The daylight was streaming in at the window when Emily awoke, and lay
thinking of the party, and rejoicing in her kind little heart that
Isabel had been so happy, and had enjoyed herself so much. Then she
sighed as she thought Harry was gone, but smiled again at the bright
prospect she had in view, for Harry had imparted to her the nice
arrangement that he had made with his father, and she did so love the
idea of travelling for a year. Then again she heaved a little sigh, and
hoped he would not overwork himself; but there was no cause for
uneasiness on that score, for Harry was too much accustomed to take
things easy, and too wise to work himself to death: and Emmy was content
to believe this.
But she was that sociable disposition, that she could not half enjoy
anything unless she could get some one to sympathise with her. She did
so long to tell her news. Late as was the hour when the party broke up,
she wanted to tell Isabel; but Isabel had refused their accustomed chat,
saying that it was too late, and that Mrs. Arlington would be vexed.
Then she wondered if Isabel was awake, she did so long to tell her about
the year's travelling. She thought she would go and see. So she got up
very quietly, partially dressed, and then threw on her dressing gown,
and ran up to Isabel's room; but finding the door locked, she rattled
the handle slightly, and called through the key-hole, "Isabel! Isabel!
are you awake? open the door." Then as she drew back, something
attracted her sight, and impelled her to apply her eye to the said
key-hole. She did so; and horrified beyond description at what she
beheld, she shrieked aloud with terror. Her frantic cries brought her
father, mother, Everard, and several of the servants, to the rescue.
"Open the door! oh, open the door!" was all that she could say, wringing
her hands in anguish, and pointing to it.
"Speak, child," said her father, "what is the matter?"
But she only cried more wildly, "open the door! open the door!" without
attempting to explain. But Everard, with his firm, quiet manner, and
reassuring tone, calmed her almost instantly.
Mrs. Arlington did as Emily had done before her. "There is something
wrong," she exclaimed, "we must get the door open."
The united efforts of Everard and his father forced the door, and a more
distressing sight can scarcely be imagined than that they beheld.
Stretched on the floor lay Isabel, in her ball dress, the blood pouring
from her mouth in a crimson stream. As soon as Everard saw this, he
waited for no more, but hastened to the stable, and was soon on the
road, dashing at a reckless pace, towards Dr. Heathfield's. Mrs.
Arlington quietly desired Norris to remove the children, who, alarmed by
Emily's cries, had crowded into the room, along with the servants. Emily
also was dismissed; and ordering two of the servants to remain, she told
the rest to retire, and to send Norris back again. She then turned her
attention to the suffering girl, whose face wore an expression of
ineffable agony; but she was at a loss how to proceed, not knowing what
ought to be done, and fearing that she might do harm by injudicious
treatment. In less time than could have been imagined, Everard returned
with the doctor, who had great difficulty in stopping the bleeding. She
had broken a blood vessel, he said, and was in a very dangerous state.
He ordered perfect quiet, as the least excitement would cause a return
of the bleeding, and then nothing could save her. He questioned very
sharply as to what had happened, and gave as his opinion that it had
been caused by some great shock, and violent emotion struggled with and
suppressed, by undue excitement.
Mrs. Arlington repudiated the notion, and protested against such an
assumption, saying "that Miss Leicester appeared quite well when she
retired to rest."
"These things do not happen without cause, madam," returned the doctor;
"therefore in all probability something has occurred of which you know
nothing."
"I am convinced that you are mistaken, Dr. Heathfield; but I will take
care that your orders are strictly attended to. No one but myself and
Norris shall be allowed in the room. You have no doubt of her ultimate
recovery, I trust," she added.
"I couldn't pretend to give an opinion at present; I can only tell you
that she is in a most precarious state," he replied gravely. "Everything
depends upon the prevention of the hemorrhage, a return of which would
be certain death. At the same time, that is not all that we have to
fear."
For a long time Isabel hovered between life and death, scarcely
conscious of what was passing around her. Day after day the children
would linger on the stairs, whenever the doctor came, to hear his
account of Miss Leicester. But he only shook his head, and said "he
could not have them there. Their governess was very ill, and they must
be very good children." Then they would return to the school-room, and
spend, as best they might, these joyless holidays.
At last the longed for answer came--"She was certainly better," and they
were delighted beyond measure; but their joy was considerably damped,
when he told them that they could not be permitted to see her for some
time yet.
Isabel's recovery was very slow, though every care and attention was
bestowed upon her, and each vied with the other in showing kindness to
the orphan girl. Still Isabel felt her lonely, dependent condition,
acutely. Life seemed a dreary, cheerless existence; and she experienced
a shrinking from the future which seemed to be before her, which was at
times almost insupportable. She longed to be at rest. The prostration
and langour, both mental and bodily, that accompanied this depression,
was so great as to seriously retard her recovery, and almost baffled the
doctor's skill. She would lie for hours without speaking or moving,
apparently asleep, but only in a sort of waking dream. She took no
interest in anything, and appeared quite incapable of making any effort
to overcome this apathy. Emily tried her best to amuse her; but after
taking pains to relate everything that she thought of interest that had
occurred, Isabel would smile and thank her, in a way that proved she had
not been listening. Thus week after week of her convalescence passed,
while, to the doctor's surprise and disappointment, she made no further
progress. After visiting his patient one afternoon, he requested a few
moments' conversation with Mrs. Arlington. "My dear madam," he said,
when that lady had led the way into the morning-room, "has Miss
Leicester no friends, with whom she could spend a few weeks? for if she
is allowed to remain in this lethargic state, she will inevitably sink.
An entire change of air and scene is absolutely necessary. She requires
something to rouse her in a gentle way, without excitement."
"She has friends, I believe; but really, I know so little about them,
that any arrangement of that sort is out of the question. All those I do
know, are at present in Europe," returned Mrs. Arlington. "But we are
anxious to do everything in our power to promote her recovery. If you
can suggest anything, I shall be most happy to carry out your plans.
I proposed her going to the sea-side, but she wouldn't hear of it, and
said that she hoped she should not trouble us much longer.
I remonstrated, but to no purpose--she persisted that it was utterly
impossible."
"That was the very thing I was going to suggest," returned the doctor;
"but I trusted that the proposal would have met with a better reception.
But if you will allow me, I think I might persuade her to accompany the
children, as if on their account. Have I your permission to do so?"
"Full permission to make any arrangements that you think beneficial,
doctor," replied Mrs. Arlington.
Doctor Heathfield went back to his patient. He found her alone. "What do
you think of making a start to the sea-side? I think it would do you
good."
"Oh, indeed I could not," returned Isabel languidly. "Mrs. Arlington is
very kind, but it is quite impossible."
"Don't decide so hastily," replied Dr. Heathfield, taking a seat by her
side.
"A thing which is impossible, requires no consideration."
"But I am convinced that it is not impossible," he urged, "and by
obliging others, you will also benefit yourself; it is such a very small
thing that is required of you, just to accompany the children to D----
for a few weeks. Indeed I think that you can scarcely refuse after all
the kindness that you have received during your long illness."
"I am extremely sorry to have caused so much trouble, but I assure you
that I am not ungrateful."
"It don't seem like it when you won't do what little you might to
please," returned the doctor.
"Don't say will not," Dr. Heathfield.
"Ay but I must say will not, and excuse me when I add, that you greatly
mistake your duty to give way to this apathy, and thus retard your
recovery," he said kindly. "I do not seek to fathom your trouble, but I
do know that it was excessive mental anguish that caused you to break a
blood-vessel, and I would remind you that this is not the right way to
brood over and nurse your grief, refusing to make any effort to do your
duty.
"I know it is wrong faltered Isabel with quivering lips, but I cannot
take an interest in anything or find comfort, save in the thought of
early death."
"But that is from the morbid state of mind induced by weakness."
Isabel shook her head.
"And will pass off as you get stronger," he continued.
"I shall never be strong again," she said.
"Pooh, nonsense, I can't have you talk in that way, if you only make an
effort and go with the children to D----, I think you will soon alter
your opinion."
"Please don't say any more, my head aches dreadfully," pleaded Isabel.
"One moment and I have done," he said, "I fear that you forget your
position here, the family have behaved to you with the greatest
generosity, but still you must be aware that they would not continue to
keep an invalid governess, and as I understand that you are entirely
dependant upon your own exertions, you must see the necessity of trying
the benefit of sea air, when you have the opportunity, do not take it
unkindly that I have used such freedom in pressing this matter, think
over it quietly, and to-morrow let me know what answer I am to give Mrs.
Arlington." Then he took his leave, and his kind heart smote him, for he
heard the smothered sobs of his fair patient.