HUSBAND AND WIFE.
Sir Nugent Uffington found his brougham waiting at the Victoria
Station, and as he handed Lady Forestfield into it he gave her a few
words of parting counsel. She was to expect a great physical change in
her husband's condition, he told her, and was not to be frightened;
she was to be prepared to hear many things during the sick man's
ravings which would necessarily pain her, but she must listen to them
with patience; unasked she had declared her intention of doing her
duty, and that must be her consolation. Then, promising to see her the
next day, he took his leave, and the carriage containing her rolled
away.
It was a dismal autumnal night, and the long lines of lamps reflected
in the wet pavement struck May, staring out of the carriage window,
with strange familiarity. It was months now since she had seen London
lighted up by night, for the time of her residence in Podbury-street
had been during the long days and evenings of the summer; and now her
thoughts insensibly reverted to the time when night after night, with
unvarying regularity, she was whirled away to some gay scene of
triumph, where her presence was anxiously expected, and where her
command was law. That was all over now she knew, and save for the time
wasted and the precious opportunities missed, she could think of it
all without regret; in her quiet solitude at Woodburn she had learned
the great secret of happiness, in endeavouring to do her duty, and she
looked back upon her early days of feverish excitement with feelings
of sorrow and disgust. What was before her now she knew not, but in
breaking away from the calm life, and in trying to alleviate the
sufferings of him who, whatever had happened, was her husband 'after
all,' she had obeyed the dictates of her conscience, and knew she had
acted rightly.
But notwithstanding this sense of rectitude, May felt her heart sink
within her as the carriage drew near to Seamore-place, and it needed
all her fortitude to prevent her bursting into tears. Painfully and
vividly rose before her the scene which had occurred when she quitted
the place which had been her home, never, as she thought, to return
again. The agony of shame which she had felt as she passed the
servants, all of whom she could not but know were acquainted with the
cause of her degradation; the terrible heart-sickness which beset her
as she crossed the threshold an outcast and a wanderer--what
humiliation must she go through in meeting these people again! It
would have been almost better, she thought, to have remained in her
solitude, unheard of and uncared for; but she had accepted the issue
and must abide by it.
As the carriage drove up to the well-remembered house, the street-door
opened quietly, and Stephens, Lord Forestfield's valet, assisted his
mistress to alight, a telegram from Sir Nugent Uffington having
apprised him of Lady Forestfield's arrival. May was thankful to learn
that the establishment at Seamore-place had long since been broken up,
and that with the exception of a couple of women servants and the
nurse there was no one there but Stephens, whose manner to her was, as
it always had been, thoroughly respectful.
'His lordship is very bad, my lady,' he said in reply to May's hurried
inquiry; 'I am afraid about as bad as he can be to be alive. He takes
nothing to eat, has a terrible thirst upon him, always crying out for
something to drink; he is as weak as a baby, and quite out of his
mind, not knowing me nor any of us when we come near him. Dr. Whitaker
is in the house, my lady,' he added. 'When he called this afternoon, I
told him I had heard from Sir Nugent Uffington that your ladyship was
expected; and he said he would look in again about this time. Shall I
tell him your ladyship is here?'
'Yes,' said May, after an instant's hesitation; 'I should certainly
like to speak to Dr. Whitaker before I go up-stairs.'
Her first trial was now at hand. In former days Dr. Whitaker would
have been very little more to her than a higher kind of servant; for
the insolent people among whom she had lived were in the habit of
treating all those who were not of their own class, no matter how far
superior to themselves in everything save the accident of birth, as
persons who were necessary to their well-being, but who were in no
wise to be encouraged by familiarity. Among the members of the medical
profession, in which throughout the world are enrolled many of the
kindest, the bravest, and most independent specimens of humanity,
there are, of course, to be found some who, whatever their private
opinion of such treatment as this may be, have not the courage to
resent it. Dr. Whitaker was one of these; the great Pickwickian
sentiment of shouting in accordance with the wishes of the largest
number was carried out by him to its fullest extent, and his horror of
peccant mortality, when it not merely did not interfere with, but
absolutely helped, his professional practice, was formidable in its
sternness. When the scandal about Lady Forestfield had first been made
public, Dr. Whitaker had given many a patient ten minutes of grateful
ease from pain by his admirably graphic account of the whole
transaction, and had stamped himself for ever in their minds as a man
of the finest feelings, by his indignant denunciation of the women who
bring shame and sorrow into the homes of such men as 'my excellent
friend and patient, Lord Forestfield.' Of course Dr. Whitaker's
conduct in this matter had been reported to May--when does any one say
anything derogatory of us that we do not immediately hear of it from
some one else?--and she was consequently somewhat alarmed at the idea
of their meeting. Her knowledge of the world was not sufficient to
suggest to her that the doctor would probably also have heard of the
condonation and quasi-reconciliation that had taken place, and that
more especially as his noble friend and patient was in a dangerous
condition, there could be now no harm, even to a man of his
respectability, in holding out the olive-branch to May.
A short stout man Dr. Whitaker, with a bald head, a red face, and a
small gray whisker; his manner was bustling and self-satisfied, he was
always dressed in solemn black, and invariably wore creaking boots.
Many years before, when, as a young man, he first set up for himself
in practice, having emancipated himself from his father--a worthy man,
who kept a chemist's shop, from which he would not retire, and of whom
in consequence his son was horribly ashamed--Dr. Whitaker's manner had
been very different. He had crept in and out of the smallest and most
modest houses, taking care to make no noise and to give no offence; he
had listened for hours to the monotonous complaints of old women in
little lodgings for the sake of the five shillings a visit which he
was enabled to charge them, and he had been humble, deferential, and
presumably grateful to many upon whom he had long since ceased to look
with anything like a sign of recognition. A man of the world Dr.
Whitaker, whose success in life was assured.
With persons of rank, indeed, his manner remained very much the same
as it had been in bygone days to persons in lodgings, and he
accordingly entered the room as softly as the creaking boots would
permit him, and marched straight up to Lady Forestfield with extended
hand and grave bow.
'Even under these sad circumstances,' he said, 'I cannot omit the
expression of my great pleasure at seeing you once more, Lady
Forestfield, under this roof; which I venture to think, had you been
well advised, you would never have quitted--'
'Pray give me news of Lord Forestfield,' said May, hurriedly
interrupting him; 'you have seen him just now--is there any change in
his condition?'
'No change whatever,' said Dr. Whitaker. 'His lordship is certainly
not better, and I do not think he is worse; but there can be no
denying that he is in a very critical state, as I ventured to inform
your ladyship through the medium of Sir Nugent Uffington.'
'Do you think then, Dr. Whitaker,' said May in low earnest voice,
'that there is hope of his recovery?'
'I do not say that,' replied the doctor; 'your ladyship is aware of
the old proverb which says that there must be hope while there is
life; and though Lord Forestfield is in extreme danger, with human
skill and attention, under Divine Providence' (Whitaker always spoke
of this last as a kind of copartnership) 'we may pull him through.
Your ladyship, I understand, intends to remain in the house, and in
case there should be any sudden change I will give orders to the
nurse, that you are warned in time.'
'I do not understand you,' said May. 'If there were any sudden change
I should see it, I imagine, as soon as the nurse, whose watch I intend
to share.'
'What!' cried Dr. Whitaker, in high key, for he was startled out of
his composure and professional manner; 'you don't mean to tell me that
you are actually thinking of nursing his lordship?'
'With what other object do you think I am here?' asked May simply.
'But do you know that this fever is what vulgar people call
"catching," and that exposing yourself in this way you run the
greatest risk of being attacked by it?'
'I am willing to take my chance,' said May, 'and am prepared to run
all risks.'
'Admirable self-sacrifice,' murmured Dr. Whitaker, in a kind of
stage-aside, which he had found very effective with many people. 'I am
not sure, however,' he added aloud, 'whether I ought not to put my veto
upon this plan.'
'It would be useless, doctor; for my determination is fixed. And now I
will wish you good-night, as I am anxious to get to my work at once.'
Dr. Whitaker bowed over the hand which May extended to him, and
stepped into his brougham in a state of the greatest astonishment. He
had several special 'last visits' to pay that night, and to such of
his patients as were at all in a state to hear it he told the
wonderful story of Lady Forestfield's return to her home, 'where she
is actually engaged, my dear sir, in nursing her husband in fever,
which she is very likely to take herself.'
Meanwhile, May had sought the bedchamber, and had been received by the
nurse, whom Dr. Whitaker had apprised of her coming.
'My lord's asleep now, my lady,' the woman said, pointing to the bed,
'but terribly restless and uneasy; the sleep that he gets does not do
him any real good, for he tosses and tumbles from side to side, and is
scarcely ever done talking. Dr. Whitaker said that you wished to sit
up with my lord, my lady; but I should advise you to think twice about
it, for letting alone your not looking strong yourself, and running
the risk of catching the fever, his lordship from time to time screams
out and raves about all sorts of things, and that it would most likely
frighten you to hear. I would advise your ladyship to think twice
about it--I would indeed.'
May, however, was not to be shaken in her determination.
'I am quite strong,' she said, 'much stronger than you suppose; and
though I have never seen any one in fever, I am not unaccustomed to
nursing, as I watched by the bedside of my father during his last
illness. At all events, I will see how I succeed. There is no
medicine, you say, to be given for the next two hours. Leave me,
please, until then. I shall be better able to know what I have
undertaken by that time.'
As soon as the woman had left the room, May took the candle, and
shading it with her hand, approached the bed. Her husband lay there,
sleeping heavily. May thought him much changed; his cheeks were hollow
and sunken, thus giving greater prominence to the hard cynical
expression which had always detracted from his good looks. His lips
were shut, his brow was contracted, and from time to time he uttered
sounds more like the ebullitions of wrath than the wailings of
despair. As she stood by the bedside gazing at him, he turned round,
and soon afterwards opened his eyes. As soon as she perceived this,
May shrank behind the curtain, but it was too late; Lord Forestfield
had seen her, or, rather, had noticed the fluttering of her robe
without recognising its wearer, and, after one or two inarticulate
efforts, he said, in a low and feeble voice:
'Are you there again, Mélanie? For how many nights now have I seen you
standing there, glaring at me with those bright black eyes, but never
saying a word? What makes me so weak, I wonder? I seem to be tied to
this bed without a possibility of moving from it. Mélanie darling,
have some pity on me Why are you always so cruel now? You were not so
once; recollect the happy days we have passed together. Sing to me,
Mélanie, my loved one; sing what you first sang to me that day at the
Gorge de Franchard--"Pour que je t'aime, ô mon poëte!" Ah, I have
forgotten it like everything else; my memory is all gone now. No,
stay; sing me this verse:
"L'oiseau qui marche dans l'allée
S'effraye et part au moindre bruit;
Ma passion est chose ailée
Et s'envole quand on la suit."'
As he ceased murmuring these words he made an attempt to touch her
hand, but May hastily drew back.
'This is too much,' she said, as she sank into a chair; 'I had not
looked for anything like this;' and she burst into tears.