“Yes, I deserve it all,” she would exclaim; “I deserve to lose his affection; what right had I to expect him to give up all his manly sports, which had made him so brave and strong, to sit at home with a poor foolish girl like me, who have not even wit enough to amuse him; I who should have been too proud even of his slightest notice, and to thwart him and try to make him do foolish and wrong things, and to lose my temper, and grieve and wrong him,—oh! how wrong and wicked of me! —I must have been mad to do it; and now he has left me, gone with Arabella Crofton to Italy, and I shall never see him again, never, never!” and then she would break off and resume her weeping.
And so the weary days passed on; Emily, who had come over as soon as she had heard of her sister’s illness, was an indefatigable nurse, and she and Harry sat up with the patient on alternate nights, Coverdale having on one occasion discovered the hired nurse fast asleep when she ought to have been wide awake and giving Alice her medicine. As soon as his arm ceased to cause him such violent pain, Harry’s attendance by his wife’s bedside became unremitting, and night after night he sent Emily to bed, and remained watching Alice’s broken slumbers, or to the best of his power soothing her, during her fits of delirious excitement. Could those who had known Coverdale as the rough and eager sportsman, or the just, but stern and inflexible, magistrate, have seen him then, as (heedless of the pain of his injured arm) he tended with all a woman’s devotion, and more than woman’s strength and judgment, the sick couch of his (as at times he feared) dying wife, they would have been unable to recognize the same individual whose nature they, in their hasty judgment, had so wholly mistaken. His dying wife! ah! how the idea haunted him. Alice, his loved one, would die; she would be taken from him while they were both so young, and he would have to live on during long, dreary years alone!—alone! yes, but how bitterly did he feel the hope-crushing significance of that cruel word! true his married life had been a somewhat stormy one, still it had taught him the charm of that spiritual companionship with a beloved and loving woman, without which a man’s best nature remains incompletely developed. To feel a deep, true, and unselfish affection for an object worthy of so precious a boon, raises a man’s whole moral nature, and (if he is good for anything) makes him wiser and better; to be loved in return, renders him happy despite the toils and trials of life.
Of these great truths, the events which we have in the course of this history endeavoured to pourtray, had caused Harry to acquire a painful consciousness; he had become aware also of the causes which had hitherto militated against the full amount of the happiness to be enjoyed in such a position. He had learned from poor Alice’s delirious confessions, both the depth of her attachment to him, and the fact that experience had in her case also produced its bitter but salutary fruits. Thus, should she indeed be restored to him, what a bright, enviable future lay extended before them! even as the thought occurred to him, his eye fell upon her thin, pale features, her parched lips, sunken cheeks, and the dark, ominous hollows beneath her closed eyes; nay, as she lay motionless, wrapped in a heavy, oppressive slumber, the horrible idea flashed across him that she might be dead already; and with a shudder he placed his hand upon her wrist, to feel the beating of her feeble yet rapid pulse, ere he could satisfy himself that his frightful suspicion was but the offspring of a morbid fancy. Still, the idea had occurred to him, and he could not divest himself of it—what if she should never wake again, or if she should die without any return of reason—die, ignorant of the depth of loving tenderness towards her which filled his breast! Oh! if he could but purchase her life at any sacrifice; there was nothing he would not gladly give up—wealth, position, even his cherished field-sports, everything!—how powerless he was, and how utterly wretched! Accustomed, as he had hitherto been, to rely entirely on his own strength, both of mind and body, to accomplish his wishes, the situation was equally new and painful to him. But Coverdale had a powerful and singularly healthy mind, and even while he smarted under this severe chastening, he recognized the Hand which inflicted it, and the purpose for which it was sent; and, mindful of the lessons of his childhood, the strong man sank upon his knees by the side of his wife’s sick couch, and prayed to his Father in Heaven to spare, in His mercy, the one little ewe-lamb, without which he must wear out the rest of his earthly pilgrimage desolate and lonely-hearted.
The crisis of Alice’s complaint was now rapidly approaching, and Harry sent for one of the leading London physicians, who, after a careful examination of the patient, and a long and solemn consultation with Dr. Gouger, was pleased to say the latter gentleman had pursued exactly the orthodox method of treatment; that he feared Mrs. Coverdale’s state was a very precarious one, but that she could not be in safer hands than those of Scalpel Gouger, M.D.
After Sir J. C———— had taken his departure and his fee of fifty guineas, Coverdale, who had sent Emily from Alice’s bedside, with strict orders to take a long stroll and refresh herself, was somewhat surprised to see her return in less than half an hour considerably excited, and with a heightened colour, which made her look remarkably pretty. She beckoned Coverdale out of the sick room, and then began—
“Oh! Harry, dear, I want to speak to you, please; and you must be good and kind, and not fierce, you know!”
In spite of his heavy heart, Coverdale could not help smiling at his little sister-in-law’s address.
“What is it, my dear child,” he said, kindly; “I’ll promise to behave prettily; my fierceness, as you call it, is tolerably well taken out of me by this time.”
“Well, I was walking in the Park, you know,” resumed Emily, “and just as I got to Markum’s cottage, I perceived a tall, aristocratic-looking young man talking to Mrs. Markum; as soon as she caught sight of me, she exclaimed, ‘Here is Miss Hazlehurst, sir; she has just come from the house, and can tell you the last account of poor mistress.’ Whereupon, the gentleman approached me, and taking off his hat, said, ‘I believe I have the pleasure of addressing a sister of Mrs. Coverdale?’ I bowed assent, and he continued, ‘My name is Alfred Courtland. I do not know whether Coverdale has told you—(here he stammered and blushed, so like a frightened girl, that I began to feel quite brave)—that is, whether you are aware, that it was in my service he met with his accident, and that—that, in fact, I cannot but feel that your sister’s illness has been, in great measure, brought on by my folly; the consequence is, that ever since I heard of her attack, I have been miserable. Coverdale said he would write me word how she was going on, but I suppose in his sorrow and anxiety his promise has escaped his memory. I bore the suspense as long as I was able, until yesterday, hearing by accident that Sir J. C———— had been sent for, I could stand it no longer;’ so I put myself into a train the first thing this morning, and came down to learn the truth; may I venture to hope that, as you are able to leave your sister, her danger has been exaggerated?’ Then I told him that dearest Ally was still very ill, but that you were head nurse, and had forced me to come out to get a little air; and I said I was sure you would like to see him. He was dreadfully afraid of intruding, and for some time refused to come, but at last he changed his mind, and walked home with me; he’s in the library, and you will go and see him, there’s a dear boy, for he is very unhappy, and I’m sure he’s a nice fellow.”
At any other time Coverdale would have been amused at the extreme zeal with which Emily had taken up and advocated Lord Alfred’s cause, and have teased her about her undisguised admiration of the handsome young peer, but his heart was too heavy for jesting, so he merely replied—