Probation

Mary Heywood, all the weary afternoon of that weary day, sat beside Edmund’s bed and nursed him, with fear at her heart that the nursing would be of no long duration. The fever which had consumed him was over, but the weakness which remained was terrible—it was a weakness from which, as Mary dimly felt, there would never be any rallying. She had brought sewing and knitting upstairs into the little bedroom, and she drew down the blind ‘to keep the sun out,’ as they both said. Edmund lay perfectly still. She asked him if she should read to him, but he smiled a little, and shook his head. Neither of them knew how very near the end was. Edmund, if he could have known, would have been very glad, and Mary would have been so miserable, that it was well she did not know.

‘I could like to see Myles a bit,’ said Edmund at last; ‘I ne’er see him now, hardly. He’s quite different from what he was.’

‘He’s not happy,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t rightly know what ails him, but it’s summat very bad, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, he doesn’t like bein’ out o’ work. No more should I, if I was him. He’s ne’er been used to such pinchin’ work as this. They keep him a long time at yon shop.’

‘Ay, they do. Harry Ashworth said he’d come and sit wi’ thee to-neet, Ned. Would thou like it?’

Edmund assented, with a look of pleasure, and there was silence, while the afternoon wore on, and at last Mary’s head began to droop. She was weary with sorrow, with working, and with watching. The atmosphere of the room was close and heavy, although Mary had conscientiously tried to follow out the doctor’s directions about keeping it ventilated. She could not keep her eyes open, but slept in her chair until Edmund’s feeble touch on her arm awoke her, and she started up.

‘Eh, what is it, lad?’

‘I could so like summat to drink, Molly,’ said he, gaspingly. ‘And I think there’s summat not reet wi’ Myles. I heard him come in, and sit quite still for a bit, and now he’s gone out again, without coming up here, or waitin’ for his tea, or anything.’

Thoroughly awake, Mary hurried downstairs, and found emptiness and solitude. She could see that Myles had been in. She could see the chair that he had drawn up to the table and pushed away again, and she wondered, and was uneasy at his going out thus, without word or message.

The kitchen, too, felt close. She drew up the window, and set the back door open to let some air in. Then she roused the fire, and set the gently singing kettle upon it, and brought out the tea-things. She prepared some tea for Edmund, and took it upstairs to him. He had said he was very thirsty, and he took the cup eagerly, and put his lips to it, then put it down again.

‘I feel very faint, Mary; I can’t take that. I mun have a little—bran——’

He had fainted, and it was some time before she succeeded in restoring him to consciousness.

‘Eh, I wish Myles was here; I wish Harry would come,’ she kept murmuring to herself, looking with anguish upon the poor worn face, which had now the stamp of the approaching end set upon it in unmistakable characters.

At last a knock at the outer door informed her that Harry Ashworth had come. She ran downstairs and let him in, drawing him into the kitchen; and when they were there, sat down upon her rocking-chair, and began to cry heartily.

‘Why, Mary, what ails thee, lass?’ said Harry, taking her hand.

‘Myles is gone out—I don’t know where, and yon poor lad upstairs hasn’t so much longer to be here,’ said Mary, looking at him with her tearful eyes. ‘Thou munnot leave me yet awhile, Harry.’

Whether the presence of a great mutual sorrow broke the barrier which had hitherto existed between these two, I know not. As Mary begged him not to leave her, their eyes met, and something in those eyes gave Harry the courage he had never before been able to summon to his aid. It was as if by a mutual impulse that they bent towards each other, and their lips met for consolation and reassurance; and Harry, with a wonderful sense of strength of courage, put his arm round Mary’s waist, saying,

‘There’s nought I’d like so well as never to leave thee at all, Mary, if thou could look at such a poor, deaf, marred chap as me. Sometimes I think thou could, and sometimes I’m sure thou couldn’t. Dost think thou could make up thy mind to take me?’

‘I made up my mind long ago what I’d do if ever thou asked me,’ said Mary, naïvely.

‘And what was that?’

‘Why, to take thee, for sure,’ she answered.

Harry, smiling, looking on her with amaze and admiration, ventured on another kiss, and said,

‘Eh, but I have been a fool not to speak to thee before.’

She smiled a little, and then the remembrance of the troubled present returning to her, said,

‘I’m very happy, but we mun think o’ poor Ned just now. Thee go upstairs, and tell him what thou’s done. He always were suspicious about thee. It’ll cheer him up like, and I’ll come after thee in a minute or two.’

Just for a few moments the news had the desired effect upon Edmund. He shook hands with Harry, smiled and looked what he had not voice enough to say. But the same chill look of coming death was upon his face; and Mary, as Myles still did not come, could not rest until she had been out and brought the doctor back with her. The doctor was a busy man. He made a very brief visit—said nothing much in the sick-room, but ordered some restorative, and, when Mary followed him downstairs and tremulously asked his opinion, said brusquely, but not at all unkindly,

‘My good girl, you must make up your mind to lose him. I cannot even assure you that he will live till morning.’

Restraining her tears, Mary went upstairs again, and, with Harry, resumed her watch by the sick lad. They were slow and solemn hours. They saw the end approaching under their very eyes; they saw Death’s grey seal stamping its impress more and more visibly upon the features, and one on either side the narrow little bed they sat, while it grew deep night, and still Myles did not come home.

‘What can be keeping him?’ the girl uneasily wondered again and again; but she dared not speak her wonder, for every time that Edmund roused from the lethargy which was settling more and more heavily upon him, he looked round with an anxious gaze, and a vague astonishment at the absence of that brother who had been his stay and protection all his weak and painful life.

Midnight passed, and still the sorrowful watch lasted. One o’clock struck, and still he came not; and still the face on the pillow grew grayer and more deathlike. Two o’clock passed, and yet all was as it had been. Towards half-past two, Mary, going softly to the window, raised a corner of the blind, and beheld the first flush of dawn in the east, as it may be seen at that hour on a June morning. Her heavy eyes looked across the houses, across the town, to where the pure sky, with a cool, bright light, showed the ridges of the moors. She looked back into the room. Harry’s eyes had followed her, and hung upon her face; and Edmund’s eyes too were opened, wide, bright, and clear. His voice had regained a last flicker of strength, as he said distinctly,

‘Wind up the blind, Molly, and open the window a bit. Let me see the sun rise.’

Speechless, Mary complied. A waft of pure, fresh morning air was borne into the room through the open window. Then there was a pause. From where he lay, Edmund could see the broadening rose flush in the east, and then suddenly the chimes from the spire rang out; three was solemnly tolled, and in a moment there rang out upon the sleeping town, resting from its troubles, the sweet old tune, ‘Life let us cherish!’ Mary heard the tune, ‘Myles’s tune,’ as she called it, and wondered longingly where he was. She returned to the bedside, and Harry went to the window. Edmund had closed his eyes again, and another quarter had chimed, when Harry exclaimed,

‘He’s there! He’s coming!’

In a few moments more Myles stood in the room. There were very few words more. They all stood round the bed, and Edmund held his brother’s hand. In the watching him, the others had no time to notice the haggard look on Myles’s face. Day grew broader, and life waned. Four was chimed melodiously; the first stir of life was audible, as Edmund quietly breathed his last.

Mary was sobbing—the sunrise was over—and day, full, glowing, and brilliant, poured in upon the dead face.