Richard Vandermarck Part 22

"I am sorry for you, Pauline; you know that."

"And you will take care of me?" I cried, stretching out my arms toward him, with a sudden overwhelming sense of my loneliness and dest.i.tution.

"Yes, Pauline, to the end of my life or of yours; as if you were my sister or almost my child."

"Dear Richard," I whispered, as I buried my face on his arm, "if it were not for you I should not live through this dreadful time. I hope I shall die soon; as soon as I am better. But till I do die, I hope you will be good to me, and love me." And I pressed his hand against my cheek and lips, like the poor, frantic, grief-bewildered child that I was.

At this moment there came a sound of movement in the stables: I heard one of the heavy doors thrown open, and a man leading a horse across the stable-floor. (The windows were open and the night was very still.) Richard started, and looked uneasily at his watch, stepping to the door to get the light.

"How late is it?" I faltered.

"Half-past three," he said, turning his eyes away, as if he could not bear the sight of my face. I do not like to remember the dreadful moments that followed this: the misery that I put upon Richard by my pa.s.sionate, ungoverned grief. I threw myself upon the floor, I clung to his knees, I prayed him to delay the hour of going--another hour, another day. I said all the wild and frantic things that were in my heart, as he closed the library-door and led me to my room.

"Try to say your prayers, Pauline," was all he could answer me.

I did try to say them, as I knelt by the window, and saw in the dull, gray dawn, those two carriages drive slowly from the door.

Richard went away alone. Kilian indeed came down-stairs just as he was starting.

Sophie had awakened, and called him into her room for a few moments.

Then he came down, and I saw him get into the carriage alone, and motion the man to drive on, after that other--which stood waiting a few rods farther on.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A JOURNEY.

He, full of modesty and truth, Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought.

_Ta.s.so_.

Fresh grief can occupy itself With its own recent smart; It feeds itself on outward things, And not on its own heart.

_Faber_

A thing which surprises me very much in looking over those days of suffering, is, that during that day a frightful irritability is the emotion that I most remember--an irritability of feeling, not of expression: for I lay quite still upon the bed all day, and only answered, briefly and simply, the questions of Sophie and the maid.

I could not sleep: it was many hours since I had slept: but nothing seemed further from possibility than sleeping. The lightest sound enraged my nerves: the approach of any one made me frantic. I lay with my hands crushed together, and my teeth against each other, whenever Sophie entered the room.

She tried to be sympathetic and kind: but she was not much encouraged.

Toward afternoon, she left me a good deal alone. "I wonder how people feel when they are going mad," I said, getting up and putting cold water on my head. I was so engaged with the strange sensations that pursued me, that I did not dwell upon my trouble.

"Is this the way you feel when you are going to die? or what happens if you never go to sleep?" My body was so young and healthy, that it was making a good fight.

Just at dusk, Richard returned. In a little while, about half an hour, Sophie came and told me Richard would like to see me in her little dressing-room.

The day of panic and horror was over, and proprieties must begin their sway. I felt I hated Sophie for making me go out of my own room, but I pulled a shawl over my shoulders and followed her across the hall into her little room. There Richard was waiting for me. He gave me a chair, and then said, "You needn't wait, Sophie," and sat down beside me.

Sophie went away half angry, and Richard looked at me uneasily.

"I thought you'd want to see me," he said.

"Yes," I answered; "I wish you'd tell me everything," but in so commonplace a voice, I know that he was startled.

"You do not feel well, do you? Maybe we'd better not talk about it now."

"Oh, yes. You might as well tell me all to-night."

"Well, everything is done. The two persons to whom I telegraphed met me at the station. There was very little delay. I went with them to the cemetery."

"I am very glad of that. I thought perhaps you wouldn't go. Was there a clergyman, or don't they have a clergyman when--when--"

"There was a clergyman," said Richard, briefly.

"I hope you'll take me there some time," I said dreamily. "Should you know where to go--exactly?"

"Exactly," he answered. "But, Pauline, I am afraid you havn't rested at all to-day. Have you slept?"

"No; and I wish I could; my head feels so strangely--light, you know--and as if I couldn't think."

"Haven't you seen the Doctor?"

"No--and that's what I want to say. I _won't_ have the Doctor here; and I want you to take me home to-morrow morning, early, I have put a good many of my clothes into my trunk, and Bettina will help me with the rest to-night. Isn't there any train before the five o'clock?"

"No," said Richard, uneasily. "Pauline, I think you'd better not arrange to go away to-morrow."

"If you don't take me out of this house I shall go mad. I have been thinking about it all day, and I know I shall."

Richard was silent for a moment, then, with the wise instinct of affection, wonderful in man, and in a man who had had no experience in dealing with diseased or suffering minds, he acquiesced in my plan to go; told me that we would take the earliest train, and interested me in thoughts about my packing. About nine o'clock he came to my room-door, and I heard some one with him. It was the Doctor.

I turned upon Richard a fierce look, and said, very quietly, he might go away, for I would not see the Doctor. After that, they tried me with Sophie, but with less success; and, finally, Richard came back alone, with a gla.s.s in his hand.

"Take this, Pauline, it will make you sleep."

I wanted to sleep very much, so I took it.

Bettina had finished my packing, and had laid my travelling dress and hat upon a chair.

"Shall Bettina come and sleep on the floor, by your bed?" asked Richard, anxiously.

"No, I would not have her for the world."

"Maybe you might not wake in time," said Richard, warily.