Towards evening Harry became more restless; the pain of his wound increased, and feverish symptoms began to make their appearance. As the night advanced he grew delirious, and before morning was in a high state of fever. For many days his life was despaired of. Ellis never left his bedside, save to snatch an occasional hour's sleep on a sofa, when I took his place. Sir Benjamin Brodie was summoned from town, and held a consultation with Dr. Probehurt and Ellis.
Sir John's grief was something fearful to witness. Although naturally a strong-minded man, this unlooked-for blow and the subsequent anxiety had completely unnerved him. At times he would cry like a child; at others he would sit for hours without opening his lips, his head resting dejectedly on his hands, the image of despair: he could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take sufficient nourishment for his support, and appeared scarcely to notice anything that was going on. On these occasions Fanny was the only person whose influence was of the slightest avail; with her own hands she would prepare some delicacy of which she knew he was fond, and when with a melancholy shake of the head he rejected it, she would seat herself at his feet, and, taking his hand within her own, whisper kind words of hope and consolation to him, till the old man's heart was softened, and he could refuse her nothing. Sometimes even this failed, and then she would begin singing in a low sweet voice some plaintive simple air that he loved to hear, till the tears would steal down his grief-worn cheeks, and, laying his hand upon her fair young brow, he would bless her, and say that the God who was about to take his noble son from him, had sent an angel to be a daughter to him in his stead. And so the weary days wore on—still vibrating between life and death, the strong man, his matchless powers now reduced to the weakness of infancy, lay stretched upon the couch of suffering, whence it appeared too probable he might never be removed, save to the last sad resting-place of frail humanity—the grave.
About the eighth day the ligature with which Ellis had tied the artery came away, and the wound assumed a rather more favourable appearance, but the fever remained unsubdued, and the delirium continued. Each day which passed without improvement added to the length of Dr. Probehurt's solemn visage, and I could see that in his own mind he had little or no hope of the patient's recovery. Ellis was by far the most sanguine of the party, and, whenever we urged our gloomy forebodings upon him, invariably replied—“Yes, I know all that—it would have killed' any other man, but it won't kill him. Wait a bit, and you'll see.”
A fortnight had now elapsed, and the continued burden of his grief began to tell visibly upon Sir John. The ruddy hue of health faded from his cheeks; his eyes grew dim with weeping, his hands shook, and his firm manly step became feeble and uncertain; it seemed as if in that short space of time he had grown ten years older. My mother also began to look ill and harassed, and Fanny, though she still kept up wonderfully, and was the life and soul of us all, waxed paler and thinner every day, while, for my own part, I could neither eat, drink, nor sleep to any efficient purpose, and divided my time between watching in the sick-room and pacing up and down the garden, beyond the precincts of which I never ventured, from a nervous dread lest anything might go wrong in my absence.
On one occasion Ellis, completely wearied out, had thrown himself on a sofa to snatch an hour's repose, while I took his place by Harry's bedside. It was between two and three o clock in the morning, and the first rays of early dawn, stealing in through the partially closed shutters, and mingling with the faint glimmer of the night-lamp, threw a pale and ghastly light over the surrounding objects, when I fancied that I heard my name pronounced in a low, scarcely audible voice. I glanced at Ellis, but his hard and regular breathing proved him to be sound asleep. I next turned towards the bed where Harry lay, and, carefully shading the lamp with my hand, advanced with noiseless step towards it. As I approached I perceived the patient's eyes were open, and, oh, happiness I once more animated by the mild light of reason.
“Harry,” whispered I, “did you call? Do you know me?”
A faint smile passed across his pallid features as he replied in a voice so weak and low, that I was obliged to stoop my head almost to a level with his lips, ere I could catch his words—“Know you, dear Frank! why not?”
“Thank heaven,” murmured I, “he is no longer delirious!”
As I again turned towards him, he endeavoured to stretch out his hand to me, but his strength was unequal even to that slight exertion, and his arm dropped heavily by his side; as it did so, he spoke again—“Frank, what is all this? I cannot—I am very weak—very tired.”
“Lie still, dear Harry, and do not try to talk—it may do you harm. You have been very ill, but God in His mercy will soon, I trust, restore you to health.” I then crossed over to Ellis's sofa, and laid my hand lightly upon his shoulder. “Oaklands is no longer delirious,” said I, as he started up; “he knows me, and has spoken to me.”