AT HIS BEDSIDE.
Meanwhile Hilda's position was a hard one. Days passed on. The one
who came to act as a nurse was herself stricken down, as she had
already been twice before. They carried her away to another room, and
Gretchen devoted herself to her care. Delirium came on, and all the
past lived again in the fever-tossed mind of the sufferer.
Unconscious of the real world in which she lay, she wandered in a
world of phantoms, where the well-remembered forms of her past life
surrounded her. Some deliriums are pleasant. All depend upon the
ruling feelings of the one upon whom it is fixed. But here the ruling
feeling of Hilda was not of that kind which could bring happiness.
Her distracted mind wandered again through those scenes through which
she had passed. Her life at Chetwynde, with all its later horrors and
anxieties, came back before her. Again and again the vision of the
dying Earl tormented her. What she said these foreign nurses heard,
but understood not. They soothed her as best they might, and stood
aghast at her sufferings, but were not able to do any thing to
alleviate them. Most of all, however, her mind turned to the
occurrences of the last few days and weeks. Again she was flying to
the bedside of Lord Chetwynde; again the anguish of suspense devoured
her, as she struggled against weakness to reach him; and again she
felt overwhelmed by the shock of the first sight of the sick man, on
whom she thought that she saw the stamp of death.
Meanwhile, as Hilda lay senseless, Lord Chetwynde hovered between
life and death. The physician who had attended him came in on the
morning after Hilda's arrival, and learned from the nurse that Lady
Chetwynde had come suddenly, more dead than alive, and was herself
struck down by fever. She had watched him all night from her own
couch, until at last she had lost consciousness; but all her soul
seemed bent on one thing, and that was that a certain medicine should
be administered regularly to Lord Chetwynde. The doctor asked to see
it. He smelled it and tasted it. An expression of horror passed over
his face.
"My God!" he murmured. "I did not dare to suspect it! It must be so!"
"Where is Lord Chetwynde's valet?" he asked at length, after a
thoughtful pause.
"I don't know, Sir," said the nurse.
"He always is here. I don't see him now."
"I haven't seen him since Lady Chetwynde's arrival."
"Did my lady see him?"
"I think she did, Sir."
"You don't know what passed?"
"No, Sir. Except this, that the valet hurried out, looking very pale,
and has not been back since."
"Ah!" murmured the doctor to himself. "She has suspected something,
and has come on. The valet has fled. Could this scoundrel have been
the guilty one? Who else could it be? And he has fled. I never liked
his looks. He had the face of a vampire."
The doctor took away some of the medicine with him, and at the same
time he took with him one of the glasses which stood on a table near
the bed. Some liquid remained in it. He took these away to subject
them to chemical analysis. The result of that analysis served to
confirm his suspicions. When he next came he directed the nurse to
administer the antidote regularly, and left another mixture also.
Lord Chetwynde lay between life and death. At the last verge of
mortal weakness, it would have needed but a slight thing to send him
out of life forever. The only encouraging thing about him for many
days was that he did not get worse. From this fact the doctor gained
encouragement, though he still felt that the case was desperate. What
suspicions he had formed he kept to himself.
Hilda, meanwhile, prostrated by this new attack, lay helpless,
consumed by the fierce fever which rioted in all her veins. Fiercer
and fiercer it grew, until she reached a critical point, where her
condition was more perilous than that of Lord Chetwynde himself. But,
in spite of all that she had suffered, her constitution was strong.
Tender hands were at her service, kindly hearts sympathized with her,
and the doctor, whose nature was stirred to its depths by pity and
compassion for this beautiful stranger, who had thus fallen under the
power of so mysterious a calamity, was unremitting in his attentions.
The crisis of the fever came, and all that night, while it lasted, he
staid with her, listening to her disconnected ravings, and
understanding enough of them to perceive that her fancy was bringing
back before her that journey from England to Lausanne, whose fatigues
and anxieties had reduced her to this.
"My God!" cried the doctor, as some sharper lamentation burst from
Hilda; "it would be better for Lord Chetwynde to die than to survive
a wife like this!"
With the morning the crisis had passed, and, thanks to the doctor's
care, the result was favorable. Hilda fell into a profound sleep, but
the fever had left her, and the change was for the better.
When the doctor returned once more he found her awake, without fever,
yet very feeble.
"My lady," said he, "you must be more careful of yourself for the
sake of others. Lord Chetwynde is weak yet, and though his symptoms
are favorable, yet he requires the greatest care."
"And do you have hope of him?" asked Hilda, eagerly. This was the one
thought of her mind.
"I do have hope," said the doctor.
Hilda looked at him gratefully.
"At present," said the doctor, "you must not think or talk about any
thing. Above all, you must restrain your feelings. It is your anxiety
about Lord Chetwynde that is killing you. Save yourself for his
sake."
"But may I not be carried into his room?" pleaded Hilda, in imploring
tones.
"No; not to-day. Leave it to me. Believe me, my lady, I am anxious
for his recovery and for yours. His recovery depends most of all upon
you."
"Yes," said Hilda, in a faint voice; "far more than you know. There
is a medicine which he must have."
"He has been taking it through all his sickness. I have not allowed
that to be neglected," said the doctor.
"You have administered that?"
"Most certainly. It is his only hope."
"And do you understand what it is?"
"Of course. More--I understand what it involves. But do not fear. The
danger has passed now. Do not let the anguish of such a discovery
torment you. The danger has passed. He is weak now, and it is only
his weakness that I have to contend with."
"You understand all, then?" repeated Hilda.
"Yes, all. But you must not speak about it now. Have confidence in
me. The fact that I understand the disease will show you that I know
how to deal with it. It baffled me before; but, as soon as I saw the
medicine that you gave, I suspected and understood."
Hilda looked at him with awful inquiry.
"Be calm, my lady," said the doctor, in a sympathetic voice. "The
worst is over. You have saved him."
"Say that again," said Hilda. "Have I, indeed, done any thing? Have
I, indeed, saved him?"
"Most undoubtedly. Had it not been for you he would by this time have
been in the other world," said the doctor, solemnly.
Hilda drew a deep sigh.
"That is some consolation," she said, in a mournful voice.
"You are too weak now to talk about this. Let me assure you again
that you have every reason for hope. In a few days you may be removed
to his apartment, where your love and devotion will soon meet with
their reward."
"Tell me one thing," asked Hilda, earnestly. "Is Lord Chetwynde still
delirious?"
"Yes--but only slightly so. It is more like a quiet sleep than any
thing else; and, while he sleeps, the medicines are performing their
appropriate effect upon him. Every thing is progressing favorably,
and when he regains his senses he will be changed very much for the
better. But now, my lady, you must think no more about it. Try and
get some sleep. Be as calm in your mind as you can until to-morrow."
And with these words the doctor left.
On the following day he came again, but refused to speak on the
subject of Lord Chetwynde's illness; he merely assured Hilda that he
was still in an encouraging condition, and told her that she herself
must keep calm, so that her recovery might be more rapid. For several
days he forbade a renewal of the subject of conversation, with the
intention, as he said, of sparing her every thing which might agitate
her. Whether his precautions were wise or not may be doubted. Hilda
sometimes troubled herself with fancies that the doctor might,
perhaps, suspect all the truth; and though she succeeded in
dismissing the idea as absurd, yet the trouble which she experienced
from it was sufficient to agitate her in many ways. That
fever-haunted land of delirium, out of which she had of late emerged,
was still near enough to throw over her soul its dark and terrific
shadows. It needed but a slight word from the doctor, or from any one
else, to revive the accursed memories of an accursed past.
Several days passed away, and, in spite of her anxieties, she grew
stronger. The longing which she felt to see Lord Chetwynde gave
strength to her resolution to grow stronger; and, as once before, her
ardent will seemed to sway the functions of the body. The doctor
noticed this steady increase of strength one day, and promised her
that on the following day she should be removed to Lord Chetwynde's
room. She received this intelligence with the deepest gratitude.
"Lord Chetwynde's symptoms," continued the doctor, "are still
favorable. He is no longer in delirium, but in a kind of gentle
sleep, which is not so well defined as to be a stupor, but is yet
stronger than an ordinary sleep. The medicine which is being
administered has this effect. Perhaps you are aware of this?"
Hilda bowed.
"I was told so."
"Will you allow me to ask how it was that you obtained that
particular medicine?" he asked. "Do you know what it involves?"
"Yes," said Hilda; "it is only too well known to me. The horror of
this well-nigh killed me."
"How did you discover it--or how did you suspect it?"
Hilda answered, without a moment's hesitation:
"The suddenness of Lord Chetwynde's disease alarmed me. His valet
wrote about his symptoms, and these terrified me still more. I
hurried up to London and showed his report to a leading London
physician. He looked shocked, asked me much about Lord Chetwynde's
health, and gave me this medicine. I suspected from his manner what
he feared, though he did not express his fear in words. In short, it
seemed to me, from what he said, that this medicine was the _antidote
to some poison_."
"You are right," said the doctor, solemnly; and then he remained
silent for a long time.
"Do you suspect any one?" he asked at last.
Hilda sighed, and slowly said:
"Yes--I do."
"Who is the one?"
She paused. In that moment there were struggling within her thoughts
which the doctor did not imagine. Should she be so base as to say
what was in her mind, or should she not? That was the question. But
rapidly she pushed aside all scruples, and in a low, stern voice she
said:
"I suspect his valet."
"I thought so," said the doctor. "It could have been no other. But he
must have had a motive. Can you imagine what motive there could have
been?"
"I know it only too well," said Hilda, "though I did not think of
this till it was too late. He was injured, or fancied himself
injured, by Lord Chetwynde, and his motive was vengeance."
"And where is he now?" asked the doctor.
"He was thunder-struck by my appearance. He saw me nearly dead. He
helped me up to his master's room. I charged him with his crime. He
tried to falter out a denial. In vain. He was crushed beneath the
overwhelming surprise. He hurried out abruptly, and has fled, I
suppose forever, to some distant country. As for me, I forgot all
about him, and fainted away by the bedside of my husband."
The doctor sighed heavily, and wiped a tear from his eye.
He had never known so sad a case as this.