66. CHAPTER LXVI.
THE LAST HALLUCINATION OF ST. JOHN.
For more than two weeks, Mr. St. John remained thus
prostrated in body and mind, by the burning delirium
which had seized upon him.
The strong nature had been too heavily taxed—the vigorous
mind had succumbed beneath the vast pressure of
the weight of grief and agony—completely prostrated now,
the young man was but the wreck of himself—and, from
the delirious ravings which shook his thin frame, seemed to
be possessed by but one absorbing thought—his love.
He would ramble on thus for hours, his memory returning
to all the happy scenes of the past: and looking at
times into the face of Tom Alston, who scarcely ever left
his side, he would speak of her with an accent of such
tenderness, that the honest fellow had to turn away his
head to hide the tears in his eyes.
Mr. Alston had found that one of the most soothing
medicines, so to speak, consisted in holding before his
friend's eyes the picture resembling Bonnybel;—and in
order that the sick man might have the full benefit of the
painting, its position had been changed to the wall in front
of the foot of the bed.
The young man did not seem to associate with the girl
thus brought to his mind, a single event of a sorrowful
nature. It was the Bonnybel of the happy past which he
gazed at with pensive pleasure; and he would lie thus
for hours, gazing in silence at the picture, or speaking to
it.
At last the crisis of his malady came, and seated at the
side of the bed, Tom Alston and the old physician followed
every indication of the disease. Life and death seemed to
wrestle over the young man's body—but life conquered.
From the brink of the grave he returned to life, and with
every hour now, to his friends' inexpressible delight, he
grew better.
One morning Mr. Alston had taken advantage of the
favorable condition of his friend, to go and get some sleep.
He had nearly broken himself down, this honest fop, by
those vigils at the bedside of his friend night after night;
and yielding at last to the doctor's expostulations, he went
to the Raleigh and slept.
St. John sank into a gentle slumber soon after his
friend's departure; and he had a happy dream, he thought.
It seemed to him that he was awake and gazing at the
picture resembling Bonnybel, when the door opened noiselessly,
a light footfall rustled on the carpet, and the figure
on the wall, as he continued to gaze, slowly became living,
advanced from its frame, and stood at the foot of the bed,
looking at him.
A change, however, seemed to have taken place in the
features. The picture was happy and smiling, while the
figure of his imagination gazed at him with inexpressible
sadness, sobbing and permitting large tears to escape unheeded,
as the eyes continued to survey him.
Then as though to perfect the vision, another figure
advanced to the side of the first; and the young man recognized
the sad face of Helen, weeping like the image of
her sister.
The figures stood thus for some moments, motionless and
silent, except for the low sobs; and then slowly separating,
right and left, they came to the side of his bed.
The figure of Bonnybel sank into a chair, and the head
drooped until it rested upon the bed. Her companion
also sank down, and for some minutes he seemed to hear
low sobs, of inexpressible sorrow, dying away one after
another in the silence.
He tried to move and speak, and bid the vision not sob
so; but he could not. An influence, gentle and yet all
powerful, seemed to paralyze his limbs.
Then the figure of Bonnybel slowly raised its head, and
he saw that the eyes were red with weeping; and turning
his head, he perceived that the other image wept also.
As he looked, he felt a soft warm hand encircle his wrist,
a tear fell upon it; and this was followed by a kiss which
the figure Bonnybel pressed upon his thin, pale hand.
He tried again to move, but could not.
And then he saw the figures rise, stand for an instant
gazing at him with grief too deep for words; and then
they seemed slowly to disappear, and the picture on the
wall smiled as before.
From that time he grew rapidly better—the disease
retreated, and the color began to return to his cheek.
Life again infused itself like a subtle liquid into all the
cells of his being, and his eyes every hour grew clearer.
At last he rose, and as before, at “Flower of Hundreds,”
lay beneath the window inhaling the fresh breeze
and basking in the sunshine; and finally, Tom Alston,
with the doctor's permission, drove him out. On the
next morning, after a sound sleep, the young man was
well.
Nothing remained of his illness but a slight paleness
and a settled melancholy. The old physician could cure
the body, but he could not minister to the mind diseased.
Mr. St. John was entirely uncomplaining now—he was
also entirely hopeless.
