For the first time Imelda’s mind was free. She had left Alice sleeping. Not in a dull, feverish stupor, constantly interrupted with delirious mutterings but sleeping, actually and really sleeping. And although her breathing was only a gentle fluttering, it was so weak, it was a quiet sleep, and she knew that for a few hours, at least, she could safely trust her to the faithful nurse. So Imelda slept the sleep of the just.
When the morning sunlight streamed through the open window, flooding the room with its bright glory, a servant had softly entered and with deft fingers closed the shutters, darkening the room so that the slumbers of the completely exhausted girl might not be disturbed; the nurse meanwhile remaining faithful and true to her trust. Now and then a maid softly opened the door to listen, but Imelda slept on, and when the doctor came he gave the order to let her sleep by all means, until she should awake of herself. So the hours of the day passed and the evening shades were falling ere that death-like sleep was lifted and Imelda opened her eyes. The deep hush and darkness that prevailed left her for a long time in semi-unconsciousness, a delicious drowsiness folding her in its power, but by and by it passed away, leaving her brain more clear, and presently, all in an instant, she knew and remembered.
But how long had she slept? It was three o’clock when she sought her bed and only two hours before the morning light would appear. It was still dark, yet she did not feel as if she had slept only a short time, but rather had the sensation of having slept a long while, she was so wide awake, and—yes! she was hungry, very hungry. She reached out her hand for her watch, which she remembered having placed upon the stand near the bedside. It was there, but when she placed it to her ear she made the discovery that it had stopped. Then she struck a light, having a lucifer always within reach. By the flickering flame she saw that her watch had stopped at twenty minutes of two. A puzzled look overspread her face. What did it mean? Just then she thought she heard a footstep outside her door; the next instant the door was softly opened.
“Who is there?” she hastily inquired, her heart giving a bound, as she was not in the habit of leaving her door unlocked. Could she have forgotten it? A soft laugh answered her.
“Is it you, Mary?” she asked, recognizing the voice.
“Yes, Miss Imelda, it is I. Have you decided to return to life? I was beginning to fear you were going to sleep right over into the next world.”
“Why, what time is it?” was Imelda’s next question, still surprised and puzzled.
“Almost eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock! Why, Mary, you ought to have called me ere this. Mrs. Boswell ought to have been relieved some time ago. But why is it so dark? I thought I had the windows open.”
“So you had. I made free to close them but will open them now,” saying which the girl unfastened and opened the shutters. Instead of the bright sunshine, as Imelda had expected, only a hazy twilight filled it with dim shadows.
“What does this mean?” she stammered. “Why, it is quite dark. Did you not say that it is almost eight o’clock?” She was growing impatient. Mary’s laugh again rang through the room.
“Yes,” she said “it is eight o’clock, not in the morning but in the evening.”
Imelda was sitting bolt upright in bed now.
“What! Do you mean to say that I have slept all day through?”
“Just that, and nothing else.”
“O, that was wrong! I ought to have been called long ago. How is——” she stopped, a sudden fear holding her tongue a prisoner.
“Mrs. Westcot is getting better,”—supplementing the unfinished question and answering it at the same time. “She, like yourself, has been sleeping all day.”
“And Mrs. Boswell——?”
“Has also had a nap while I sat with Mrs. Westcot, and if you will rise and dress I will prepare you some—breakfast,” and laughing again she disappeared leaving Imelda to her own reflections, but first having lit the gas overhead. No hesitation now. Hastily she arose and quickly made her toilet. Donning a wrapper she twisted the dark hair into a shining coil, and in a few minutes descended to the dining room where Mary had spread for her a tempting meal.
Imelda was a favorite with the servants, who were always willing to do a favor for this fair girl from the west, who was so considerate. It was well known that Mrs. Westcot was also from the western metropolis, and they often wondered if people in the west generally were so kind and considerate. It would have been impossible for the gentle-hearted Alice to assume aristocratic airs, therefore she could always depend upon her servants, and all hearts were filled with fear while the gentle mistress was raving of real or fancied woes, and when at last, after weary weeks, the crisis was over, it was as if a heavy cloud had passed away, and the gloomy faces were bright.
Having done ample justice to the generous repast, and feeling much refreshed, Imelda sped to the chamber above. Softly she opened the door and moved to the bedside. Mrs. Boswell was sitting with her elbow resting upon the bed, her head upon her hand. She never moved as Imelda stepped to her side. Bending down she found that the nurse was fast asleep. A pang smote her that while she, in the strength of youth, had slept the day away the much older woman had continued at her post. True, Mary had said that she had relieved her for awhile, but Imelda knew that she, like herself, needed a good long rest, and she decided that she should have it. Seeing that Alice too was sleeping, she gently touched Mrs. Boswell on the shoulder and slightly shaking her the nurse awoke with a start. Imelda held up a warning finger to prevent her from making an outcry. But the woman was frightened. She felt guilty at having been found asleep at her post of duty. Hastily reaching for her watch she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Only ten minutes,” she whispered. “She has been sleeping so long,” indicating Alice, “that I suppose the quiet has overpowered me.”
“And no wonder,” said Imelda,—“you are certainly in need of rest. I will now take your place while you sleep all night and all day tomorrow, too, if you wish. So just give me the directions for tonight, and then away to your couch.” The woman smiled.
“Thank you. I am only too glad to accept.” After giving the proper directions she added: “And now if you will excuse me I will accept your kind offer and sleep. Mary took my place for several hours or I fear I could not have held out. In the morning I will be ready to take my place again.”
So the nurse withdrew and left Imelda alone with her sick friend, and as she largely imitated the example of the young girl and slept until the afternoon of the next day, Imelda had a long watch before her.
But we are forestalling. While the nurse has gone to recruit her strength in sleep we will remain with Imelda and follow the outline of her thoughts as she watched her sick friend. Over three weeks have now passed since the promenade of the lovers in the moonlight under the silver maples,—the evening after that on which for the first time she had discarded her mourning garments, when they had spent two happy hours together, Imelda adroitly preventing a repetition of the pleadings of the night before. She was happy, and was willing that Norman should know it. He in turn had been content to drink the kisses from the dewy lips and leave the morrow to take care of itself.
Since that evening Imelda had seen but little of her lover. If he came in the evening she scarcely ever had longer than a half hour to give him. The cloud that hung above this house was too dark to admit of much happiness or joy for them. On the other hand it did not give them the leisure to discuss the question nearest their hearts, and Imelda did not wish it just now.
Long ere this, had the answer come to the long letter that she had written to Margaret. But not alone in Margaret’s delicate tracing had the answer come. A long letter had also come in the bolder handwriting of Wilbur Wallace. Her heart gave a bound as she recognized the hand, while the rich blood rushed in a hot wave to her face dyeing her temples, ears and neck. What would he have to say? With a beating heart she had opened it. Something impelled her to lay Margaret’s aside until she first perused Wilbur’s letter.