Broughton_Goodbye_Sweetheart.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']

looks at the deep torrent courses
that furrow their sides, and at the straight, dark pines,
which the winter strips not, and to whom lavish ,
with her gentian- wreath, and her lap full of flowered
grasses, brings no embellishment ; looks at them all, with-
out seeing them. he comes back to the couch-side,
and says

" will go."

" think he will not come ? " she says, looking wist-
fully at him. " see it in your face, but know better ; if
you had seen him at , you would have thought dif-
ferently. " (with a little, shining smile), "he will
come ! "



432 "-, !"

" is no doubt of it," he replies, quietly.

" if he is married he will come," she says, still
smiling ; " his wife will spare him for those few days, and,
if she hesitates, you may tell her that, whatever was
once, am not a person to be jealous of now."

.

" will set off to-morrow morning, early" she says,
feverishly. " am afraid it is too late to-day. know
his address ? , yes, of course ; you have been there ? "

" ."

" you will certainly bring him certainly f "

"."

closes her eyes with a long sigh of relief. lies
so still that he is uncertain whether she sleeps ; but, after
a time, she opens them again.

" wonder why wish so much to see him again,"
she says, slowly, " when he does not wish to see me ; you
think it is love. , it is not. one is as sick as
am, one is past love ; only all the night through his face
vexes me. am worried with it ; it never leaves me ;
torment myself trying to recall every line of it. must
see whether have remembered it right ; it has been with
me every moment in this world. must take it, distinct
and clear, with me into the next."



. 433



.

" for a bridal-bed;
for a matron's head ;
for a maiden dead."

.

is gone. early to-day he set off. stood
by him on the steps, in the cool of the young and shining
morning, as he prepared to step into the carriage which
was to take him up and down the long, steep mountain-
passes to .

" her till come back," he said, wringing my
hand with unknowing violence. " come back to find
her gone, shall never forgive you never. ! "

" can promise ? " said, sorrowfully. "
life and death in my hand ? can hinder her
going ? "

he is gone, and we are waiting waiting with
strained ears and hot eyes to see which will win the race
to 's side, or . herself fights with
all her strength alas, how little ! with a strength not
her own on 's side. refuses to die. more
than a week past she has turned with loathing from every
species of nourishment ; now she demands it greedily.
will not speak will not utter a word for fear of wast-
ing the little breath that remains to her. are very
kind ; every hour of the day solicitous faces meet us on the
landing-place, with pitying gestures and expressions of
sympathy. in the hotel tread softly, and scold their
children when they hear them whooping and noisily tum-
bling, with the utter unfeelingness of childhood, down the
slight stairs, and along the thin-walled passages.
19



434 "-, !"



now all the days between 's going and his
expected back-coming have rolled away. he went,
we calculated accurately together distances and times ; this
is the day on which he engaged to return. is still
here still fighting disputing her life, inch by inch, hand
to hand, with the all-victor.

" will come to-day," she has said, speaking for the
first time for many hours speaking confidently. " is
my lucky day ; something tells me so."

have drawn the scant window-curtain, and thrown
wide the window, and looked out on the unutterable maj-
esty of the morning hills.

" will not die to-day ! " she says, clinching her feeble
hand. " have some life left in me yet more than you
think. would be too cruel to go before he came ; he
would be so disappointed." turn and gaze mournfully at
her. voice is stronger, and the inward excitement of
her soul has sent a last little flame of color to her cheeks.
" us be ready for him," she says, with a tender smile.
" away all those physic-bottles every thing that looks
like sickness. the room pretty ; gather plenty of
flowers."

obey her. about the room, following her di-
rections, place the gay, sweet flowers. wonderful,
lovely flowers ! whence do you steal your tender strains?
it from the brown earth or the colorless wind ?
on, as the day draws toward noon, she expresses a wish to
be dressed. remonstrate gently, fearing the exhaustion
consequent on so unwonted an exertion ; but she is reso-
lute.

" shall wish so few things any more," she says, simply
and pleadingly ; " you may as well let me have my way."
tearfully consent. " old blue gown," she says,



. 435

with an eager smile ; " will find it among my things.
is the only one among my clothes that he ever praised.
never was one to notice clothes, but he liked that.
the last time saw him he was talking of it."

, with many pauses, slowly and mournfully, with
sorrowful faces, as if we were already dressing her for her
grave, we dress her in the old blue gown. ! it is
pitifully large for her. she is not yet satisfied.
spite of pain, in spite of utter prostration, she must also
have her hair dressed her long, bright hair the one
thing that remains to her.

" it round and round my head," she says, looking
with feverish entreaty into my sad face. " great
pains. no frisettes nothing artificial ; he does not
like it ; but yet let it be becoming."

! at such a time ! ! look
at her, and a half doubt enters my mind that have been
allotting her too short a space of further life. voice
sounds certainly stronger, and there is a ray of living ani-
mation in her great, sunken eyes. evening she
grows very restless, and hear her murmur to herself,
" must make haste make haste. road is long and
steep so many sharp turns and twists. hope the horses
are sure-footed. it is only for once / he might make
haste." is as one running a' hard race that is nearing
the goal, but hears his rival's feet close upon his track, and
strains every tense nerve in the effort and agony of attain-
ment. she attain her goal ? is the question that, as
day droops into night, makes us all ever more and more
breathless. speaks little with her faint lips, but with
her hunted, piteous eyes she entreats us to keep her.
cannot bear those eyes.

light is gone, and the candles are lit. " me
read to you a little," say, softly, in a tear-strangled
voice.



436 "-, !"

" ," she answers ; " yes ; if you will if you like."

she is not listening. sit down with the
upon my knees. can hardly see the page for tears.
scarcely know where turn. begin at the words of god-
like consolation that fit any grief ; that come never amiss :
" unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden."
open the fount of my own sorrow, that requires but
a touch to unclose it. " you listening ? " ask, gently,
trying to scan her face across the candle's feeble flame.

" ," she answers, with a sort of hurry ; " yes to be
sure am listening ! but read lower ; one cannot hear
any little noise outside when you read so loud."

, lay down the book, and walking to the win-
dow look out look out at the little quarter moon, and the
travelling stars the sky, that speaks of deep and unutter-
able quietness the dark mountain-bulks, with flashes of
silver on their giant flanks the narrow street, with the
lights from the hotel playing on the little houses opposite
the small, white cross gleaming in the moonlight the
solitary pacer down the tongueless street the solemn
glacier-river that saith nothing light, but singeth ever the
plain, hoarse song.

" all shall have to go ! " she says, with a low
wail. " cannot wait cannot. ! you might
have hurried ! "

here thrust my head as far out of the window as it
will go. am listening. first, nothing but the river
nothing ! river ! hate you ; be silent for once.
a little noise mixes with it so small and uncertain that
one cannot positively say at first that it is not a part of the
stream's roar; then it separates itself grows distinct
nears. turn to the bed, with an unspeakable weight
lifted from my heart. " is coming ! " say, with a
smile ; but already she has heard. expect my ears



. 437

to be keener than hers ? in death she looks very
joyful. the carriage noisily rolls up toward the hotel,
turn with the intention of going down to meet the travel-
lers ; but she stops me.

"!" she says, stretching out her hand eagerly.
" not go ! forbid you ! will have the first look ! "

we remain in absolute silence for two enormous
minutes; then the sound of a step running quickly and
lightly up the stairs a step surely there is only one !
door opens, and enters, haggard, travel-
stained, and alone. does not even look at him ; her
eyes are staring, with an awful, eager intentness, at the
door behind him ; but no one follows, nor does he leave it
open, as if expecting to be followed. the contrary, he
closes it behind him.

" ! " say, running up to him, half out of
my wits with excitement, " what is this ? have come
without him. have not brought him ! "

does not answer.

me aside, he goes hastily to the couch, kneels
down beside it, taking her gently in his arms, and says,
in a hoarse voice :

" darling, have broken my promise but could
not help it it was not my fault. he ;has not come,
because because it was his wedding-day when got there.
beloved, speak to me ! you forgive me you are
not going without one word speak speak ! "

will never speak to him any more : her head
has sunk back, with all its pretty, careful plaits, on his
shoulder has

" through the straight and dreadful pass of death."