Charles longed to write to Jane, and this postscript encouraged him to do it. He wrote cheerfully, earnestly hoping that before his letter should arrive, such an improvement might have taken place as should render his expressions of hope not ill-timed. Mr Barker wrote again the next day. Isabella was not worse, perhaps a little better, but in a state of such extreme weakness, that there were yet but very slight hopes that she could get through. After this, the accounts were better for a day or two; the fever was gone, and she had gained a little strength. In two days more, Jane wrote herself, as follows.
“At length, dearest Charles, I can write to you again with my own hand. I could not till yesterday leave Isabella’s bedside for an hour. Now, however, she sleeps a great deal, and therefore does not require such constant watching. She is certainly better, much better; but still so weak, that she cannot move a limb. O! I was so glad when her delirium ceased. Weak as she was, she was incessantly attempting to rise, and was never quiet for an instant. Now she lies quite still, generally with her eyes closed, so that we can scarcely tell when she is asleep; but I think she dozes for many hours in the day. She takes very little nourishment yet, but we have got down more to-day than yesterday. Our friends have sent all kinds of delicacies to tempt her, but I do not think she knows one thing from another yet. She opens her eyes: I must go to her. O, dear Charles, she has spoken for the first time since her delirium ceased! I could scarcely understand her. ‘Are you writing?’ she said. ‘Yes, I am writing to Charles, to tell him you are better.’—‘My love to him: I am better.’ ‘May I say you are comfortable now?’—‘O yes!’
“My hopes have risen much since yesterday; but we must beware of too early hope: there is much to be done yet. I have trusted throughout. I have tried to be hopeful, even while I contemplated the danger. Now that things look brighter, let us hope yet more; I need not say, let us be grateful; I am sure you are, and my own heart is now full of gratitude. Farewell.
“Jane Forsyth.
“P.S. You shall certainly hear, in a day or two: if not to-morrow, you may conclude that we go on well.”
Slowly, very slowly, Isabella continued to gain strength, and in three weeks from Jane’s last letter, Charles allowed himself to dismiss all apprehensions. At that time, Isabella added two lines to a letter of Jane’s, to shew that she could write, though the almost illegible character of the writing shewed how much even this exertion cost her. This was the signal for Charles to write to her, but he wished first to know the opinion of the bookseller to whom he had taken Isabella’s little volume. He called at the shop, accordingly, but could obtain no decided answer. The bookseller approved it, on the whole, and thought it might make a very pretty volume, if he could be certain that it would answer the expense of printing handsomely, and so forth. Charles asked him how soon he could make up his mind: he really could not tell, but Charles might call again in a week. Charles agreed to do so, and said that he should wish to have the manuscript back at that time, or a decisive answer. He was sorry not to be able to give Isabella a more satisfactory account of her book; but he had previously warned her that she would probably have need of much patience.
At the end of another week Charles went again. The bookseller had thought no more of the matter; and Charles, not choosing to be any longer put off in this way, insisted on the manuscript being restored to him, and he could not help sighing as he pocketed it. It was not in the most cheerful mood that he left the shop, and his eyes were bent on the ground as he walked. On turning the corner of a street, however, he looked up, and saw at a little distance, on the opposite pavement, a gentleman approaching, who, he was pretty sure, could be no other than Mr Rathbone. A second look convinced him that it was, and he could not resist the impulse which the sight of his old friend inspired, to run towards him. Mr Rathbone looked full at him, and then turned quickly off the pavement, crossed the street, and pursued his way up another street. Charles was quite certain that Mr Rathbone had seen and known him, and had deliberately avoided him, and with this conviction a flood of bitter feelings came over him which almost overwhelmed him. He struggled against them, but tears would force their way, and his knees even bent under him. There was a print-shop behind him, and he turned round and leaned against the window, while he tried to recover himself.
This was indeed bitter enmity in return for what he could not even allow to be an offence. This thought—that there was, in reality, no offence, helped to restore his courage, and he was just dashing away the last tear that remained upon his cheek, and turning away from the picture-shop, on the beauties of which he had not bestowed a single glance, when a person at his elbow spoke to him. Charles looked up. It was Mr Blyth, who had purchased Isabella’s work-bags and boxes.
“It is a curious thing, is it not?” said he to Charles, “that they should have got that sketch up at a print-shop. You see it is the very same as your sister’s drawing, that group of people and all.”
Charles looked again, and saw a beautiful print of his favourite landscape, the Bubbling Spring. It was the very same indeed, and the figures exactly copied from Isabella’s drawing. They could not be mistaken: there were Jane and Harriet seated on the bank, and Alfred kneeling on a stone, and looking into the basin which was formed a little way below the fountain-head.
Charles uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Why, did not you see it till I pointed it out?” said Mr Blyth.
“No, indeed,” replied Charles.