CHAPTER XIX.

RELEASED.

Some ten days after May's arrival in Seamore-place, owing principally to her constant care and watchfulness, and the unremitting attention with which she devoted herself to him, Lord Forestfield was pronounced not merely to be out of danger, but well on his way to convalescence. It had been a desperate trial for May, not only as regards her bodily strength, which during her long vigils was taxed beyond its powers of endurance, but to her mind, which, so long at least as her husband's delirium continued, was kept ever on the rack. When, with his returning senses, Lord Forestfield recognised his wife, and realised all that she had done for him during his illness, he seemed, for the first time in his life, to be profoundly touched, and indeed became so excited as to give ground for fearing that, in his then weak and almost prostrate condition, he would suffer a relapse. As his strength gradually returned to him, he grew more anxious that May should be constantly in his sight, more exacting in his demands on her time and attention; and this, not in the usual querulous and complaining tone of an invalid, which he adopted towards all others, but with that yearning tenderness of which he had never previously manifested any sign.

One day, as he was sitting propped up with pillows in an easy-chair, and she, at his request, was reading to him from the newspaper, he took her hand between his, still thin and gaunt, but freed now from the burning fever, and spoke to her as he had never spoken for years, as he had probably never spoken at all before. In his weak-voice there was something of the earnest fervour which took her back to the time of their first acquaintance--all his words then were tinged with the roseate hue of youth and love--what he said now was spoken falteringly, and seemed at least to bear the impress of truth. He told her that he had done her grievous wrong, and that whatever faults she might have committed he was, in the first instance, to blame for the manner in which he had neglected her and left her at the mercy of others. He acknowledged that he had been cruel, harsh, and unsympathetic, blaming his bringing-up, by which he had never been taught to bridle his passions or to look for the possibility of the non-fulfilment of any of his wishes, and he promised her that if, when his strength was fully recovered, she would remain with him, as forgiving and as loyal as she had been during his illness, he would prove to her the alteration that time and trouble had worked in him, and devote himself for the remainder of his life to secure her happiness.

Was May to believe in so radical a reformation thus easily worked? The experience of her past life convinced her to the contrary; and yet the attempt must be made. She would shut out all those recollections of insult suffered and misery undergone, which came thronging upon her at the mere idea of renewing her life with her husband; she would forget the more recent horror with which the revelations in his ravings had inspired her; it was her duty to accept his proposition, and she would do it. Lord Forestfield was exhausted by the fatigue which he had undergone in speaking to her at such length, and May, telling him that she had been warned against allowing him to excite himself, promised to talk to him on the subject to-morrow.

The next morning at an early hour, while Dr. Whitaker was sleeping the sleep of the just, his bell was rung furiously by a messenger from Seamore-place, who brought a request from the nurse that the doctor would come there at once, as Lady Forestfield was very ill. Dr. Whitaker shook his head when he received this message, and told his wife he had been all along afraid that her ladyship might contract typhus from her husband, and that, as in nursing and attendance she had exhausted the stock of health which she had brought with her from the country, it was not improbable that it might go hard with her.

After Dr. Whitaker had visited May he shook his head more dolefully still; and the nurse, who had been relieved of her attendance on Lord Forestfield owing to his convalescence, and had transferred her care to the new patient, was observed, after a hurried and whispered talk with the physician, to have tears in her eyes. That night it became known throughout the household that her ladyship was in a very bad way. The attack was a desperate and a malignant one, and, as Dr. Whitaker had said, such health and strength as she had acquired during her sojourn at Woodburn were already exhausted by her close confinement to the sick-room, and she could not make headway against it.

She had but little delirium, and even when the fever was at its worst her head was tolerably clear; so that, as she lay during the long day, and still longer night, she would muse over all that had been, over what was so shortly to be. For May felt that she was dying; she had an intuitive perception that for her all was nearly over; that she should never rise from that couch, to take even so small a part in the world's affairs as she had hitherto played, again. That thought brought no sadness with it. There was a time, only a few weeks since, when in the first flush of her enjoyment of the beauties of nature, of the freedom from care and calmness of spirits which came upon her after her arrival at Woodburn, she felt that life had yet a hitherto unknown charm in store for her; but since her return to Seamore-place that notion had been entirely put aside. She had remembered once more that she was Lord Forestfield's wife, and she had heard him express with his own lips his desire that they should pass the remainder of their lives together. That desire May had determined should be fulfilled. She had made up her mind to do her duty, and she would have done it at any cost; but there were passages in her husband's conduct during the earlier portions of their married life which she had found it impossible to forget, and the remembrance of which had been aroused by his ravings during his delirium. O, how much better 'dark death and dreamful ease' than a prolongation of the life of sin and shame, of constant fear of discovery, of frantic search after so-called pleasure, and sickening disgust so soon as the momentary recklessness was over! Better, far better, that her name, now almost forgotten, should never be heard of again, and that her husband--whose contrition for the part he had played towards her was, May could not help feeling, a spasmodic result of his recent illness, to be forgotten when his strength returned--should be freed from the incumbrance which her presence must necessarily be to him.

This view of Lord Forestfield's character was tolerably correct. So soon as he had 'turned the corner,' as he phrased it--so soon as he had recovered his appetite, and convalescence had once set in--his progress towards recovery was wonderfully rapid. Soon he began to take carriage airings; and as in passing through the streets he recognised his friends, and again looked upon the vast panorama of London life, from which he had been so long excluded, the good impulses which had recently sprung up within him died away, and the old desires were as rampant as ever. It was lucky, he thought, that in his weakness he had a sufficient excuse for going but seldom into his wife's sick-room. He would look in there in the morning when he first got up, and in the evening before he went to bed--for his health was not yet sufficiently reestablished to allow him to keep late hours, or in any way to play tricks with himself--and, if May were awake, he would say a few words to her; if her eyes were closed, as was generally the case, he would content himself with a nod to the nurse and disappear. On the sixth day of his wife's illness Lord Forestfield met Dr. Whitaker coming down the stairs with a very solemn face, and, taking him aside, asked him his impression of the result. There is probably no man without some spice of good in him; and with all his snobbishness and garrulity, Dr. Whitaker had a sincere affection, based partly on regard, partly on the advantageous use which he had been enabled to make of the three thousand pounds which she brought him as her marriage portion, for his own wife. He was greatly disgusted at what he rightly conceived to be Lord Forestfield's motive in making this inquiry, and referred his lordship to Divine Providence with much greater asperity than he was accustomed to use in dealing with persons of title.

One morning the nurse waited upon Lord Forestfield with a message from May to beg that Sir Nugent Uffington might be sent for to see her, as she had one or two important matters on which she wished to communicate with him. Forestfield made no immediate reply; and the woman, noticing his heavy frown and the angry flush which spread over his face, said: 'I don't think, if I was you, my lord, I would deny her anything, poor lamb. She has had a dreadful night--scarcely a minute's sleep from first to last--and there's no doubt she's sinking.'

'Do you think so, nurse?' asked Forestfield, with all the colour fading from his face. 'Do you think she is going from us?'

'If she continues losing strength as fast as she has done during the last twenty-four hours, she can't be alive to-morrow morning,' said the woman; 'and it would be a sad thought for you afterwards, my lord, to think you had acted in any way contrary to the poor dear.'

'Tell them to send a groom down to the Albany at once,' said Forestfield, 'to say to Sir Nugent Uffington, with my compliments, that Lady Forestfield is very ill, and would be glad to speak to him directly.' Then he shut himself up in his room and fell into a reverie. Hitherto he had only dimly contemplated the idea of losing his wife; now, if what the woman said was correct, her death must be a certainty. In the multitude of thoughts which came crowding upon his brain, regret for the loss of the woman whom he had sworn to love, and to whom he had quite recently renewed his vow, had no part. What struck him most forcibly, and remained by him longest, was the reflection that he would be free to do as he liked, and that she would be no longer a reproach to him. That thought was still in his mind, when the messenger returned to say that Sir Nugent Uffington was at Brighton, but that a telegram had been despatched to him.

Uffington arrived that afternoon. Lord Forestfield was out, the nurse said, but she had orders to show him at once into the sick-room. Her ladyship was very bad, the woman said, in answer to his eager inquiry, 'was sinking fast, and could not possibly last through the night, but was wonderfully calm and composed, and had all her senses about her.' Uffington set his teeth hard, and followed his guide with a noiseless footstep.

In the uncertain twilight he saw May lying on the bed, covered with a light cashmere shawl. She was dreadfully wan and emaciated; but she knew him as he approached, and welcomed him with something like one of her old smiles.

'I knew you would come,' she said in a very low voice; 'and I knew you would be shocked at the change in me, and at the thought that I was going to die. So I would not send for you--until--until the very last.'

'You should have let me know sooner of your illness,' said Uffington, with tears rolling down his cheeks. 'I was at Brighton when your message arrived.'

'Yes, I know,' said May. 'Mrs. Chadwick and Eleanor are there, are they not?'

'They are,' said Uffington. 'I came straight from their house.'

'Tell me,' said May, laying her thin burning hand on his. 'I always thought you liked Eleanor; was I right?'

'You were,' said Uffington. 'I have told her so, and she has agreed to marry me.'

'Ah, thank God for that!' said May reverently. 'Eleanor's happiness was all I was anxious for; for I loved her very dearly.'

'And she loves you better than any one on earth--better than she loves me, I fancy. She wanted me to bring her to you now.'

'No, no; that would never do--she must not run any risk. Besides,' added May, with a faint sweet smile, 'it is too late now. But I wanted to see you to say good-bye. I could not have died in peace without telling you how truly grateful I am to you for all that you did for me. No brother could have striven harder for his sister than you have done for me. And I was so happy at Woodburn, all brought about by you. I once thought I should have liked to remain there; but it is better as it is--much better as it is.'

She paused for a minute and her eyelids dropped. Then she raised them, looking up at him, and saying, in a still lower voice:

'You must go now, I think; I feel so strangely weary. Say good-bye to me, my kindest, my best friend.'

He bent down over her, and murmuring 'God bless you!' touched her uplifted forehead with his lips; then turned away with a convulsive sob, burying his face in his hands. When he looked round again the nurse was bending over the bed. Presently she turned round, nodded her head slowly, and with her finger pointed upward.

May Forestfield was dead.