IN THE DARK

"Yes, Mrs. Yocomb, good nursing and nourishment are all that he now requires," were the rea.s.suring words that greeted my waking later in the evening. I opened my eyes, and found that a physician was feeling my pulse.

I turned feebly toward my kind hostess, and smilingly whispered:

"There's no fear of my wanting these where you are, Mrs. Yocomb; but don't let me make trouble. I fear I've made too much already."

"The only way thee can make trouble, Richard, is to worry about making trouble. The more we can do for thee the better we shall be pleased.

All thee's got to do is to get well and take thy time about it."

"That's just like you. How long have I been ill?"

"That's none of thy business at present. One thing at a time. The doctor has put thee in my hands, and I'm going to make thee mind."

"I've heard that men were perfect bears when getting well," I said.

"Thee can be a bear if thee feels like it, but not another word to-night--not another syllable; am I not right, doctor?"

"Yes, I prescribe absolute quiet of mind and body; that and good living will bring you around in time. You've had a narrow graze of it, but if you will mind Mrs. Yocomb you will yet die of old age. Good-night."

My nurse gave me what she thought I needed, and darkened the room. But it was not so dark but that I saw a beautiful face in the doorway.

"Miss Warren," I exclaimed.

"It was Adah," said Mrs. Yocomb quietly; "she's been very anxious about thee."

"You are all so kind. Please thank her for me," I replied eagerly.

"Mother, may I speak to Richard Morton?" asked a timid voice from the obscurity of the hallway.

"Not to-night, Adah--to-morrow." "Forgive me if I disobey you this once," I interrupted hastily. "Yes, Miss Adah, I want to thank you."

She came instantly to my side, and I held out my hand to her. I wondered why hers throbbed and trembled so strangely.

"It's I who should thank thee: I can never thank thee enough. Oh, I feared I might--I might never have a chance."

"There, Adah, thee mustn't say another word; Richard's too weak yet."

Her hand closed tightly over mine. "Good-by," she breathed softly, and vanished.

Mrs. Yocomb sat down with her knitting by a distant and shaded lamp.

Too weak to think, or to realize aught except that I was surrounded by an atmosphere of kindness and sympathy, I was well content to lie still and watch, through the open window, the dark foliage wave to and fro, and the leaves grow distinct in the light of the rising moon, which, though hidden, I knew must be above the eastern mountains. I had the vague impression that very much had happened, but I would not think; not for the world would I break the spell of deep quietude that enthralled every sense of my body and every faculty of my mind.

"Mrs. Yocomb," I said at last, "it must be you who creates this atmosphere of perfect peace and restfulness. The past is forgotten, the future a blank, and I see only your serene face. A subdued light seems to come from it, as from the shaded lamp."

"Thee is weak and fanciful, Richard. The doctor said thee must be quiet."

"I wish it were possible to obey the doctor forever, and that this exquisite rest and oblivion could last, I am like a ship becalmed on a summer sea in a summer night. Mind and body are both motionless."

"Sleep, Richard Morton, and when rested and well, may gales from heaven spring up and carry thee homeward. Fear not even rough winds, if they bear thee toward the only true home. Now thy only duty is to rest."

"You are not going to sit up to-night, Mrs. Yocomb."

She put her finger on her lips.

"Hush!" she said.

"Oh, delicious tyranny!" I murmured. "The ideal government is that of an absolute and friendly power."

I had a vague consciousness of being wakened from time to time, and of taking something from Mrs. Yocomb's hand, and then sinking back into an enthrallment of blessed and refreshing slumber. With every respiration life and health flowed back.

At last, as after my first long sleep in the country, I seemed to hear exquisite strains of music that swelled into richer harmony until what seemed a burst of song awoke me. Opening my eyes, I looked intently through the open, window and gladly welcomed the early day. The air was fresh, and I felt its exhilarating quality. The drooping branches of the elm swayed to and fro, and the mountains beyond were bathed in light. I speedily realized that it was the song of innumerable birds that had supplied the music of my waking dream.

For a few moments I gazed through the window, with the same perfect content with which I had watched the foliage grow distinct in the moonlight the previous evening, and then I looked around the room.

I started slightly as I encountered the deep blue eyes of Adah Yocomb fixed on me with an intent, eager wistfulness. "Can I do anything for thee, Richard Morton?" she asked, rising from her chair near the door.

"Mother asked me to stay with thee awhile, and to let her know if thee woke and wanted anything."

"With you here this bright morning, how could I want anything more?" I asked, with a smile, for her young, beautiful face comported so well with the early morning of the summer day as to greatly please both my eye and fancy. The color of the early morning grew richer in her face as she replied:

"I'm glad thee doesn't want me to go away, but I must go and have thy breakfast brought up."

"No, stay; tell me all that's happened. I seem to have forgotten everything so strangely! I feel as if I had known you all a long time, and yet that can't be, for only the other day I was at my office in New York."

"Mother says thee's too weak to talk yet, and that I must not answer questions. She says thee knows thee's been sick and thee knows thee's getting well, and that must do till thee's much stronger."

"Oh, I feel ever so much stronger. Sleep and the good things your mother has given me have made a new man of me."

"Mother says thee has never been sick, and that thee doesn't know how to take care of thyself, and that thee'll use thy strength right up if we don't take good care of thee."

"And are you going to take care of me?"

"Yes, if thee pleases. I'll help mother."

"I should be hard to please were I not glad. I shall have so nice a time getting well that I shall be tempted to play sick."

"I'll--I'll wait on thee as long as thee'll let me, for no one owes thee more than I do."

"What in the world do you owe me?" I asked, much perplexed. "If you are going to help me to get well, and will come to my room daily with a face like this summer morning, I shall owe you more than I can ever repay."

"My face would have been black enough but for thee; but I'm glad thee thinks I look well. They are all saying I look pale and am growing thin, but if thee doesn't think so I don't care," and she seemed aglow with pleasure.

"It would make a sick man well to look at you," I said, smiling.

"Please come and sit by me and help me to get my confused brain straight once more. I have the strangest sense of not knowing what I ought to know well. You and your kind father and mother brought me home from meeting. Your mother said I might stay here and rest. Miss Warren was here--she was singing in the parlor. Where is Miss Warren?"

"She has gone out for a walk," said the girl a little coldly.

Her manner perplexed me, and, together with my thought of Miss Warren, there came a vague sense of trouble--of something wrong. I tried to raise my hand to my brow, as if to clear away the mist that obscured my mind, and my hand was like lead, it was so heavy.