Ethel Churchill/Chapter 96
CHAPTER XX.
THE SICK-ROOM.
'Tis midnight, and a starry shower
Weeps its bright tears o'er life and flower;
Sweet, silent, beautiful the night,
Sufficing for her own delight.
But other lights than sky and star,
From yonder casement gleam afar;
The lamp subdued to the heart's gloom
Of suffering, and of sorrow's room.
Since the commencement of her son's illness, Mrs. Courtenaye had never quitted his bedside, but when exhausted nature forced her to take that repose from which she shrunk. To-night she took her accustomed place; for, during the night, no vigilance could satisfy her but her own: any eye but hers might close in momentary forgetfulness.
Down she sat, the lamp lighted, but its flame carefully screened from the sick man's face. The little table beside, supplied with all that could be needed, was at her side; her rosary in her hand, and again she began another vigil. Norbourne had at length fallen into a heavy sleep, and every hope hung on the state in which he might awaken from it. Mrs. Courtenaye could scarcely restrain herself from starting up in agony, when she thought on what the morrow might bring forth. The room was dark, but she was accustomed to its dim light, and there was not a feature in that white face—white as the pillow on which it rested—in which the slightest change was not distinctly visible to her. She rose, and bent over the sleeper: there was something in the utter helplessness of sickness that reminded her of infancy. A lapse of years went by, and she did not see the young man laid before her, but the little child, that loved no one but herself, whose whole world was fashioned by herself; she felt that her whole life had been devoted to him; and yet, had her object been accomplished? was he happy? and the answer seemed to come, cold and distinct on her ear—No!
Mrs. Courtenaye had never forgiven her husband the deception, or rather the thoughtlessness, that marked his conduct towards her. From the moment that she became aware of her real position, a feeling of mingled dislike and coldness arose, which no kindness, not even submission, on his part, ever softened again. She was at once humiliated and embittered; but the warm heart, and the strong mind, must have an object; and her energies, equally with her affections, had concentrated themselves on her son.
In urging his marriage with Constance, she had been actuated, quite as much by consideration for him, as for herself; but now it appeared to her only selfishness; she had urged him on her own account. Of an unyielding and severe nature herself, she had exaggerated Lord Norbourne's determination, who certainly would never have acted upon the knowledge he possessed; but now she only thought of how her entreaties had wrought with her son. She cleared the mist that had gathered before her sight, and looked long and earnestly on the face of the patient. There were symptoms of recovery not to be mistaken; the feverish flush had died away, and the breathing was regular; she ventured to touch the forehead with her lips, it was cool, and the pulse was subdued. Again she resumed her seat, but the expression of her countenance was changed; the working of some strong emotion was in the troubled lines of her mouth. Gradually, the fine features settled into a lofty and resolute composure; the eyes, large and dark, filled with a light, spiritual and calm. She rested the crucifix on the table; and, kneeling before it, was, for some moments, absorbed in earnest prayer. She clasped her hands, and raised them towards heaven, when her devotion was disturbed by the faint movements of the invalid. She sprung to the bedside in a moment; Norbourne was just awaking. His eyes slowly unclosed; and for the first time for many days, he was sensible he saw her bending over him; and the first faint words of returning consciousness were,—
"My mother! my dear mother!"