And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, upon the partner of his poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune, the world was closing fast. There was little pain, little uneasiness, but there was no rallying, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and wasted to the last degree; his voice had sunk so low, that he could scarce be heard to speak. Nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to die.
On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: when the soft sweet air crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not a sound was heard but the gentle rustling of the leaves: Nicholas sat in his old place by the bedside, and knew that the time was nearly come. So very still it was, that, every now and then, he bent down his ear to listen for the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to assure himself that life was still there, and that he had not fallen into that deep slumber from which on earth there is no waking.
While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale face there came a placid smile.
`That's well!' said Nicholas. `The sleep has done you good.'
`I have had such pleasant dreams,' was the answer. `Such pleasant, happy dreams!'
`Of what?' said Nicholas.
The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm about his neck, made answer, `I shall soon be there!'
After a short silence, he spoke again.
`I am not afraid to die,' he said. `I am quite contented. I almost think that if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wish to do so, now. You have so often told me we shall meet again--so very often lately, and now I feel the truth of that so strongly--that I can even bear to part from you.'
The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of the arm which accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled the speaker's heart; nor were there wanting indications of how deeply they had touched the heart of him to whom they were addressed.
`You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, `and comfort me very much, dear fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if you can.'
`I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret from you.
You would not blame me, at a time like this, I know.'
` I blame you!' exclaimed Nicholas.
`I am sure you would not. You asked me why I was so changed, and--and sat so much alone. Shall I tell you why?'
`Not if it pains you,' said Nicholas. `I only asked that I might make you happier, if I could.'
`I know--I felt that, at the time.' He drew his friend closer to him.
`You will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I would have died to make her happy, it broke my heart to see--I know he loves her dearly--Oh!
who could find that out so soon as I?'
The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken by long pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time, that the dying boy, with all the ardour of a nature concentrated on one absorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate.
He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, folded in one or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when he was dead, Nicholas would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it, and that when he was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in the earth, he would hang it round his neck again, that it might rest with him in the grave.
Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that he should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed each other on the cheek.
`Now,' he murmured, `I am happy.'
He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were filled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light upon their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden--and so died.