Chapter XXII: Sickness and Sorrow

FOR days I lay in high fever. How the time passed I knew not; for me there was only one long night of parching thirst, burning throat, throbbing pain in head and limbs. Faces would gleam on me out of the darkness, persons and scenes pass before me and disappear, like the shifting views of a diorama. Now Salome's kind old face would look on me, but as I tried to speak to her, she would change into Ralph; then Grace would appear, Leonard, Mrs. Lyell, Mabel, and my brother Edmund. Faces they seemed, only faces floating in the air, now above and now beside me, and ever evading my efforts to fix and define them.

At times, I was conscious of a voice talking, ever talking, and longed to silence it, not knowing that it was my own voice. Or I seemed to be wandering in strange and bewildering scenes.

One delusion that must have repeated itself many times was that I was climbing with my brother amongst the Swiss mountains. Masses of snow lay about us; great blocks of ice were in sight; silvery rills gushing between them promised a cool and delicious draught.

I longed to cool my parched lips and burning throat with the ice-cold water—longed to lave my hot hands in the crystal stream; but something ever kept me back. My feet would slip, or the scene would recede just as my desire seemed about to be gratified. Edmund or Leonard—for the one often changed into the other—would appear, and, pointing to the stream, urge me to hasten my steps; but my eager longing was ever baffled. I endured the doom of Tantalus. Leonard, Ralph, and Edmund; of all whom the wanderings of my mind brought before me, these three presented themselves most distinctly.

At last, the fever that consumed me burnt itself out. Gradually the terrible heat subsided; a cold hand seemed to be pressed upon my burning brow, cooling, calming, hushing the turmoil within. The haunting, harassing visions vanished; peace came to me and repose.

I awoke from a long, deep slumber, utterly weak and prostrate, but myself again. Yet the scene which met my opening eyes was so unfamiliar that I questioned if I were indeed looking on realities. The rounded chamber in which I lay was strange to me. It seemed inexplicable that I should be there, and still more bewildering was it to see Grace and Ralph standing within a few yards of me.

"It is a dream," I thought, and my eyes closed again.

They soon reopened, however, and now Grace was bending over me.

That she was no figment of my imagination was proved by her raising my head on her arm and gently forcing me to swallow some nourishment. I looked at her with wondering eyes.

"Grace!" I said. And the faint, hollow sound of my voice surprised me.

"Yes, dearest; it is I."

"Where am I?"

"In your sister's house, dear Dorothy. You have been very ill, and I have come to help nurse you."

"Oh! Are you here alone?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then it was not Ralph I saw?"

"Ralph was here a few minutes ago; but he is gone."

"And no one else? Not Leonard?"

"No, dear."

I gave a weary sigh. Grace made me take some more nourishment; then she enjoined silence, and I slept again.

Gradually my strength returned to me, thought grew clear again, and with thought came fresh trouble of mind.

Grace's presence at my bedside was easily explained. On hearing of my illness, she had written to Mabel, begging to be allowed to come and help nurse me. And as she was more skilful than most amateur nurses, having at one time, from love of the art, undergone a course of hospital training, Mabel gratefully accepted the assistance she offered.

Salome was at first disposed to be jealous of her, and to regard her coming as an intrusion; but Grace soon won her liking, and Salome was thankful to have so efficient an ally in the long-continued battle for my life; for the fever had raged its worst in me, and the least failure or lack of caution on the part of my nurses would probably have given me over to death.

"Grace," I said one day, when for some time I had been lying silent, lost in thought, "what made Ralph come to see me? It was running a great risk."

"Not so great as you think, dear," replied Grace. "We both had the fever as children, and it rarely happens that one takes it a second time. And Ralph was sorely anxious about you. He could not stay away when the crisis of your illness was approaching, and we knew that a few hours would decide the issue."

"He should not have minded. I wish he did not care for me so much," I said, beginning to cry, for I was still very weak. "Grace I can't help thinking that perhaps it would have been better if I had died."

"It is not for you to say that, Dorothy," she answered, gravely. "It must be better you should live, since God has willed it so."

But I continued to cry for a while. Presently I asked—

"What have you done with my ring, Grace?—The ring Ralph gave me?"

"He has it, dear. It was hanging loose on your finger when you were sleeping, and he took it."

"He should not have done that," I said, querulously. "When will he give it to me?"

"When you see him, you can ask him," said Grace, sagely.

"Is he coming here again?" I asked, with a sudden palpitation of fear.

"No, dear. He thinks it best not to see you till you are stronger—when you are able to leave here. When I can take you to the seaside, as I hope to do, perhaps we shall see him."

I gave a sigh of relief. Did Grace understand its meaning? There was a pained look on her face as she watched me.

"Grace," I said, uneasily, "did I talk much when I was delirious?"

"Why, yes. You talked incessantly," she said.

"Oh, what did I talk about?" I asked, eagerly. "Did I mention names? Did I talk about any one in particular? Oh, do tell me!"

"You mentioned several names, I believe," she answered quietly. "But, dear Dorothy, it is foolish to recall that now. When the delirium is past, we forget the patient's wandering words."

"Yes, yes; pray forget them," I said, hurriedly. "I daresay I talked great rubbish; I want you to forget everything I said."

"Very well," replied Grace.

But she looked so troubled that I wished my words unsaid.

My recovery was very slow and tedious. The burdens that lay on my heart, the keen, gnawing remorse that came with thought of the past, the doubts and fears with which I looked forward to the future, must have retarded my progress. In my convalescence, I had abundant leisure for reflection. I saw plainly now what a fatal mistake I had made, and how my rash, impulsive action had brought trouble on those, whom I most wished to make glad; but I could see no way of escape from the deplorable position into which I had brought myself. Ah, if I had but laid my case before the Lord and awaited the guidance He never fails to give to those who seek it! Then I should not have known the shame and sorrow I now endured.

After a few days, I saw less of Grace. I had begged her not to imprison herself in my sick-room. And when she left me for hours at a time, I believed that she was resting, or taking the fresh air. I was content to have only Salome's company, for Grace's presence, dear as she was, had now for me the force of a silent reproach.

Mabel did not come near me; I did not of course expect to see her, knowing how desirable it was to prevent the spread of infection in the household. In truth, I thought very little of Mabel. I hardly realised that I was at The Towers, so unfamiliar was the room I occupied. Like most invalids, I was absorbed in myself, marking the stages of my recovery, looking forward to every proposed change, and wondering, sadly enough, what the coming days would unfold. But soon something occurred to rouse me from my selfish lethargy.

One afternoon I was alone for a little while, Salerno having gone below to fetch some needed supplies. I had left my bed for the first time, and was lying on a couch near the fire. My eyes were closed, but I was not asleep, for I heard the peculiar squeaking sound the hinges of the baize door made whenever it was pushed back. Who could be coming to The Towers from the main dwelling? Not the doctor, for he had already paid his daily visit to me; besides, the light step that was ascending the stairs was certainly not a man's. Ere I could wonder long, the step paused outside the door; then the handle was timidly turned, and the next moment, to my utter amazement, Mabel stood before me.

Yes, it was Mabel; but how altered! She was white and haggard; her eyes had the dilated strained look that tells of long sleeplessness; her self-confident, composed air was gone. I had never seen my sister look so before.

"Mabel," I exclaimed, "what is it? Oh, you should not have come. Do you forget the risk of infection?"

"It does not matter now," she said in a hard, unnatural tone. "Nothing matters now. He is dying, Dorothy, dying."

"Dying!" I repeated, aghast. "What do you mean? Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of whom should I speak but of my Percy—my darling, my precious child! Oh, if he dies, I shall be the most wretched woman on earth!"

"Oh, Mabel!" I cried, the thought smiting me sharply. "You do not mean to say that little Percy has the fever?"

"Did you not know? Did they not tell you? He has been ill for days—how long I do not know; for I have lost all count of time. The fever had turned, we thought he was getting better; but now there is some dreadful complication, and they say there is scarcely a chance that he can live. Oh, do not look at me like that, Dorothy! I cannot bear it. Oh, my darling, my darling, how could I live without you?"

I looked away, and was silent. It seemed vain to try and comfort her, so agitated as she was. Yet there were no tears in her eyes. She walked to and fro my room as though too restless to sit down. She wore a loose morning wrapper; her hair was falling in disorder on her shoulders; she looked utterly unlike the bright, dainty little lady she usually appeared.

"Mabel, dear," I said presently, "you must not give way to despair. Surely, whilst the darling still lives there is some hope."

"There is just that much of hope," she replied; "Dr. Evans said so. And now Howard has summoned a physician from London, who is watching the case. They banished me from the room; they told me to rest. But how can I rest? The sleeping draught they gave me had no more effect on me than if it had been water."

I thought that its effect was evident in her wild excited mien.

"Dorothy," she went on, after a moment, "I have come to you because you love him, and you will pray for him. I have tried to pray, but I cannot. God will not hear me. I am too wicked."

"You wicked, Mabel! You were always better than I!"

"Dorothy, you must not say that; you do not know me. Oh, I knew from the first that he would die; I had no hope from the hour when they told me he had taken the fever. I am not worthy to be the mother of such a pure, innocent little child. God has judged me unworthy. He will punish me for all my worldliness and pride. Even in my religion, I was worldly, thinking chiefly of what was correct and in good taste."

Could it be Mabel who poured out these confessions? This humble, despairing woman, the proud, queenly sister, who had been so ready to admonish and reprove me! But I ceased to wonder in my longing to give her comfort.

"God is love; God is merciful," I whispered.

"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins.'"

And as I said the words, my own sins rose before me, all my past follies and perversities, and I knew that I, even more than Mabel, needed to implore the merciful forgiveness of God.

"You must not give up hope," I continued. "I do not. We will pray, and God will hear our prayer."

"But, Dorothy, remember how we hoped to the last for poor Edmund. And we prayed that he might live, and yet he did not."

"I know," I said, half-sobbing; "but oh, it cannot be that darling Percy too will be taken; oh, I cannot think that that will be!"

"Then pray, Dorothy. Ask God to save my child. Ask Him now."

She had cast herself down beside me, and clasped my hands in hers, as she looked up at me with appealing eyes.

There was no barrier now between my heart and Mabel's. She needed me now, needed my sympathy, my prayers. It was as if we had been carried back to the days so long gone by, when we had childish griefs in common and prayed together in simple, childish words with childish faith.

A little while before, I should have said it was impossible that I could breathe a prayer in Mabel's hearing. But in hours of supreme trial, the reserve, self-consciousness or pride, which isolates our spirits, separating us even from those most dear, breaks down, and we are conscious only of our common needs and sorrows.

So I prayed, beseeching the Lord to spare the little life so dear to us, whilst Mabel knelt by my couch, still clinging to me. When I ended, tears, blessed tears, came to her relief. Her strained, excited mood gave way, and she clung to me sobbing. It was more than I could bear to witness her abandonment of grief. In a few moments, I, too, should have lost all self-control, had not Salome come to my help. She was amazed to see Mabel crouched on the floor beside me.

"Miss Mabel, Miss Mabel," she exclaimed, her manner displaying the old, stern authority with which she had ruled us in our childhood; "you should not be here; you will make your sister worse if you cry like that. Come, come with me."

And, as firmly, but not unkindly, Salome laid her hand on her arm, Mabel rose and passively let our old nurse lead her from the room. She went away wan and bowed, with a sad, stricken look on her face; but not so utterly hopeless, I think, as when she came.

After a while, Salome came back to find me crying helplessly. She made me take a restorative, and forbade me to speak. But I could not keep quiet long.

"Why did you not tell me that little Percy was ill?" I demanded, presently.

"Because it was better you should not know. You would have fretted and gone back. You should not have heard now if I could have prevented it."

"I would rather know," I said; "and now you must tell me all, Salome. I cannot bear to have things kept from me. Is he really so very ill? Do you think he will die?"

Salome shook her head solemnly. "Who can say! He is as ill as ever child was. There's a mighty fine doctor come from London; but I have not much faith in doctors."

"I have heard you say that it is wonderful what little children will come through."

"So it is, Miss Dorothy, so it is. I have seen poor folk's children persist in living, when everyone had given them over; but rich people often cannot save their children with all their grand doctors, and nurses, and everything that money can buy. Life is full of trouble, my dear, and no one can escape the common lot. Those that have all this world can give them are made to suffer in other ways."

"Poor Mabel!" I sighed. "It will break her heart if she loses her boy. And I feel as if I could never forgive myself, for I must have given him the fever."

"Nay, child; it was none of your doing. This stroke is from the Lord. Small or great, He loves us too well not to chasten us. And the sorrows He sends us are less painful than those we bring on ourselves."

"Ah, that is true!" I said, involuntarily.

"Poor Miss Mabel was always so haughty-proud," continued Salome; "she seemed to think the world was made for her and trouble could never touch her. Even as a little child, she had always a grand air. And the Lord hates pride; He humbles the haughty."

"But He forgives those who confess their faults," I answered; "He hears us when we pray."

"Ay, to be sure; there's no doubt of that," Salome answered.

But her manner was not encouraging. I saw that she had made up her mind that little Percy would die. How I longed for Grace to share my burden with me! But I knew how she was occupied; I could understand now why I had seen her so little of late.

"Is Mrs. West nursing Percy?" I asked.

Salome nodded. "I don't know what they would do without her," she said; "when he was wild and fractious, she could manage him better than any one. A real God-send she has been to us. I never saw her equal in a sick-room."

Such praise from Salome was rare, and it showed that Grace was displaying no ordinary skill.

What a long, long evening it was that followed! My thoughts dwelt constantly on my darling nephew, and again and again I prayed God to spare the precious, young life. Fear was strong within me; the saddest possibilities pictured themselves before my mind; I could get no rest for sore anxiety.

From time to time I sent Salome to make inquiries, but she brought back ever the same report. The child was just the same, no better, and every hour the faint thread of hope seemed to grow slighter. And still I prayed and tried to hope, though my heart sickened under the long suspense.

For a long while I resisted Salome's desire to get me to bed, saying that, since it was impossible to sleep, I would rather remain up. But at last, worn out, I yielded, and lay in bed staring blankly at the fire and at Salome's gaunt, upright form seated stiffly beside it, till at last sleep surprised me.

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