Chapter XIII: On a Strange Bed

Will she again,
From that death-like repose,
When those sealed eyes unclose,
Awake to pain?
ANON.

It was late in the afternoon of the same day that saw Gloria de la Vera swept away by the tide.

In the cosy cottage on the sandy islet, old Dame Lindsay sat over the bright, open wood fire, knitting busily; the tea-kettle hung over the blaze, singing merrily; the covered “spider” sat upon the hearth, emitting a spicy odor of baking ginger-bread; the black “pussy” was coiled up in one corner, and the white puppy in the other.

The tea-table stood in the middle of the floor, set for two persons, gay with the best cups and saucers on the bright japanned waiter, and tempting with plates full of delicately sliced ham and cold bread, and a pretty print of fresh butter.

Dame Lindsay at length rolled up her knitting and laid it aside on the mantel-shelf; took off her spectacles and put them in their case, and that into her pocket, then picked up the little iron tongs and lifted the lid from the spider to examine the progress of her cakes, found them doing well, and covered them again.

Finally she went to the window and looked out across the sea to the shore where the wooded hills rolled backward to the western horizon, behind which the setting sun was dropping out of sight.

“Well, now, I do wonder what can keep David? He promised to be back before sunset, and he never broke a promise nor missed an appointment before,” she said, as she held one hand above her eyes and scanned the track of waters between the main shore and the little landing-place on the islet.

She watched until the sun held set, the faint after-glow had faded from the sky and sea, and the short winter twilight of the shortest days had darkened into night.

“Something has happened. I trust in the Lord it is nothing ill,” she said, as she left the window and went to the fireplace, and lighted the two home-dipped tallow candles that stood on the mantelpiece.

She did not pull down the blue window blind; she left it up, saying to herself:

“He shall see the light of home to cheer him across the dark sea, poor lad.”

She had scarcely said so much when the sound of hurrying footsteps smote her ears, and before she had time to cross the room, the door was violently pushed open, and David Lindsay strode into the house, bareheaded, with disordered hair, haggard face and starting eyes; wearing nothing but a wet and frozen shirt and trowsers, and bearing in his arms a girl’s lifeless form, wrapped closely in his own great-coat.

“Gloria is dead! She is dead! I saw her drowned before my eyes! I saw her drowned before I could reach her! My darling! My darling! My angel! Oh, my little angel!” he groaned, as he bore her to the bed, laid her on it and dropped on his knees, burying his head beside her.

“Father of mercies! how did it happen?” cried the old dame, clasping her hands in anguish, as she came up.

“Oh, don’t ask me now! Try to recover her, try! Oh, she must not! shall not die!” exclaimed the young man, starting like a maniac from his kneeling posture, and staring around him with a wild manner, half prayerful, half defiant, wholly insane.

“Yes, we must try! We must never give up,” quickly replied Dame Lindsay, who in her long life as a fisherman’s daughter, wife and mother, had had varied experience in drowned persons, resuscitated or buried.

And fast as age and infirmities would permit, she scrambled up the narrow stairs that led to the loft and quickly drew the blankets and mattress from David’s bed and rolled them down to the room below.

Then she followed them in their descent, and straightened the mattress on the floor, and laid the blankets over it.

“Now lift her up, and lay her here, David, and then leave the room. I must take off her wet clothes, wind her in a warm blanket, and roll her. That I must do without your help,” said the dame, with a calm authority that would have compelled obedience from any one.

But the young man indeed was so stupefied and distracted by anguish and despair, that he was more than willing to be led or driven.

Moaning and groaning in bitterest woe, he lifted the lifeless form and laid it on its right side on the blanket over the mattress on the floor, and then went up stairs and threw himself down near the landing to pray with all his soul for her revival, and to listen with all his senses for any murmur of her returning life that might reach him there.

Meanwhile the dame rolled the drowned girl over on her face, with her wrist bent under her forehead to raise it, and then leaving her so for a moment, went and hung a large blanket over several chairs before the fire. Then she removed the wet raiment from the victim, and laid down the hot blanket, and rolled her over and wrapped her in it, and rolled and rubbed until some good results began to appear, and her own strength to wane.

Then she called to the anxious watcher above:

“Come down, David, and help me now. There is hope, my lad. There is hope!”

“Oh, thank the Lord! Thank the Lord! From this time forth I will live to the Lord!” exclaimed the young man in an earnest outburst of gratitude, too deep for gladness, as he hurried down the stairs.

“Ah! my boy, I said there was hope, not certainty,” sighed the dame.

“If there is hope, there is certainty. If the Lord ‘is not mocked,’ neither does he mock his children. I have prayed, oh! how I have prayed! And the answer is, there is hope! So there is certainty!” exclaimed David Lindsay, as he dropped on his knees before the prostrate form that lay wound in the blanket on the mattress.

“You know what to do, David. Lay your hand between her shoulders and continue to move her gently to and fro, if you wish to save her life. When I get the bed ready we will lay her in it,” said the old woman, as she spread more blankets to heat before the fire.

When they were ready she put one over the bottom sheet in the bed, and called her grandson to lift the precious burden just as it was and lay it there.

When he had obeyed her, she spread another warm blanket over the form, which now began to quiver slightly as from pain.

“She lives! Oh, thank Heaven, she does live!” cried David.

“Easy, lad! Easy! There is more hope, but no certainty yet. I could not feel any pulse, as I held her wrist just now,” said Dame Lindsay, cautiously.

In mad haste, David thrust his hand amid the wrappings and found and felt the delicate wrist.

“It beats! It beats! Her pulse does beat! I can scarcely feel it, it is so small—but it beats!” he cried.

“I hope it may be so,” said the dame, who had taken a little brandy from a small bottle that she kept for emergencies and put it into a mug with some boiling water, sugar and spice.

When the highly stimulating cordial was ready, she brought it to the bedside and looked at the face of the girl.

That face had changed from its white repose to a look of helpless, intense suffering.

“You see she is recovering!” exclaimed David, triumphantly.

“Yes, I see she is, poor child!” replied the dame, as with a small teaspoon she tried to pass a little of the spiced brandy, drop by drop, between the pale and writhen lips.

Much has been falsely said and written about the agony of death, when every doctor knows that death, in itself, is no agony at all; and every true Christian feels that it is a release from all pain, a delicious falling asleep, for a few hours, to awake in the glad and glorious surprise of the higher and better life.

But no one who has not experienced it knows, or can know, the insufferable anguish of resuscitation from apparent death. The almost stagnant blood beginning to circulate again through nearly collapsed veins and arteries, inflicts tortures upon every nerve—tortures unheard of in the cruelest inquisition. Red-hot needles seem to be piercing every nerve of the body and pore of the skin. It is an agony that even the torpor of the brain does not overcome. And the victim writhes and moans with anguish, while quite unconscious of his condition or surroundings. He only feels; he knows nothing.

As soon as the sufferer, struggling through pain back to life, began to breathe more freely, Dame Lindsay, without speaking to her, or in any way disturbing her, quietly administered a composing drink that soon sent her into a sweet, natural sleep. Then she placed bottles of hot water to her feet and between her shoulders, covered her up very warmly, and hung a clean quilt before the bed to shade her from the light of the fire.

“Now, lad, she is comfortable, and when she wakes up, whether to-night or to-morrow morning, she will be all right. She will want nourishment the very first thing. Fortunately, I have got that piece of beef ’ee brought for to-morrow’s dinner. I will cut the lean pieces from it and make some beef tea, and keep it by the fire ready for her. But now carry the mattress and things back up stairs and come back to ’ee supper. ’Ee must be hungry by this time, and—— Eh? Why there ’ee stands in ’ee wet clothes all this time, and I taking no notice. Go change ’em, boy! Go change ’em this minute, or ’ee’ll get ’ee death of cold. Eh! to think I should ’a forgot ’ee! But the lass was so near dead! Go, lad, go!”

“Don’t be uneasy, grandmother. I don’t catch cold from sea water; and now I am so fired with joy and gratitude that I couldn’t take cold,” said the young man, as he cleared the floor of bedding and carried the bundle up stairs.

Meanwhile, the dame put the supper—hot ginger-bread and all—on the table; and by the time she had finished the work, David came down in dry clothing to join her.

She refrained from questioning him until he had got through with his evening meal, and she had cleared away the table.

Then, when they were seated together before the cheerful fire, Dame Lindsay knitting, and occasionally watching the saucepan which contained the beef tea she had made and set to simmer on the coals, and David busy with a bit of bone carving in his hand, the old woman said:

“Now, lad, tell me how all this happened.”

“I was in the boat coming from the main when I happened to look towards the Rogues’ Neck, and there I saw some one attempting to cross. The passenger was about half-way over and the tide was rising rapidly. I knew, of course, whoever it might be, could never succeed in reaching either shore, but would certainly be overtaken by the tide and drowned unless I could reach the Neck in time for rescue.”

“And ’ee didn’t know it was she?” inquired the dame.

“No, I did not even know whether it was a man or a woman. I could only see that it was some one. But I turned and rowed as fast as I could for the Neck. Then I saw it was a woman, and I rowed faster than ever; for the tide was so high even then that she could scarcely keep her feet.”

“Poor lass! Go on, David.”

“I pulled on the oars as hard as I could and made the best speed; I shouted to her to take courage. She did not seem to hear or see me; but, oh, grandmother, when I got within a few yards of that spot I recognized her—in the same instant that I saw her whelmed off and whirled away! Indeed, for a moment, I seemed to have lost my senses. But soon I rallied and rowed to the spot where I had seen her disappear. Then I threw off my overcoat and jacket to be ready, and I watched to see her rise. I knew she would rise near the Neck, or be thrown upon it by the returning wave, so there I watched. I saw her rise at last. I threw myself into the sea, dived as she went down again, caught her raiment, dragged her to the surface, and drew her toward the boat. I had some difficulty in recovering the boat, and getting into it with my precious burden. She was quite insensible and cold, but I wrapped her in my jacket and overcoat, and laid her down in the bottom of the boat on her right side, with her breast and face turned downward, and her wrists bent under her forehead, and I kept one of my hands between her shoulders, moving her gently from time to time—as we do to recover the drowned, you know—while I rowed as well as I could with the other hand, and so reached our landing at last. I brought her here because it was so much nearer than her own home. But, oh, granny, when I lifted her out of the boat I thought she was dead!”

“So she would have been, lad, if it hadn’t been for ’ee care,” said the dame.

“And have I, by the Lord’s help, saved her life? Are you sure she will take no fatal harm from that ice-cold plunge in the sea?” inquired the young man, in a painful doubt, strangely inconsistent with his expressed confidence at a less hopeful time.

Before replying to his question the dame went to the bedside and examined her patient, then she came back and said:

“Yes, lad, ’ee has certainly saved the little lady’s life. She will take no harm now. She is in a sound sleep and a gentle perspiration. She is perfectly safe now. So ’ee may rest satisfied.”

“‘Satisfied,’ dear granny!” exclaimed the youth, with a look of radiant happiness on his face. “‘Satisfied?’ Why, I am overjoyed, crowned, blessed! I would rather have saved her precious life than to have won all the wealth, fame, power and glory of this world!”

“I believe ’ee, lad! I believe ’ee!”

“But, what do I say? The glory of this world? Why, I would rather have saved her sacred life than have won Heaven!”

“Eh! Stop there, lad! ’Ee’s growing profane! Is that ’ee gratitude to the Lord? Stop at the glory of this world, lad, and do not compare any earthly good with the heavenly blessedness,” said the dame, laying down her knitting and placing her spectacles high on her cap that she might look him straight in the face with her earnest blue eyes.

“I did not mean to be profane,” said David, meekly.

The good woman resumed her work, and David took up his own, and they worked in silence until the hour for retiring drew near, when Dame Lindsay finally rolled up her knitting, took off her spectacles and put them both away, and said:

“Now, David, read a chapter from the Word, and then get ’ee to bed, lad.”

“And you, granny? Where will you sleep?” inquired the young man.

“I shall sit in my old arm-chair by the fire as long as I can keep up, and then I shall lie down on the bed beside the lassie, so as to wake readily if she should stir.”

“Don’t sit up too long, dear granny. You are not able.”

“Don’t ’ee fear, Davie; I’ll lie down when I grow weary.”

David brought the Bible and seated himself at the table opposite his aged relative, and read parts of the first and second chapters of Matthew, recording the genealogy and birth of our Saviour. Then the dame folded her hands and reverently prayed for both, that they might be able to receive the Lord in their affections in that sacred Christmas season, and be led by Him forever.

“Now, David, lad, get ’ee to bed,” she said, as she arose from her knees.

“If I can be of any use during the night, will you call me, granny?”

“Ay, lad, be sure of that.”

Then David kissed her withered hand and went up to his loft; but instead of going into bed, he placed himself on the floor with his feet through the trap-door, resting on the highest step, and there he sat and watched and listened until Christmas Eve passed into Christmas Morn.

About midnight he heard his grandmother rise from her chair and cross the room, to lie down beside the sleeping girl.

Then he bent his head and called:

“Granny! granny!”

“Ay, lad, what is it?”

“Can I do anything at all?”

“Nay, boy. Get ’ee back to bed.”

She did not suspect that he had not been in bed.

He resumed his watch and kept it up until daylight. He scarcely heard a sound from below, except an occasional slight sigh, or motion from the old woman, who, like all aged persons, was a very light sleeper.

When morning dawned, David heard his grandmother rise and open the windows.

Then he called down the stairs once more:

“Granny——”

“Ay, lad.”

“Can I help you now?”

“Ay, lad, put on ’ee clothes and come down.”

David had not taken off his clothes, and therefore had not to put them on. He instantly descended the narrow stairs and stood before his grandmother.

“I never knew ’ee to dress so quick, lad,” she said.

“That was because I was not undressed. What can I do first, granny?”

“Ay, indeed! ’Ee’s been sitting up all night! It was a useless loss of rest, Davie, but well meant. Take ’eeself off now to the shed and bring in some wood, lad.”

The young man went out to do her bidding, and soon returned with an armful of brown hickory logs, which he laid upon the fire.

Then he took the tea-kettle out and filled it from the cistern and brought it back and hung it over the blaze.

Every movement of the old woman and the young man was made quietly and noiselessly, so as not to disturb the calm sleeper, who as yet gave no signs of waking.

“Now, lad, I’ll leave ’ee here to watch the kettle. Take it off as soon as it boils, and don’t forget to turn the johnny cake,” said Dame Lindsay, as she took her fresh sweet pail and went out to milk the cow, a duty she would never allow David to do for her. Indeed, the act of setting a man or boy to milk would have shocked her ideas of the fitness of things. She would have thought it an insult to the cow.

When she had closed the door behind her, David Lindsay gave a glance to the fireplace, to see that all was right there, and then he went on tiptoe to the side of the bed and gazed reverently on “the sleeping beauty.”

The quilt that had been hung in front to shield her eyes from the ruddy blaze of the fire on the previous night, when repose was so necessary to her shattered nervous system, was now removed to give her more air; for the time had come when it would be well for her to awake. The bed had been straightened into perfect order and the white counterpane drawn up, so that only the lovely face, laying with its right cheek on the pillow, and forehead towards the front of the bed, was visible. The golden hair had been drawn away from the nape of the neck and carried up over the pillow, where it lay a shining mass of curls. A very pathetic face it was, with the tender eyes half shut, the sweet lips half closed. Her sleep looked like the “deep deliciousness of death”; though had it been really that, it might have been said with equal truth that it looked like the sweetest sleep.

David Lindsay sank on his knees beside the bed and gazed on the beautiful, unconscious face turned towards him, as he never would have dared to gaze had those features been instinct with wakeful intelligence. And then, out of the fullness of his heart, he began to murmur words of passionate love to those sealed ears that he never would have ventured to utter had they been listening—words of reverential, worshiping love, that for their incoherence and extravagance could scarcely bear repetition here. He lifted a tress of the floating golden hair and pressed it to his lips, while his tears fell thick and heavily.

“Why do I love you?” he sighed at length. “I know it is vain, and worse than vain! I am but a clod of the earth! And you, what are you? I scarcely know. Something so pure, so precious, so sacred, that it seems sacrilege to touch this halo around your head, these peerless tresses. Yet I love you! I love you! Clod as I am, I love you, oh! unattainable blessing! I might as well love a queen on her throne, the sun in the heavens, the moon, or any glorious, infinitely distant star! Oh, Gloria! Gloria! Bright seraph, why did you come and shine on this poor earth that I am, to quicken it with a living soul—to wake it to such love, such suffering, such despair?”

Down went his head again upon the side of the bed, while his bosom heaved with heavy sobs, and his tears fell like rain.

“David Lindsay.”

Her sweet voice fell on his ears like a benediction.

He lifted his head. She was awake, and gazing gently on his troubled face.

“What is the matter, David Lindsay? What has happened?” she inquired, with a look of sympathy and deep perplexity.

“Nothing; I mean—yes, something has happened, but it is well over, and, oh, how I thank heaven to hear you speak again!” he said, with an effort to recover his self-control, as he arose from his knees.

“What? Is the little lady awake at last? Well, it is time. It would not have been good for her to have slept longer,” said the voice of Dame Lindsay, who had just entered the room and approached the bed.

“She has just this instant opened her eyes, and has scarcely yet collected her thoughts, I think,” said the young man, in a low tone, as he gave place to the old woman, and went out of the house to conceal from her the traces of his strong emotion.

“How does ’ee feel, dearie?” inquired the dame, bending over the revived girl.

“I don’t think I quite know,” answered Gloria, with a bewildered look, as she passed her hand over her forehead, as if to clear away some mental mist of forgetfulness, and opened her eyes, half raised herself in bed and gazed around her.

“Does ’ee know me, dearie?”

“Oh, yes, dee-ar, good Dame Lindsay, but I don’t remember——”

“Does ’ee know where ’ee is, darling?”

“To be sure I do know this dee-ar old cottage, but I can’t remember coming here at all!”

“As how should ’ee, indeed, darling? ’Ee knowed nothing about it! Now, don’t talk any more, and don’t even think, if ’ee can help it; but lie still until I bring ’ee some strong beef tea to nourish ’ee and give strength,” said the good woman, as she laid the girl’s head back on the pillow and drew the counterpane up to her chin.

But a change came over Gloria’s face. Dark memory, like a cloud, arose and overcast it; yet she mistook the reality for a dream, and she shuddered as she said:

“Oh, dee-ar Granny Lindsay, don’t go yet! Give me your hand, and let me hold you fast! I am frightened—I am frightened——”

“What is the matter with ’ee, dearie?” inquired the sympathetic woman, as she gave her hand, which the girl clasped spasmodically, and held fast.

“Oh, Granny, Granny Lindsay, I have had such a horrid, horrid nightmare! I dreamed that I was drowning, and, oh, I saw and felt it all, as if it had been real! Oh, Granny Lindsay, don’t leave me yet, but tell me what has happened, and how I came to be here? Have I been ill a long time?—and delirious? I have heard of people being so ill and delirious that they could know nothing of the passage of time. Uncle was so, you know, after auntie died. Have I been so long?”

“No, dearie, ’ee couldn’t talk so fast, if ’ee had been,” replied the dame, with a smile.

“Then what has happened, and how is it that I am here instead of at home?”

“’Ee has had a ducking in the sea, lassie, no worse. ’Ee was swept off the Rogue’s Neck by the tide, when ’ee was too late in trying to cross, and ’ee might have——”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, it was no nightmare, but an awful fact!” murmured the girl to herself, as she pressed her hands upon her face.

“And ’ee might have been drowned sure enough if Davie hadn’t seen ’ee from his boat and picked ’ee up, dearie.”

“David Lindsay?” breathed the girl.

“Ay, dearie, David Lindsay. He picked ’ee up and brought ’ee home here, because it was so much nearer than the hall, ’ee knows, dearie.”

“David Lindsay saved my life!” murmured the girl, dreamily.

“Ay, little lady, he did; and so ’ee got no worse harm than a cold ducking—though indeed ’ee was quite insensible, and seemed lifeless when ’ee was brought here in the arms of Davie. But ’ee’s all right now, dearie.”

“David Lindsay saved my life!” reiterated the girl, dwelling fondly on the words, and on the thought.

“Eh! lass, surely yes, and we must thank the Lord that ’ee was saved.”

“Yes; and David Lindsay, too! Oh! I am pleased that it was he, my old playmate, and no other. What will uncle say now?” muttered the girl, still dreamily.

“Eh! dearie, he would say that ’ee ought to take some nourishing food immediately. Ain’t ’ee hungry now, say?”

“Yes,” promptly replied Gloria.

“Now ’ee knows all about it, ’ee’ll not be afeard to let me go?”

“Oh, no!” said Gloria, smiling; for she was every moment growing better.

The dame brought her the beef tea and dry toast from the fire, and made her take that first, saying:

“’Ee shall have a cup of coffee or tea, whichever ’ee likes, presently; but this is the best for ’ee now.”

Gloria obediently consumed all the beef tea and dry toast, and relished both.

“Now I feel well; but I think I would rather lie here a few minutes longer, and not try to get up yet, if you will let me, dee-ar Dame Lindsay.”

“To be sure, little lady. ’Ee should lie there quietly all the morning, and when ’ee rises should rest quietly in the house for a day or two. Could ’ee be satisfied to stay here till ’ee gets over the shock?”

“Oh, yes, dee-ar Dame Lindsay, I was always so happy when here with you. Oh, I wish there would come a snow-storm, and I would be snow-bound here for a long time. But, oh, poor uncle! Does he know that David Lindsay saved my life?”

“No, dearie; there has been no time to tell him. It is early in the morning yet, ’ee knows; but after breakfast Davie must go and tell him that ’ee’s safe.”

“And that I must stay here for a few days,” added Gloria.

“Surely, dearie,” replied the old woman.

At this moment the two were startled by a loud knock.

Dame Lindsay got up to answer the summons, but before she could cross the floor, the door was thrown violently open and Colonel de Crespigney strode into the room, looking pale, haggard, hurried, and at least thirty years older than when we saw him last.