CHAPTER XVIII

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Sir Nugent Uffington found his brougham waiting at the Victoria Station, and as he handed Lady Forestfield into it he gave her a few words of parting counsel. She was to expect a great physical change in her husband's condition, he told her, and was not to be frightened; she was to be prepared to hear many things during the sick man's ravings which would necessarily pain her, but she must listen to them with patience; unasked she had declared her intention of doing her duty, and that must be her consolation. Then, promising to see her the next day, he took his leave, and the carriage containing her rolled away.

It was a dismal autumnal night, and the long lines of lamps reflected in the wet pavement struck May, staring out of the carriage window, with strange familiarity. It was months now since she had seen London lighted up by night, for the time of her residence in Podbury-street had been during the long days and evenings of the summer; and now her thoughts insensibly reverted to the time when night after night, with unvarying regularity, she was whirled away to some gay scene of triumph, where her presence was anxiously expected, and where her command was law. That was all over now she knew, and save for the time wasted and the precious opportunities missed, she could think of it all without regret; in her quiet solitude at Woodburn she had learned the great secret of happiness, in endeavouring to do her duty, and she looked back upon her early days of feverish excitement with feelings of sorrow and disgust. What was before her now she knew not, but in breaking away from the calm life, and in trying to alleviate the sufferings of him who, whatever had happened, was her husband 'after all,' she had obeyed the dictates of her conscience, and knew she had acted rightly.

But notwithstanding this sense of rectitude, May felt her heart sink within her as the carriage drew near to Seamore-place, and it needed all her fortitude to prevent her bursting into tears. Painfully and vividly rose before her the scene which had occurred when she quitted the place which had been her home, never, as she thought, to return again. The agony of shame which she had felt as she passed the servants, all of whom she could not but know were acquainted with the cause of her degradation; the terrible heart-sickness which beset her as she crossed the threshold an outcast and a wanderer--what humiliation must she go through in meeting these people again! It would have been almost better, she thought, to have remained in her solitude, unheard of and uncared for; but she had accepted the issue and must abide by it.

As the carriage drove up to the well-remembered house, the street-door opened quietly, and Stephens, Lord Forestfield's valet, assisted his mistress to alight, a telegram from Sir Nugent Uffington having apprised him of Lady Forestfield's arrival. May was thankful to learn that the establishment at Seamore-place had long since been broken up, and that with the exception of a couple of women servants and the nurse there was no one there but Stephens, whose manner to her was, as it always had been, thoroughly respectful.

'His lordship is very bad, my lady,' he said in reply to May's hurried inquiry; 'I am afraid about as bad as he can be to be alive. He takes nothing to eat, has a terrible thirst upon him, always crying out for something to drink; he is as weak as a baby, and quite out of his mind, not knowing me nor any of us when we come near him. Dr. Whitaker is in the house, my lady,' he added. 'When he called this afternoon, I told him I had heard from Sir Nugent Uffington that your ladyship was expected; and he said he would look in again about this time. Shall I tell him your ladyship is here?'

'Yes,' said May, after an instant's hesitation; 'I should certainly like to speak to Dr. Whitaker before I go up-stairs.'

Her first trial was now at hand. In former days Dr. Whitaker would have been very little more to her than a higher kind of servant; for the insolent people among whom she had lived were in the habit of treating all those who were not of their own class, no matter how far superior to themselves in everything save the accident of birth, as persons who were necessary to their well-being, but who were in no wise to be encouraged by familiarity. Among the members of the medical profession, in which throughout the world are enrolled many of the kindest, the bravest, and most independent specimens of humanity, there are, of course, to be found some who, whatever their private opinion of such treatment as this may be, have not the courage to resent it. Dr. Whitaker was one of these; the great Pickwickian sentiment of shouting in accordance with the wishes of the largest number was carried out by him to its fullest extent, and his horror of peccant mortality, when it not merely did not interfere with, but absolutely helped, his professional practice, was formidable in its sternness. When the scandal about Lady Forestfield had first been made public, Dr. Whitaker had given many a patient ten minutes of grateful ease from pain by his admirably graphic account of the whole transaction, and had stamped himself for ever in their minds as a man of the finest feelings, by his indignant denunciation of the women who bring shame and sorrow into the homes of such men as 'my excellent friend and patient, Lord Forestfield.' Of course Dr. Whitaker's conduct in this matter had been reported to May--when does any one say anything derogatory of us that we do not immediately hear of it from some one else?--and she was consequently somewhat alarmed at the idea of their meeting. Her knowledge of the world was not sufficient to suggest to her that the doctor would probably also have heard of the condonation and quasi-reconciliation that had taken place, and that more especially as his noble friend and patient was in a dangerous condition, there could be now no harm, even to a man of his respectability, in holding out the olive-branch to May.

A short stout man Dr. Whitaker, with a bald head, a red face, and a small gray whisker; his manner was bustling and self-satisfied, he was always dressed in solemn black, and invariably wore creaking boots. Many years before, when, as a young man, he first set up for himself in practice, having emancipated himself from his father--a worthy man, who kept a chemist's shop, from which he would not retire, and of whom in consequence his son was horribly ashamed--Dr. Whitaker's manner had been very different. He had crept in and out of the smallest and most modest houses, taking care to make no noise and to give no offence; he had listened for hours to the monotonous complaints of old women in little lodgings for the sake of the five shillings a visit which he was enabled to charge them, and he had been humble, deferential, and presumably grateful to many upon whom he had long since ceased to look with anything like a sign of recognition. A man of the world Dr. Whitaker, whose success in life was assured.

With persons of rank, indeed, his manner remained very much the same as it had been in bygone days to persons in lodgings, and he accordingly entered the room as softly as the creaking boots would permit him, and marched straight up to Lady Forestfield with extended hand and grave bow.

'Even under these sad circumstances,' he said, 'I cannot omit the expression of my great pleasure at seeing you once more, Lady Forestfield, under this roof; which I venture to think, had you been well advised, you would never have quitted--'

'Pray give me news of Lord Forestfield,' said May, hurriedly interrupting him; 'you have seen him just now--is there any change in his condition?'

'No change whatever,' said Dr. Whitaker. 'His lordship is certainly not better, and I do not think he is worse; but there can be no denying that he is in a very critical state, as I ventured to inform your ladyship through the medium of Sir Nugent Uffington.'

'Do you think then, Dr. Whitaker,' said May in low earnest voice, 'that there is hope of his recovery?'

'I do not say that,' replied the doctor; 'your ladyship is aware of the old proverb which says that there must be hope while there is life; and though Lord Forestfield is in extreme danger, with human skill and attention, under Divine Providence' (Whitaker always spoke of this last as a kind of copartnership) 'we may pull him through. Your ladyship, I understand, intends to remain in the house, and in case there should be any sudden change I will give orders to the nurse, that you are warned in time.'

'I do not understand you,' said May. 'If there were any sudden change I should see it, I imagine, as soon as the nurse, whose watch I intend to share.'

'What!' cried Dr. Whitaker, in high key, for he was startled out of his composure and professional manner; 'you don't mean to tell me that you are actually thinking of nursing his lordship?'

'With what other object do you think I am here?' asked May simply.

'But do you know that this fever is what vulgar people call "catching," and that exposing yourself in this way you run the greatest risk of being attacked by it?'

'I am willing to take my chance,' said May, 'and am prepared to run all risks.'

'Admirable self-sacrifice,' murmured Dr. Whitaker, in a kind of stage-aside, which he had found very effective with many people. 'I am not sure, however,' he added aloud, 'whether I ought not to put my veto upon this plan.'

'It would be useless, doctor; for my determination is fixed. And now I will wish you good-night, as I am anxious to get to my work at once.'

Dr. Whitaker bowed over the hand which May extended to him, and stepped into his brougham in a state of the greatest astonishment. He had several special 'last visits' to pay that night, and to such of his patients as were at all in a state to hear it he told the wonderful story of Lady Forestfield's return to her home, 'where she is actually engaged, my dear sir, in nursing her husband in fever, which she is very likely to take herself.'

Meanwhile, May had sought the bedchamber, and had been received by the nurse, whom Dr. Whitaker had apprised of her coming.

'My lord's asleep now, my lady,' the woman said, pointing to the bed, 'but terribly restless and uneasy; the sleep that he gets does not do him any real good, for he tosses and tumbles from side to side, and is scarcely ever done talking. Dr. Whitaker said that you wished to sit up with my lord, my lady; but I should advise you to think twice about it, for letting alone your not looking strong yourself, and running the risk of catching the fever, his lordship from time to time screams out and raves about all sorts of things, and that it would most likely frighten you to hear. I would advise your ladyship to think twice about it--I would indeed.'

May, however, was not to be shaken in her determination.

'I am quite strong,' she said, 'much stronger than you suppose; and though I have never seen any one in fever, I am not unaccustomed to nursing, as I watched by the bedside of my father during his last illness. At all events, I will see how I succeed. There is no medicine, you say, to be given for the next two hours. Leave me, please, until then. I shall be better able to know what I have undertaken by that time.'

As soon as the woman had left the room, May took the candle, and shading it with her hand, approached the bed. Her husband lay there, sleeping heavily. May thought him much changed; his cheeks were hollow and sunken, thus giving greater prominence to the hard cynical expression which had always detracted from his good looks. His lips were shut, his brow was contracted, and from time to time he uttered sounds more like the ebullitions of wrath than the wailings of despair. As she stood by the bedside gazing at him, he turned round, and soon afterwards opened his eyes. As soon as she perceived this, May shrank behind the curtain, but it was too late; Lord Forestfield had seen her, or, rather, had noticed the fluttering of her robe without recognising its wearer, and, after one or two inarticulate efforts, he said, in a low and feeble voice:

'Are you there again, Mélanie? For how many nights now have I seen you standing there, glaring at me with those bright black eyes, but never saying a word? What makes me so weak, I wonder? I seem to be tied to this bed without a possibility of moving from it. Mélanie darling, have some pity on me Why are you always so cruel now? You were not so once; recollect the happy days we have passed together. Sing to me, Mélanie, my loved one; sing what you first sang to me that day at the Gorge de Franchard--"Pour que je t'aime, ô mon poëte!" Ah, I have forgotten it like everything else; my memory is all gone now. No, stay; sing me this verse:

"L'oiseau qui marche dans l'allée S'effraye et part au moindre bruit; Ma passion est chose ailée Et s'envole quand on la suit."'

As he ceased murmuring these words he made an attempt to touch her hand, but May hastily drew back.

'This is too much,' she said, as she sank into a chair; 'I had not looked for anything like this;' and she burst into tears.