But, long before Mr. Stewart’s return to London, the temporary improvement in Lally gave place to increased weariness, to weakness worse than pain, to peevish complainings of “being tired, ma, tired;” and then, in despair, Heather looked upon Mr. Henry’s now frequent visits as matters of course, and began to watch his face and ponder his words anxiously and fearfully.
She did not know exactly what she dreaded; she could not bear to put it to her own soul that Lally was in danger—that Lally was incurable.
She would sit and think, poor weak heart, of those bright sunshiny days at Hastings, when the progress of her child’s disease had stood still, when it even seemed to retrograde and allowed her to play on the sands, and pick up shells among the shingle, and run screaming with delight over the grass; and while she thought, she would persuade herself that change was all Lally needed, that health resided wholly out of town, and sickness solely amongst the wilderness of houses, the labyrinth of streets. That brief reprieve made the subsequent relapse seem all the harder to endure patiently; it was like the hope of a fortune held out to a beggar and then withdrawn, only to plunge him into a deeper and blacker poverty than before.
Against her own fears, Heather fought madly; she could not endure that any one should say Lally looked ill, that Lally grew thinner; she could not bear that Lally herself should complain of weariness. Her love made her at times seem almost harsh; her passionate struggle with the dread which would not now be refused entrance, made her fiercely deny the existence of danger. That which had at one time only caused her anxiety, now rendered her nearly frantic. She grew irritable and impatient. The sweet repose of old, gave place to a constant desire to be up and doing. Could Mr. Henry give Lally no different medicine? should he advise taking her away? Mr. Dudley’s aunt was wintering in the south of France, might it not be better to try a total change of climate? She would go with her, if Mr. Henry thought a different air would restore her strength; but Mr. Henry declined to recommend travelling at such a season. He said the child was better at home; better in that warm town house, with every comfort around her, than she could possibly be elsewhere. And thus things went on, till at length Lally had to be carried up and downstairs, and lay most of the day on a sofa, drawn close beside one of the drawing-room windows, from which she could look out over the Square.
Even then Heather would not despair; she thought when once the spring came, Lally was certain to get better; she was always saying, that the moment mild weather arrived she must take her child to the sea-side, and the pair never wearied of planning the journey, of picturing the waves rippling in upon the shore, of gathering, in imagination, shells and pebbles and weed; of fancying how pleasant it would be to see the sun shining upon the waters, as they used to do—as they used—ah! Heaven.
Once again Lally took up her former cry of “Will it be spring soon, mamma? Will it be spring before very long?” And she would repeat the same inquiry to Mr. Henry, with the addition of—“And when the spring comes, shall I be well?”
The first time she put this question, Heather looked swiftly and sharply towards the surgeon, but she could read nothing from his face.
“Well,” he repeated, “are you not well now?”
“No;” and the poor little head was shaken in confirmation of this hopeless negative.
“Tell me where you feel ill,” he said; but Lally was incapable of this descriptive flight.