Chapter LXXXV: Himself Again

Bertha Canfield sunk to a chair by the sick man’s bed, and dropped the lilies into her lap, utterly dismayed. For the first time in many a weary day her face was bathed in blushes, and her eyelids drooped to avoid the dreamy gaze fixed upon her. Was he conscious? Did he know what she had done?

“It is the scent of water lilies,” he murmured softly, “and she was among them, walking in the midst of their whiteness. Dreams! dreams! long, weary dreams; but so real that they grow more and more like life. And the image! Oh, that seemed like her—beautiful, downcast, always avoiding me!”

Bertha heard this, and dared neither speak nor move, lest she should arouse these half dreams into perfect consciousness, and thus betray herself; but her heart beat loudly in its growing joy. The wildness of delirium had passed. There was method in his speech, pathos in the struggle of his mind to separate the actual from his vague imaginings.

All at once the sick man reached out his hand and touched Bertha’s hair; then that white, feeble hand wandered down to the lilies, and was drawn back, trailing one of the blossoms with it.

“It seems real! it seems real! The golden spray trembles in its heart; the light strikes through the leaves. This long stem is what grows under the water, like a snake with a flower in its mouth. There, now! that idea came out of my old, bad dreams, when I could not see her—only when _he_ was looking over her shoulder. Stop now! Let me count the leaves; let me twist the stem around my fingers; let me drink in its breath. Oh, it is real, and I have seen her!”

Fletcher dropped the flower, closed his eyes suddenly, and great tears came welling through their lashes, falling one by one to the pillow.

“Mr. Fletcher—Egbert!”

“That’s her voice—that’s her voice!” whispered the sick man, holding his breath, afraid to open his eyes lest it should prove one of his old, wild dreams.

“Egbert, do you know me?”

A beautiful smile illuminated that pale face; those large, humid eyes were turned upon Bertha.

“Yes, I know you. Why not? How long is it since I have loved you, Bertha?”

“So long that one poor life will hardly repay it,” answered the girl, in a low voice, fearing to excite him by hope or denial.

“What does that mean?”

The smile died out from his face, and a slow frown gathered there.

“Oh, yes, I am sick and very feeble; so you treat me like a child that must be refused nothing. I do not like that.”

“No, I treat you as a good, brave man, who has almost died for my poor sake.”

“Bertha!”

“There! there! Be tranquil or I must go away.”

“Let me look in your face.”

Bertha half arose, and her eyes, full of tender gratitude, looked into his. Again that radiant smile beamed upon her, and his lips broke into a soft, child-like laugh.

“Bertha, I dreamed that you kissed me.”

“So I did; and—and I will kiss you again, if you only promise to fall asleep, and let me put all these lilies in water.”

The girl stooped forward and pressed her lips lightly to his, then sealed both his eyelids with touches soft as the fall of rose leaves, whispering:

“Sleep now, for I love you! Sleep well!”

The sick man was so weary that he did sleep well; but that brightness never left his face, while now and then a soft, deep sigh would escape the patted lips, leaving smiles upon them.

Bertha sat watching him a long time, quiet and thoughtful, wondering that so much power of happiness was left for her to give—so much for her to feel. By-and-by she stole out of the room to put her flowers in water—a sweet, dreamy task, which harmonized with her gentle mood.

While she was at this pleasant work, Mrs. Forbes came in, from the long morning sleep that followed her night watch, and huddled up in her sweeping white robe, sunk to a chair, and rested both arms on the table where Bertha’s vase stood.

“Ah, Bertha, this is sad, weary work!” she said, irritated a little by the girl’s tranquil employment. “I sometimes think he never will get well, or know any of us again. How has he rested since I left?”

“Better than usual, Alice. He is sound asleep now.”

“But he had a restless night, Bertha. Once or twice I thought he was coming to a little, for he kept asking for you, as usual; and when I attempted to soothe him by saying, ‘Bertha is here,’ he called me fairly by my own name, and might have been angry, if he could have found strength, poor fellow!”

“Then he must have known you, at least for the moment,” said Bertha.

“But only to quarrel with me for not being you. Bertha, it does seem a little hard to see one’s brother wasting his last strength on a girl whom no generosity or tenderness can move. Now, I leave it to yourself. If he were dying, your name would be the last on his lips; yet no sister ever was more devoted than I have been.”

Bertha’s eyes filled with tears, for she had begun to cry again, like other tender-hearted women, and these reproaches touched her deeply.

“You cannot blame me more than I blame myself,” she said, with gentle humility. “If I could give my life for him—”

Alice interrupted her, sharply:

“I hate these high-flown ideas, Bertha! What does any human being want of another’s life? A cup of cold water to a thirsty man is of more use, by far; besides, life is not our own, but God’s. Egbert wants your love, not your life!”

Bertha arose, and lifting the vase of lilies, reached them out to the excited woman, with a strange smile.

“Take them in, softly, and see how your brother sleeps.”

“Forgive me, Bertha; but I am so worn out—so utterly hopeless, this morning—and trouble comes so hard upon me! If I could only know that he recognized me again; but I never, never shall. You forgive me, dear girl?”

“Can you ask that of me?” said Bertha, gently opening the door of Fletcher’s chamber, that his sister might pass through, bearing the lilies with her.

Bertha stood near the door, listening. She heard a low murmur of voices; then Mrs. Forbes came out, radiant and empty-handed.

“He awoke—he knew me! Oh, Bertha, he called me Alice!”

“He called me Bertha, too—and I—I told him that I loved him!”

Then the two women fell into each other’s arms, crying like children.