Kitabı oku: «The White Virgin», sayfa 16

Chapter Thirty Six.
The Days of Peril

“Live, my own dearest, live,” murmured Dinah, as she knelt beside Clive’s couch, listening to his never-ending mutterings, as the fever ran its course, and mingled with the incessant babblings about the mine, his brother’s trickery and deceit, she heard him burst into torrents of reproaches against him who was slandering his character. Then would come appeals and declarations of his innocency, and Dinah’s tears fell softly as he rambled on about Lyddy.

“Shame on you, Janet!” he would cry. “How could you think it of me? That I came telling you of my love fresh from the embraces of that weak creature. Poor Lyddy! A cruel betrayal of a weak, easily flattered girl. I swear it was all false. To save himself. Yes: false as hell! But I pity you, dear. You are my sister now; and I pity you.”

He would calm down for a while, and then begin again, mingling his troubles in so confused a fashion, that Dinah would grow puzzled. But she could not tear herself away, and listened eagerly as the sick man rambled on, and laid bare the whole of his troubled life.

Then she would writhe in her agony, as from out of the tangle her own name would come, and he grew excited as he wandered on, going back to hearing her sobbing in the next room, the shots pattering on the window, and on and on to the surprise in the tunnelled pathway.

“All, all the same. So gentle and loving, but all so weak. Poor little sweet: so beautiful. Her words would ring like music, and yet she could throw herself into his arms. Forgive her? Yes, I must forgive her. So weak, so hard to trust.”

And then, sobbing gently, Dinah would bend over, and lay her cheek against his aching forehead, and whisper to him to believe in her. That there was nothing to forgive – that she was his own, and that he must live to learn the truth or she would die.

But her tender appeals were to one who could not understand. Still they were a solace to her, as she hung about his bed. She had him with her, the man who loved her so tenderly, and in those secret moments, when they were alone, often enough in the silent watches of the night, she could fall into an ecstasy of joy, as in the abandonment of her love, with none to know, she could draw the dear head upon her throbbing breast, and cover his face with her kisses.

“My own, my loving husband!” she would coo softly in the midst of her caresses, at first with burning cheeks, later on with her pulses undisturbed, her heart suffused by a sweet placid joy which made her beam upon him as a mother over her babe.

“Some day he will know all, and I can wait till then,” she sighed, as even in the midst of her agony of doubt as to his recovery, she revelled in the joy of having him there insensible, ignorant of her caresses, but still all her own.

The doctor had reached them soon after they arrived at the cottage, two of the bearers having been stationed upon high points to intercept him should he take any other track, and after his examination he had removed one horror from Dinah’s breast. For he declared the injury to be the result of a fall, and hence it was not through some furious encounter between brothers – a fratricidal strife.

But the fall, he declared, was not the sole trouble. There was fever, brain fever, and when pressed as to the result, he only shook his head, wisely, and said —

“We shall see – we shall see.”

Then in obedience to a letter from the Major, Doctor Praed had come down, to enter the cottage fussy, tired, and irritable.

“Most unreasonable, Major Gurdon, to bring me down to this out-of-the-way desert to see Clive Reed. Hang him, and his brother too. They’ve been the curse of my life. Dozens of important patients waiting for me, and I leave them to come down here to see this boy. Hang him, and his father too, sir. I wish I had never seen them. Ruined me – almost, and I’m very glad the mine has turned out a failure, after all.”

“I am afraid you are a little tired with your journey, sir!” said the Major stiffly.

“Tired, sir! I don’t seem to have a bone left. Of course, I’m tired. How a sane man could ever come and live in such an out-of-the-way spot, I don’t know.”

“A very peaceful spot, sir, for a heart-sore man,” said the Major coldly. “I will ask you to come and see the patient as soon as you feel refreshed.”

At that moment the door opened, and Dinah, looking pale, subdued, and anxious, appeared.

The Doctor started from his seat.

“Dinah, my child,” said the Major, “Clive Reed’s godfather, Doctor Praed. Can he come up now?”

The Doctor advanced, and took her hands, raised them one by one to his lips, and then letting them fall, he took her in his arms and kissed her forehead reverently.

“God bless you, my dear!” he said, in a softened voice. “So you are his tender nurse. It is you whom he spoke of as her who had made him think the world was not all bad. Hah, yes,” he continued, looking at her curiously, “the face of an angel. Major Gurdon, forgive my petulance. Getting old, sir. Tired and worried. I’m very glad you sent for me. Clive is my own dear boy. I always looked upon him as a son. There, I’m only an ignorant man, my dear,” he continued, turning to Dinah with a pitiful smile on his face, “but with God’s help and yours, he shall ask me to his wedding yet. I’ll come and claim the first kiss from her who is going to help me try and save his life. Hah! now I feel ready to go to work. As for the other patients, Major, there are plenty of doctors in town. I’m going to stop here with my boy Clive.”

The tears coursed rapidly down Dinah’s cheeks as she listened, while Doctor Praed patted the hand he held, and smiled.

“Ah,” he said, “you have no faith in me. You think I am a prattling old man, who talks instead of acts. Come along, and let’s see my patient, only really, according to etiquette, I ought to be meeting your regular attendant in consultation.”

“He is twelve miles away, sir,” said the Major rather coldly, “and unable to get over here much. He said it was a case for nursing.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said the Doctor; and he followed Dinah to the patient’s couch, and then drew up the blind and sat down by the pillow.

“Poor boy!” he said tenderly, as he took Clive’s hand and noted his hollow cheeks, large burning eyes, and the restless muttering he kept up. “No doubt about it, my dear. That injury is nothing. Bled a good deal, you say?”

“Terribly,” whispered Dinah, with a suppressed sob.

“Weakened him, but on the whole I should say it was favourable. This is all brain, my child. Overwork and anxiety. He must have had some mental shock. He must have known that his fathers pet scheme had failed before any one else had suspected the fact.”

Dinah looked at him piteously, as she felt that it was her doing, as much so as if her acts had been intentional instead of the work of others.

“Well, this will not do,” said the Doctor, replacing a tiny clinical thermometer in its case. “His head is far too hot, and I suppose you have no ice here. All this must come off.”

He pointed to the sufferer’s hair, and Dinah’s face contracted with horror.

“I can’t help it, my child. Come; we must save his life. Where are your scissors? It will be a task for you. Pooh! don’t look like that, my dear. It will all grow again.”

A few minutes later, with the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks, Dinah sat, carefully cutting off lock after lock, the Doctor looking on impatiently.

“There,” he cried at last, “you must let me do it, child. You are snipping little bits off as if they were more precious than gold. I tell you it must all come off at once. His head ought, to be shaved. – Scissors.”

“No, no, please. Let me,” pleaded Dinah, hurriedly placing the scissors behind her.

“Very well, then, will you cut close?”

“But must it all be cut off?”

“Every scrap, and at once. It will relieve his poor burning head. You can save a nice curly bit. Save it all if you like.”

Dinah coloured, and darted at him a resentful look, then the sound of the scissors went on – snip, snip, as they closely sheared away the thick hair, the fall of every lock giving the operator a sharp pang.

“Ah, that’s better. Closer by the temples. The doctor you had ought to have insisted upon all that coming off at once.”

“He did,” sighed Dinah; “but I pleaded so hard for it to be left that he gave way.”

“And you nearly killed the poor fellow – because you were so proud of him, eh? But I will not reproach you. Ah, no evasion, please. Once for all I want that hair all removed, and possibly then I may think it necessary to operate with your father’s razor – that is, if you do not do your work well.”

Dinah sighed, and went on, shivering slightly as she saw how she was disfiguring the poor fellow, but steeling herself now to her task, till it was thoroughly done. Then she stood back full of remorse, and feeling that at last she had really done something which would make Clive hate her.

“Now, we can give him a chance. The cold bandages to his head will be of some service. The wind can blow upon them, and the evaporation will take away a great deal of heat from the poor fellow’s brain.”

To Dinah’s great delight their patient soon grew calmer, and the low mutterings and tossing of the head from side to side partially subsided.

“Well, sir,” said the Major that evening, after patiently waiting for the Doctor to give him some report, “can you tell us that we may hope?”

“I will not say that,” replied the Doctor. “Give me another twenty-four hours. A fever like this is slow. I must own that he is in a very critical condition; but do not tell your daughter that.”

The Major groaned.

“If he dies it will kill her.”

“He shall not die if medical knowledge can save him,” said the Doctor firmly.

“And you will stay, sir?”

“Stay? Great heavens, man, his father and I were school-fellows. His mother was like a dear sister to me; and as for this boy, I could not have thought more of him if he had been my own son. Stay? I sent a message back from the station to say that the date of my return was indefinite, and to place an old friend in charge of my practice. I presume that you will find me an easy-chair and a crust of bread while I am here, and I shall not go till I feel that I can leave him safely to his nurse, or it has pleased God to take him into His rest.”

The Major’s breast heaved, and he held out his hand, which was firmly grasped.

“God bless you for those words,” he said, with emotion. “We must save him for her sake.”

Doctor Praed’s forehead grew more wrinkled day by day; and there was a hard, stern look in his eyes as the time slowly glided on, and the fever fought stoutly against all the medical skill which could be brought to bear.

And all the time he was haunted by the piteous, almost upbraiding, look of Dinah, which wistfully followed every movement, paining the old man so that at last he avoided it when he spoke to her; and in his ignorance inflicted stab after stab.

“It is the great trouble which is killing him. I never could have thought that he would care so much for money, my child. But I suppose he felt that his honour was at stake after all that he said to his friends who took shares in the mine. I wish you were not here.”

“Why, Doctor Praed?” said Dinah faintly, as she recalled her last parting from Clive, and thought how little the visitor knew.

“Because I should like to let my tongue run loose and say all manner of evil things concerning that wretched mine. But I suppose I must not.” Dinah rose and laid her hand upon his arm.

“You do not talk to me about Clive,” she whispered. “You cannot think of the agony I suffer.”

“I do not speak because to one like you it would be cruel to talk in the slow, hopeful twaddle used by some of my weak brethren. My dear child, there is nothing to say. His life is not in my hands. We can only wait.”

“But, Doctor, think, for pity’s sake, think – is there nothing that can be done? It is maddening to stand here helpless and see him gliding slowly away from us. For he is weaker. I did hope that the quiet which has come over him was a change for the better. I know now that it is all increasing weakness.”

“May I come in?” said the Major at the door.

The Doctor hurriedly moved to him, glad of an excuse to escape from those pleading eyes, and followed the Major into the adjoining room.

Chapter Thirty Seven.
The Turning-Point

“There is a messenger from the mine,” the Major whispered.

“Don’t talk of it,” said the Doctor angrily. “Who is down there now?”

“Mr Jessop Reed and that Mr Wrigley. They are trying everything to discover a continuation of the lost lode.”

“Bah! let them. Well, what do they want? Do they expect me to operate on the vein and make it bleed again?”

“No, no. There is a man there, one Sturgess, the foreman, grievously ill, and this Mr Wrigley, knowing that you are here, has sent their clerk Robson over with a message begging you to see him.”

“I? No: impossible. Let him see the local man. I am engaged solely to watch my old friend’s son.”

This was said so decisively that the Major walked away, but stopped by the door and returned.

“I don’t like this man, Doctor,” he said; “he once insulted my child.”

“What? insulted Dinah – the girl my poor boy worshipped!” cried the Doctor angrily; “then let him die.”

He added something respecting Michael Sturgess’s future, as he angrily turned away.

“Think again, Doctor,” said the Major. “They say the man is in a dangerous state. He has been bad for some time. It was from a fall, I believe, down one of the shafts.”

“That mine again. Why, Major Gurdon, it has been a curse to every one who has had dealings with it. Well, it’s of no use to profess to be a Christian if one does not act up to it. I’ll just go in and see how Clive seems, and whether he can be left.”

“And then you will go?”

“Oh yes, I suppose I must. That’s the worst of being a Christian. One cannot hate or curse a man conscientiously. Yes; I’ll go and see the fellow, and I hope I shall not be tempted to give him too strong a dose.”

He went into the next room, bent over Clive for a few minutes, and rose as if satisfied.

“You will not leave him,” he said.

“You think there is fresh danger?”

“No, my child, the danger has always been great enough. They want me to go and see a man at the mine – one Sturgess.”

Dinah started and shuddered. The Doctor noticed it, and thought of her father’s words.

“You would rather I did not go.”

“I don’t like you leaving me, but if it is urgent – ”

“They fear the man is dying.”

“As we forgive them that trespass against us,” rose to Dinah’s brain. “Yes, Doctor, you must go,” she said softly; and he nodded his head.

“Good girl,” he said, and he left her. – “Ah, Janet, my child, why were you not like that? My training, I suppose. – Now, sir, I am ready.”

Robson started from his seat in the porch, and led the way toward the mine, relating all he knew of the case to the Doctor as they went.

“He was alone in the mine one morning, sir, and had a nasty fall. He injured his shoulder a good deal, and refused to have any medical advice till it had all gone bad. He said the doctors were fools, and that a bandage and cold water were all that was necessary.”

“And found out that some one was a bigger fool than the doctors, eh?” said the old man drily.

“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” replied the clerk, smiling. “This way, please.”

He led the Doctor down to the little house apportioned to the foreman; and as they approached it, Jessop and Wrigley came out, the former, who looked haggard and careworn, seeming disposed to hurry away, but he mastered his shrinking and stood firm.

“How do?” said the Doctor, with a short nod. “Janet quite well?”

“Yes, Doctor,” cried Jessop eagerly, “and – ”

“Stand aside, please,” said the old man testily. “I want to talk to this gentleman. Are you Mr Wrigley?”

“I am, and I am very grateful to you for coming, sir. I am very anxious about our man.”

“Where is he?”

“This way, please.”

The Doctor followed into a bedroom where the man lay, hollow of cheek and half delirious, while one of the miners’ wives was playing the part of nurse.

“Mr Jessop Reed, I can dispense with your company, sir. I want to be alone. You can go too, my good woman, and you, Mr What’s your name? Robson. No, you stay, Mr Wrigley. I may want to ask some questions.”

Jessop went out scowling.

“A brute!” muttered the Doctor. “Knows his brother is, perhaps, on his deathbed, and has never sent to ask how he is.”

The next minute he was examining the patient, who lay perfectly still, while a hideous wound in the shoulder, which was evidently of long standing, was bared.

“Curious kind of hurt!” said the Doctor. “Here’s something within which irritates it.”

“Piece of rock splinter, perhaps,” suggested Wrigley.

“Very likely; but he will never get well with that in his flesh. – Don’t groan, man. It’s to do you good. Humph, look here. I thought it was a singular injury.”

He held out a piece of green metal with some fine-looking letters upon it, and Wrigley examined them.

“Eley!” he said. “Why, it is a piece of a brass cartridge.”

“That’s right. The man has been shot. Hallo! That makes him wince. Why, he is hurt here, too, in this leg. No doubt about this. The bite of some animal. Dog, I suppose. Are you sure that our friend here is not a poacher?”

“I never heard of anything of the kind,” replied Wrigley.

“Humph!” ejaculated the Doctor, “just the sort of case I should expect to meet with where men went out after game, and then lay in hiding after a fight with the keepers.”

“I can do no more now,” he said, after a busy pause. “I’ll come and see him to-morrow, and dress the places again. They will not kill him. I daresay the wound in the shoulder will heal now; the bite, too, for a time – may break out again, though.”

Just then Wrigley’s hand went to his pocket, and the Doctor frowned.

“Never mind that, sir,” he said. “This was done out of charity. If all I hear is right, we are fellow-sufferers.”

“You lost, then, by the mine,” said Wrigley eagerly.

“Yes, sir, heavily, when some confounded scoundrel put about that report, and made me join in the panic. But the fellow who bought up the shares has been nicely trapped – and – why, hang it all, are you the Mr Wrigley?”

“At your service, sir,” said the solicitor coldly, but looking rather white.

“Then, Mr Wrigley, I have the pleasure of telling you that you are a confounded scoundrel, and I’m glad you’ve lost by your scheme. Stop! one word! what about Jessop Reed?”

“He is outside, sir; you can speak to him.”

“Not I. The pair of you hatched the swindle, I’ll be bound. Take care of this man, and he is to have no spirits or meat yet, but I’ll come in and see him again.”

Wrigley said no more, and the Doctor marched out with his head up, gave Jessop a short nod, and strode back to continue his watching by Clive Reed’s couch; but, on entering the room, he gave a start, for his patient’s eyes turned to him directly.

Dinah suppressed a cry, and the Doctor made her a sign to be silent, while he quickly sat down and took his patient’s hand, which closed softly upon his fingers. Then, as the eyes still gazed in his in a dreamy way, there was a faint smile of recognition. Soon after the lids dropped softly, like those of a weary infant; and as the Doctor bent lower, there was a sigh, and the regular rise and fall of his breath.

Dinah stood back with her hands clasped, her pupils widely dilated, and a beseeching look of agony in her eyes, as the Doctor slowly rose. Then, seeing the dread and horror painted in her face, he smiled, took her hand, and led her, trembling with hope and apprehension, out of the room.

“Dying?” she cried, in a low, piteous, wailing tone.

“Yes: we’ve killed the fever, and he is sleeping as peacefully as a child.”

“Ah!”

One low, piteous sigh, and Dinah would have fallen to the floor had not the Doctor caught her in his arms, for she fainted dead away.

The Major, who was, in his dread, always upon the qui vive, joined them on the instant, and helped to bear his child to a couch.

“Overcome?” he whispered.

“With joy. Yes: our poor boy will live.”