[CHAPTER XI.]
MRS. CALVERLEY LOSES HER COMPANION.
Within half an hour after Pauline's return, Alice Claxton awoke to consciousness, dully and heavily at first, with dazed eyes, with a sense of oppression at her head and heart, with an impossibility to collect her thoughts, to make out where she was, or what was passing around her. Gradually this feeling of helplessness and indecision subsided. She recognised Pauline, who was bending over her and softly bathing her forehead with eau-de-cologne; and with that recognition the flood-gates of memory were opened, and the recollection of her widowhood and her grief rushed into her mind.
In an instant Pauline saw what had happened, one glance at the patient's face was sufficient for her practised eye.
'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you. You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and then I will tell you anything you want to know.'
Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to bring some jelly and other invalid food, which had been in preparation, and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table, the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant, fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding afterwards to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with the gentlest touch imaginable.
'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task, and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience.'
Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite different from her usual clear voice,
'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he dead?'
'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.'