_ CHAPTER XXVII
About the middle of October, Robert Dalton was taken ill. His disease seemed a kind of low fever, and in a short time he was completely prostrated. All the leisure I could possibly command I spent at his bedside, and many hours did I forego sleep that I might minister to his wants. The family with whom he boarded were very attentive, but I knew he was pleased with my attention, and exerted myself to spend as much time with him as possible. Several days passed away with little apparent change in his symptoms, but he grew extremely weak. His physician was of the opinion that he was tired out from long and close application to his business; but thought he would soon recover under the necessary treatment. One evening, when he had been about two weeks ill, I went as I had often done to sit by him for a portion of the night; after the family had all retired, I administered a quieting cordial left by the doctor, and shading the lamp that the light might not disturb him, I opened a book, thinking he would sleep. He lay very quiet, and I supposed him to be asleep, and was becoming interested in the volume before me when he softly called my name. I stepped quickly to his bedside, he took my hand saying, "sit down close to me Walter, I have something to say to you." I took a seat near him, and after a few moments' silence he said: "You may perhaps think I am nervous and fanciful, when I tell you I feel certain I shall never recover from this illness; the physician tells me I will soon be up again, but such will not be the case." Observing that I was much startled, he said, "Do not be alarmed Walter, but compose yourself and listen to me. My parents and one sister live at a distance of four hundred miles from here. I have deferred informing them of my illness, as my employer, who has much confidence in the skill of my physician, thought it unwise to alarm them needlessly, and I now fear that I have put it off too long, for I think I shall not live to see them. I intend in the morning requesting my employer to send a message for my father to hasten to me at once, but I fear it is too late." Much alarmed, I enquired if he felt himself growing worse, or if he wished me to summon his physician. He replied, "I feel no worse, but from the first I have had the impression that I should never recover; and should I not live to see any of my friends. I have one or two requests to make of you, knowing that you will attend to my wishes when I shall be no more." I became so much alarmed that I was on the point of calling some of the family; but he arrested me saying: "I am quite free from pain, and when I have finished my conversation with you shall probably sleep." He continued, "I know my father will hasten at once to me when apprised of my illness, but should I not live till he arrives, tell him I have endeavored to follow the counsels he gave me when I left home; for I know it will comfort him when I am gone to know that I respected his wishes. Tell him, also, he will find what money I have been able to save from my salary deposited in the Savings Bank. Tell him to remember me to my mother and sister Mary, and could I have been permitted to see them again it would have afforded me much happiness, but that I died trusting in the merits of my Redeemer, and hope to meet them all in Heaven, where parting will be no more." His writing-desk, which was a very beautiful and expensive article, he requested me to accept of as a token of affection from him. I promised faithfully to obey all his wishes should his sad forebodings prove true, yet I could not believe he was to die. At the close of our conversation he seemed fatigued, I arranged his pillows and gave him a cooling drink, and I was soon aware by his regular breathing that he slept soundly. As he lay there wrapped in repose my memory ran backward over all the happy time I had spent with him; he was the only one outside of Mr. Baynard's family with whom I was at all intimate, and the bitter tears which I could not repress, as I gazed upon his changed features, made me sensible how dear he had become to me. A hasty letter was written next morning to Mr. Dalton, informing him of his son's illness, and of his urgent request that he should hasten to him as soon as possible; but poor Robert lived not to see his father again. The next day after the letter was written a sudden change for the worse took place in his disease, and it soon became evident that he could live but a few hours. He expressed a wish that I should remain with him to the last, and before another morning dawned Robert Dalton had passed from among the living. A short time before his death, his eyes sought my face, and his lips moved as though he wished to speak to me; I bowed my ear to catch his words, as he said in a voice which was audible to me only: "When my father arrives remember all I said to you, and tell him I died happy, feeling that all will be well with me." After this he spoke no more, and an hour later he died with my hand clasped in his own. When, two days after, his father arrived, and found that he was indeed dead, his grief was heart-rending to witness. Never before did I see such an agony of grief as was depicted upon his countenance as he bowed himself over the lifeless body of his only son. As soon as circumstances permitted, I repeated to Mr. Dalton the conversation Robert had held with me a short time before his death. Among other things I gave him his watch which he had entrusted to my care. He pressed me to keep the watch, saying, "From the frequent mention my son made of you in his letters, I almost feel that I know you well, and knowing the strong friendship he entertained for you, I beg of you to accept of his watch for his sake as well as mine, and should we never meet again, bear in mind that I shall ever remember you with gratitude and affection." It was a small but elegant gold watch which to Robert had been a birthday gift from an uncle who was very fond of him, and to this day it is to me a valued keepsake.
When Mr. Dalton left the city, bearing with him the lifeless remains of his son, for interment in the family burial-place, a deep gloom settled over my mind, and for a long time, I could hardly rouse myself to give the necessary attention to my daily duties. Since that period I have made other friends and passed through many changing scenes, both of joy and sorrow; but I have never forgotten Robert Dalton, and his image often rises to my mental vision, as memory recalls the scenes and friends of my youthful days. _