THE TURN OF THE TIDE

Lights in a country house at night are often the signal of birth or death, sometimes of both.  The old red house threw its beacon from almost every window that night, and seemed mutely to defy the onslaught of enveloping darkness, whether Plutonic or Stygian.  Time was when Parson Thayer’s library lamp burned nightly into the little hours, and through the uncurtained windows the churchyard ghosts, had they wandered that way, could have seen his long thin form, wrapped in a paisley cloth dressing-gown, sitting in the glow.  He would have been reading some old leather-bound volume, and would have remained for hours almost as quiet and noiseless as the ghosts themselves.  Now he had stepped across his threshold and joined them, and new spirits had come to burn the light in the old red house.

Agatha, half-dressed, had slept, and woke feeling that the night must be far advanced.  The house was very still, with no sound or echo of the incoherent tones which, for now many days, had come from the room down the hall.  She lit a candle, and the sputtering match seemed to fill the house with noise.  Her clock indicated a little past midnight.  It was only twenty minutes since she had lain down, but she was wide awake and refreshed.  While she was pinning up her hair in a big mass on the top of her head, she heard in the hall slow, steady steps, firm but not heavy, even as in daytime.  Susan Stoddard did not tiptoe.

Agatha was at the door before she could knock.

“You had better come for a few minutes,” Mrs. Stoddard said.  The tones were, in themselves, an adjuration to faith and fortitude.

“Yes, I will come,” said Agatha.  They walked together down the dimly lighted hall, each woman, in her own way, proving how strong and efficient is the discipline of self-control.

In the sick-room a screen shaded the light from the bed, which had been pulled out almost into the middle of the room.  Near the bed was a table with bottles, glasses, a covered pitcher, and on the floor an oxygen tank.  Doctor Thayer’s massive figure was in the shadow close to the bed, and Aleck Van Camp leaned over the curved footboard.  James lay on his pillow, a ghost of a man, still as death itself.  As Agatha grew accustomed to the light, she saw that his eyes were closed, the lips under the ragged beard were drawn and slightly parted; his forehead was the pallid forehead of death-in-life.  Neither the doctor nor Aleck moved or turned their gaze from the bed as Agatha and Mrs. Stoddard entered.  The air was still, and the profound silence without was as a mighty reservoir for the silence within.

Agatha stood by the footboard beside Aleck, while Mrs. Stoddard, getting a warm freestone from the invisible Mr. Hand in the hall, placed it beneath the bedclothes.  Aleck Van Camp dropped his head, covering his face with his hands.  Agatha, watching, by and by saw a change come over the sick man’s face.  She held her breath, it seemed, for untold minutes, while Doctor Thayer reached his hand to the patient’s heart and leaned over to observe more closely his face.