Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife. Yonge Charlotte Mary
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the child,’ and at the sound of those words the gleam of life spread over her face more completely.
He could not move from her side, and Sarah placed the little creature upon his broad hand. He held it close to her. ‘Our baby!’ again she murmured, and tried to kiss it, but it made another slight noise, and this overcame her completely, the deathly look returned, and he hastily gave back the infant.
She strove hard for utterance, and he could hardly catch her gasping words, ‘You’ll be fond of it, and think of me.’
‘Don’t, don’t talk so, dearest. You will soon be better. You are better. Let me give you this.’
‘Please, I had rather lie still. Do let me.’ Then again looking up, as if she had been losing the consciousness of his presence, ‘Oh! it is you. Are you come? Kiss me and wish me good-bye.’
‘You are better—only take this. Won’t you? You need not move; Violet, Violet, only try. To please me! There, well done, my precious one. Now you will be more comfortable.’
‘Thank you, oh no! But I am glad you are come. I did wish to be a good wife. I had so much to say to you—if I could—but I can’t remember. And my baby; but oh, this is dying,’ as the sinking returned. ‘O, Arthur, keep me, don’t let me die!’ and she clung to him in terror.
He flung his arm closer round her, looking for help to the doctors. ‘You shall not, you will not, my own, my darling.’
‘You can’t help it,’ sighed she. ‘And I don’t know how—if some one would say a prayer?’
He could only repeat protests that she must live, but she grew more earnest. ‘A prayer! I can’t recollect—Oh! is it wicked? Will God have mercy? Oh! would you but say a prayer?’
‘Yes, yes, but what? Give me a book.’
Sarah put one into his hand, and pointed to a place, but his eyes were misty, his voice faltered, broke down, and he was obliged to press his face down on the pillows to stifle his sobs.
Violet was roused to such a degree of bewildered distress and alarm at the sight of his grief, that the doctors insisted on removing him, and almost forced him away.
There had been prayers offered for her, of which she knew nothing.
The clergyman was gone, and John had despatched his melancholy letter to Lord Martindale, when he heard the steps on the stairs. Was it over! No, it was only one of the doctors with Arthur, and they did not come to him, but talked in the back drawing-room for some moments, after which the doctor took leave, repeating the words in John’s hearing, that Arthur must compose himself before returning to her—agitation would be at once fatal. Arthur had thrown himself on the sofa, with his face hidden in his hands, in such overpowering distress, that his brother’s displeasure could not continue for a moment, and he began to speak soothingly of the present improvement.
‘It cannot last,’ said Arthur. ‘They say it is but a question of minutes or hours,’ and again he gave way to a burst of grief, but presently it changed to an angry tone. ‘Why was I never sent for?’
John explained that no one knew whither to send. He could hardly credit this, and his wrath increased at the stupidity of the servants; it seemed to relieve him to declaim against them.
‘Then you left her well?’
‘Of course I did. She had been searching over the house for that abominable cigar-case of mine, which was in my pocket all the time! I shall never bear to see it again,’ and he launched it into the fire with vehemence. ‘I suppose that upset her! Why did I not prevent her? Fool that I was not to know it was not fit for her, though she chose to do it. But I never took care of her.’
‘She is so very unselfish,’ said John.
‘That was it. I thought women always looked out for themselves. I should have known I had one not like the rest! She had never one thought for herself, and it is killing her, the sweetest, loveliest, best—my precious Violet! John, John! is there nothing that can be done for her?’ cried he, starting up in a tumultuous agony of grief, and striking his foot on the floor.
‘Could we not send for her mother? Brown might set off at once to fetch her.’
‘Thank you, but no, it is of no use. No railroad within forty miles of the place. She could not be here till—till—and then I could not see her.’ He was pacing the room, and entangled his foot in Violet’s little work-table, and it fell. Her work-box flew open, and as they stooped to pick up the articles, Arthur again wept without control as he took up a little frock, half made, with the needle hanging to it. The table-drawer had fallen out, and with it the large account-book, the weekly bills, and a sheet of paper covered with figures, and blotted and blistered with tears. The sight seemed to overwhelm him more than all. ‘Crying over these! My Violet crying! Oh! what have I been doing?’
‘And why? What distressed her?’
‘It was too much for her. She would plague herself with these wretched household accounts! She knew I hated the sound of them. I never let her bring them to me; but little did I think that she cried over them alone!’
‘She was cheerful with you?’
‘Was not she?’ I never saw that dear face without its sweet smile, come when I would. I have never heard a complaint. I have left her to herself, madman as I was, when she was unwell and anxious! But—oh! if she could only recover, she should see—Ha! Sarah, can I come?’
‘Yes, sir, she is asking for you; but, if you please, sir, Mr. Harding says you must come very quiet. She seems wandering, and thinking you are not come home, sir,’ said Sarah, with a grisly satisfaction in dealing her blow home.
John tried to rectify the confusion in the work-box with a sort of reverential care; not able to bear to leave it in disorder, whether its mistress were ever to open it again or not, yet feeling it an intrusion to meddle with her little feminine hoards of precious trifles.
‘Poor Arthur!’ said he to himself, ‘he may fairly be acquitted of all but his usual inconsiderateness towards one too tender for such treatment. He deserves more pity than blame. And for her—thank Heaven for the blessing on them that mourn. Innocent creature, much will be spared her; if I could but dwell on that rather than on the phantom of delight she was, and my anticipations of again seeing the look that recalls Helen. If Helen was here, how she would be nursing her!’
John saw his brother no more that evening—only heard of Violet ‘as barely kept alive, as it seemed, by his care.’ Each report was such that the next must surely be the last; and John sat waiting on till his servant insisted on his going to bed, promising to call him if his brother needed him.
The night passed without the summons, and in the morning there was still life. John had been down-stairs for some little time, when he heard the medical man, who had spent the night there, speaking to Arthur on the stairs. ‘A shade of improvement’ was the report. ‘Asleep now; and if we can only drag her through the next few days there may be hope, as long as fever does not supervene.’
‘Thank Heaven!’ said John, fervently. ‘I did not venture to hope for this.’
But Arthur was utterly downcast, and could not take heart. It was his first real trouble, and there was little of the substance of endurance in his composition. That one night of watching, grief, and self-reproach, had made his countenance so pale and haggard, and his voice so dejected and subdued, that John was positively startled, as he heard his answer—
‘I never saw any one so ill.’
‘Come and have some breakfast, you look quite worn out’
‘I cannot stay,’ said he, sitting down, however. ‘She must not miss me, or all chance would be over. You don’t mind the door being open?’
‘No, indeed. Is she sensible now?’
‘Clear for a minute, if she has my hand; but then she dozes off, and talks about those miserable accounts—the numbers over and over again. It cuts me to the heart to hear her. They talk of an over-strain on the