But the effort to rise had already shown Katharine the unwelcome truth—she was in a high fever:—her head ached, her lips were parched, her mouth was dry, her skin was burning.
The good doctor was instantly summoned; and having examined her case with very careful attention, directed that she should be confined to her bed, and that her chamber should be kept dark and still.
“It was a violent fever,” he said, “which would probably, in another stage, take an intermittent form;” but evidently, from the doctor’s manner, it was a case of danger, demanding great watchfulness and skilful treatment.
Promising Mistress Alice that his visits should be as frequent as possible, he returned to Warwick at speed, accompanied by a servant, who was to bring back the medicines prescribed.
The trouble of Sir Oliver almost amounted to terror. His mind was by no means superior to those fears which vulgar errors impose; and as, in addition to the strange music of the evening before, he had that very morning seen a hare cross the high road just before his horse’s feet, he augured no less a calamity than a fatal end to the sudden illness of his beloved daughter.
Cuthbert Noble, however, rose to the occasion; and though it is certain that no individual in the family felt a more tender affection and concern for Katharine Heywood than he did, yet he was enabled, by a wise sympathy, to compose the fears and animate the hopes of Sir Oliver, and indeed of an entire household; for a despondency fell upon all, which the most comfortable arguments of plain reason and sound religion did but imperfectly remove.
For three days the life of Katharine Heywood was, in truth, in very imminent danger, and the fever was of that malignant nature which defied all ordinary treatment: but as the doctor was a man of great decision and boldness in his practice, and, at the same time, one who committed all events with humility and simplicity to the will of God, he fought bravely with the disease; and after the third night of patient watching and vigorous experiments, he subdued it so far that he could announce to Sir Oliver the safety of his daughter. The crisis was passed; but her weakness was great, and her recovery very gradual. For the first three days of her attack she was almost without consciousness; but though her head became light, and her mind was confused, she uttered nothing in her wanderings which attracted the particular notice of Mistress Alice, or any of her attendants, or in the least betrayed the secret of her heart.
Meanwhile Francis Heywood, in ignorance of the sad condition of his cousin Katharine, endured all the agony of a suspicion that he was at once neglected and scorned by her who had been the vision of his lonely hours of labour in a remote plantation, and who, as the very star of his destiny, had led him back again to the land in which she dwelt, as a land of promise. Liberty was his watchword; and it is true that when letters spoke so confidently of a civil war as inevitable, he obtained his father’s permission to return to England, that he might join his patriotic countrymen in their contention for the rights of civil and religious liberty. Nor was this a mere pretext for escape from the tame drudgery of colonial life,—the cause of freedom was sacred in his sight, and was precious to his heart. He came to draw the sword, and bare his bosom in the battle. He had a life to offer on the altar of duty, and he joyously brought the willing sacrifice; but yet there lay at the bottom of his heart one bright, one good hope. He might be lifted, by the fortunes of this war, to renown, to rank, to fortune; he might survive all its chances; he might see peace and happiness restored:—the present relations between himself and his wealthy uncle might be greatly altered; the old prejudices against him might at last give way, and the crowning reward of all his honours and his fortunes might be the hand of Katharine. This was his dream by day—this was his dream by night:—like some chaste and solemn star, seen brightly shining in solitary and calm glory at the extremity of a narrow and gloomy valley, darkened by the shadows of lofty mountains, so the majestic loveliness of his cousin Katharine, irradiated by all her virtues, shone out beyond the cloudy path of blood and peril, as the blissful end and rest of all his labours.
He had not passed a night of such rapture since he last parted from his cousin as that on which he reached Milverton, and the whole of which he mused away within sight of the mansion that contained the noble object of his attachment.
Although he was fully persuaded that he should be recognised by Katharine as the wandering musician, yet he was in doubt whether she would afford him an immediate opportunity of meeting her alone; therefore he prepared an earnest appeal to her, in characters which, though enigmatical to others, would, he well knew, be readily understood by herself. The moon shone that night with so clear a brightness, that he had no sort of difficulty in executing his design. He made a slight fancy sketch, on a small piece of paper, of a setting sun; he introduced the cedar in the fore-ground, and in one corner he wrote, in a small hand, the Italian word “implora:” on the back of this paper he faintly sketched a dial-plate, the shadow touching the figure of seven in the evening. He placed this between the leaves of a copy of Spenser’s “Fairy Queen,” which he found upon the seat, and which he remembered to have been the garden companion of his fair cousin in former days. When, on the following evening, the sun had set, and the silver light of the moon touched all objects with the hues of peace, Francis repaired to the appointed spot with eager steps, and in confident hope that he should once more behold her for whom he had all that tender reverence which angelic purity could alone inspire. He seated himself beneath the well-known tree, and saw with pleasure that the book had been taken away. Katharine, then, had received his “implora,” and she would not—she could not—disappoint him, and deny his prayer. The long delay of her coming perplexed him; and, after an hour of anxious waiting, every succeeding minute was insupportably slow, and weighty with sadness. He left and resumed his seat with restless discomposure; he paced the neighbouring bank; he went into the Lime Walk, to watch for the first glimpse of her distant form; at last, as he was approaching the cedar tree, with his eyes bent on the ground, he for the first time observed a fragment of paper lying near the trunk:—he took it up—it was a part of his note; it had been torn in halves, and trodden in the dust; it was divided at the very word “implora.” The change of his feeling was, for the moment, terrible. All that he had read or heard of the pride, the caprice, and inconstancy of woman, rushed upon his memory to strengthen his black suspicions, and inflame his sudden indignation. But this rage was very soon exhausted, and was succeeded by a sorrow weak as that of infants. He did not weep,—but a few hot tears slowly gathered at long intervals, and fell heavily on the earth. And then he railed upon himself, and defended her neglect of him.