Old Mildred secured the door, and Tom took the horse round to the stable, and as she held her husband clasped in her arms, tears, long denied to her, came to her relief, and she wept long and convulsingly.
“Oh, Ry, it has been such a dreadful time; but you’re safe, aren’t you?”
“Quite. Oh! yes, quite darling — very well.”
“But, oh, Ry, you look so tired. You’re not ill, are you, darling?”
“Not ill, only tired. Nothing, not much, tired and stupid, want of rest.”
“You must have some wine, you look so very ill.”
“Well, yes, I’m tired. Thanks, Mildred, that will do,” and he drank the glass of sherry she gave him.
“A drop more?” inquired old Mildred, holding the decanter stooped over his glass.
“No, thanks, no, I — it tastes oddly — or perhaps I’m not quite well after all.”
Charles now felt his mind clear again, and his retrospect was uncrossed by those spectral illusions of the memory that seem to threaten the brain with subjugation.
Better the finger of death than of madness should touch his brain, perhaps. His love for his wife, not dethroned, only in abeyance, was restored. Such dialogues as theirs are little interesting to any but the interlocutors.
With their fear and pain, agitated, troubled, there is love in their words. Those words, then, though in him, troubled with inward upbraidings, in her with secret fears and cares, are precious. There may not be many more between them.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE WYKEFORD DOCTOR.
A few days had passed and a great change had come. Charles Fairfield, the master of the Grange, lay in his bed, and the Wykeford doctor admitted to Alice that he could not say what might happen. It was a very grave case — fever — and the patient could not have been worse handled in those early days of the attack, on which sometimes so much depends.
People went to and fro’ on tiptoe, and talked in whispers, and the patient moaned, and prattled, unconscious generally of all that was passing. Awful hours and days of suspense! The Doctor said, and perhaps he was right, to kind Lady Wyndale, who came over to see Alice, and learned with consternation the state of things, that, under the special circumstances, her nerves having been so violently acted upon by terror, this diversion of pain and thought into quite another channel might be the best thing, on the whole, that could have happened to her.
It was now the sixth day of this undetermined ordeal.
Alice watched the Doctor’s countenance with her very soul in her eyes, as he made his inspection, standing at the bedside, and now and then putting a question to Dulcibella or to Alice, or to the nurse whom he had sent to do duty in the sick-room from Wykeford.
“Well?” whispered poor Alice, who had accompanied him downstairs, and pale as death, drew him into the sitting-room, and asked her question.
“Well, Doctor, what do you think to-day?”
“Not much to report. Very little change. We must have patience, you know, for a day or two; and you need not to be told, my dear ma’am, that good nursing is half the battle, and in better hands he need not be; I’m only afraid that you are undertaking too much yourself. That woman, Marks, you may rely upon, implicitly; a most respectable and intelligent person; I never knew her to make a mistake yet, and she has been more than ten years at this work.”
“Yes, I’m sure she is. I like her very much. And don’t you think him a little better?” she pleaded.
“Well, you know, as long as he holds his own and don’t lose ground, he is better; that’s all we can say; not to be worse, as time elapses, is in effect, to be better; that you may say.”
She was looking earnestly into the clear blue eyes of the old man, who turned them kindly upon her, from under his shaggy white eyebrows.
“Oh! thank God, then you do think him better?”
“In that sense, yes,” he answered cautiously, “but, of course, we must have patience, and we shall soon know more, a great deal more, and I do sincerely hope it may all turn out quite right; but the brain has been a good deal overpowered; there’s a tendency to a sort of state we call comatose; it indicates too much pressure there, d’ye see. I’d rather have him talking more nonsense, with less of that sleep, as you suppose it, but it isn’t sleep, — a very different sort of thing. I’ve been trying to salivate him, but he’s plaguy obstinate. We’ll try tonight what dividing the pills into four each, and shortening the intervals a little will do; it sometimes does wonders — we’ll see — and a great deal depends on our succeeding in salivating. If we succeeded in effecting that, I think all the rest would proceed satisfactorily, that’s one of our difficulties just at this moment. If you send over your little messenger, the sooner the better, she shall have the pills, and let him take one the moment they come — pretty flower that is,” he interpolated, touching the petal of one that stood neglected, in its pot, on a little table at the window. “That’s not a geranium: it’s a pelargonium. I did not know there were such things down here — and you’ll continue, I told her everything else, and go on just as before.”
“And you think he’s better — I mean just a little?” she pleaded again.
“Well, well, you know, I said all I could, and we must hope — we must hope, you know, that everything may go on satisfactorily, and I’ll go further. I’ll say I don’t see at all why we should despair of such a result. Keep up your spirits, ma’am, and be cheery. We’ll do our duty all, and leave the rest in the hands of God.”
“And I suppose, Dr. Willett, we shall see you tomorrow at the usual hour?”
“Certainly, ma’am, and I don’t think there will be any change to speak of till, probably, Thursday.”
And her heart sank down with one dreadful dive at mention of that day of trial that might so easily be a day of doom.
And she answered his farewell, and smiled faintly, and followed his steps through the passage, freezing with that fear, it seemed, that she did not breathe, and that her heart ceased beating, and that she glided like a spirit. She stopped, and he passed into the yard to his horse, turning his shrewd, pale face, with a smile and a nod, as he stepped across the door-stone, and he said —
“Goodbye, ma’am, and look out for me tomorrow as usual, and be cheery, mind. Look at the bright side, you know; there’s no reason you shouldn’t.”
She answered his smile as best she could, but her heart was full; an immense sorrow was there. She was frightened. She hurried into the homely sitting-room, and wept in an agony unspeakable.
The doctor, she saw, pitied and wished to cheer her; but how dreadful was his guarded language. She thought that he would speak to others in a different vein, and so, in fact, he did. His opinion was clear against Charles Fairfield’s chance of ever being on his feet again. “It was a great pity — a young fellow.” The doctor thought everyone young whose years were ten less than his own. “A tall, handsome fellow like that, and Squire of Wyvern in a year or two, and a goodnatured sort of fellow he heard. It was a pity, and that poor little wife of his — and likely to be a mother soon — God help her.”
VOLUME III.
CHAPTER I.
SPEECH RETURNS.
The dreaded day came and passed, and Charles Fairfield was not dead, but better. The fever was abating, but never did the vital spark burn lower in living man. Seeing that life was so low in his patient, that there was nothing between it and death, the doctor ordered certain measures to be taken.
“The fever is going, you see, but his strength is not coming, nor won’t for a while. It’s a very nice thing, I can tell you, to bring him to land with such fine tackle. I’ve brought a salmon ten pound weight into my net with a bit of a trout rod as light as a rush almost. But this is nicer play — not, mind you, that I’d have you in the dumps, ma’am, but it will be necessary to watch him as a cat would a mouse. Now, you’ll have on the table by his bed three bottles — decanted all, and ready for use instantaneously. Beside that claret you’ll have a bottle of port, an
d you must also have a bottle of brandy. He’ll be always at his tricks, going to faint, and you mustn’t let him. Because, ma’am, it might not be easy to get him out of such a faint, and a faint is death, ma’am, if it lasts long enough. Now, you’re not to be frightened.”
“Oh, no, Doctor Willett.”
“No, that would not do neither; but I want you clearly to see the importance of it. Let him have the claret to his lips constantly — in a tumbler, mind — you can’t give him too much; and whenever you see him look faint, you must reinforce that with port; and no mincing of matters — none of your half measures. I’d rather you made him drunk three times a day than run the least risk once of the other thing; and if the port doesn’t get him up quick enough, you must fire away with the brandy; and don’t spare it — don’t be afraid — we’ll get him round, in time, with jellies and other good things; but life must be maintained in the meanwhile any way — every way — whatever way we can. So mind, three — claret, port, brandy.”
He held up three fingers as he named them, touching them in succession.
“That’s a fire it’s better should burn a bit too fiercely for an hour than sink too low for a second; once out, out for ever.”
“Thanks, Doctor Willett, I understand quite; and you’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you, at the usual hour?”
“Certainly, ma’am, and it’s high time you should begin to take a little care of yourself; you must, indeed, or you’ll rue it; you’re too much on your feet, and you have had no rest night or day, and it’s quite necessary you should, unless you mean to put yourself out of the world, which would not do at all. We can’t spare you, ma’am, we can’t indeed — a deal too valuable.”
For some time Charles Fairfield continued in very much the same state. At the end of three or four days he signed faintly to Alice, who was in the room, with her large soft eyes gazing on the invalid, whenever she could look unperceived. She got up gently and came close to him.
“Yes, darling,” and she lowered her head that he might speak more easily.
Charles whispered —
“Quite well?”
“You feel quite well? Thank God,” she answered, her large eyes filling with tears.
“Not I — you,” he whispered, with querulous impatience; “ain’t you?”
“Quite, darling.”
His fine blue Fairfield eyes were raised to her face.
With a short sigh, he whispered, —
“I’m glad.”
She stooped gently and kissed his thin cheek.
“I’ve been dreaming so much,” he whispered. “Will you tell me exactly what happened — just before my illness — something happened here?”
In a low murmur she told him.
When she stopped he waited as if expecting more, and then he whispered —
“I thought so — yes.”
And he sighed heavily.
“You’re tired, darling,” she said; “you must take a little wine.”
“I hate it,” he whispered— “tired of it.”
“But, darling, the doctor says you must — and — for my sake won’t you?”
The faintest possible smile lighted his pale face.
“Kind,” he whispered.
And when she placed the glass of claret to his lips he sipped a little and turned away his head languidly.
“Enough. Bring me my dressing-case,” he whispered.
She did so.
“The key was in my purse, I think. Open it, Ally.”
She found the key and unlocked that inlaid box.
“Underneath there are two or three letters in a big envelope. Keep them for me; don’t part with them,” he whispered.
She lifted a long envelope containing some papers, and the faintest nod indicated that they were what he sought.
“Keep it safe. Put the case away.”
When she came back, looking at her, he raised his eyebrows ever so little, and moved his head. She understood his sign and stooped again to listen.
“She mustn’t be prosecuted, she’s mad — Ally, mind.”
“Darling, whatever you wish.”
“Good, Ally; that’s enough.”
There was a little pause.
“You did not take enough claret, darling Ry. Won’t you take a little more for your poor little Ally?” whispered she anxiously.
“I’m very well, darling; by-and-by sleep; is better.”
So he laid his cheek closer to the pillow and closed his eyes, and Alice Fairfield stole on tiptoe to her chair, and with another look at him and a deep sigh, she sat down and took her work.
Silent was the room, except for the low breathing of the invalid. Half an hour passed, and Alice stole softly to the bedside. He was awake, and said faintly, —
“Was it your mother?”
“Who, darling?”
“Talking.”
“No one was talking, darling.”
“I saw her; I thought I heard — not her — someone talking.”
“No, darling Ry, nothing.”
“Dreams; yes,” he murmured, and was quiet again.
Sad and ominous seemed those little wanderings. But such things are common in sickness. It was simply weakness.
In a little time she came over softly, and sat down by his pillow.
“I was looking down, Ally,” he whispered.
“I’ll get it, darling. Something on the floor, is it?” she asked, looking down.
“No, down to my feet; it’s very long — stretched.”
“Are your feet warm, darling?”
“Quite,” and he sighed and closed his eyes.
She continued sitting by his pillow.
“When Willie died, my brother, I was just fifteen.”
Then came a pause.
“Willie was the handsomest,” he murmured on.
“Willie was elder — nineteen, very tall. Handsome Willie, he liked me the best. I cried a deal that day. I used to cry alone, every day in the orchard, or by the river. He’s in the churchyard at Wyvern. I wonder shall I see it any more. There was rain the day of the funeral, they say it is lucky. It was a long coffin, the Fairfields you know — — “
“Darling Ry, you are talking too much, it will tire you; take ever so little claret, to please your poor little Ally.”
This time he did quite quietly, and then closed his eyes, and dozed.
CHAPTER II.
HARRY DRINKS A GLASS AND SPILLS A GLASS.
About an hour after, old Dulcibella came to the door and knocked. Charles Fairfield had slept a little, and was again awake. Into that still darkened room she came to whisper her message.
“Mr. Harry’s come, and he’s downstairs, and he’d like to see you, and he wanted to know whether he could see the master.”
“I’ll go down and see him; say I’ll see him with pleasure,” said Alice. “Harry is here, darling,” she said gently, drawing near to the patient, “but you can’t see him, of course.”
“I must,” whispered the invalid peremptorily.
“Darling, are you well enough? I’m sure you ought not. If the doctor were here he would not allow it. Don’t think of it, darling Ry, and he’ll come again in a few days, when you are stronger.”
“It will do me good,” whispered Charles. “Bring him — you tire me; wait, she can tell him. I’ll see him alone; go, go, Ally, go.”
She would have remonstrated, but she saw that in his flushed and irritated looks, which warned her against opposing him further.
“You are to go down, Dulcibella, and bring Mr. Harry to the room to see your master; and Dulcibella, like a dear good creature, won’t you tell him how weak Master Charles is?” she urged, following her to the lobby, “and beg of him not to stay long.”
In a minute or two more the clank of Harry Fairfield’s boot was heard on the stair. He pushed open the door, and stepped in.
“Hullo! Charlie — dark enough to blind a horse here — all right, now. I hear you’ll be on your legs ag
ain — I can’t see you, upon my soul, not a stim a’most — before you see three Sundays — you mustn’t be tiring yourself. I’m not talking too loud, eh? Would you mind an inch or two more of the shutter open?”
“No,” said Charles, faintly. “A little.”
“There, that isn’t much. I’m beginning to see a bit now. You’ve had a stiff bout this time, Charlie, ’twasn’t typhus, nothing infectious, chiefly the upper story; but you had a squeak for it, my lad. I’d ‘a came over to look after you but my hands was too full.”
“No good, Harry; could not have spoken, or seen you. Better now.”
“A bit shaky still,” said Harry, lowering his voice. “You’ll get o’er that, though, fast enough. Keeping your spirits up, I see,” and Harry winked at the decanters. “Summat better than that rot-gut claret, too. This is the stuff to put life in you. Port, yes.” He filled his brother’s glass, smelled to it, and drank it off. “So it is, and right good port. I’ll drink your health, Charlie,” he added, playfully filling his glass again.
“I’m glad you came, Harry, I feel better,” said the invalid, and he extended his thin hand upon the bed to his brother.
“Hoot! of course you do,” said Harry, looking hard at him, for he was growing accustomed to the imperfect light. “You’ll do very well, and Alice, I hear, is quite well also. And so you’ve had a visit from the old soldier, and a bit of a row, eh?”
“Very bad, Harry. Oh! God help me,” moaned Charles.
“She ain’t pretty, and she ain’t pleasant — bad without and worse within, like a collier’s sack,” said Harry, with a disgusted grimace, lifting his eyebrows and shaking his head.
“She’s headlong and headstrong, and so there has been bad work. I don’t know what’s to be done.”
“The best thing to be done’s to let her alone,” said Harry. “They’ve put her up at Hatherton, I hear.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 506