as much as to imply that there was no hope; for now that she saw her lodgers had friends, she could afford to manifest a little sympathy on their behalf—chietly, no doubt, because she was afraid of losing them both through the death of one. Lucy asvended the stairs, and gently yssed into the chamber of the dying man. ‘he physician was seated by the side of the bed— while Anna wae bending over the vatient, convulsed with the sobs which she vainly en- deavoured to stifle. She had evidently been u all night: the cloud of her raven black hair was pushed back in dishevelled masses from her throbbing temples, upon which the luxuri- ant tresses kept obtruding as she bent over the dying man: her cheeks were ashy pale—and when she turned to press Lucy’s hand, there was a wild despair in her large black eyes that actually terrified the kind visitress who came to console her. As for the patient himself, he was lying motionless, but with his eyes wide open, gazing up as if they were tixed on th pole supporting the curtains, or else upon some object created by a morbid faney. If the hand of death had visibly begun to touch his cheeks on the previous evening, its mark was now still more unmistakably discernible upon every lineament; and as Lucy glanced towards the physician, he made her a rapid sign that the crisis was near at hand. “Will you not come away, for a few minutes into some other room?” whispered Lucy te Anna, thinking it better, if possible, to withdraw her from the sight of the death-struggle which was evidently approaching. “Oh, not for worlds!” murmured the un happy girl, clasping her hands in the anguish of her despair. “But tell me, déarest Mrs Lonsdale—tell me what you think: is there no hope? Idare not admit to myself that I under. stand what this kind gentleman ”—ualluding to the doctor—“ has been saying to me. Tell me, tell ine, is there indeed no hope?’—and the poor creature shuddered all over. as if with an ice-chill, while the chattering ot her teeth was plainly audible. “You must, my dear Anna-—you must in- deed,” said Lucy, the tears streaming down her cheeks,—“ prepare yourself—tor the worst!” “Oh! but not yet—not yet!” murmured the unhappy girl, in low but hysterical accents while she still continued to shiver from head te foot. “It cannot be so near! Tell me—de you not think that he will live a week—just one short week—so that I may get accustomec to the thought that he must die ?” % “My dear young friend,” answered Lucy “do not, I beseech you, buoy yourself up with any hope. Indeed, suffering as he now is—re- duced to extremities as you behold him—yoeu cannot in mercy wish him to linger on!” “No, no—I have no hope—it has heen gone for hours past? But at the same time, one does cling to hope, even as it is vanishing away? My God, to think that he is going—that I shal lose him soon all I have dear upon earth And I—what will become of me?” “You will find a home with me, dear Anna.” was Lucy’s gentle and affectionate reply. “Ah, excellent friend that you are—best and kindest of women!” exclaimed Anna, pressing Lucy’s hand to her lips: “ten thousand thanks But it was not of that I wasthinking. Even if from this chamber I were conveyed to a palace when he is gone, yet still should 1 ask what is to become of me? I cannot live without him :” and sinking upon a chair, she again abandoned herself to all the wild bitterness of her grief GEomicbooks.co