Mr. Crane obtained nothing by his visit to the city, except a bad cold, caught in a draughty omnibus, in which he rode because he was too stingy to indulge himself with a cab; all the men he wished to see were out of town, or attending some special appointment, and no information could he obtain in regard to the security of his property invested in the “Direct Overland Route to India Railway” shares, so he returned home in a worse temper than any in which Kate had yet seen him, and led her such a life of misery, during the evening, by means of a process termed, in the patois of back kitchens and washhouses, “nagging” at her, that when she retired to her own room, at ten o’clock, she was so utterly worn out, that she sat down and cried, from sheer nervous depression. If Arthur Hazlehurst could have seen her then, he would scarcely have recognized in that shrinking, trembling, spirit-broken woman, the proud, cold, haughty, beautiful Kate, who had won his heart but to trample on it in her career of worldly ambition;—if he had heard her broken, faltering prayer that death might soon relieve her from the daily, hourly martyrdom of striving to render respect and obedience to a man whom she did not hate, only because hate involves some degree of equality, and Mr. Crane she too utterly despised,—if Arthur could have witnessed her total prostration, mental and bodily, he would scarcely have retained his hard thoughts of her, although the gentler ones which might have replaced them, would, in their way, have been exquisitely painful to him.
The next morning, Mr. Crane’s cold was worse, and Kate recommended him to dispatch a note to his man of business, asking him to come to Park Lane; which advice, being good and sensible, was, of course, rejected, and Kate was asked whether, not content with impoverishing him by her extravagance, and by the burden of supporting her pauper relatives, she wished to ruin him quite, by inducing him to neglect the management of his property. Having delivered himself of this kind and judicious remark, so well calculated to call forth and rivet the affection of the wife of his bosom, this noble specimen of “Man, the great master of all,” took ’bus for the city, to clip the wings which, he feared, his riches were about to make for themselves. His man of business was again “in court,” and uncome-at-able; but when he reached the office of the “Overland Route to India Railway Company,” he found there Mr. Bonus Nugget, in as near an approach to a rage as was at all compatible with his high standing and intense respectability; a frame of mind in which Mr. Crane speedily sympathised, when the disastrous intelligence was communicated to him that a sum of nearly £18,000 had been drawn out of their bankers’ hands, in the joint names of Horace D’Almayne and Herr Vondenthaler, the former being abroad, and no trace to be discovered of the latter. Poor Mr. Crane! he loved his money dearly, he could not bear to part with it even to pay a bill; and, as to giving it in charity (“fooling it away” was the term he applied to such senseless squandering), that was an unbusiness-like weakness of which he had never been guilty; and now to have his idol thus rudely torn from him, oh! it was too cruel. If Nugget had not been present, he would have sat down and cried, for his sympathy with, and pity for himself was unbounded; but, as he was not alone, he swore instead, for the sake of appearances; but he did not swear well; for to anathematize, con brio, demands more energy than Mr. Crane possessed. Having sworn, however, to the best of his ability, he and Mr. Nugget went into the affairs of the company together, and really, according to the latter gentleman’s showing, the speculation appeared to be progressing so well, that these ministers of Mammon agreed the defalcation must be made good, and the public be kept in the dark as to aught being “rotten in the state of Denmark.” So, strange and mysterious proceedings were entered upon; bills for large sums of money, drawn by Mr. Nugget and endorsed by Mr. Crane, and cheques bearing that gentleman’s signature, were deposited with the company’s bankers, to replace the £18,000 with which Herr Vondenthaler had eloped; also astute detectives were placed on that gentleman’s track, and desired to look out for Horace D’Almayne, should he venture to set his foot on English soil,—an imprudence which Mr. Crane declared, confidentially, he was sure he never would be fool enough to commit. For once, however, that worthy man’s sagacity was at fault, as he was informed, on his return home, that a gentleman was waiting to see him in his library; and greatly was he astonished, and, if the truth must be told, considerably alarmed also, when the stranger proved to be none other than the unblushing Horace himself. Their interview was long, but it ended much more agreeably than it began; for Horace, first clearing himself from the imputation of having had any hand in the railway company defalcation, by proving that, at the time the cheque was drawn and presented, he was at Ostend, gradually elicited from Mr. Crane the fact of the anonymous letter, which, when it was with much reluctance submitted to him, he at once recognised to be in the handwriting of the perfidious Vondenthaler. Having produced satisfactory evidence of this fact also, he produced something still more satisfactory, viz., certain bills, promising to pay on demand, at an early date, the cash which he had proceeded to Holland to obtain.
This palpable proof of his factotum’s integrity quieted all Mr. Crane’s suspicions, and D’Almayne was from that moment reinstated in his patron’s good opinion. But now, according to his own showing, this excellent young man was himself the victim of circumstances. His name having been the name selected by the forger Vondenthaler, he felt that he ought to withdraw from the railway company altogether; if he remained, he should always be an object of suspicion. He knew the nature of city capitalists well; they had not all such enlightened views, such generous souls, as his excellent friend Mr. Crane; besides, he could not reconcile it with his honour to remain a director without paying, in ready money, his share of the loss they had sustained by the rascality of Vondenthaler—a man who, he blushed to reflect, he had introduced. He would most gladly pay his share that minute, but he honestly confessed he had not the money ready.
He knew what he would do; he would sell his estate in Normandy—England was the country of his adoption; if he could not live there, life would become a burden to him. No! he would go to France, sell his estate, and, with the proceeds, return to redeem his honour. But it would be at a sacrifice; he must part with his shares in the Overland Railway, shares that were certain to become so fine an investment: did Mr. Crane know any one who would like to purchase them? Mr. Crane paused, considered, and then, in what he considered to be an off-hand, indifferent manner, though eager rapacity twinkled in his cunning eye, and quivered on his trembling lip, he replied, “If it will be any accommodation to you, D’Almayne, I don’t know that I should object to take your shares myself; and, in regard to your Normandy estate, it seems a pity you should be forced to sell it, at a time, perhaps, when you may not obtain its proper value. You have the title-deeds in England; suppose we look through them together. I have lent you money on them already, and might perhaps be willing to advance you more on the same terms—six per cent., I think? this would afford you time to look about you, and to sell your estate, if you must part with it, to better advantage.” Horace D’Almayne’s gratitude was quite touching to witness; so was his manner at dinner, which Mr. Crane insisted upon his stopping to partake of. Kate was greatly astonished, and not best pleased, to find him reinstated in his former high position in her husband’s favour; but he treated her with such respectful deference, and his conversation was so clever and interesting, that it was impossible for her not to contrast his social advantages with those of Mr. Crane, which did not gain by the comparison. Kate was nervous and unhappy, a state of mind in which kindness, or its reverse, is felt with a morbid degree of acuteness; and just as much as Mr. Crane’s peevish irritability oppressed and annoyed her, did Horace D’Almayne’s soft voice, polished manner and considerate tact, calm and soothe her, and reinvigorate her drooping spirits. If Kate Crane had a heart to win, now was the time to gain it. Horace D’Almayne was by no means a tyro in such cases; he perceived the situation at a glance, and availed himself of it to the utmost. When he rose to take leave, Kate, knowing to what his departure would expose her, and being, as we have before explained, overwrought and ill, forgot her self-control so far as to observe, “It is very early; are you obliged to go so soon?” The moment she had spoken the words she would have given worlds to have recalled them. Her husband’s fretful observation, “Really, my dear, it’s past ten o’clock,”—and D’Almayne’s look of triumph, ill-concealed under the guise of polite, conventional regret at being obliged to leave such kind friends, showed her the indiscretion of which she had been guilty. But, ere she could sufficiently collect her ideas to attempt to redeem the false step she had made, Horace had bowed himself out. Then Mr. Crane took up his parable, and drew a feeble picture of a vicious young wife, who, possessing a sapient, tender, and judicious husband, in the prime of life, laid herself out to attract the attentions of, if he might be allowed the expression, mere boys, who, fortunately for her, had too strongly innate ideas of—yes, of propriety and morality, to avail themselves of her very reprehensible levity, &c. &c. Poor, proud Kate! she bore it all silently—her will was now as strong for good as it had once been for evil, and duty sealed her lips, though she suffered none the less for her silence. Saint Bartholomew was flayed alive, yet we nowhere read that the good man was garrulous under the operation. When D’Almayne quitted Park Lane he returned to his former lodgings, and, taking pen, ink, and paper, wrote the following note to the waiter at Liverpool:—
“A well-wisher of yours has much pleasure in enclosing for your acceptance a £10 note; should any impertinent inquiries be made in regard to the gentlemen who have visited your hotel lately, he feels sure you know your duty too well, as a faithful servant of the establishment, to reply to them in any way which might injure the interests of your employer or your own! in which case you shall hear again from—
“MORE WHERE THIS COMES FROM.”
Having dispatched this Machiavellian document, Horace the indefatigable sought and obtained interviews with Guillemard, Bonus Nugget, and Captain O’Brien, from all of whom he obtained useful information; then proceeded to the gaminghouse in J———— Street, where he found the Russian Prince Ratrapski, unprofitably sober, and playing for sovereigns only. To him therefore he devoted himself with so much success, that between five and six on the following morning the Russian was taken home in a cab, considerably disguised in liquor, having lost above £20,000 to the bank. It is a laudable practice of some pastors, to exhort the members of their flock to chew the cud of reflection before they retire to rest, and so to strike a balance of the good and evil deeds which, in the course of that day’s transactions, they may have performed. Now, although Horace D’Almayne had either no conscience at all, or one of such an elastic material that its expansive limits were still undiscovered; although, moreover, if he belonged to a flock, it must have been composed of the very blackest sheep known to zoology, he nevertheless conformed to this good habit of self-examination; and on the night, or rather morning in question, his meditations assumed some such shape as the following:—
“Voyons, Horace, mon ami! You have not been slothful, what have you accomplished? the affair of Le Roux safely got over, without the fact of our having encountered each other being suspected; good so far: but the interview might transpire at any moment; I dare not remain here very many days, scarcely hours, longer.—Crane, ha! ha! there is no pleasure in duping him, he is so dense a fool; but if there is no pleasure there is profit, which suits my book equally well—what between the shares and the Normandy mortgage, I shall draw £5000 of him; to-morrow morning I must obtain the money.—Then the Russian; I did that neatly; my share will be £7000; though I shall claim more, for it was all my management—yes, when I turn my back upon this triste and mercenary country, I shall be able to take at least £30,000 with me.” He paused, reflected for some minutes, then continued: “With such a capital as that to start with, in America a man with a head on his shoulders may do and become almost anything, president perhaps, who knows? She is ambitious, I can read it in her haughty glance, her queenly step; such a career might tempt her!” Again he mused, but the working of his features showed how deeply his feelings were excited. Rousing himself with a start, he exclaimed, passionately, “I shall fail with her, I know; I feel it! —she does not love me, nor, excepting at times when I make her feel my power, does she even hate me; I wish she did, for then I should have more hope—why should she be so indifferent to me? I have played my game well and carefully; if I had it to play over again, I do not see how I could mend my hand. That declaration, perhaps, was premature; yet with any other woman, though it failed at the time, it would have told afterwards. I wonder whether she had any attachment before she married Crane? that cousin Arthur Hazlehurst, perhaps; if so, she loves him still; in that case, I need not seek far for revenge, even if she again disdains my passion. Married to Crane and loving her cousin, she must bear about a living hell in her own bosom. Strange the power she has over me; I really and honestly believe I am as completely in love with her as if I were a green boy of eighteen! if I had known her five years sooner, before I became so thoroughly and hopelessly involved, I might have been very different, who can say? that old man Le Roux was right, the life of an adventurer is an unsatisfactory affair, either to look back upon, or worse still, to look forward to; but so it is with every phase of life, when you come to know it well and examine it closely;—for what are we placed here? nay, what are we ourselves? have we lived before? shall we live again? Can spirit exist without matter? who knows? the religionist? bah! a set either of feeble-minded enthusiasts, bigoted to childish superstitions, or canting hypocrites, who assume piety as a cloak beneath which to conceal their vices, as the devil is said to lurk behind the cross. Who then? philosophers, metaphysicians, your men of science? solemn pedants, dreamy mystics, vain fools, who, because they have invented a rushlight, fancy they can illuminate the universe—ah! charlatans all of them; an adventurer’s career is preferable to a life devoted to such dreary mummeries. I may succeed with the fascinating Kate yet; she was singularly amiable last night; and if so, Horace, mon ami, the line you have selected will not prove such an unprofitable one, after all.”
Harry Coverdale was blessed with an iron constitution, or as he would himself have expressed it, the good keep and training he had come in for ever since he was a colt, had put real hard flesh and muscle on him, so that take him when you would, he was always in working order. Thus, although the hurried journey he had performed with a broken arm and a series of bruises from head to foot, would have stretched most men on a bed of sickness, and although Scalpel Gouger, M.D., elongated his already sufficiently lengthened visage on beholding his condition, and prophesied results of which lock-jaw was by no means one of the most terrible, Harry yet experienced no ill effects from his imprudence. His stiffness wore off after a day or two, the bruises disappeared one by one, and the broken bone began to re-unite as quickly as in the nature of things was possible. But although his bodily ailments gave him little cause for uneasiness, his mind remained a prey to anxiety, grief, and remorse; for Alice, his young wife—the depth and strength of his love for whom he became painfully aware of, now that, as it appeared, he was about to lose her—lay at the point of death. The demon of fever had fixed his burning fingers upon her, and held her in an iron grasp which no mortal power seemed able to unclasp. When Harry arrived, Alice did not recognize him, her state alternating between attacks of delirium, in which she talked with the wildest incoherence, and intervals of stupor, during each of which she lay perfectly unconscious and prostrated by the violence of the paroxysm which had preceded it. Poor Harry lost not an instant in making his way to her room, disregarding the housekeeper’s entreaties to wait for Dr. Gouger’s return. When he entered, Alice was sitting up in bed, with flushed cheeks and eyes brilliant with the unnatural lustre of feverish excitement, and talking with the utmost volubility; at first he fancied she recognized him, for regarding him earnestly, she exclaimed—
“So you have come at last, have you?—and now tell me quickly, what news do you bring me?” Without waiting a reply, she continued: “Why don’t you speak? No news, do you say?—it is false, you are trying to deceive me. I can read it in your face.—What! have they met already? then Harry is killed. Ah! I knew it, I knew it! D’Almayne is a dead shot—Alfred Courtland told me so in that letter.—What did you mutter?—an accident,—it was no accident.—D’Almayne has shot him, killed him in a duel; but it was my fault, I made him angry,—I drove him to go up to London,—it is I who have murdered him. Oh, Harry, my own loved husband, if I could but have died for you!—shall I never see him again?” She continued wildly: “Ah, yes, I must, I will! Let me go to him, I say;” and as she spoke she attempted to get out of bed. Throwing his uninjured arm round her, Harry prevented her from accomplishing her purpose, though she struggled so violently that he was obliged to obtain the assistance of the hired nurse who had been recommended by the medical man.
“Alice, love, look at me,” he said, tenderly. “I am safe—I am here by your side—I will not leave you. Do you not know me?” Gazing at him wildly, she tore herself from his embrace, exclaiming in a tone of horror—
“Know you? yes, I know you, fiend! demon! you are Horace D’Almayne! Do you come here with my husband’s blood fresh upon your hands, and dare to insult me by your detestable caresses?—are not you afraid that the ground will open and swallow you? Leave me, leave me instantly, or, weak woman as I am, I will take my vengeance into my own hands, and stab you to the heart!”
This idea that Harry was D’Almayne recurred to Alice’s mind whenever she beheld her husband, and was the source of so much pain and distress to him, that for both their sakes Mr. Gouger forbade him to enter her room for two or three days, by which time he trusted the delusion might have worn itself out. The prohibition was a judicious one, as it enabled Harry to obtain the rest he so much required; and when, after an interval of nearly a week, he again returned to his wife’s apartment, although she was still unable to recognize him, she no longer evinced any repugnance on his approach. Her fits of delirium became less violent and frequent, but she appeared to be gradually sinking into a state of prostration, mental and bodily, which to the eye of the medical man was even more alarming. Her next fancy was, that Harry was her brother Arthur; she talked to him of old scenes and recollections, of their childhood, and half broke poor Harry’s heart by deploring in the most pathetic terms the loss of her husband’s affection, which she declared Arabella Crofton had stolen from her.
“Ah, Arthur,” she would exclaim, “it is cruel of her, because, you know, I loved him so very, very much! Until I saw him I meant never to marry; I fancied I could not bear to leave dearest mamma, and Emily, and Tom, and all of you. But it was of no use: he was so good and kind, and brave, and handsome; and though he was a little rough at first, I soon saw what a noble, gentle heart his rough manner concealed, and when I found he loved me (for he did love me once, Arthur), how could I, how could any girl, help loving him with her whole soul.”
Poor Harry, as she thus wildly talked, would lean over and kiss her pale, worn cheeks, and tell her he was her own loving husband, and doted on her, and her only,—that he never cared, and never would care, for any other woman, and she would smile faintly, and reply—
“No, Arthur, Harry would not say that; he loved her before he knew me, over in Italy; Alfred Courtland told me all about it,—how they ran away together, and all.”
As she uttered these words Coverdale started, and a shade passed across his brow; not heeding it, Alice continued—
“Oh! she is a dreadful woman, and so clever! all the foolish things I did to pique Harry, in order to regain his affection, she showed them up to him in a false light, and made him believe me as wicked as herself, and so she stole his love away from poor, poor Alice;” then she would turn her face from him, and wail feebly like an unhappy child. At other times she would burst into the most violent self-reproaches.
“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—
“In the library, did you say? it’s very good of the boy to take such interest about poor Alice, but he always was kind-hearted. Go to her at once, Emily, dear; she was asleep when you sent for me, but she might wake at any minute, you know—go to her, I won’t be away long.”
On reaching the library, Coverdale found Lord Alfred awaiting his arrival in an extreme state of nervous trepidation; grasping his hand, Harry shook it warmly, saying—
“This is very kind of you, Alfred, my dear boy; you see you find us still anxious; I hope there is no serious cause for alarm, but you know it’s a case in which a man can’t help feeling very, very anxious.”
As Coverdale thus spoke words of encouragement, which his looks and manner, his quivering lip, brimming eye, and the forced cheerfulness of his voice, alike belied, Lord Alfred, more deeply affected than he could have been by the most vehement reproaches, lost all self-control, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed:—
“Do not speak so kindly to me; it kills me. I’d rather by half you would horsewhip me until I could not stand, for that is what I deserve. Oh! what misery my wicked folly has brought about! But for me, you would never have met with this accident, and Mrs. Coverdale would have escaped the anxiety and the shock which has brought on this illness; if I could but do anything to help you or her, I should hate myself less.”
Harry approached him, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Listen to me, my dear boy,” he said, kindly, but impressively, “these things cannot happen to a man without obliging him to reflect seriously, and, as I hope, to some good purpose; you should not judge of your own conduct, or of any one’s else, simply by results; we are instruments in God’s hands to work out His designs; and all that we can do is to make ourselves acquainted with the rules He has laid down for our guidance, and strive to act according to them, but the results are in His hands, and there we must be content to leave them. You have acted foolishly, but you are aware of it, and sorry for it; and in such a case, to look back is worse than useless; the only good in ever recalling the past is, that the recollection may guard you against falling again into a similar temptation should such a outcome in your way. So much for sermonizing; and now, you say you want to make yourself of use, and I can see you mean it. My poor Alice’s mother is a great invalid, and the shock of hearing of this affair has made her more ill than usual; she is most anxious about her daughter. Emily—you met Emily?”
“Yes, a most interesting, charming young lady; I knew her directly from her likeness to poor Mrs. Coverdale,” was the reply.
“Well, Emily or I write every day, but the letter takes twelve hours to get there by post; now, Sir J. C———— is coming down this afternoon to see poor Alice again, and Gouger fancies some change is about to take place in her; he supposes the crisis of the complaint is at hand—in fact—” Harry paused, for as he spoke of the approach of the moment in which Alice’s sentence for life or death was to declare itself, a choking sensation in his throat deprived him of the power of utterance; trying to conceal his emotion under a feigned cough, he resumed, “Now, if you wish to perform a really kind and good-natured action, will you remain here until the physician has given his opinion, and then take my dog-cart and mare, and drive over to the Grange, and detail his report to Mrs. Hazlehurst? They will give you a kind welcome and a bed, and you can either go to town from thence, or come back and dine and sleep here; you’ll not be a bit in the way, and will help to amuse Emily, and tempt her out of the sick room; for the good little girl is so zealous in her attendance on her sister that I live in constant dread of her knocking up, and then I should have two of them on my hands at once—what do you say?”
“Say! if you think that by going to the world’s end I can be of the smallest use or comfort to you, you have only to speak the word, and I’m off,” was the eager reply; then in a plaintive tone, Lord Alfred continued: “Coverdale, are you quite sure you don’t hate me for all this misery I’ve brought upon you?”
“Go into the dining-room and eat some luncheon, you young muff,” was the unsentimental reply; “why, you have not a better friend in the world than I am, or at all events a more sincere one, you stupid boy; but, come along, I’ll send Emily to play hostess, and mind you make her eat well. I know that girl will knock up if she refuses her corn.”
The luncheon passed off pleasantly enough—Emily not being overburthened with shyness, and possessing a flow of animal spirits, which even her anxiety for her sister could not wholly overcome, chatted away so pleasantly, that Lord Alfred caught the infection, and took his share in the conversation with spirit, so that when the meal was over, they parted mutually pleased.
Sir J. C———— arrived true to his appointed time, examined his patient, looked grave, consulted with Dr. Gouger, and then the two medicos summoned Coverdale. As he entered, the physician, who was a tall gaunt man, with a large, sharp nose, raised himself on tiptoe, as if he were trying to fly, then giving it up as hopeless, subsided on his heels again, cleared his throat, stroked his chin, looked at Coverdale as if he wished to feel his pulse or give him a pill, and began in a bland and insinuating tone of voice—
“You are anxious, my dear sir—naturally anxious as to the state in which we (here by a little condescending but patronizing pantomimic action he indicated Gouger) have found Mrs. Coverdale?”
Poor Harry, boiling with anxiety and impatience, shot a “Yes, of course,” at him as if he had been a partridge. In no way disturbed, however, the autocrat of all the pill-boxes continued—
“The duration of your justifiable anxiety, my dear sir, will not be much further prolonged; in less than twelve hours the complaint will have reached its crisis, and the result will not be long in revealing itself to educated eyes.”
“And you think——you feel reason to believe that———the result will be favourable,” stammered Harry, his stalwart frame trembling from head to foot with the emotion he was unable to conceal—“You do not think your patient worse than when you last saw her?”
The physician paused: then replied, gravely—
“It would be mistaken kindness to disguise from you the truth, sir. Mrs. Coverdale is in a most precarious state—her life hangs on a thread; I do not say that she must die, but it is my duty to tell you that it is more than probable that she may do so; the next twelve hours will probably decide the question. She is now apparently sinking into a heavy slumber—from this she may never awake, or it may be succeeded by fits of delirium, from which she would be unable to rally.”
Harry shuddered, then asked—
“And what would be a favourable symptom?”
“If Mrs. Coverdale should wake free from delirium, so as to be able to recognize those about her, you may reckon that the fever has worn itself out; and the only thing then to dread will be her extreme weakness; in that case every effort must be made to keep her up; give her port wine, or even brandy, a teaspoonful every five minutes if she appears faint; but my friend, Mr. Gouger, is quite aware of the proper measures to be taken—she cannot be in better hands.”
That supposed great arbiter of life and death, the London physician, had departed, leaving at least one aching heart behind him; for Coverdale could not disguise from himself that, although Sir J. C———— had not actually pronounced Alice’s sentence in plain words, his intention had been to prepare him for the worst. In pity to Emily’s youth and warm affection for her sister, he did not acquaint her with the immediate proximity of the crisis on which depended their loved one’s fate and his happiness; nor, not placing any great reliance on Lord Alfred Courtland’s power of keeping a secret, did he enlighten him either; but he made some excuse for detaining him and offering him a bed, so that he might be unable to start on his mission to Hazlehurst Grange until the next morning.
As the evening advanced, Alice, who had been alternately dozing and waking up to bewail herself in wild, incoherent sentences, fell into a deep, heavy sleep.
Dr. Gouger, having yielded to Harry’s earnest request that he would return and sleep at Coverdale Park that night, set out to pay two or three indispensable visits, promising to be back in good time.
About eleven o’clock, Emily used every argument she could think of to try and induce Harry, who had sat up during the last three nights, to allow her to take his place, but in vain; and reading in his pale, anxious countenance that his mind was made up, she contented herself with obtaining his promise that if any change took place, she should be summoned immediately, went to bed, and dreamed that Lord Alfred Courtland was a Persian prince, disguised as a physician, who had brought a talisman to cure Alice, for which he was to be liberally and appropriately rewarded with her (the dreamer’s) own fair hand and the Archbishopric of Canterbury.
Emily had scarcely retired when Dr. Gouger returned. Alice was still rapt in a heavy sleep, from which he gave strict orders she should not be aroused.
“Who sits up with her?” he inquired.
“The nurse, of course,” returned Harry: “that is, if snoring in an arm-chair deserves to be called so; and, until she is out of danger, or, if it should be so, until God may see fit to take her from me, I will never leave her!”
“Well, then, if she wakes of herself before morning, be very careful not to startle or alarm her. Watch her eyes closely, and see if she recognizes you; if she does so, that will be a favourable symptom; if she speaks to you, control your feelings, and answer her quietly and calmly; then instantly send for me. I think you perfectly understand? Well, then, as I’ve ridden a good many miles to-day, and have even a longer round to take to-morrow, I’ll go and lie down. I shall not undress, so I can be with our patient the moment you send for me.”
Thus saying, the doctor, who was a short, plump, florid little man, with a plain face preserved from insignificance by a pair of bright, keen eyes, and a magnificent forehead, yawned twice, and betook himself to the spare room allotted to him.
Twelve o’clock! Alice still asleep! The nurse having arranged a formidable line of medicine bottles ready for use, produces a well-thumbed volume from her pocket, and adjusting her spectacles, sits down to read by the night-lamp. One o’clock! The nurse, after many fruitless attempts to keep up appearances, and delude Harry into the belief that she is wide awake, begins to nod over her book, occasionally varying the performance by trying to swallow a suppressed snore, and choking in the attempt. Two o’clock! No change in the patient; but the nurse, who during the last half-hour has settled down into a deep and undisguisable sleep, begins to snore so loudly that Coverdale, afraid of her disturbing Alice, takes her by the shoulder, and leads her quietly, but unresistingly, into the dressing-room, and seats her on a sofa; to which discipline, the nurse, who has once or twice before experienced the force of Harry’s quiet manner, submits with a lamb-like meekness and docility, of which those who had seen her tyrannizing in the sick chambers of her poorer clients, would scarcely have deemed her capable. Three o’clock! How long the hours seem, and how dreary! The stillness—broken only by the measured breathing of the patient and the distant snoring of the banished nurse—the deep, solemn stillness of a country house at night, becomes painfully oppressive to the overwrought senses of the watcher. Will the crisis never arrive? Alice moves slightly, and moans in her sleep. Harry trembles from head to foot. Is she about to wake? Will she recognize him? No!—she sinks again into a deep, heavy slumber, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief and of thankfulness that the fearful moment is again postponed. Four o’clock! The dim grey light of dawn begins to peep in through the opening in the shutters, causing the lamp to shed lurid, flickering rays around the sick room, and thus adding to, rather than diminishing, the darkness. How cold it has become! and how every nerve and fibre in Harry’s injured arm aches and throbs! What an eternity of anguish appears capable of being condensed into a few minutes of severe bodily pain!
Hark! what is that low, wailing sound outside the window? He starts, and turns pale! Why do those foolish, hateful legends of Banshees, throng and crowd into his brain? Why does he remember with shivering dread that old wife’s tale of a white lady who weeps and wrings her hands before the death of any member of the Coverdale family? He laughed at it as a boy, and dressed himself in white to frighten the maids. He cannot laugh at it now! Again it comes, louder and more prolonged! but he knows this time that it is the howling of a dog—the King Charles’s spaniel, Alice’s pet, which he has been obliged to have tied up, lest it might disturb her; but hitherto it had borne its confinement quietly. Why should it howl so dismally to-night? Did any strange instinct warn it of its mistress’s danger? Ah! that word—danger!—yes, a danger from which all his deep fervent love, and his unequalled, manly strength, were alike powerless to shield her. How crushed, and helpless, and miserable, well-nigh despairing, he feels! And yet are they not both in the hands of a merciful Father? God’s will be done! but as the words of resignation pass his lips, the big tears roll down his cheeks as the recollection of all that he might be resigning wrung his loving breast. Covering his eyes with his hand, he strove to shut out all thought, all feeling! How long he remained in this position he never knew; but as soon as he removed his hand, it struck him that Alice had changed her attitude. Shading his eyes from the glare of the lamp, he gazed earnestly at her. Yes, she had moved, and surely she was awake. While he yet looked, unable to trust the evidence of his senses, a soft, faint voice, scarcely above a whisper, pronounced his name: so low was the sound, that, fancying it might be a delusion of his own overwrought senses, Harry bent down his head, as he asked, in a quiet, gentle tone of voice—
“Alice, darling, are you awake? Did you call me?”
For a moment there was no reply, and then the same gentle voice whispered—
“Harry, dear, you have been away a long, long time.”
As she spoke, she tried to raise her arm to draw his face nearer; but the wasted muscles refused to do their duty, and the poor thin, almost transparent hand, dropped powerless beside her.
“I am very weak, Harry, love,” she said; then, with an effort at recollection, she added: “Where am I?—here, at home? Have I been ill long?”
“You have been very ill, my own darling; but you will soon get well now. Don’t try to talk, or think about it yet. I will fetch you a soothing draught, and then you must endeavour to go to sleep again.”
Fearful of over-exciting her, he rose to call the nurse. As he turned to leave her for this purpose, Alice again stretched out her hand to detain him.
“Harry, love, do not go away, please. I will do everything you tell me, but I shall die if I lose you again.”
Harry stooped, and kissed her pale, thin cheek.
“I am only going to call the nurse,” he said. “I will never leave you any more, dearest!”
Alice faintly endeavoured to return his caress, and sank back exhausted on her pillow.
Harry roused the still sleeping nurse, and dispatched her to summon Dr. Gouger. Then returning to his wife’s bedside, he took her thin hand in his; and as his affectionate pressure was feebly returned, the hope that Alice might be restored to him a hope which that night of anxious watching had nearly destroyed—began once more to reanimate him.
Dr. Gouger, accustomed to be called up at all hours of the night, made his appearance in an incredibly short space of time. As he approached the bed, Alice perceived him, and smiled faintly in token of recognition—a favourable symptom, at which the doctor nodded approval. Having made a careful examination of the patient, he prepared a draught, which he gave her. Then saying, “Now try and go to sleep, my dear madam, and I trust to find you much refreshed to-morrow morning,” he turned to leave the room.
Harry followed him to the door.
“Well?” he said, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.
“The disease has worn itself out. Mrs. Coverdale is free from fever, and the only thing we have now to fear is weakness,” was the doctor’s reply. “She must be kept perfectly quiet both in mind and body for some days. When she wakes in the morning, throw a cape or something over that arm of yours; it might give her a shock if she were to perceive it suddenly. It is a very favourable symptom her having recovered consciousness so completely,—in fact, the case is going on as well as, under the circumstances, I conceive to be possible.”
“Thank God!” was all the reply Harry could make; but as Alice, with her hand in his, fell into a sound, refreshing slumber, his whole soul poured itself out in silent but heartfelt thanksgiving to the Father of all mercies, who had accepted his penitence, and again entrusted to his care the tender flower which, in his inconsiderate carelessness, he had once neglected.
When Emily came down to breakfast on the following morning, she quite started with pleased surprise to perceive the bright, happy expression, of her brother-in-law’s countenance.
“I need not ask whether Alice is better,” she began; “I can read it in your face. But has any great change taken place since yesterday?”
In reply to her question, Harry told her all—told her even more than he had ever confessed to himself—how, day by day, his hopes had diminished and his fears increased, until, after the physician’s caution on the previous morning, he had made up his mind that the medical men considered Alice dying; how he had concealed from her that the crisis of the complaint was at hand, and how he had passed the night in an agony of trembling expectation, longing for and yet dreading the moment in which she should awake; together with his delight when he heard her pronounce his name.
Lord Alfred Courtland set off in high glee for Hazlehurst Grange, certain of a hearty welcome, as bearer of such good tidings, and happier, as he declared, than he had felt for the last six months.
A week passed away. For two or three days, Alice appeared to progress favourably—as favourably as even her husband’s anxiety could desire. She knew every one, and conversed reasonably upon all subjects; but with the return of consciousness, a settled melancholy appeared to have taken possession of her. This, together with her extreme weakness, gave uneasiness alike to her indefatigable nurses, Harry and Emily, and to Dr. Gouger. Taking Harry aside one morning, he began—
“There are symptoms about Mrs. Coverdale which I cannot understand, and which appear to me more mental than bodily. They are retarding her recovery; and if you could ascertain the cause, and were able to remove it, I do not hesitate to tell you that you would prove a more effectual physician than I, or any one else, can be to her; but you must bear in mind her state of extreme debility; she is not fit to discuss any exciting topic at present.”
“Then how would you recommend me to proceed?” inquired Harry, the doctor’s warning having impressed him with two diametrically opposite ideas:—first, that it behoved him to ascertain whether anything, and (if anything) what, was preying upon his wife’s mind; and, secondly, that by so doing, he should probably lead her to talk on some exciting subject, which, in her present weak state, was the thing of all others to be avoided. How were these difficulties to be reconciled?
Dr. Gouger’s answer did not tend greatly to elucidate matters.
“Really, my dear sir, that is a point on which I can give you no advice. In the treatment of all bodily ailments, I, with all due deference to my professional brethren, consider myself as competent as any man; but were I so far to overstep my proper province as to attempt to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ as our great poet has it, I should be guilty of unpardonable presumption. No, my dear sir, I have given you the suggestion, and must leave it to your sound judgment how far, or in what way, it may be desirable to act upon it.”
Poor Harry! just the very points upon which he felt most incompetent to form an opinion, were those on which he was called upon to decide and act; but Harry had one adviser which never failed him—his own simple, straightforward common sense; and to that, and the so-called chapter of accidents, he resolved to trust.
During the remainder of that day, however, the aforesaid chapter did not afford him the opportunity he sought for. Alice appeared weak and depressed, and more inclined to sleep than to converse. On the following morning, she seemed a degree stronger and less disinclined to exertion. She inquired into the particulars of the steeple-chase, and especially interested herself in all the details relating to the leap at which he met with his accident, and his “pluck” in remounting and winning the race with a broken arm.
After Harry had given a full, true, and particular account of the affair from beginning to end, and his wife had evinced all proper interest and sympathy, a pause ensued in the conversation, which was broken by Alice.
“Emily has been telling me how you would sit up with me, night after night, when you ought to have been lying in bed yourself with your poor arm,” she said; “how kind and good it was of you! I hope you do not suffer very much pain now?”
“Oh, no! it is troublesome at times, but in general it is pretty easy,” was the reply.
After another pause, Alice asked, in a low, trembling voice—
“Did you think I should die, Harry?”
“I was naturally very anxious and unhappy about you,” returned Coverdale, “and—well, since you are getting on so nicely, I will confess that I was terribly frightened about you at one time,—that night on which the crisis took place especially; I never wish to pass such another six hours, I assure you!”
“Harry, love, I hope it would not make you very unhappy to lose me. Just a little sorry I should wish you to feel; I should like you, when you are recollecting me, to think, ‘she was a poor, foolish little thing, very obstinate and perverse at times, but still she loved me as well as such a silly little thing could.’”
“Alice, my own darling, why indulge in such gloomy fancies?” replied her husband, tenderly; “you know, you must be sure, it would break my heart to lose you. Ask Emily whether I am not a different creature since the doctors have pronounced you out of danger?”
“Harry, my own dearest husband, I love to hear you say that, and I know it is true; but, dear Harry, you must not be very unhappy if such a thing were to occur, for—for—I think I shall die yet; I think I grow weaker and weaker every day; I shall never have strength enough to get well again.”
Coverdale was about to interrupt her, but she placed her finger on his lips to imply her wish that he should remain silent as she continued—
“Yes, dearest, I believe I am gradually sinking into my grave; it made me very, very unhappy at first; for life is pleasant, and I am young to die! besides, I know, love, what a bad, tiresome wife I have been to you, and I did so want to try if I could not do better; I know what a proud rebellious, wilful temper I have shown towards you, but indeed I don’t think I have altogether a bad heart, and I did hope if I tried, very hard, perhaps I could make you happy; but lately I have begun to think it may be better for you as it is.”
“My own darling, what strange, silly fancies are these? Gouger says you are going on as well as possible; you make me wretched to hear you talk so, and what do you mean by it being better for me as it is? If I were to lose you, I should never know another happy hour.”
“You think so now, dear,” was the reply, “and very kind it is of you to be so fond of your naughty, tiresome little wife; and I know you will be very unhappy at first when I die; but you must go abroad or take a shooting tour somewhere, to keep you from thinking and fretting about me; and—you must not be angry at what I am going to say, dear—in a year or so you must come back, and then you can marry some one who will make you a better wife than poor, silly little Alice—some one who has been attached to you a long time, and whom there will be no reason why you should not love in return when I am out of the way; she is more clever and courageous than I am, and will be able to enter into your pursuits, and help you with your magistrate’s business, and—and—oh! I am sure you will be very happy with her, dear!”