Chapter XXV: In the Borderland

HOPE came to her senses very gradually.

First she thought she was in bed, just waking up, and for a moment she began to wonder where she was. Then she was conscious of voices, and then of some one touching her. She opened her eyes. A strange man was bending over her.

"Do not be anxious. You have no bones broken, and I have dressed your only wound. You were stunned. How do you feel?"

"What is the matter with me?"

Hope's voice was feeble and weak.

"You had a nasty cut on your head, but it was not very deep."

"I—I feel so stupid and dizzy—oh, I was in the train—where is Lancelot—my husband?"

There was silence. In a moment she had sprung up from a sofa on which she had been lying. She found herself in the first-class waiting-room of a railway station. The doctor who had been attending to her was already turning away, and a hospital nurse came forward.

"Please keep still," she said. "It will be better for you. The doctor is so busy; so many are needing him. It has been a terrible accident. Happily you were only outside our station, and we were wired for at once. A great many have already been moved to the hospital here."

Hope hardly heard her. In agony she pushed her aside, stumbling across several other women in reclining positions on the floor, and rapidly made her way along the platform. It was crowded. Impromptu litters had been made, and were being carried along the line; cabs were taking off inanimate forms; everywhere men and women were hurrying to and fro, and women's voices were raised in shrill cries for their belongings.

"He is dead!" Hope said in her heart.

In silence she went from one to the other, peering into the face of every wounded man. At last, some one touched her on the arm.

"Are you looking for any one?" It was an elderly porter who spoke.

"My husband. Where are those who are dead?"

"'Tis hard to say. They've taken the worst cases to the hospital. What kind of gent was he?"

Hope did not answer. She flew to a cab.

"Take me to the hospital," she exclaimed. "Quick! I must find my husband."

It was not very far. In the entrance-hall a sister met her. She had already received many distracted relatives.

"Yes," she said, "I will help you, if you describe your husband to me."

"Tall," said Hope, a quick sob escaping her; "thin, a brown moustache, a dark tweed suit, a buff covert coat, and violets in his buttonhole."

She had placed the violets there herself. Was it a year ago?

"Ah," said the sister gently, "he is here. I remember noting the violets. Come in and wait. I will make inquiries."

Hope was shown into a small waiting-room. Dizzy and weak, with an aching throbbing head, she tried to calm herself, and prepare for the worst. Her lips moved in prayer.

"O God, we were so happy! Oh! I cannot bear it! Let him be alive! Let
him be alive!"

It seemed hours before the sister returned, and she was accompanied by one of the doctors.

"I am sorry, madam," he said slowly, "but is your husband's name Lancelot Dane?"

"Yes. Is he dead?"

Hope was surprised at the quietness of her own voice.

"No—but I can hardly give you hope of his recovery. We discovered his visiting-card in his pocket. That is how I know his name. He has been badly crushed, and we fear injury to his spine."

"Where is he? Take me to him."

"You cannot see him just at present. He has not recovered consciousness."

"Take me to him. I am his wife."

Hope's tone was peremptory.

The sister laid her hand on her arm.

"The doctors are attending to him now. You must wait, I am afraid. Are you near home?"

"I don't know where we are."

"This is York. You were just coming into the station when the accident occurred. But I am afraid your husband cannot be moved."

She looked questioningly at the doctor as she spoke. He answered:

"If Mrs.—Mrs. Dane had quiet rooms to which she could move him at once, it might be done. Later it would be impossible."

"I am a stranger. Sister, do you not know of any place I could take him to? Our home is at Brunsworthy Hall, and that is thirty miles from York."

The sister hastily conferred with the doctor.

Hope caught the words:

"No room—such small accommodation—better with a private nurse."

And then the sister spoke to her again.

"I do know of some very nice rooms. The landlady is most reliable. We think Mr. Dane might be moved in an hour's time."

"He is very ill," said the doctor, looking at Hope gravely. "Have you any friends who had better be told?"

"Oh," cried Hope; "we were only married this morning!"

He murmured something which she could not catch, and left the room.

"I will give you the address of rooms," said the sister. "Would you not like to go to them now, so that you could be ready for your husband when we send him?"

Hope turned away with a nod of assent. She could not trust herself to speak.

It was a good thing for her that she was forced to act. She went out into the street and soon found the rooms. The landlady rose to the occasion. A bed was prepared in a large bedroom on the ground floor, and two hours later Hope was face to face with her husband. Alas, she could hardly recognise him! He seemed to her to be in bandages from head to foot. A nurse came with him and a doctor. Hope could only stand by in agony of soul, and see them doing all that was necessary. Then she overheard her landlady speaking to the doctor in the hall; and she heard his reply given in quick decided tones.

"He has not the slightest chance. He may linger some days. We have done all we can for him, and he has a capital nurse. If he lives beyond to-morrow, I will send a night nurse. It is too critical a case to leave to his wife."

Hope wondered vaguely why there was need of nurses, if he were dying.

She seemed now almost stupefied, and when her landlady came into the room, and asked her if she would like some food before she went to bed, she was powerless to make reply. In a vague misty way she found herself drinking some hot soup in bed, and then she fell into a troubled sleep, and did not wake till the morning dawned.

Mrs. Forsett, her landlady, told her afterwards that she had, with the help of the nurse, undressed her and got her to bed.

"'Twas your poor hurt head, ma'am, and the shock of it all, that seemed to have stunned you."

But when Hope woke the next day, her head was painfully clear. She was very soon in her husband's room, but he lay in a stupor from which it was impossible to rouse him.

It was now that she sent off telegrams to Mrs. Dane and to Lancelot's housekeeper, and reproached herself with not having done so the night before.

Then, not being able to help in the sick-room, for the nurse was getting her patient ready to see the doctors, she went out to get a few more necessaries for the invalid.

And it was in walking along the streets in the bright sunshine that Hope went through her darkest time.

"I cannot be resigned! Why should I be singled out for such misfortunes? Oh, I might have been given a little happiness after all I have gone through this past year! It seems so cruel, so unnecessary! I cannot live without him! Why need it have happened? Why should I be left to bear the desolation of life without him? What have I done to be treated so? I have tried to be patient through all my troubles, but not one of them really touched me like this one! The more I bear, the more I have to bear!"

She clenched her hands in the impotency of her despair. She knew she was murmuring against God; she felt she was allowing the full tide of rebellion and resentment against His chastening to rush in and flood her soul; she remembered His sustaining power in times past, in the peace that had been hers during all the stress of anxiety and trouble, yet now nothing seemed to help her.

"Shall I never have one word, one look from him? Has he drifted away from me already? Oh! If only I had been allowed to suffer instead of him!"

She walked on; she gave her orders mechanically at the shops, and then she retraced her steps homewards. She went straight to the sick-room.

"Nurse," she said, "I am his wife. My place is by his side. I will not be shut out of this room till—till the end comes."

The nurse drew a chair up to the bedside.

"Will you sit there, ma'am? I do not think you will disturb him."

Hope sat there with a white still face.

Doctors came and went. Lancelot's injuries had been very severe. A broken collar-bone, concussion of the brain, broken ribs, and a bruised body were not all the doctors feared. How Hope had escaped with so little hurt was the marvel, for their carriage had been one of the worst to suffer! Lancelot had evidently thrown himself upon her to shield her, for he had been found on the top of her, and the roof of the carriage was splintered over him.

All that day and night she watched by the bedside, hoping in vain to catch a spark of consciousness or of recognition. Early the next morning Mrs. Dane arrived, white and worn with anxiety. Hope met her with the same stony calm. She, for the first time since she had known Mrs. Dane, shrank from being with her, and Mrs. Dane's quick intuition perceived and understood it.

"I will not come between you and him, my poor child, but you must remember I am his mother."

Then Hope's calm forsook her, and the bitterness of her tone appalled her mother-in-law.

"You have had him all his life, I have only had him for a few short hours. I have been given a cup to raise to my lips, and then it has been dashed away from me!"

"Nothing is impossible with God," said Mrs. Dane gently. "Shall we pray together that his life may be spared?"

"I have not prayed since the accident. I cannot. I think my soul is dead. I can only feel how cruel it is!"

She went to the sick-room as she spoke, and did not see Mrs. Dane again alone till they were lunching together.

"Hope, dear, I think I realise how you feel; but you are not helping yourself or poor Lancelot by keeping away from the One who alone can help you."

Hope looked at her mother-in-law with dull heavy eyes.

"I think my faith has gone altogether," she said.

"Then ask for it to be given back to you. Let me say your favourite hymn. I keep repeating it to myself."

Mrs. Dane repeated verse after verse of the hymn that had been Hope's greatest comfort. Then in faltering tones she uttered the last verse but one:

"'Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours?
Jesus has vanquish'd death and all its powers.'

"There is all eternity coming, Hope, darling, for you and for him. This life will seem such a little bit, looking back."

Hope was silent for a moment. Then she murmured:

"If Christ would vanquish death now, and give him back to me for a few short years, I feel I—oh, I can't say it! I believe the devil has taken possession of me!"

She quitted the room hastily. She felt such a tumult rising within her that she could not return to the sick-room. She went to her own room and paced it like a wild animal in a cage. Never could she have believed that the passion of an earthly love could have shaken the very foundation of her creed. And in the depths of her heart was the ceaseless voice: "You are sinning wilfully. You are harbouring and encouraging unbelief and rebellion!"

She saw her Bible on her dressing-table. She had not opened it since her marriage. And then, almost mechanically, she sat down, and, turning over its pages, began reading the Gospels. She read, without taking it in, and then suddenly one single sentence before her seemed to stand out above all the other:

"Is it not lawful for Me to do what I will with Mine own?"

It came as the direct voice of God, and pierced the crust of bitter rebellion and unbelief.

She sank down on her knees and burst into a passion of tears.

The voice of tender, loving, pitying rebuke again repeated in her soul:

"Is it not lawful for Me to do what I will with Mine own?"

She felt much as she imagined Peter must have done when his Master turned and looked at him.

"Yes, Lord," she said brokenly. "It is Thy right; he is Thine own to kill, to make alive; he is Thine, and I am Thine, and Thou hast the right to do what Thou wilt. Oh, do it! Do it! I am Thine. I would not take myself away from Thee. I thank Thee for this word. Who am I that I dare to question Thy right over us both? Oh, forgive me, forgive me! Cast the devil out. Lancelot is Thine own. I am Thine own. Thou hast Thy plans for us both. I will not pray for his life. I will not ask Thee to alter Thy plans. Take me back to Thyself. Do Thou help and comfort us. Thou hast him in Thine eternal arms. I leave him there."

An hour passed before she came out of her room, and then she met Mrs. Dane in the narrow passage. Such light and peace were upon her face that her mother-in-law almost started. The change was marvellous.

"Yes," she said. "It is wonderful—God's mercy and love—but I am forgiven, and I am resigned."

She passed in to sit with her husband, and though her face was white and worn with the conflict that had been raging within her, in her eyes was the "peace that passes understanding."

Very quiet she was, and very silent even to Mrs. Dane.

"I feel," she said to her once, "that I am waiting for death."

The days slowly went by, but there was no change in Lancelot's condition.

"He may slip away from us any moment," said the doctor. "I do not think he will recover consciousness."

Hope sat and waited. She could repeat to herself now the lines of her hymn:

"'Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours?
Jesus has vanquish'd death and all its powers.'"

And sitting in the Shadow of the Borderland, she seemed to get strange and glorious glimpses of the life beyond.

Mrs. Dane looked after her physical wants, and took it in turn to watch with her. If Hope had been by herself, she would have been oblivious of food and rest. When once she said something a little impatiently about her own health being a matter of indifference to her, Mrs. Dane said:

"Dear Hope, however much you may want to follow him, you must not try to do so. For his sake, his property, his household will need your attention and care. You will be his representative, and you must look upon his possessions as a trust from him."

Which view of the case gave Hope much food for thought. She herself marvelled at Mrs. Dane's calmness and fortitude. The elder woman had learnt life's lesson in a way that the younger one had not, and Mrs. Dane was a selfless woman. She loved her eldest son passionately; his very nature appealed to her in a way that neither of his brothers' did. But she had gladly and willingly given him up to the girl whom he loved, quietly taking the second place in his thoughts and affections, and now she was as ready to give him up to the Master who loved him, and was calling him.

At last, one morning, Hope spoke straightforwardly to the doctor.

"Why does my husband linger so long, if he cannot get better? He takes nourishment. Have you no hope that he may yet pull through?"

"I am just beginning to hope," was the answer.

Then, as a flood of colour swept up into Hope's white cheeks, the doctor put out his hand as if to stop any premature rejoicing.

"I think we must have another opinion," he said. "I can be quite frank with you, Mrs. Dane. Life will not necessarily mean health. I fear paralysis of the brain."

Hope's heart sank very low again. Could she wish her husband a living death? She could not.

A physician came down from London, and after a long consultation, Hope was called into the room to hear the result.

"We think that he might possibly be roused. Will you try to do this? If he will respond to any one, it will be to you. Can you make the attempt?"

So with a beating heart Hope went back to her husband's bedside, and bending over the unconscious form, she called in a clear steady voice close to his ear:

"Lancelot! Lancelot, darling, I want you."

There was no movement. The doctors and nurse watched anxiously. Mrs. Dane in the background also watched and prayed.

"Put your heart into it," whispered the doctor. "Remind yourself that this is his last chance. Make him hear you!"

Hope did not need this stimulant. Her whole soul rose into her agonised cry.

"Lancelot, it is Hope who wants you. Come to me—help me—help!"

There was a slight quiver of the still eyelashes, a slight motion of his head. The word "help" seemed to have reached him at last.

She put her mouth close to his ear, and the intense yearning in her cry brought a moisture into the old physician's eyes.

"Lancelot, my husband, come to your wife! Help me, I want you. Help!"

His eyelids flickered, and then in the smallest weakest voice possible these words were clearly heard.

"I am—trying—to—come."

"Then look up! I am here, darling. Hope is here; look at me—look!"

The soul that seemed so far away, in that mysterious border region between life and death, had returned to the world. Lancelot opened his eyes, and as they fell on Hope's sweet eager face so close to his, there was recognition in his glance.

"Hope—my darling—kiss me."

Hope put her lips to his.

The tense moment had passed. The doctors seemed to draw breath.

"Give him stimulant, nurse, at once."

The physician spoke, and in a few moments the sick man murmured:

"I am afraid I am ill, Hope; can you tell me?"

"I will tell you everything soon, dear. You have been very ill, and now you're getting better."

Hope's eyes were full of happy tears. The doctors left the room.

"Let him sleep now. His brain is uninjured. He will pull round."

And then, leaving her husband in a quiet peaceful sleep, Hope flung herself into Mrs. Dane's motherly arms.

"Oh, mother—let me call you so! How good you have been to me, and oh, how good of God! After all my unbelief and rebellion! Can we—will you thank Him for me?"

Together they knelt in prayer, and Hope's face, when she rose from her knees, was a study in rapt contentment and delight, but her bright brown hair was streaked with grey.