The Forlorn Hope: A Novel (Vol. 2 of 2)Yates, Edmund
General
The Forlorn Hope: A Novel (Vol. 2 of 2)
Yates, Edmund
Fiction
and an interval of despair would set in. But whether his mood was hope
or despair, an effort to attain resignation, or a mere stupor of fear
and grief, Wilmot had to witness, Wilmot had to combat them all. The
old man clung to the doctor with piteous eagerness and tenacity on his
way to begin the watch over his patient which he maintained daily for
hours, as he had done in the old time at Kilsyth--time in reality so
lately past, but seeming like an entire lifetime ago. When he left her
to take the short and troubled sleep which fell upon her in the
afternoon; in the evening, when he came again; at night, after he had
administered the medicine which was to procure her a temporary
reprieve from the cough, which her father could no longer endure to
hear, Kilsyth would waylay him, beset him with questions, with
entreaties--or, worse still, look speechless into his face with
imploring haggard eyes.
This to the man for whom the young life ebbing away, with terrific
rapidity indeed, but with merciful ease on the whole, was the one
treasure held by the earth, so rich for others, such a wilderness for
him! Yes--her life! When he knew she was married, and thus parted from
him for ever, he had thought the worst that could have come to him had
come. But from the moment he had looked again into the innocent sweet
blue eyes, and read, with the unerring glance of the practised
physician, that death was looking out at him from them, he learned his
error. Then too he learned how much, and with what manner of love, he
loved Madeleine Kilsyth.
"Give her life, and not death, O gracious Disposer of both! and I am
satisfied--and I am happy! Life, though I never see her face again;
life, though she never hears my name spoken, or remembers me in her
lightest thought; life, though it be to bless her husband, and to
transmit her name to his children; life, though mine be wasted at the
ends of the earth!" This was the cry of his soul, the utterance of the
strong man's anguish. But he knew it was not to be; the physician's
eye had been unerring indeed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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