CHAPTER XLIX.
A WELCOME PRESCRIPTION.
Savage Mamma Francoise was not an unskillful nurse, and Leslie was soon restored to consciousness. But not to strength; the little that she had gained was spent by that long interview, with all its attendant conflicting emotions, and Leslie lay, strengthless once more, at the mercy of her enemies.
After much thinking, Mamma had decided that Franz had offered sound advice, and having exhausted her own resources, she set out to consult Doctor Bayless.
Her visit was in every way satisfactory. Doctor Bayless manifested no undue curiosity; seemed to comprehend the case as Mamma put it; prepared the necessary remedies, and spoke encouragingly of the patient.
“These relapses occur often after fevers,” he said; “the result of too much ambition. You understand about the drops, yes? These powders you will administer properly; not too often, remember. Careful nursing will do the rest. Ah, good-day.”
“Ye needn’t be afraid to take yer medicine,” said Mamma to her patient, coming to the bedside with a dose of the aforesaid “drops.” “‘Tain’t no part of my plans to let ye die. I intend to nurse ye through, but I tell ye plain that when ye’re better ye’ll have to settle this business with Franzy. When ye’re on yer feet agin, I’m goin’ to wash my hands of ye. But ye may not find Franz so easily got rid of, mind that.”
Realizing her helplessness, Leslie swallowed the drops and then lay back, pale and panting, upon her pillow. As the moments passed, she could feel the liquid coursing its way through her veins; her nerves ceased to quiver, a strange calm crept over her, her pulses throbbed quite steadily. She was very weak, but found herself able to think clearly.
Half an hour later, Doctor Bayless appeared upon the Francoise threshold, a small vial in his hand, a look of anxiety upon his countenance.
He pushed his way into the room, in spite of the less than half opened door, and Mamma’s lukewarm welcome. He seemed to notice neither. Still less did he concern himself with Papa and Franz, partaking of luncheon in the opposite corner of the room.
He addressed Mamma almost breathlessly.
Had the drops been administered?
Mamma replied in the affirmative.
Then he must see the patient at once. There had been a dangerous mistake. By some inadvertence he had exchanged two similar vials; he had given Mamma the wrong medicine. The result might prove fatal.
It was no time for parley or hesitation. Mamma promptly led the way to the inner room.
As Leslie greeted her visitor with a look of inquiry, Doctor Bayless, standing by the bedside, with his back to Mamma, put a warning forefinger upon his lips, his eyes meeting Leslie’s with a glance full of meaning.
“Keep perfectly quiet, young woman,” he said in his best professional tone. And as Mamma presented a chair, he seated himself close beside the bed and bent over his patient, seemingly intent upon her symptoms.
Presently he turned toward Mamma.
“I must have warm water; prepare it at once.” Then rising, he followed Mamma to the door, saying in a low tone: “Your patient must have perfect quiet; let there be no loud noise about the house. Now the water, if you please, and make haste.”
He turned and went back to the bedside, seated himself as before, and taking one of the patient’s hands, seemed intently marking every pulse-beat. A look of deep concern rested upon his face; and Mamma closed the door softly and went about her task.
“Old un,” began Franz, “ye’re gittin’ careless—”
“Sh!” whispered Mamma; “no noise.”
But Franz, with a crafty leer, left his place at the table and tiptoed to the door, where he crouched, applying alternately his eye and his ear to the keyhole, while Mamma busied herself at the fire.
But Franz caught no word from the inner room, for Doctor Bayless never once opened his lips. The watcher could see his large form bending over the bed, with one hand slightly upraised as if holding a watch, the other resting upon the wrist of the patient.
But Leslie saw more than this. Locked in that strange calm, she saw the doctor’s hand go to his side, and take from a pocket a card which quite filled his palm.
Holding this card so that Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face.
The card contained these words, closely written in a fine, firm hand:
Seem to submit to their plans. We can conquer in no other way. At the right time I shall be at hand, and no harm shall befall you. Let them play their game to the very last; it shall not go too far. Feign a continual stupor; they will believe it the result of drugs. Trust all to me, and believe your troubles almost over.
Stanhope.
Three times did Leslie’s eyes peruse these words, and in spite of that powerful soothing draught, her composure almost forsook her. But she controlled herself bravely, and only by a long look of hopeful intelligence, and a very slight gesture, did she respond to this written message so sorely needed, so welcome, so fraught with hope.
When Mamma returned with the water, Leslie lay quiet among the pillows, her eyes half closed, and no trace of emotion in her face. But her heart was beating with a new impulse. That message had brought with it a comforting sense of protection, and of help near at hand.
The last instructions of Doctor Bayless, too, fell upon her ear with hopeful meaning, although they were spoken, apparently, for Mamma’s sole benefit.
“She is a trifle dull,” he said, turning from the bed and confronting Mamma. “It’s the result of that mistaken dose, in part. In part, it’s the natural outcome of her fever. It’s better for her; she will gain strength faster so. These powders”—depositing a packet of paper folds in Mamma’s hand,—“are to strengthen and to soothe. She must take them regularly. She will be a little dull under their influence, very docile and easy to manage, but she will gain strength quite rapidly. In a week, if she is not unnerved or excited, she should be able to be up, to be out.”
Once more he turned toward Leslie, and took her hand in his.
What Mamma saw, was a careful physician going through with a last professional formula. What Leslie felt, was a warm, reassuring hand-clasp, friendly rather than professional.
When he had gone, Leslie lay quiet, repeating over and over in her mind the words of Stanhope’s note, and feeling throughout her entire being a strong, new desire to live.