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18. Heart Struggles
- University of Nebraska Press
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147 ch a p ter eigh teen Heart Struggles As Philip Armstrong grew calmer, he despised himself for the harshness and cruelty of his words to Grace, though he could not clearly remember all he had said. He resolved to see her, and to do all in his power to atone for it; and, with vague plans for sending her far away, where her pale, suffering face should haunt him no longer, supplying her bodily wants, as if money could bind up the broken heart, he wended his way to her cottage -home on the following morning. He found the old ladies in great anxiety about her, as she had not been at home during the night. A vague foreboding, too horrible to be put into words, rushed over the young man. The village was aroused, and ere long the lifeless corpse of Grace Minor lay in the little parlor, where first she had listened to the voice of him who had wrought her ruin. Who could read the agony, the remorse that filled Philip’s heart, as he stood by her side, apparently calm, looking at that girlish face so bright and cheerful when he had first known her. What would he not have given to restore her to life? To recall those last interviews with her? How her last sad words haunted him. He felt that he Christine 148 was her murderer—and Christine, too, lay ill. He had killed her, too; no wonder that he looked haggard and wan. He shut himself up in his room, only going every few hours to learn how Christine was, for he could bear suspense no longer. “She was better, though still suffering,” her aunt said. He felt a thrill of joy at these words. Her blood, at least, was not on his hands. How he longed to see her, if but for a moment, to tell her he should never cease to love her, though she was lost to him forever. The toll of a bell struck heavily on his ear. All that was earthly of Grace Minor was on its way to the churchyard. It was as if every stroke fell on his heart. It roused Christine from an uneasy sleep. She started up, and asked her attendant, eagerly, who was dead? The girl related all, the search for the poor Grace, and the finding of her dead body. Christine listened to the tale with wild, flashing eyes, and parted lips—her curtain blew aside, and she saw the black procession slowly winding by. She uttered one deep groan and fainted. Swoon succeeded swoon, and when, at length, she recovered from these she was in the wildest delirium. For weeks her life hung as upon a thread, while she was unconscious of all about her. When, at last, she opened her languid eyes, no longer sparkling with the brightness of fever, and spoke a few words feebly, which showed that she was herself once more, her friend, Mrs. Warner, who sat by her side, could restrain herself no longer; she burst into glad tears that fell on the thin hand that rested on the white counterpane. Christine looked bewildered. “Where am I? Do not weep. What has happened?” she said, feebly, with a vague remembrance of something painful. [3.15.143.181] Project MUSE (2024-04-17 16:13 GMT) Christine 149 Mrs. Warner recollected herself, wiped away her tears, and telling her that she had been very sick, lifted her gently, shook up her pillow, and bade her compose herself to sleep. But she could not sleep; it wearied her; yet she must think; what had happened? Gradually it all came back to her. “Philip?” she whispered, inquiringly. “Well,” returned Mrs. Warner; “and here every few hours to ask for you. He sent you these flowers,” she added, lifting a vase that was filled with the choicest blossoms. “Would you like them nearer?” “No,” replied Christine, faintly; “but tell him I thank him, and I am better.” Mrs. Warner faithfully delivered this message, and marked the flash of joy that irradiated his countenance. “She is an angel,” he said, and in his heart arose the hope, that had well-nigh died out, of a reconciliation. Slowly Christine regained her strength, and, at last, she could sit up for some hours at her window; she had steadily refused to see Philip, though he had begged her to do so in eloquent notes, again and again. “I cannot yet,” had...