Chapter XXV

"Wasting away--away--away,
Slowly, silently, day after day.
Fainter, and fainter and fainter the flow,
Of the current of life more sluggish and slow,
And a ghastly glare in the glassy eye,
And the wan cheek tinged with a hectic dye."

In the dim gloom of a soft spring evening, a slender, graceful form bent silently over a low, curtained couch, gently fanning the annoying insects from the pale brow of its slumbering occupant. The apartment was furnished with almost princely magnificence. Curtains of the richest blue-wrought damask, hung in massy folds from ceiling to floor, before the deep bay-windows. Rosewood sofas and fauteuils, in costly coverings of the same soft color, rested on the brilliantly interwoven flowers of the Persian carpet, whose velvety softness echoed not the slightest tread. A fairy chandelier hung suspended from the lofty, corniced ceiling. Rare statuary decorated the mantel. Large mirrors and pictures in broad gilt frames adorned the walls. Marble stands, covered with deep-fringed cloths of gold, on which lay books in superb bindings, graced the several corners, and the carved mahogany bedstead, behind whose ample curtains of azure velvet the sleeper reposed, among white-piled cushions of softest down, vied in elegant luxury with the couch of an eastern princess. And there, with one white, wasted arm thrown above the head, all shorn of its bright wealth of auburn curls, and the other concealed 'neath the silken coverings, lay Edith Malcome, the blue veins almost starting from her pale brow, and a bright crimson spot on the sunken cheek. Alas, that earth's most lovely should fall the earliest victims to the withering hand of disease! The door did softly asunder, and her father entered. With an expression of deep care and suffering depicted on his handsome features, he approached the bed-side.

"Is she still sleeping?" demanded he, in a whisper which would have been inaudible to an ear less quick than that of the silent watcher.

"She is," was the ready answer, in the same hushed tone. He gazed intently for several moments on the attenuated form before him, while every variety of expression passed over his countenance.

"If she dies," said he, at length, in a voice broken with grief, "what will be left on earth to me?"

The watcher was deeply affected by his grief-stricken appearance. "O, speak not thus!" she said, bursting into tears. "She will not die; the doctor has given us better hopes to-day. But even if she were to be taken to her home in the skies, you must not say there's nothing left on earth for you. You, so bright in soul and intellect, surrounded by admiring friends and all the luxuries of princely wealth, with a son to perpetuate your name"----

"Say no more," interrupted the afflicted man. "I cannot endure your words."

Louise was grieved to see she had only wounded where she meant to soothe, and, with a gentle, impulsive movement, placed her hand on the soft black curls of the head that was bowed among the cushions of the bed, and said, "Forgive me, I meant not to afflict."

Silently he took the little hand in his, and placed it on his throbbing temples. Louise trembled.

"Your brow is feverish," said she at length, seeking an excuse to withdraw the imprisoned hand; "let me bathe it in some cooling lotion."

"No," said he, "this moist little palm is better than any lotion," still detaining it, as she sought to reach the stand which contained a quantity of vials on a silver tray. The slight movements aroused Edith. Opening her large, spiritual eyes, she gazed up in the faces of the watchers at her bed-side, with a vague, dreamy expression.

"Don't you know me, Edith?" asked her father, bending quickly over her.

"O, yes, father!" answered she faintly; "and that lady is my mother," she added, staring confusedly upon Louise, as if not yet in full possession of her waking faculties.

Louise looked embarrassed, and the colonel hastened to say, "That is Mrs. Edson, my dear, who watches with you to-night. You are wandering a little, I fear."

"Well, where is my mother, then?" continued Edith, in the same strange manner, which appeared to agitate her father deeply.

"My child," said he, in a soothing tone, "have I not often told you your mother died when you was a very little girl?"

"I don't know," said Edith, "but last night I dreamed she came with a pale face and bloody lips and stared so mournfully upon me. I wish you would go and bring her to me, father."

"My daughter, do I not tell you she is in her grave?" said the father, trembling with emotion. "How can I bring her to you?"

"Hannah Doliver told Rufus she would come if you would let her," continued the sick girl, in a reproachful tone, apparently not understanding her father's words.

On hearing this, Col. Malcome started with a violent exclamation, which alarmed Edith, and brought her at once into full possession of her senses. Louise, who had marked, with her quick eye, the colonel's strange excitement, approached and administered a reviving cordial to the invalid. The father soon retired, leaving the watcher alone with her charge.

As the hours dragged slowly on, many were the thoughts which passed through Mrs. Edson's active brain, as to the cause of Edith's singular words, and the anger and excitement evinced by her father. At length the gray morning dawned, and Sylva, Edith's attendant, appeared to relieve the watcher from her post.

As Louise was passing through the hall to gain the street, the door suddenly opened, and Col. Malcome entered in cap and overcoat. He paused and inquired if his daughter had passed a comfortable night, and, on receiving an affirmative answer, proceeded to the drawing-room.