LONELINESS.
SIX weeks had passed since Lady Halcot was first taken ill in church,
and she was ill yet. She had not left her room, had, indeed, scarcely
quitted her bed, since that day. Mr. Fosbrook found it difficult to
say in precise terms what was the matter with her. She seemed to have
no definite ailment, beyond a collapse of all her powers. Suddenly,
and almost without previous warning, she had sunk into the ways of a
confirmed invalid.
Miss Withers from the first moment stepped quietly into the position
of head nurse and of general manager in all that appertained to Lady
Halcot. Gwendoline found herself gradually excluded from the sick-room.
A brief visit once or twice a day was permitted for a while, Miss
Withers invariably remaining present. But as time went on, difficulties
were raised; and slowly—almost imperceptibly to herself—it came about
that her entrance was forbidden.
"I do not think it desirable to-day," in Miss Withers' placid tones,
grew into, "I could not possibly allow it, Miss Halcombe."
Gwendoline had no means of knowing whether this was by Lady Halcot's
desire. Miss Withers did everything in Lady Halcot's name, spoke much
of the necessity of keeping her quiet, and promised to call Gwendoline
at once, if at any time the old lady seemed to require her. Gwendoline
had no power to separate the true from the false in their utterances.
Had she felt the slightest security that her presence was desired by
Lady Halcot, she would have taken a firm stand immediately. But this
security she could not feel. Lady Halcot's long-continued coldness, and
the absence now of any kind message from the sick-room, made her shrink
from intruding where, as it seemed, she was not wanted.
Life dragged on wearily with her through those weeks. She had no
friends, no companions. Miss Withers was with Lady Halcot, morning,
noon, and night; scarcely quitting the room for even a hurried meal now
and then, but "snatching food," as she called it, when she could, and
never walking out at all. Yet she showed no signs of being over-taxed,
but always appeared placidly neat and satisfied. Gwendoline wondered at
her.
What Mr. Fosbrook thought of the old lady Gwendoline did not know.
She would have spoken to him, but no opportunity presented itself. So
sure as Mr. Fosbrook's carriage reached the front door, the ubiquitous
Miss Withers was gliding through the hall to welcome him; and when he
left, she accompanied him out upon the steps, talking always in muffled
and confidential tones. If Gwendoline came up and asked a question
for herself, the answer was snatched from Mr. Fosbrook's lips by Miss
Withers. Her after report to Gwendoline was almost invariably the same,
"Mr. Fosbrook considered Lady Halcot very feeble still, and desired
that she should be kept perfectly quiet."
It was a strange life for Gwendoline, brought up as she had been in
a crowd, and now entirely cut off from all whom she loved. Letters
were her great comfort, and correspondence was no longer subject to
supervision; but Gwendoline was strictly honourable, and she would in
no case exceed the bounds marked out for her by Lady Halcot. A feeling
of restlessness made it very difficult to settle to any course of
study; and rides and drives were melancholy, with no particular object
in them, no companion with whom to exchange ideas, nobody to see her
off, nobody to welcome her home. Gwendoline had not imagined until now
how much of real affection she had learnt to bestow on Lady Halcot, or
how keenly the little old lady could be missed out of her daily life.
In despair of other interests, she at length took to her painting
again, and spent hours over it daily, struggling with lassitude and
disinclination, and trying to revive a shadow of her former delight in
the occupation. Some of the old pleasure crept back slowly; but she
missed the companionship of her fellow-students, their criticisms,
opinions, and judgments, together with the warm interest of her
home-circle in all that she undertook. To have painted a picture for
her mother would have brought real enjoyment, but Gwendoline knew well
that her work, when done, would be Lady Halcot's, not Mrs. Halcombe's.
Sometimes the poor girl flung her pencils down, and sobbed aloud in her
heartache, for "Mother, mother!"
Occasionally Miss Withers would drop in, and scan Gwendoline's
unfinished canvas, with the monotonous verdict of "So very pretty."
Gwendoline had some difficulty on such occasions in controlling herself
to receive politely the unwelcome commendation.
She was alone in Lady Halcot's boudoir early one afternoon, going
through an hour of self-prescribed reading, when, to her surprise,
Mr. Fosbrook walked in. It was half an hour before his usual time
of calling, and Gwendoline said, as she rose, "I did not hear the
carriage."
"No; I came on my own feet for once," Mr. Fosbrook answered, not
thinking it necessary to add that he had done so for the express
purpose of securing a private interview with her. "Finding the door on
the latch, I did not ring. Have you been out to-day, Miss Halcombe?"
"No; I did not feel inclined."
"Don't give way to that feeling."
Gwendoline smiled assent, cheered quickly by the interest shown in her
well-being. She had had little of such kindness for many weeks.
"You are not looking very well, I think. People cannot get on without
fresh air."
"No; I will remember," she said, not wishing to waste valuable time.
"Mr. Fosbrook, what do you really think of Lady Halcot? She has been so
long ill now. Will she soon be well?"
Mr. Fosbrook looked at her in silence for two seconds. Then he said
gravely, "Miss Withers undertook to tell you."
"She tells me nothing," said Gwendoline hastily. "Except that Lady
Halcot is weak, and must be kept quiet."
"That is true,—so far. It is not all. There has been a marked failure
the last three days."
"A failure of strength?"
"Of vital power."
"I have heard nothing," Gwendoline said, in a trembling voice,—"nothing
whatever. Is this right? Why am I to be kept away from Lady Halcot, and
to have the truth hidden from me? I am not a child."
"Then it is not by your own wish that you are absent?"
"My own wish! Staying out of the room! No, indeed! Could you think so?"
asked Gwendoline reproachfully.
"Miss Withers seemed to think that you were of a nervous disposition,
as regarded illness."
Gwendoline exclaimed in amazement. "I am the eldest of a large family,"
she said. "I have been used to nursing all my life."
"I confess it did not sound very much like the young lady whom I saw
leaping from the rock," he said, with a half-smile. "But characters are
often inconsistent in their developments. Then you would not really
object to seeing Lady Halcot?"
"If I thought Lady Halcot wished to see me, nothing should keep me out
of the room," said Gwendoline indignantly. "Afraid of illness indeed!"
"It is possible that Lady Halcot wishes it more than she allows to
appear. She is always reserved."
"Has she ever said anything,—ever asked about me?"
"No," Mr. Fosbrook answered. "Your name has not been mentioned by
her in my hearing. When I have alluded to you, she has immediately
dropped the subject. But this very silence strikes me as unnatural, and
inclines me to believe that there is strong feeling of some kind below."
Gwendoline stood with a look of painful perplexity on her face. "If I
only knew what to do!" she said. "If I could only see my way clearly!
Miss Withers,—'she,' of course, has no right to forbid me the room. If
I knew myself to be wanted there, I would go at once. Miss Withers has
no real power in the matter. There is only my doubt about Lady Halcot's
wishes. Did you mean just now that you think Lady Halcot's state at all
serious?—Anything to be anxious about?"
"It would be no kindness to hide the truth from you," said Mr. Fosbrook
seriously. "She will never come down-stairs again."
"You don't mean to say that she is dying?"
Gwendoline's startled face was turned upon him in blank distress. But
his answer left her in no doubt.
"Lady Halcot is dying."
"Not actually dying I—surely not so bad as that! How long can she live?"
"It may be weeks. It may be only days. I cannot speak with certainty. A
temporary rally is not even now impossible, but I hardly expect it."
"And she,—does she know it?"
"I cannot tell. She does not appear to be conscious of danger; but
certainly I have an impression that something is weighing upon her
mind. It may be that, or it may be your absence."
A light seemed to flash upon Gwendoline. "I see,—I see!" she said. "You
think that perhaps Lady Halcot is fretting about me,—perhaps believing,
as you did, that I have been staying away out of choice—selfishly."
"I did not believe it, Miss Halcombe. But mistakes are possible,
especially in a sick-room, where the mind is not very strong."
"And you advise me to go to her?"
Mr. Fosbrook's answer was unhesitating. "I do. The experiment is at
least worth trying."
The boudoir door opened slowly, and Miss Withers entered, a rather
disagreeable expression underlying her smile. "Mr. Fosbrook already!"
she said, with an accent of surprise. "How do you do? You are early
to-day."
"Rather," Mr. Fosbrook answered composedly.
He was, of course, entirely indifferent to Miss Withers' displeasure,
and he shook hands in his usual manner, content to have achieved
that which might prevent after unhappiness or self-reproaches on the
part of Gwendoline. He had suspected the fact of certain not quite
straightforward dealings. Having done his part, he left Gwendoline to
carry on the matter.