That supposed great arbiter of life and death, the London physician,
had departed, leaving at least one aching heart behind him; for
Coverdale could not disguise from himself that, although Sir J.
C-------- had not actually pronounced Alice’s sentence in plain words,
his intention had been to prepare him for the worst. In pity to Emily’s
youth and warm affection for her sister, he did not acquaint her with
the immediate proximity of the crisis on which depended their loved
one’s fate and his happiness; nor, not placing any great reliance on
Lord Alfred Courtland’s power of keeping a secret, did he enlighten him
either; but he made some excuse for detaining him and offering him a
bed, so that he might be unable to start on his mission to Hazlehurst
Grange until the next morning.
As the evening advanced, Alice, who had been alternately dozing and
waking up to bewail herself in wild, incoherent sentences, fell into a
deep, heavy sleep.
Dr. Gouger, having yielded to Harry’s earnest request that he would
return and sleep at Coverdale Park that night, set out to pay two or
three indispensable visits, promising to be back in good time.
About eleven o’clock, Emily used every argument she could think of to
try and induce Harry, who had sat up during the last three nights,
to allow her to take his place, but in vain; and reading in his pale,
anxious countenance that his mind was made up, she contented herself
with obtaining his promise that if any change took place, she should
be summoned immediately, went to bed, and dreamed that Lord Alfred
Courtland was a Persian prince, disguised as a physician, who had
brought a talisman to cure Alice, for which he was to be liberally and
appropriately rewarded with her (the dreamer’s) own fair hand and the
Archbishopric of Canterbury.
Emily had scarcely retired when Dr. Gouger returned. Alice was still
rapt in a heavy sleep, from which he gave strict orders she should not
be aroused.
“Who sits up with her?” he inquired.
“The nurse, of course,” returned Harry: “that is, if snoring in an
arm-chair deserves to be called so; and, until she is out of danger, or,
if it should be so, until God may see fit to take her from me, I will
never leave her!”
“Well, then, if she wakes of herself before morning, be very careful
not to startle or alarm her. Watch her eyes closely, and see if she
recognizes you; if she does so, that will be a favourable symptom; if
she speaks to you, control your feelings, and answer her quietly and
calmly; then instantly send for me. I think you perfectly understand?
Well, then, as I’ve ridden a good many miles to-day, and have even
a longer round to take to-morrow, I’ll go and lie down. I shall not
undress, so I can be with our patient the moment you send for me.”
Thus saying, the doctor, who was a short, plump, florid little man, with
a plain face preserved from insignificance by a pair of bright, keen
eyes, and a magnificent forehead, yawned twice, and betook himself to
the spare room allotted to him.
Twelve o’clock! Alice still asleep! The nurse having arranged
a formidable line of medicine bottles ready for use, produces a
well-thumbed volume from her pocket, and adjusting her spectacles,
sits down to read by the night-lamp. One o’clock! The nurse, after many
fruitless attempts to keep up appearances, and delude Harry into the
belief that she is wide awake, begins to nod over her book, occasionally
varying the performance by trying to swallow a suppressed snore, and
choking in the attempt. Two o’clock! No change in the patient; but the
nurse, who during the last half-hour has settled down into a deep and
undisguisable sleep, begins to snore so loudly that Coverdale, afraid of
her disturbing Alice, takes her by the shoulder, and leads her quietly,
but unresistingly, into the dressing-room, and seats her on a sofa; to
which discipline, the nurse, who has once or twice before experienced
the force of Harry’s quiet manner, submits with a lamb-like meekness
and docility, of which those who had seen her tyrannizing in the sick
chambers of her poorer clients, would scarcely have deemed her
capable. Three o’clock! How long the hours seem, and how dreary! The
stillness--broken only by the measured breathing of the patient and the
distant snoring of the banished nurse--the deep, solemn stillness of a
country house at night, becomes painfully oppressive to the overwrought
senses of the watcher. Will the crisis never arrive? Alice moves
slightly, and moans in her sleep. Harry trembles from head to foot. Is
she about to wake? Will she recognize him? No!--she sinks again into
a deep, heavy slumber, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief and of
thankfulness that the fearful moment is again postponed. Four o’clock!
The dim grey light of dawn begins to peep in through the opening in the
shutters, causing the lamp to shed lurid, flickering rays around the
sick room, and thus adding to, rather than diminishing, the darkness.
How cold it has become! and how every nerve and fibre in Harry’s injured
arm aches and throbs! What an eternity of anguish appears capable of
being condensed into a few minutes of severe bodily pain!
Hark! what is that low, wailing sound outside the window? He starts, and
turns pale! Why do those foolish, hateful legends of Banshees, throng
and crowd into his brain? Why does he remember with shivering dread that
old wife’s tale of a white lady who weeps and wrings her hands before
the death of any member of the Coverdale family? He laughed at it as a
boy, and dressed himself in white to frighten the maids. He cannot laugh
at it now! Again it comes, louder and more prolonged! but he knows
this time that it is the howling of a dog--the King Charles’s spaniel,
Alice’s pet, which he has been obliged to have tied up, lest it might
disturb her; but hitherto it had borne its confinement quietly. Why
should it howl so dismally to-night? Did any strange instinct warn it of
its mistress’s danger? Ah! that word--danger!--yes, a danger from which
all his deep fervent love, and his unequalled, manly strength, were
alike powerless to shield her. How crushed, and helpless, and miserable,
well-nigh despairing, he feels! And yet are they not both in the
hands of a merciful Father? God’s will be done! but as the words of
resignation pass his lips, the big tears roll down his cheeks as the
recollection of all that he might be resigning wrung his loving breast.
Covering his eyes with his hand, he strove to shut out all thought, all
feeling! How long he remained in this position he never knew; but as
soon as he removed his hand, it struck him that Alice had changed
her attitude. Shading his eyes from the glare of the lamp, he gazed
earnestly at her. Yes, she had moved, and surely she was awake. While
he yet looked, unable to trust the evidence of his senses, a soft, faint
voice, scarcely above a whisper, pronounced his name: so low was the
sound, that, fancying it might be a delusion of his own overwrought
senses, Harry bent down his head, as he asked, in a quiet, gentle tone
of voice--
“Alice, darling, are you awake? Did you call me?”
For a moment there was no reply, and then the same gentle voice
whispered--
“Harry, dear, you have been away a long, long time.”
As she spoke, she tried to raise her arm to draw his face nearer; but
the wasted muscles refused to do their duty, and the poor thin, almost
transparent hand, dropped powerless beside her.
“I am very weak, Harry, love,” she said; then, with an effort at
recollection, she added: “Where am I?--here, at home? Have I been ill
long?”
“You have been very ill, my own darling; but you will soon get well now.
Don’t try to talk, or think about it yet. I will fetch you a soothing
draught, and then you must endeavour to go to sleep again.”
Fearful of over-exciting her, he rose to call the nurse. As he turned to
leave her for this purpose, Alice again stretched out her hand to detain
him.
“Harry, love, do not go away, please. I will do everything you tell me,
but I shall die if I lose you again.”
Harry stooped, and kissed her pale, thin cheek.
“I am only going to call the nurse,” he said. “I will never leave you
any more, dearest!”
Alice faintly endeavoured to return his caress, and sank back exhausted
on her pillow.
Harry roused the still sleeping nurse, and dispatched her to summon Dr.
Gouger. Then returning to his wife’s bedside, he took her thin hand in
his; and as his affectionate pressure was feebly returned, the hope
that Alice might be restored to him a hope which that night of anxious
watching had nearly destroyed--began once more to reanimate him.
Dr. Gouger, accustomed to be called up at all hours of the night, made
his appearance in an incredibly short space of time. As he approached
the bed, Alice perceived him, and smiled faintly in token of
recognition--a favourable symptom, at which the doctor nodded approval.
Having made a careful examination of the patient, he prepared a draught,
which he gave her. Then saying, “Now try and go to sleep, my dear madam,
and I trust to find you much refreshed to-morrow morning,” he turned to
leave the room.
Harry followed him to the door.
“Well?” he said, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.
“The disease has worn itself out. Mrs. Coverdale is free from fever, and
the only thing we have now to fear is weakness,” was the doctor’s reply.
“She must be kept perfectly quiet both in mind and body for some days.
When she wakes in the morning, throw a cape or something over that arm
of yours; it might give her a shock if she were to perceive it suddenly.
It is a very favourable symptom her having recovered consciousness
so completely,--in fact, the case is going on as well as, under the
circumstances, I conceive to be possible.”
“Thank God!” was all the reply Harry could make; but as Alice, with
her hand in his, fell into a sound, refreshing slumber, his whole soul
poured itself out in silent but heartfelt thanksgiving to the Father of
all mercies, who had accepted his penitence, and again entrusted to his
care the tender flower which, in his inconsiderate carelessness, he had
once neglected.
When Emily came down to breakfast on the following morning, she quite
started with pleased surprise to perceive the bright, happy expression,
of her brother-in-law’s countenance.
“I need not ask whether Alice is better,” she began; “I can read it in
your face. But has any great change taken place since yesterday?”
In reply to her question, Harry told her all--told her even more than he
had ever confessed to himself--how, day by day, his hopes had diminished
and his fears increased, until, after the physician’s caution on
the previous morning, he had made up his mind that the medical men
considered Alice dying; how he had concealed from her that the crisis of
the complaint was at hand, and how he had passed the night in an agony
of trembling expectation, longing for and yet dreading the moment in
which she should awake; together with his delight when he heard her
pronounce his name.
Lord Alfred Courtland set off in high glee for Hazlehurst Grange,
certain of a hearty welcome, as bearer of such good tidings, and
happier, as he declared, than he had felt for the last six months.
A week passed away. For two or three days, Alice appeared to progress
favourably--as favourably as even her husband’s anxiety could desire.
She knew every one, and conversed reasonably upon all subjects; but with
the return of consciousness, a settled melancholy appeared to have
taken possession of her. This, together with her extreme weakness, gave
uneasiness alike to her indefatigable nurses, Harry and Emily, and to
Dr. Gouger. Taking Harry aside one morning, he began--
“There are symptoms about Mrs. Coverdale which I cannot understand,
and which appear to me more mental than bodily. They are retarding her
recovery; and if you could ascertain the cause, and were able to remove
it, I do not hesitate to tell you that you would prove a more effectual
physician than I, or any one else, can be to her; but you must bear
in mind her state of extreme debility; she is not fit to discuss any
exciting topic at present.”
“Then how would you recommend me to proceed?” inquired Harry, the
doctor’s warning having impressed him with two diametrically opposite
ideas:--first, that it behoved him to ascertain whether anything, and
(if anything) _what_, was preying upon his wife’s mind; and, secondly,
that by so doing, he should probably lead her to talk on some exciting
subject, which, in her present weak state, was the thing of all others
to be avoided. How were these difficulties to be reconciled?
Dr. Gouger’s answer did not tend greatly to elucidate matters.
“Really, my dear sir, _that_ is a point on which I can give you no
advice. In the treatment of all bodily ailments, I, with all due
deference to my professional brethren, consider myself as competent as
any man; but were I so far to overstep my proper province as to attempt
to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ as our great poet has it, I should be
guilty of unpardonable presumption. No, my dear sir, I have given you
the suggestion, and must leave it to your sound judgment how far, or in
what way, it may be desirable to act upon it.”
Poor Harry! just the very points upon which he felt most incompetent to
form an opinion, were those on which he was called upon to decide and
act; but Harry had one adviser which never failed him--his own simple,
straightforward common sense; and to that, and the so-called chapter of
accidents, he resolved to trust.
During the remainder of that day, however, the aforesaid chapter did
not afford him the opportunity he sought for. Alice appeared weak and
depressed, and more inclined to sleep than to converse. On the following
morning, she seemed a degree stronger and less disinclined to exertion.
She inquired into the particulars of the steeple-chase, and especially
interested herself in all the details relating to the leap at which he
met with his accident, and his “pluck” in remounting and winning the
race with a broken arm.
After Harry had given a full, true, and particular account of the affair
from beginning to end, and his wife had evinced all proper interest and
sympathy, a pause ensued in the conversation, which was broken by Alice.
“Emily has been telling me how you _would_ sit up with me, night after
night, when you ought to have been lying in bed yourself with your poor
arm,” she said; “how kind and good it was of you! I hope you do not
suffer very much pain now?”
“Oh, no! it is troublesome at times, but in general it is pretty easy,”
was the reply.
After another pause, Alice asked, in a low, trembling voice--
“Did you think I should die, Harry?”
“I was naturally very anxious and unhappy about you,” returned
Coverdale, “and--well, since you are getting on so nicely, I will
confess that I was terribly frightened about you at one time,--that
night on which the crisis took place especially; I never wish to pass
such another six hours, I assure you!”
“Harry, love, I hope it would not make you very unhappy to lose me. Just
a little sorry I should wish you to feel; I should like you, when you
are recollecting me, to think, ‘she was a poor, foolish little thing,
very obstinate and perverse at times, but still she loved me as well as
such a silly little thing could.’”
“Alice, my own darling, why indulge in such gloomy fancies?” replied her
husband, tenderly; “you know, you must be sure, it would break my heart
to lose you. Ask Emily whether I am not a different creature since the
doctors have pronounced you out of danger?”
“Harry, my own dearest husband, I love to hear you say that, and I know
it is true; but, dear Harry, you must not be very unhappy if such a
thing were to occur, for--for--I think I shall die yet; I think I grow
weaker and weaker every day; I shall never have strength enough to get
well again.”
Coverdale was about to interrupt her, but she placed her finger on his
lips to imply her wish that he should remain silent as she continued--
“Yes, dearest, I believe I am gradually sinking into my grave; it made
me very, very unhappy at first; for life is pleasant, and I am young
to die! besides, I know, love, what a bad, tiresome wife I have been to
you, and I did so want to try if I could not do better; I know what a
proud rebellious, wilful temper I have shown towards you, but indeed I
don’t think I have altogether a bad heart, and I did hope if I tried,
very hard, perhaps I could make you happy; but lately I have begun to
think it may be better for you as it is.”
“My own darling, what strange, silly fancies are these? Gouger says you
are going on as well as possible; you make me wretched to hear you talk
so, and what _do_ you mean by it being better for me as it is? If I were
to lose you, I should never know another happy hour.”
“You think so now, dear,” was the reply, “and very kind it is of you to
be so fond of your naughty, tiresome little wife; and I know you will
be very unhappy at first when I die; but you must go abroad or take a
shooting tour somewhere, to keep you from thinking and fretting about
me; and--you must not be angry at what I am going to say, dear--in a
year or so you must come back, and then you can marry some one who will
make you a better wife than poor, silly little Alice--some one who has
been attached to you a long time, and whom there will be no reason why
you should not love in return when I am out of the way; she is more
clever and courageous than I am, and will be able to enter into your
pursuits, and help you with your magistrate’s business, and--and--oh! I
am sure you will be very happy with her, dear!”