CHAPTER LXI.—ALICE APPOINTS HER SUCCESSOR.
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!”