“There is no harm done,” he said; “it could not have stood had he succeeded; nobody could have said his mind was in a fit state. Don’t take it away, but wait and have patience. After this he may mend, most likely he will mend.”
“Papa,” cried Lucy, close to his ear, “do you hear that? You are not to mind, you will still be able to do it. Do you hear, papa?”
The old man made no response. Another groan, the very utterance of despair, broke from him. His eyes closed, his bony fingers fell on the coverlet, a collection of contracted joints, helpless as they had been before. He made a half fling of intended movement, without strength to carry his intention out. What he wanted was evidently to turn his head from the light, to turn the countenance to the wall; what image is there which speaks more eloquently of that despair which is moral death? The spectators stood by mournfully, with but half a sense of the full tragic meaning of the scene, yet vaguely impressed by it, feeling something of the horrible sense of failure, tragical, yet stupefying, which invaded all the half-awakened faculties of the chief sufferer. Even now they were but half aware of it, Lucy looking on with infinite pity and awe, struggling to assure the half deafened ear that it did not matter, that all would be well, while the Fords quickened by self-interest, realized with a dull dismay the loss, the misfortune, which would affect themselves. But the real tragedy remained concentrated in that worn-out old body and imprisoned soul. How much of his life was in those elaborate plans and settlements and he had failed at the last moment to give them the necessary warrant. The old man closed his eyes, and, so far as his will went, flung himself away from the light, turned his face to the wall, yet could not do even that, in the prostration of all his powers.
“If he can sleep, he may wake--himself,” the doctor said doubtfully. It was just as likely he might not wake at all. But the light was carefully shaded, and the nurse, who had no anxiety to disturb her, and the calm of professional serenity to keep her composed, took the place of the other watchers. The doctor, who was interested in an unusual “case,” and who was a young man, as yet without much practice, offered to Ford, who was excited and worn out, to remain, that there might be help at hand, and a professional guarantee in case of any new incident; and this being settled, sent all the other watchers to rest. Lucy, though she would fain have stayed with her father, fell asleep--how could she help it? after so many broken nights--the moment her young head touched the pillow. The Fords were more wakeful, and retired, more to consult together than to sleep, talking in whispers, though nothing they could have said on the upper floor could have reached the sick-room, and full of alarm and trouble as to the consequences of the future. Mrs. Ford, for her part, employed this moment of relief chiefly in crying and mourning over “their luck,” which no doubt would be enough to secure that the old man should die without signing the charter of their privileges. But even the whispering and weeping came to an end at last, and all was still in the house, where the doctor occupied the forsaken drawing-room, so bare and chilly, and the nurse watched in the silent chamber, and old Trevor lay between life and death.