Without a single word Alice turned and walked back to the house with her husband at her side, but when they returned to the brightly lighted rooms they found them empty. Norman and Imelda had disappeared.
Alice, to avoid further persecution, fled to her own room where she hastily disrobed and sought her couch, but her temples were throbbing in a manner that did not promise sleep. She lay for some time pressing her hands to the aching head, when she heard steps outside her door and immediately after a quick rap. She recognized both step and rap. She lay with bated breath, giving no indication that she heard, when the rap was repeated more loud and forcible than before. Again no answer. A third time the rap was repeated, accompanied by a loud demand to open immediately.
“Not tonight, Lawrence,” came in pleading, quavering accents. “I am sick tonight.”
“Open!” he demanded.
“Please, Lawrence,” pleaded the voice within.
“Will you open?” came threateningly from the outside. Trembling in every nerve Alice rose and unlocked the door to admit the man she called husband.
“What do you mean?” he asked, grasping her arm in a manner anything but gentle, “what do you mean by locking your door?”
By this time Alice was wrought up to a hysterical pitch. With a quick movement she threw off the hand that held her.
“I locked the door to be safe from intrusion. I am sick tonight, and wish to be alone.”
“I dare say,” was the unfeeling response. “If it had been some one else who wished admittance, our honored guest, for instance, the door would not have been so firmly locked. Your husband, however, is not so welcome.”
“Lawrence!” almost shrieked the sorely tried woman. “How dare you!”
“O, I dare anything, as you will soon find. Just now, I order you back to your bed, and to keep quiet until I join you, in a few moments.”
“Lawrence! You—do—not—mean to stay?” gasped the poor suffering woman.
“Well, I—just—mean—to—stay;” mimicking her frenzied appeal.
“But I am sick tonight, oh, so sick!”
“The sickness then must be rather sudden. But madam, it is rather a flimsy trick to rid yourself of your husband’s presence. I advise you, however, to take matters more coolly. By this time you ought to understand and to know who will come out victor.”
And Alice did know who came out victor in this instance. But the morning dawned upon a fever-flushed face, and ere the sun was many hours in the heavens a doctor stood at the bedside of the little wife, who gravely shook his head as he listened to the ravings of his patient, which—if such utterances can be relied upon—revealed a tale of woe to the attendants that ought to fill the heart of every true woman and man with horror.
The hours passed into days and the days into weeks, and yet the fever raged unabated. Imelda, who passed the days and nights in sleepless anxiety at the sick woman’s bedside was well nigh worn out, even though an experienced nurse was there to share the responsibilities and care. The little ones were banished to another portion of the house, so that their childish prattle and laughter might not disturb the sick mother. Lawrence Westcot came and went to and from the sick chamber, wearing a gloomy countenance, but his presence there was not at all helpful, as it invariable caused the patient to be very uneasy and restless, even though he did not come within the range of her vision. She seemed to feel his presence and the physician fearing the effect upon her nervous system advised the husband to make his visits short. Sometimes he bent above her, laying his hand upon her fevered brow. Unconscious though she was she would with a quick nervous movement throw his hand aside, muttering incoherent words.
Both Imelda and the nurse observed that invariably the sick woman would be worse after those visits of the husband; although of short duration they were glad when they were over.
Almost three weeks passed ere the much-feared crisis came. By this time the patient was very weak and it was apparent that life hung by a thread. Anxiously bending over the couch the two friends watched while the clock ticked the hours away. Slowly they crept on; slowly, softly, almost imperceptibly the life of the sufferer seemed to ebb away.
Twelve, one, two o’clock, and still no change. Half past two, the door of the room softly opened and Lawrence Westcot entered. Imelda’s heart gave a bound. Why must he come at such a time? Stepping softly he drew near. Imelda placed her finger upon her lips in token of caution. Coming close to the side of the dying woman he stood gazing down upon her. What his thoughts might be could not be known from the calm, unmoved appearance of his countenance, but certainly they were not pleasant thoughts. How could they be, when he so well knew what had brought his wife so close to death’s door? If she should die, would not her death lie at his door? Would he not be compelled to own himself her murderer?
Five, ten minutes passed, then Alice moved. Imelda laid her hand upon his arm and bent a pleading look upon him. Immediately he stepped back into the shadows of the room and there waited the issue. Restlessly the head moved upon the pillow. The eyelids quivered and fluttered open, the lips moved, Imelda bent to catch the low whisper that was merely a breath.
“Water!” came faint, scarcely audible, from the fever-parched lips. With a teaspoon a few drops at a time were administered, the patient apparently gaining strength from the cooling liquid. The blue eyes opened wide, but they were clear with the light of reason. Presently they closed again, and soon a slow, even breathing told that sleep, natural restful sleep, had once more come to the sufferer’s relief. The nurse bent above her and listened, laying her fingers upon the fluttering pulse. Presently, standing erect, she whispered:
“She is safe for tonight. I will continue the watch. Miss Ellwood, you had better retire and rest.”
Imelda’s breast was heaving. The strain had been a severe one, and feeling that it would be impossible long to control herself she hastily left the room, followed by Westcot. Just outside the door he laid his hand upon her arm.
“She will be saved, you think?” He seemed to be anxious and serious. Had not this man with his cruelty almost murdered the woman who was as yet lying at death’s door? It cost Imelda an effort to be civil.
“I believe so,” she answered. “According to the doctor’s statement if she should safely pass this night there is every hope of her recovery.”
For several moments he did not answer, then—“Thank you,” and ere Imelda was aware of his intention he had taken her hand and lifting it he quickly touched it with his lips. With a hasty movement she withdrew her hand, but before she could speak he had said “Goodnight,” and swiftly walking away left her standing there alone.
Imelda stood looking at the hand he had kissed, and then with an unconscious movement drew her handkerchief across the spot his lips had touched. She shuddered. What did it mean? Without waiting to answer her own question she turned and hastily sought her room. She was tired, O, so tired. Never since Alice had been tossing in the fever had she known what it was to sleep a whole night through. Snatching an hour, or two at most, always ready at a moment’s notice to return to her post at the side of the sick one, she had scarce found time to eat or catch a breath of fresh air,—and now it was three o’clock in the morning. O, how tempting looked the snowy draped bed. She felt as if she could sink into its soft embrace, never to rise again. The night was already well advanced; two or three hours at most was all she expected to sleep. The faithful nurse was just as much in need of rest as herself. A moment she hesitated. Should she risk it? The nurse was positive that for the rest of the night Alice would sleep. She no longer hesitated, but hastily disrobing and donning a snowy nightdress, scarce had her head touched the pillow when she was already unconscious and in the land of dreams.