John Effingham was such a man;
but he felt all the peculiarity of his situation as he sat alone in the
state-room by the side of Mr. Monday, listening to the washing of the
waters that the ship shoved aside, and to the unquiet breathing of his
patient. Several times he felt a disposition to steal away for a few
minutes, and to refresh himself by exercise in the pure air of the ocean;
but as often was the inclination checked by jealous glances from the
glazed eye of the dying man, who appeared to cherish his presence as his
own last hope of life. When John Effingham wetted the feverish lips, the
look he received spoke of gratitude and thanks, and once or twice these
feelings were audible in whispers. He could not desert a being so
helpless, so dependent; and, although conscious that he was of no
material service beyond sustaining his patient by his presence, he felt
that this was sufficient to exact much heavier sacrifices.
During one of the troubled slumbers of the dying man, his attendant sat
watching the struggles of his countenance, which seemed to betray the
workings of the soul that was about to quit its tenement, and he mused on
the character and fate of the being whose departure for the world of
spirits he himself was so singularly called on to witness!
"Of his origin I know nothing," thought John Effingham, "except by his own
passing declarations, and the evident fact that, as regards station, it
can scarcely have reached mediocrity.
Pages:
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636