GOING HOME.
The room lay in deep shadow, the lamp having been moved behind the
screen. On its handsome bracket the Louis-Quatorze ormolu clock ticked
solemnly away, registering the death of each minute audibly, and
indefinably forcing itself upon the attention of those sitting by, in
connexion with the rapidly-closing earthly career of the sufferer on
the bed. She lay there, having again fallen into deep heavy slumber,
broken occasionally by a fitful cry, a moan of anguish, then relapsing
once more into stertorous breathing and seemingly placid rest. In a
large arm-chair close by the head of the bed sat Robert Simnel, his
eyes tear-blurred, his cheeks swollen and flushed, his lips
compressed, his hands stretched straight out before him and rigidly
knit together over his knee. This was the end of it, then; the result
of all his hopes and fears, his toiling and his scheming. Just as the
prize was in his grasp, it melted into thin air. Bitter, frightfully
bitter, as were his reflections at that moment, they were tinged with
very little thought of self. Grief, unspeakable grief, plucked at his
heartstrings as he looked upon the mangled wreck of the only thing he
had ever really cherished in the course of his busy life. There lay
the beautiful form which he had seen, so round and plump, swaying from
side to side in graceful inflections, wit every movement of her horse,
now crushed out of shape and swathed with bandages and splints. The
fair hair, which he recollected tightly knotted under the comely hat,
lay floating over the pillow dank with death-dew; the strong white
hands, against the retaining grasp of which the fieriest horses had
pulled and plunged in vain, lay helpless on the coverlet, cut and
scored by the gravel, and without an infant's power in them. A fresh
burst of tears clouded Robert Simnel's eyes as he looked on this sad
sight; and his heart sunk within him as he felt that his one chance in
life, his one chance of love and peace and happiness, was rapidly
vanishing before him. Then the expression of his face changed, his
eyes flashed, he set his teeth, and drove his nails into the palms
of his hands; for in listening to poor Kate's incoherent exclamations
and broken phrases, Simnel had gathered sufficient to give him
reason to suspect that she had met Beresford, and that he had
somehow or other,--whether intentionally or not, Simnel could not make
out,--been connected with, if not the primary cause of, the accident.
And then Simnel's chest heaved, and his breath came thick, and he
inwardly swore that he would be revenged on this man, who, to the
last, had proved himself the evil genius of her who once so fondly
loved him.
When Barbara and Frank entered the room together, Simnel looked up,
and the bad expression faded out of his face. He, in common with the
rest of the world, had heard some garbled story of the separation, and
he saw at a glance that poor Kitty's accident had been the means of
throwing them together again, and of effecting a reconciliation. What
he had just heard from the girl's month of Churchill had inspired in
him a sense of gratitude and regard; and as he noticed Barbara
clinging closely to her husband's arm, as she threw a half-frightened
glance towards the bed, he felt himself dimly acknowledging the
mysterious workings of that Providence, which, in its own good time,
brings all things to their appointed end.
Frank and Barbara, after casting a hurried look at the bed, had seated
themselves on the other side; the nurse, tired out with watching, had
drawn her large chair close to the fire and fallen into that horrible
state of nodding and catching herself up again, of struggling with
sleep, then succumbing, then diving forward with a nod and pulling
herself rigid in an instant--a state so common in extra-fatigue; and
Simnel had dropped into his old desolate attitude. So they sat, no one
speaking. Ah, the misery of that watching in a sick-room! the solemn
silence scarcely broken by the ticking of the clock, the crackling of
the fire, the occasional dropping of the coals, the smothered hum of
wheels outside; the horrible thoughts that at such times get the
mastery of the mind and riot in full sway,--thoughts of the sick
person there being watched, doubts as to the chances of their
recovery, wonderings as to whether they themselves are conscious of
their danger, as to whether they are what is commonly called
"prepared" to die. Then a dreamy state, in which we begin to wonder
when we shall be in similar extreme plight; and where? Shall we have
had time for the realisation of those schemes which now so much occupy
us, or shall we be cut off suddenly? Shall we outlive Tom and Dick and
Harry, who are now our intimates; or will they eat cake and wine
before they step into the mourning-coach, and canvass our character,
and be tenderly garrulous on our foibles? Shall we be able to bear it
calmly and bravely when the doctor makes that dread announcement, and
tells us that if we have any earthly affairs to settle, it were best
to do it at once; for it is impossible to deny that there is a certain
amount of danger, &c. &c. And the boys, with life before them, and no
helping, guiding hand to point out the proper path? Ah, Tom and Dick
and Harry, our old friends, boon-companions, trusted intimates, they
surely would have the heart to look after the children? And the wife,
dearest helpmate, true in all her wifely duties, but ah how unfitted
to combat with the world, to have the responsibilities of the
household to bear alone? And then the end itself!--the Shadow-cloaked
from head to foot! the great hereafter! "Behold, we know not any
thing!" Happy are we to arouse from that dismal reverie at the sound
of the wheels of the doctor's carriage, and gaze into his eyes,
trusting there to read a growing hope.
The reflections of the four persons assembled round poor Kate Mellon's
sick-bed were not entirely of this kind. The minds of Frank and
Barbara were naturally full of all that had just occurred, in which
they were most interested; full of thoughts of past storms and future
happiness--full of such pleasurable emotions, that the actual scene
before them had but a minor influence. Simnel was pondering over his
shattered idol and his dreams of vengeance; while the nurse, when for
a few seconds' interval between her naps she roused herself
sufficiently to think at all, was full of a cheering consciousness of
earning eighteenpence a-day more in her present place than in one in
which she had been previously. And then came the sound of the wheels
and the smothered knock, and then the gentle opening of the door, and
Mr. Slade's pleasant presence in the room.
He approached the bed, and surveyed the sleeper; crossed the room with
the softest footsteps, and asked a few whispered questions of the
nurse; then turned quietly back, and seated himself by Frank and
Barbara.
"How do you find her?" asked the latter.
Mr. Slade simply shook his head, without making any verbal reply.
"The nurse summoned us hurriedly about half-an-hour ago," whispered
Churchill; "but when we came in, we found her in the state in which
you now see her; she has not moved since, scarcely."
"Poor child! poor child!" said Mr. Slade, plying his
pocket-handkerchief very vigorously; "she'll not move much more."
"Is she--is she very bad to-night?" asked Barbara.
"Yes, my dear," said the old gentleman, taking a large pinch of snuff
to correct his emotion; "yes, my dear, she is very bad, as you would
say. There is a worn pinched look in her face which is unmistakable.
She is going home rapidly, poor girl!"
The sense of the last observation, though he had not heard the words,
seemed to have reached Mr. Simnel's ears, for he rose hurriedly, and
crossing to Mr. Slade, took him by the arm and led him on one side.
"Did you say she was dying?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, when they
had moved some distance from the rest.
"I did not say so, though I implied it," said the old man; then
peering at him from under his spectacles, "May I ask are you any
relation of the lady's?"
"No, no relation; only I--I was going to be married to her, that was
all." He said these words in a strange hard dry voice; and Mr. Slade
felt him clutch his wrist tight as he went on to say, "Is there no
position; but still in some cases, a second opinion--if there is any
thing that money can do--"
"My dear sir," said Mr. Slade "I understand perfectly what you mean;
and God knows if there were any thing to be done, I wouldn't stand in
the way; but in this case, if you had the whole College of Surgeons
before you, and the gold-fields of Australia at your back, there could
be but one result."
Mr. Simnel bowed his head, while one great shiver ran through his
frame. Then he looked up and said, "And when?"
"Immediately--to-night; in two or three hours at most. She will
probably rouse from this lethargy, have some moments of consciousness,
and then--"
"And then?"
Mr. Slade made no direct answer, but he shrugged his shoulders and
turned on his heel. Silently he shook hands with Barbara and
Churchill, then with Simnel, placing one hand on his shoulder, and
gripping him tightly with the other; then he walked to the bed, and
bent over it, peering into poor Kitty's puckered face, while two large
tears fell on the coverlet. Then he stooped and lightly kissed the
hand which lay outstretched, and then hurried noiselessly from the
room. Mr. Slade saw several patients that night before going to a
scientific _conversazione_ at the Hanover-Square Rooms--a noble lord,
who had softening of the brain, and who passed his days in a big
arm-chair, and made a moaning noise, and wept when turned away from
the fire; a distinguished commoner, who had given way to brandy, and
was raving in delirium; and a young gentleman, who, in attempting to
jump the mess-room table after dinner, had slipped, and sustained a
compound fracture of his leg. But at each of these visits he was
haunted by the pallid tortured face of the dying girl. At the
_conversazione_ it got between the microscope and a most delicious
preparation; and was by his side as he drew on his nightcap and
prepared for his hard-earned slumbers.
Slowly, slowly wore away the night: Simnel still sat rigid and erect;
but the nurse was sound asleep, and Barbara's head had drooped upon
Frank's shoulder, when suddenly the room rang with a shrill startling
cry. In an instant all rushed to the bedside. There lay Kate awake,
but still under the influence of some dreadful dream.
"Keep him off! keep him off!" she cried. "It's unfair, it's cowardly,
Charley! I'm a woman and you hit so hard! Oh, Robert," she exclaimed,
vainly endeavouring to drag herself towards Simnel, "you'll keep him
off! you'll defend me!"
"There's no one there, Kate," said Simnel, dropping on his knees by
the bedside, and taking her hand; "there's no one to hurt you, my
child."
"I was dreaming then," said Kate; "oh, such a horrid dream! I thought
I---- Who are these?" she exclaimed, looking at Barbara and Frank.
"I'm scarcely awake yet, I think. Why, it's Guardy, of course! and
you, dear, who were so kind to me. But how are you here together? I
can't make that out."
"This is my wife, Kate," said Churchill; "my wife, of whom you were
speaking this evening."
"Your wife! ah, I'm so glad; I never thought of that; I never thought
of asking her who she was; I only knew she was, oh, so kind and so
affectionate with me; and it was because she was your wife, eh? Will
you kiss me again, dear? So; and again! What a sweet soft face it is!
Ah, he's been so good to me dear, this husband of yours; and I've
given him such trouble for so many years. So grave and so steady he's
always been, that I've looked upon him as quite an old fellow, and
never thought of his marrying. I--I'm much weaker to-night, I think;
the pain seems to have left my side; but I feel so weak, as though I
couldn't raise a finger. You're there Robert?"
"Yes, dear."
"Ay, I feel your hand-grip now! You must not mind what I'm going to
say, Robert; you took on so before; but you'll be brave now, eh,
Robert? I--I know I'm going home--to my long home, I mean; and I want
to say how happy, and peaceful, and grateful to the Lord, I am. I've
often thought of this time--often and often; and wondered--and I've
often thought it would be like this, and yet not quite in this way.
You used to talk to me about my rashness, Guardy,--in riding, I mean."
"Yes, dear Kate; and you always promised, and you never did, my
headstrong child!"
"No, Guardy, I didn't, and yet I tried hard; but I hadn't much
pleasure elsewise, had I? Robert knows that; and I _did_ so enjoy my
work! I've often thought it might come when I was with the hounds, and
that would have been dreadful! All the business and bother in the
field, and carried away somewhere, to some wretched place, where
there'd have been no one near to care for me; and now I've you all
here, and that kind old doctor; and, oh, thank God for all!"
There was a little pause, and then she asked in, if any thing, a
weaker voice, "What's become of the horse? does any one know?--the
horse, I mean, that did this?"
"He was taken home, Kate; so Freeman said. He's good deal cut; but--"
"Oh, don't let him come to grief, Robert! It wasn't fault, poor
fellow! He was startled by the--ah, well; it's all over now! Don't
frown so, Robert; I ought to have known better. Lord Clonmel always
said he had a temper of his own; but I thought I could do any thing,
and--Some of them will crow over this, won't they? Those Jeffrey
girls, who always said I was a park-rider, and no good at fencing, eh?
Well, well, that's neither here nor there. You know all about the
will, Guardy,--in the desk, you know? and what I said about your
having--and Freeman--and the men's wages; and--"
As she spoke she sunk back, and seemed to fall asleep at once. The
nurse, who had been hovering round, advanced and looked anxiously at
her, laying her finger on her pulse, and peering into her face.
Reassured, she retired again; and the others, save Simnel, who still
remained kneeling by the bed, resumed their places. Then, stretched
supine, and without addressing herself to any one, Kate Mellon began
to talk again. Fragmentary, disconnected, incoherent sentences they
were that she uttered; but, listening to them, Simnel and Frank
Churchill managed to make out that her head was wandering, and that
she was running through passages of her earlier life.
"Ready!" she said. "All right, Dolphin! Now, band!--why don't they
play up? No hoop lit yet! Get along, Dolphin! Ribbons now! Stand up,
man!--why doesn't that man stand up? So; give him his head--that's it!
Chalk; more chalk!--this pad's so slippery, I shall never stand on it;
and--that's better. Now we go--one, two, three! All right, sir; all
right, madam; told you I should clear it. Ah, Charley! Hold the hoop
lower--lower yet. What's he at? I shall miss it--miss it! and
then--Slacken your curb, miss, or she'll rear! So; that's it--easy
does it. Courage now,--head and the heart up; hand and the heel down!
Oh, he's jumped short!--he's over! he's over!"
She gave a sharp cry, and half-raised herself on to the pillow. The
nurse was by her in an instant; so were they all. Her eyes opened at
first dreamily; then she looked round and smiled sweetly. "Kiss me,
dear," she said to Barbara. "Guardy! Robert, Robert! kindest, dearest
Robert, I'm--going home!"
Then, with tears streaming from both their eyes, Frank led Barbara
away; while, haggard and rigid, Simnel knelt by the bedside firmly
clutching a dead hand.