Alice Lorraine: A Tale of the South Downs

by R. D. Blackmore

“No, sir. Oh, Lord, sir, I was never told that; though some folk may a’ said so.”

“They were right, every time they said it, ma’am. And no one has said it more often than I have. Now Mrs. Merryjack——”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir. Anything you tells me, sir.”

“It is only this: I am going, as fast as I can, to Churchwarden Bottler’s. I shall take the short cut, and cross the water. You cannot do that; it would not be safe for a woman, in the dark, to attempt it. But just do this: order the light close carriage as soon as possible. The horses are roughed, to go to church to-morrow. Get inside it, with your warmest cloak on, and blankets, and shawls, and anything else you can think of, and tell the man to drive for his life to Bottler’s. Women will be wanted there; for one thing, or the other.”

“Yes, sir; to be sure, sir. We are always wanted. Oh’s me, the poor, young dear!”

The Rector set off by a path to the right, passing eastward of the Coombe, and leading, as well as might be, to the tree that crossed the water. It was a rough and dreary road; and none but a veteran sportsman could, in that state of the weather, have followed it. But Mr. Hales knew every yard of the hill, and when he could trust the drift, and where it would have been death to venture. And though the moon had set long ere this, the sky was bright, and the sparkle of the stars was spread, as in a concave mirror, by the radiance of the snow.

At Bottler’s gate Mr. Hales was rudely repulsed, until they looked at him. Gregory and Bonny were on guard, with a great tarpaulin behind them; each of them having a broom in hand, ready to be thrust into anybody’s face. A great glow of light was in the air, and by it their eyes shone—whether it were with ferocity, or whether it were with tenderness.

“I am her own uncle—I must go in. I stand in the place of her father.”

Bonny, of course, knew his master, and opened the paling-gate to let him in. And there Mr. Hales beheld a thing such as he never had seen before. Every sign of the singeing or dressing of pigs had been done away with. The embers of fuel, all around the grey walls, had given their warmth, and lay quivering. The grey flints, bedded in lime behind them, were of a dull and sulky red; the ground all over the courtyard steamed, as the blow of the frost rose out of it, and the cover spread overhead reflected genial warmth and comfort.

Near the middle of the yard, on the mattress, lay the form of poor Alice, enfolded in the warm blankets, and Mrs. Bottler’s best counterpane. The kind and good woman, with Mabel’s help, had removed the wet and freezing clothes, when Major Aylmer had laid his burden in Mrs. Bottler’s parlour. The only hope that the fleeting spirit might remain, or return, was to be found in warmth, or rather strong heat, applied at once; and therefore (with the Major’s advice and aid) clever use had been made of Mr. Bottler’s great preparations. It is needless to say that the pigman (who had now galloped off to Steyning for a doctor) would, if left to himself, have settled matters very speedily, by hanging the poor girl up head downwards, to drain off the water she had swallowed. But now, under Major Aylmer’s care, everything had been done as well as a doctor could have managed it. The body was laid with the head well up, and partly inclined on the right side, so that the feeble flutter of the heart—if any should arise—might not be hindered. The slender feet, so white and beautifully arched, were laid on a brown stone jar of hot water; and the little helpless palms were chafed by the rough hands of Mrs. Bottler. Mabel also spread light friction, with a quick and glancing touch, over the cold heart, frozen breast, and chill relapse of everything. And from time to time she endeavoured to inspire the gentle rise and fall of breath.