CHAPTER XXX Come Back

And are ye sure the news is true?  And are ye sure he’s weel?—­J.  THOMPSON

Eleonora Vivian was striving to write her sorrowful announcements in the deepening dusk of that autumn evening, while her father had shut himself up after his vigil to sleep under Victor’s care, when a message came that Lady Rosamond Charnock earnestly begged to see her.  She stood with a face white and set, looking like a galvanized corpse, as her lips framed the words, “He is dead!”

“No!” almost screamed Rosamond, snatching her hand.  “No!  But no one can save him but you.  Come!”

Without a word, Eleonora stepped into her own room, and came back in cloak, hat, and veil.

“Right,” said Rosamond, seizing her arm, and taking her to the pony-carriage at the door, then explaining while driving rapidly:  “He has left off raving ever since his mother has been with him, but he lies—­not still but weak, not speaking, only moaning now and then.  His throat is so dreadful that it is hard to give him anything, and he takes no notice of what one says, only if his mother takes the spoon.  He gets weaker, and Dr. Worth says it is only because there is no impulse to revive him—­he is just sinking because he can’t be roused.  When I heard that, I thought I knew who could.”

Eleonora’s lips once moved, but no sound came from them, and Rosamond urged her little pony to its best speed through the two parks from one veiled house to another, fastened it to the garden-door without calling any one, and led her silent companion up the stairs.

Mrs. Poynsett felt a hand on her shoulder, and Rosamond said, “I have brought our only hope,” and Eleonora stood, looking at the ghastly face.  The yellow skin, the inflamed purple lips, the cavernous look of cheeks and eyes, were a fearful sight, and only the feeble incessant groping of the skeleton fingers showed life or action.

“Put this into his hand,” said Rosamond, and Lenore found the pebble token given to her, and obeyed.  At the touch, a quivering trembled over face and form, the eyelids lifted, the eyes met hers, there was a catching of the breath, a shudder and convulsive movement.  “He is going,” cried his mother, but Anne started forward with drops of strong stimulant, Rosamond rubbed spirit into his forehead, the struggle lessened, the light flickered back into his brown eyes, his fingers closed on hers.  “Speak to him,” said Mrs. Poynsett.  “Do you see her, Frankie dear?”

“Frank! dear Frank, here I am.”

The eyes gazed with more meaning, the lips moved, but no sound came till Anne had given another drop of the stimulant, and the terrible pain of the swallowing was lessened.  Then he looked up, and the words were heard.

“Is it true?”

“It is, my dear boy.  It is Lena.”

“Here, Frank,” as still the wistful gaze was unsatisfied; she laid her hands on his, and then he almost smiled and tried to raise it to his cheeks, but he was too weak; and she obeyed the feeble gesture, and stroked the wasted face, while a look of content came over it, the eyes closed, and he slept with his face against her hand, his mother watching beside with ineffable gratitude and dawning hope.