Chapter IV: The Maids of Taunton (continued) (3)

'Well, the hours went on dismally and wearily. Poor Bessie woke from her lethargy after a while, but in a state that shocked and frightened us more than ever. She tossed incessantly from side to side, with burning cheeks and parched lips--her blue eyes wide open, and brilliant with fever. Oh! what misery it was to sit and listen to her as she lay talking wildly and incoherently on all sorts of subjects--sometimes about Madame St. Aubert, and Pauline, and her old school occupations; at others, raving violently about Colonel Dare and the Duke of Monmouth. Then she would fancy herself again at the bar pleading before Judge Jeffreys, and implore piteously for mercy on her uncle. But, oh! the worst of all was when she started up and clung to Henrietta, screaming in an agony of fear that Judge Jeffreys was going to send her to the scaffold. The turnkey's wife came again in the afternoon with the promised draught; and whether it was the effect of that, or that she was at last thoroughly exhausted, I do not know, but she suddenly became quieter, and at length sank once more into a state of stupor. Thus the day wore on, and at last night came, and the turnkey's wife looked in to pay us a farewell visit, bringing another draught for Bessie, and a candle. She looked at the motionless figure on the mattress, with sincere pity in her face, and then shook her head despondingly.

'"You do not think her better?" asked Henrietta with a quivering voice.

'"She'll not be here in the morning," the woman answered gravely, after a moment's hesitation. "I wish I could stay with you to-night, mistress; but I've a sick babe to nurse myself." And with another wistful, compassionate glance towards the mattress, she bade us good night and closed the door.

'The next minute the silence that followed was broken by Bessie herself.

'"Henrietta, what time is it?"

'She spoke quite calmly and naturally, though her voice was very faint. A glance at her face showed that the delirium had passed away; but there was a curious expression in her eyes that I had never seen before. The wild, vacant look was gone, but they were still strangely bright; and there was something so deep and solemn, and at the same time so very sad and yearning, in the gaze which she turned upon me as I went to her side, that I almost shrank from her.

'"What o'clock is it?" she repeated, with an effort to raise her voice.

'"About nine, my love," Henrietta replied tremulously. "How do you feel, dear Bessie? You are better, I think, are you not?"

'Bessie made no answer. She only closed her eyes again, and leaned her cheek against Henrietta's hand. At length she opened them again, and said abruptly:

'"I heard what she said, Henrietta. She was quite right. I shall not be here in the morning."

'A thrill ran through me as she said this.

'"Oh don't, Bessie--don't speak so! You are, better now--indeed you are! You will get well, and my father and Henrietta's will pay." Here I broke off suddenly, checked by a warning glance from Henrietta, and buried my face in the pillow to choke back the rising sobs.

'"No, Frances, dear, I am not better," said Bessie, still in the same calm, steady tone; "and I don't think I want to get better. It is all coming back to me now. I remember what he said about my uncle. Was that very long ago, Henrietta?"

'"Only this morning, my dear."

'"Only this morning! And I feel as if it was all so very, very long ago. It seems like a dream--a dreadful, horrible dream. Ah! I thought I was going to die when he looked at me like that." She gave a sort of gasp and shudder, and clung more closely to Henrietta's hand. "I don't want to think of his face now, Henrietta. Do help me," she said plaintively. "Won't you read to me, and say some prayers?"

'Without speaking, Henrietta took out her prayer-book, and found the Service for the Communion of the Sick. Her strong self-command was almost giving way then. For a moment she knelt in silence, her eyes fixed on the page, and her lip quivering; but when her voice came, it was clear and firm, as if we had been at evening prayers in Madame St. Aubert's schoolroom.

'For some minutes after Henrietta had closed the book, Bessie lay quite still, with her eyes shut, and I thought at first that she had fallen asleep; but presently she looked up and said, with a faint sigh:

'"Henrietta, I never knew what you were before. It was my fault if we were not good friends in the old days. Will you forgive all those thoughtless words and taunts of mine?"

'Henrietta's answer was a long, fervent kiss.

'"You were right, too, when you said we should bring trouble upon ourselves," Bessie went on mournfully; "but I could not help it. I do not know that I could do anything else, if all should come over again. I thought I was doing right. My uncle loved the Duke. Only poor little Frances--She must forgive me too. I feel as if I was a good deal to blame for her part in this matter.'"

'"No, no, dear Bessie," I sobbed, flinging myself down by her side. "It was not your fault. Henrietta did nothing, and you know she has been punished as much as we have."

'"Dear little Fan, good-bye."

'These words were very faintly and wearily spoken; then her eyes closed again, and Henrietta, signing to me not to disturb her, drew me gently away from the bed. I made no remonstrance when she arranged some cloaks at the other end of the room, and begged me to lie down and try to sleep. All the afternoon I had felt tired and drowsy, and as if a heavy weight was pressing down my eyes. Now my head was aching painfully, my throat felt terribly parched and sore, and I lay down and sobbed on drearily, while Henrietta made me as comfortable as she could, and then went to keep watch by Bessie's side.

'"Perhaps she will be better to-morrow, if she goes to sleep," I murmured dreamily. But Henrietta's only answer was a silent kiss; and that is the last I remember of that weary night.

'It was broad daylight when I next opened my eyes. Henrietta was standing over me with a white worn face, and eyelids red and swollen with tears. I just recollect noticing this, and also vaguely wondering where Bessie was, for she was not lying on the mattress now; and when I raised my head, and tried to look round the room, there seemed no one there but Henrietta and myself. But I did not ask her any questions, and I made no reply when she spoke to me. In fact, her words did not seem to reach my senses, I felt far too ill and wretched to care for anything, except to be left alone. I certainly was conscious of an intense desire for that. It was agony to move my head, and my throat was so much swollen, and so painful, that I could scarcely breathe, much less speak. Certain hazy recollections I have of the turnkey's wife lifting me up, and pouring something down my throat. Then comes a long blank in my memory--that is, not quite a blank, for I have a confused remembrance of long restless nights and constant thirst, and horrible nightmare feelings, one of which was, that mamma perpetually appeared, bringing me a cup of cider, but that directly I tried to take it from her hand, she invariably dashed it to the ground. I woke up in my sound senses again. I heard Henrietta talking to somebody.

'"She will never get well here. The doctor told me so this morning. He says she must have pure air and wholesome, nourishing food; that nothing else can save her. Oh! what shall I do?"

'"Ah, poor little heart," said the voice of the turnkey's wife; "she is sorely changed, to be sure. She don't look as if you'd keep her here much longer. Well-a-day! My heart aches for her mother, poor lady; and they say her father's well-nigh ruined with gambling, and that's why he can't pay the fine."

'"And you sent the letter? You are certain that it went by a sure hand?" Henrietta asked anxiously.

'"Yes, yes, mistress, the letter's gone safe enough. But I've heard tell that they'll never let her come here till the money's paid; and sure she'll fret sadly to think how the poor child's lying sick and calling for her."

'"Henrietta," I said, when I heard the woman leave the room, "have you been writing to mamma?"

'She was looking down at me with a perplexed, pained countenance, but my words made it light up with a bright gleam of joy.

'"Frances, my darling, are you better? How glad I am to hear you speak like yourself again!"

'"Have I been very ill, Henrietta?"

'"Yes, dear, very ill indeed; but you are going to get better now, I hope."

'"I don't know. I thought you said--didn't you say something about a doctor?"

'"Yes, sweetheart; the governor sent you a doctor. He is coming again to-day."

'"And have I been very long ill?"

'"Only three days."

'"Only three days! but everything seems so long ago!"

'Even as I spoke, I remembered how Bessie had used the very same words; and I tried to raise myself on my elbow and look round, but I was much too weak to make the slightest movement without Henrietta's arm.

'"Where is Bessie?" I whispered.

'Henrietta's face changed, and she hesitated, as if doubtful what answer to give me; and, with a sudden pang, the thought came back to me of that night when I had cried myself to sleep, and that morning when, looking at the mattress where Bessie had been lying, I saw that she was no longer there. So I did not ask again, but passively swallowed the medicine that Henrietta brought me, and lay for a long time in silence, with my aching head in her lap. Then at length I repeated my first question, "Have you been writing to mamma?"

'"Yes, sweetheart; I wrote a long letter, and told her everything--how ill you were, and how much you wanted her. You kept imploring her to come all through last night."

'"Did I? Ah, I have been dreaming about her so much! Henrietta, did the doctor say that I should not get well?"

'"He thought you very ill, my dear; but you are so much better this morning, that I hope he will say that you are getting quite well now."

'"If mamma would but come!" I murmured. "I think I should get well if I could only have mamma."

'"Poor child!" said Henrietta, with a sigh. "I know that I cannot nurse you as well as she would. But she will come, Fan, when my letter reaches her. I am sure she will. And now, my dear child, you have talked too much already. You must lie still and rest now, and try to go to sleep."

'I was thinking of those words of the turnkey's wife, about my father being ruined, and not being able to pay the ransom; but I did not feel equal to the effort of asking Henrietta whether there was any truth in them, for I was very weary, and ill, and languid, and so weak that I could not even lift my arm. One thing more, however, I wanted to ask, before I followed her advice. "Henrietta, did you ever hear whether our letters were sent,--those letters that we wrote, you know, that first day?"

'"I do not know, but I fear not; for although I did ask the turnkey about them once, he would not give me a direct answer, and he looked so grim that I was afraid to say anything more."

'Henrietta did not tell me then that her ransom was already paid, and that the order for her release had been made out that very morning.

'It was not until some time afterwards that I found out how much I had to thank her for: how she had nursed me through those three days when I was lying between life and death, as untiringly and devotedly as if she had been mamma herself; nor how, when she might have left the jail the moment the order of release was signed, she had chosen instead to stay with me in the pestilential atmosphere of that wretched, comfortless little room, utterly refusing to leave me until my mother should come to take her place. But, as I said before, all this had not dawned upon me as yet. Besides, I felt that no one, however kind, could be quite the same as mamma when one was ill; so I am afraid I must have seemed very ungrateful to poor Henrietta, when I murmured fretfully, "Oh dear! oh dear! why doesn't my mother come? No one can nurse me as well as she can. I am sure I shall die if she won't come soon. Oh, mamma, mamma, I do want you so _very_ much!" Then, with Henrietta's soothing words, and sweet low tones sounding in my ears, I sank exhausted into a long, deep sleep.'