RELEASED.
Some ten days after May's arrival in Seamore-place, owing principally
to her constant care and watchfulness, and the unremitting attention
with which she devoted herself to him, Lord Forestfield was pronounced
not merely to be out of danger, but well on his way to convalescence.
It had been a desperate trial for May, not only as regards her bodily
strength, which during her long vigils was taxed beyond its powers of
endurance, but to her mind, which, so long at least as her husband's
delirium continued, was kept ever on the rack. When, with his
returning senses, Lord Forestfield recognised his wife, and realised
all that she had done for him during his illness, he seemed, for the
first time in his life, to be profoundly touched, and indeed became so
excited as to give ground for fearing that, in his then weak and
almost prostrate condition, he would suffer a relapse. As his strength
gradually returned to him, he grew more anxious that May should be
constantly in his sight, more exacting in his demands on her time and
attention; and this, not in the usual querulous and complaining tone
of an invalid, which he adopted towards all others, but with that
yearning tenderness of which he had never previously manifested any
sign.
One day, as he was sitting propped up with pillows in an easy-chair,
and she, at his request, was reading to him from the newspaper, he
took her hand between his, still thin and gaunt, but freed now from
the burning fever, and spoke to her as he had never spoken for years,
as he had probably never spoken at all before. In his weak-voice there
was something of the earnest fervour which took her back to the time
of their first acquaintance--all his words then were tinged with the
roseate hue of youth and love--what he said now was spoken
falteringly, and seemed at least to bear the impress of truth. He told
her that he had done her grievous wrong, and that whatever faults she
might have committed he was, in the first instance, to blame for the
manner in which he had neglected her and left her at the mercy of
others. He acknowledged that he had been cruel, harsh, and
unsympathetic, blaming his bringing-up, by which he had never been
taught to bridle his passions or to look for the possibility of the
non-fulfilment of any of his wishes, and he promised her that if, when
his strength was fully recovered, she would remain with him, as
forgiving and as loyal as she had been during his illness, he would
prove to her the alteration that time and trouble had worked in him,
and devote himself for the remainder of his life to secure her
happiness.
Was May to believe in so radical a reformation thus easily worked? The
experience of her past life convinced her to the contrary; and yet the
attempt must be made. She would shut out all those recollections of
insult suffered and misery undergone, which came thronging upon her at
the mere idea of renewing her life with her husband; she would forget
the more recent horror with which the revelations in his ravings had
inspired her; it was her duty to accept his proposition, and she would
do it. Lord Forestfield was exhausted by the fatigue which he had
undergone in speaking to her at such length, and May, telling him that
she had been warned against allowing him to excite himself, promised
to talk to him on the subject to-morrow.
The next morning at an early hour, while Dr. Whitaker was sleeping the
sleep of the just, his bell was rung furiously by a messenger from
Seamore-place, who brought a request from the nurse that the doctor
would come there at once, as Lady Forestfield was very ill. Dr.
Whitaker shook his head when he received this message, and told his
wife he had been all along afraid that her ladyship might contract
typhus from her husband, and that, as in nursing and attendance she
had exhausted the stock of health which she had brought with her from
the country, it was not improbable that it might go hard with her.
After Dr. Whitaker had visited May he shook his head more dolefully
still; and the nurse, who had been relieved of her attendance on Lord
Forestfield owing to his convalescence, and had transferred her care
to the new patient, was observed, after a hurried and whispered talk
with the physician, to have tears in her eyes. That night it became
known throughout the household that her ladyship was in a very bad
way. The attack was a desperate and a malignant one, and, as Dr.
Whitaker had said, such health and strength as she had acquired during
her sojourn at Woodburn were already exhausted by her close
confinement to the sick-room, and she could not make headway against
it.
She had but little delirium, and even when the fever was at its worst
her head was tolerably clear; so that, as she lay during the long day,
and still longer night, she would muse over all that had been, over
what was so shortly to be. For May felt that she was dying; she had an
intuitive perception that for her all was nearly over; that she should
never rise from that couch, to take even so small a part in the
world's affairs as she had hitherto played, again. That thought
brought no sadness with it. There was a time, only a few weeks since,
when in the first flush of her enjoyment of the beauties of nature, of
the freedom from care and calmness of spirits which came upon her
after her arrival at Woodburn, she felt that life had yet a hitherto
unknown charm in store for her; but since her return to Seamore-place
that notion had been entirely put aside. She had remembered once more
that she was Lord Forestfield's wife, and she had heard him express
with his own lips his desire that they should pass the remainder of
their lives together. That desire May had determined should be
fulfilled. She had made up her mind to do her duty, and she would have
done it at any cost; but there were passages in her husband's conduct
during the earlier portions of their married life which she had found
it impossible to forget, and the remembrance of which had been aroused
by his ravings during his delirium. O, how much better 'dark death and
dreamful ease' than a prolongation of the life of sin and shame, of
constant fear of discovery, of frantic search after so-called
pleasure, and sickening disgust so soon as the momentary recklessness
was over! Better, far better, that her name, now almost forgotten,
should never be heard of again, and that her husband--whose contrition
for the part he had played towards her was, May could not help
feeling, a spasmodic result of his recent illness, to be forgotten
when his strength returned--should be freed from the incumbrance which
her presence must necessarily be to him.
This view of Lord Forestfield's character was tolerably correct. So
soon as he had 'turned the corner,' as he phrased it--so soon as he
had recovered his appetite, and convalescence had once set in--his
progress towards recovery was wonderfully rapid. Soon he began to take
carriage airings; and as in passing through the streets he recognised
his friends, and again looked upon the vast panorama of London life,
from which he had been so long excluded, the good impulses which had
recently sprung up within him died away, and the old desires were as
rampant as ever. It was lucky, he thought, that in his weakness he had
a sufficient excuse for going but seldom into his wife's sick-room. He
would look in there in the morning when he first got up, and in the
evening before he went to bed--for his health was not yet sufficiently
reestablished to allow him to keep late hours, or in any way to play
tricks with himself--and, if May were awake, he would say a few words
to her; if her eyes were closed, as was generally the case, he would
content himself with a nod to the nurse and disappear. On the sixth
day of his wife's illness Lord Forestfield met Dr. Whitaker coming
down the stairs with a very solemn face, and, taking him aside, asked
him his impression of the result. There is probably no man without
some spice of good in him; and with all his snobbishness and
garrulity, Dr. Whitaker had a sincere affection, based partly on
regard, partly on the advantageous use which he had been enabled to
make of the three thousand pounds which she brought him as her
marriage portion, for his own wife. He was greatly disgusted at what
he rightly conceived to be Lord Forestfield's motive in making this
inquiry, and referred his lordship to Divine Providence with much
greater asperity than he was accustomed to use in dealing with persons
of title.
One morning the nurse waited upon Lord Forestfield with a message from
May to beg that Sir Nugent Uffington might be sent for to see her, as
she had one or two important matters on which she wished to
communicate with him. Forestfield made no immediate reply; and the
woman, noticing his heavy frown and the angry flush which spread over
his face, said: 'I don't think, if I was you, my lord, I would deny
her anything, poor lamb. She has had a dreadful night--scarcely a
minute's sleep from first to last--and there's no doubt she's
sinking.'
'Do you think so, nurse?' asked Forestfield, with all the colour
fading from his face. 'Do you think she is going from us?'
'If she continues losing strength as fast as she has done during the
last twenty-four hours, she can't be alive to-morrow morning,' said
the woman; 'and it would be a sad thought for you afterwards, my lord,
to think you had acted in any way contrary to the poor dear.'
'Tell them to send a groom down to the Albany at once,' said
Forestfield, 'to say to Sir Nugent Uffington, with my compliments,
that Lady Forestfield is very ill, and would be glad to speak to him
directly.' Then he shut himself up in his room and fell into a
reverie. Hitherto he had only dimly contemplated the idea of losing
his wife; now, if what the woman said was correct, her death must be a
certainty. In the multitude of thoughts which came crowding upon his
brain, regret for the loss of the woman whom he had sworn to love, and
to whom he had quite recently renewed his vow, had no part. What
struck him most forcibly, and remained by him longest, was the
reflection that he would be free to do as he liked, and that she would
be no longer a reproach to him. That thought was still in his mind,
when the messenger returned to say that Sir Nugent Uffington was at
Brighton, but that a telegram had been despatched to him.
Uffington arrived that afternoon. Lord Forestfield was out, the nurse
said, but she had orders to show him at once into the sick-room. Her
ladyship was very bad, the woman said, in answer to his eager inquiry,
'was sinking fast, and could not possibly last through the night, but
was wonderfully calm and composed, and had all her senses about her.'
Uffington set his teeth hard, and followed his guide with a noiseless
footstep.
In the uncertain twilight he saw May lying on the bed, covered with a
light cashmere shawl. She was dreadfully wan and emaciated; but she
knew him as he approached, and welcomed him with something like one of
her old smiles.
'I knew you would come,' she said in a very low voice; 'and I knew you
would be shocked at the change in me, and at the thought that I was
going to die. So I would not send for you--until--until the very
last.'
'You should have let me know sooner of your illness,' said Uffington,
with tears rolling down his cheeks. 'I was at Brighton when your
message arrived.'
'Yes, I know,' said May. 'Mrs. Chadwick and Eleanor are there, are
they not?'
'They are,' said Uffington. 'I came straight from their house.'
'Tell me,' said May, laying her thin burning hand on his. 'I always
thought you liked Eleanor; was I right?'
'You were,' said Uffington. 'I have told her so, and she has agreed to
marry me.'
'Ah, thank God for that!' said May reverently. 'Eleanor's happiness
was all I was anxious for; for I loved her very dearly.'
'And she loves you better than any one on earth--better than she loves
me, I fancy. She wanted me to bring her to you now.'
'No, no; that would never do--she must not run any risk. Besides,'
added May, with a faint sweet smile, 'it is too late now. But I wanted
to see you to say good-bye. I could not have died in peace without
telling you how truly grateful I am to you for all that you did for
me. No brother could have striven harder for his sister than you have
done for me. And I was so happy at Woodburn, all brought about by you.
I once thought I should have liked to remain there; but it is better
as it is--much better as it is.'
She paused for a minute and her eyelids dropped. Then she raised them,
looking up at him, and saying, in a still lower voice:
'You must go now, I think; I feel so strangely weary. Say good-bye to
me, my kindest, my best friend.'
He bent down over her, and murmuring 'God bless you!' touched her
uplifted forehead with his lips; then turned away with a convulsive
sob, burying his face in his hands. When he looked round again the
nurse was bending over the bed. Presently she turned round, nodded her
head slowly, and with her finger pointed upward.
May Forestfield was dead.