The future sometimes seems to a low warning of the events it is bringing us, like some though yet remote storm, which, in tones of the wind, in flushings of the , in clouds strangely torn, announces a blast strong to the sea with ; or commissioned to bring in fog the yellow of covering white Western with the poisoned exhalations of the East, dimming the lattices of English homes with the breath of Indian plague. At other times this future bursts suddenly, as if a rock had rent, and in it a grave had opened, whence issues the body of one that slept. Ere you are aware you stand face to face with a and unthought-of calamity—a new Lazarus.
Caroline Helstone went home from Hollow's Cottage in good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning she felt oppressed with unwonted . At breakfast, at each meal of the following day, she missed all sense of appetite. food was as ashes and sawdust to her.
"Am I ill?" she asked, and looked at herself in the glass. Her eyes were bright, their pupils , her cheeks seemed , and fuller than usual. "I look well; why can I not eat?"
She felt a pulse beat fast in her temples; she felt, too, her brain in strange activity. Her spirits were raised; hundreds of busy and broken but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind. A glow rested on them, such as her .
Now followed a hot, , thirsty, restless night. Towards morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger; when she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.
How she had caught the fever (fever it was) she could not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet, poisoned breeze, redolent of honey-dew and , had366 passed into her lungs and , and finding there already a fever of mental excitement, and a languor of long conflict and sadness, had fanned the spark to flame, and left a well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, but a gentle fire. After two hot days and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptoms, and neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor Miss Keeldar, when she called, had any fear for her. A few days would restore her, every one believed.
The few days passed, and—though it was still thought it could not long delay—the had not begun. Mrs. Pryor, who had visited her daily—being present in her one morning when she had been ill a fortnight—watched her very narrowly for some minutes. She took her hand and placed her finger on her wrist; then, quietly leaving the chamber, she went to Mr. Helstone's study. With him she remained closeted a long time—half the morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she laid aside shawl and . She stood awhile at the bedside, one hand placed in the other, gently rocking herself to and fro, in an attitude and with a movement habitual to her. At last she said, "I have sent Fanny to Fieldhead to fetch a few things for me, such as I shall want during a short stay here. It is my wish to remain with you till you are better. Your uncle permits my attendance. Will it to yourself be acceptable, Caroline?"
"I am sorry you should take such needless trouble. I do not feel very ill, but I cannot refuse . It will be such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you sometimes in the room; but don't confine yourself on my account, dear Mrs. Pryor. Fanny nurses me very well."
Mrs. Pryor, bending over the pale little sufferer, was now smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising her pillow. As she performed these offices, Caroline, smiling, lifted her face to kiss her.
"Are you free from pain? Are you tolerably at ease?" was inquired in a low, earnest voice, as the self-elected nurse yielded to the .
"I think I am almost happy."
"You wish to drink? Your lips are parched."
She held a glass filled with some cooling to her mouth.
"Have you eaten anything to-day, Caroline?"
"I cannot eat."
367"But soon your appetite will return; it must return—that is, I pray God it may."
In laying her again on the couch, she encircled her in her arms; and while so doing, by a movement which seemed scarcely voluntary, she drew her to her heart, and held her close gathered an instant.
"I shall hardly wish to get well, that I may keep you always," said Caroline.
Mrs. Pryor did not smile at this speech. Over her features ran a , which for some minutes she was absorbed in repressing.
"You are more used to Fanny than to me," she remarked ere long. "I should think my attendance must seem strange, officious?"
"No; quite natural, and very . You must have been accustomed to wait on sick people, ma'am. You move about the room so softly, and you speak so quietly, and touch me so gently."
"I am in nothing, my dear. You will often find me awkward, but never ."
Negligent, indeed, she was not. From that hour Fanny and Eliza became in the sick-room. Mrs. Pryor made it her ; she performed all its duties; she lived in it day and night. The patient remonstrated—faintly, however, from the first, and not at all ere long. Loneliness and gloom were now from her bedside; protection and sat there instead. She and her nurse in union. Caroline was usually pained to require or receive much attendance. Mrs. Pryor, under ordinary circumstances, had neither the habit nor the art of performing little offices of service; but all now passed with such ease, so naturally, that the patient was as willing to be cherished as the nurse was on cherishing; no sign of weariness in the latter ever reminded the former that she ought to be anxious. There was, in fact, no very hard duty to perform; but a hireling might have found it hard.
With all this care it seemed strange the sick girl did not get well; yet such was the case. She wasted like any snow-wreath in ; she faded like any flower in drought. Miss Keeldar, on whose thoughts danger or death seldom , had at first entertained no fears at all for her friend; but seeing her change and sink from time to time when she paid her visits, alarm clutched her heart. She went to Mr. Helstone and expressed herself with so much368 energy that that gentleman was at last obliged, however , to admit the idea that his niece was ill of something more than a migraine; and when Mrs. Pryor came and quietly demanded a physician, he said she might send for two if she liked. One came, but that one was an . He delivered a dark saying of which the future was to solve the mystery, wrote some , gave some directions—the whole with an air of crushing authority—pocketed his fee, and went. Probably he knew well enough he could do no good, but didn't like to say so.
Still, no of serious illness got wind in the neighbourhood. At Hollow's Cottage it was thought that Caroline had only a severe cold, she having written a note to Hortense to that effect; and mademoiselle herself with sending two pots of currant jam, a recipe for a tisane, and a note of advice.
Mrs. Yorke being told that a physician had been summoned, at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich and idle, who, she said, having nothing but themselves to think about, must needs send for a doctor if only so much as their little finger ached.
The "rich and idle," represented in the person of Caroline, were meantime falling fast into a condition of , whose quickly debility puzzled all who witnessed it except one; for that one alone reflected how liable is the undermined structure to sink in sudden ruin.
Sick people often have fancies inscrutable to ordinary attendants, and Caroline had one which even her tender nurse could not at first explain. On a certain day in the week, at a certain hour, she would—whether worse or better—entreat to be taken up and dressed, and suffered to sit in her chair near the window. This station she would retain till noon was past. Whatever degree of or debility her aspect betrayed, she still softly put off all to seek until the church clock had duly midday. The twelve strokes sounded, she grew , and would lie down. Returned to the couch, she usually buried her face deep in the pillow, and drew the coverlets close round her, as if to shut out the world and sun, of which she was tired. More than once, as she thus lay, a slight convulsion shook the sick-bed, and a faint sob broke the silence round it. These things were not unnoted by Mrs. Pryor.
One Tuesday morning, as usual, she had asked leave to369 rise, and now she sat wrapped in her white dressing-gown, leaning forward in the easy-chair, gazing and patiently from the lattice. Mrs. Pryor was seated a little behind, knitting as it seemed, but, in truth, watching her. A change crossed her pale, mournful brow, its languor; a light shot into her faded eyes, reviving their ; she half rose and looked earnestly out. Mrs. Pryor, drawing softly near, glanced over her shoulder. From this window was visible the churchyard, beyond it the road; and there, riding sharply by, appeared a horseman. The figure was not yet too remote for recognition. Mrs. Pryor had long sight; she knew Mr. Moore. Just as an rising ground him from view, the clock struck twelve.
"May I lie down again?" asked Caroline.
Her nurse assisted her to bed. Having laid her down and the curtain, she stood listening near. The little couch trembled, the suppressed sob stirred the air. A as of altered Mrs. Pryor's features; she her hands; half a escaped her lips. She now remembered that Tuesday was Whinbury market day. Mr. Moore must always pass the rectory on his way , just ere noon of that day.
Caroline wore continually round her neck a slender braid of silk, attached to which was some trinket. Mrs. Pryor had seen the bit of gold , but had not yet obtained a fair view of it. Her patient never parted with it. When dressed it was hidden in her ; as she lay in bed she always held it in her hand. That Tuesday afternoon the transient doze—more like lethargy than sleep—which sometimes the long days, had stolen over her. The weather was hot. While turning in febrile restlessness, she had pushed the coverlets a little aside. Mrs. Pryor bent to replace them. The small, wasted hand, lying nerveless on the sick girl's breast, clasped as usual her jealously-guarded treasure. Those fingers whose it gave pain to see were now relaxed in sleep. Mrs. Pryor gently disengaged the braid, drawing out a tiny locket—a slight thing it was, such as it suited her small purse to purchase. Under its crystal face appeared a curl of black hair, too short and crisp to have been from a female head.
Some movement occasioned a of the silken chain. The started and woke. Her thoughts were usually now somewhat on waking, her look370 generally wandering. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed, "Don't take it from me, Robert! Don't! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell any one whose hair it is; I never show it."
Mrs. Pryor had already disappeared behind the curtain. Reclining far back in a deep arm-chair by the bedside, she was from view. Caroline looked abroad into the chamber; she thought it empty. As her stray ideas returned slowly, each folding its weak wings on the mind's sad shore, like birds , void, and perceiving silence round her, she believed herself alone. Collected she was not yet; perhaps healthy self-possession and self-control were to be hers no more; perhaps that world the strong and prosperous live in had already rolled from beneath her feet for ever. So, at least, it often seemed to herself. In health she had never been accustomed to think aloud, but now words escaped her lips unawares.
"Oh, I should see him once more before all is over! Heaven might favour me thus far!" she cried. "God grant me a little comfort before I die!" was her petition.
"But he will not know I am ill till I am gone, and he will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless, cold, and stiff.
"What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any medium, communicate with living flesh? Can the dead at all revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately sometimes—sings as I have lately heard it sing at night—or passes the , as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing, then, haunt it, nothing inspire it?
"Why, it suggested to me words one night; it poured a strain which I could have written down, only I was , and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim watch-light.
"What is that electricity they speak of, whose changes make us well or ill, whose lack or excess blasts, whose even balance revives? What are all those influences that are about us in the atmosphere, that keep playing over our nerves like fingers on stringed instruments, and call now a sweet note, and now a wail—now an , and anon the saddest ?
371"Where is the other world? In what will another life consist? Why do I ask? Have I not cause to think that the hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent for me? Do I not know the Grand Mystery is likely to burst on me? Great Spirit, in whose goodness I , whom, as my Father, I have petitioned night and morning from early , help the weak creation of Thy hands! Sustain me through the I and must undergo! Give me strength! Give me patience! Give me—oh, give me faith!"
She fell back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor found means to steal quietly from the room. She re-entered it soon after, as composed as if she had really not overheard this strange soliloquy.
The next day several callers came. It had become known that Miss Helstone was worse. Mr. Hall and his sister Margaret arrived. Both, after they had been in the sickroom, quitted it in tears; they had found the patient more altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came. Caroline seemed by her presence. She assured her, smiling, she was not dangerously ill; she talked to her in a low voice, but cheerfully. During her stay, excitement kept up the flush of her complexion; she looked better.
"How is Mr. Robert?" asked Mrs. Pryor, as Hortense was preparing to take leave.
"He was very well when he left."
"Left! Is he gone from home?"
It was then explained that some police intelligence about the rioters of whom he was in pursuit had, that morning, called him away to Birmingham, and probably a fortnight might elapse ere he returned.
"He is not aware that Miss Helstone is very ill?"
"Oh no! He thought, like me, that she had only a bad cold."
After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach Caroline's couch for above an hour. She heard her weep, and dared not look on her tears.
As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline, opening her eyes from a moment's , viewed her nurse with an unrecognizing glance.
"I the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning," she said, "as I stood at the counting-house window."
Strange words like these from lips pierce a loving listener's heart more than steel. They sound372 romantic, perhaps, in books; in real life they are harrowing.
"My darling, do you know me?" said Mrs. Pryor.
"I went in to call Robert to breakfast. I have been with him in the garden. He asked me to go. A heavy dew has refreshed the flowers. The peaches are ."
"My darling! my darling!" again and again repeated the nurse.
"I thought it was daylight—long after sunrise. It looks dark. Is the moon now set?"
That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upon her. Floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.
"Then it is not morning? I am not at the cottage? Who is this? I see a shape at my bedside."
"It is myself—it is your friend—your nurse—your—— Lean your head on my shoulder. Collect yourself." In a lower tone—"O God, take pity! Give her life, and me strength! Send me courage! Teach me words!"
Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute and passive in the trembling arms, on the bosom of the nurse.
"I am better now," whispered Caroline at last, "much better. I feel where I am. This is Mrs. Pryor near me. I was dreaming. I talk when I wake up from dreams; people often do in illness. How fast your heart beats, ma'am! Do not be afraid."
"It is not fear, child—only a little anxiety, which will pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary. Your uncle made it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of tea than any housewife can. Taste it. He is concerned to hear that you eat so little; he would be glad if you had a better appetite."
"I am thirsty. Let me drink."
She drank eagerly.
"What o'clock is it, ma'am?" she asked.
"Past nine."
"Not later? Oh! I have yet a long night before me. But the tea has made me strong. I will sit up."
Mrs. Pryor raised her, and arranged her pillows.
"Thank Heaven! I am not always equally , and ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since Hortense went; perhaps the evening may be better. It is a fine night, I think? The moon shines clear."
373"Very fine—a perfect summer night. The old church-tower gleams white almost as silver."
"And does the churchyard look peaceful?"
"Yes, and the garden also. Dew on the ."
"Can you see many long weeds and amongst the graves? or do they look turfy and flowery?"
"I see closed daisy-heads gleaming like pearls on some . Thomas has mown down the dock-leaves and rank grass, and cleared all away."
"I always like that to be done; it one's mind to see the place in order. And, I dare say, within the church just now that moonlight shines as softly as in my room. It will fall through the east window full on the Helstone monument. When I close my eyes I seem to see poor papa's epitaph in black letters on the white marble. There is plenty of room for other ."
"William Farren came to look after your flowers this morning. He was afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself, they would be neglected. He has taken two of your favourite plants home to nurse for you."
"If I were to make a will, I would leave William all my plants; Shirley my trinkets—except one, which must not be taken off my neck; and you, ma'am, my books." After a pause—"Mrs. Pryor, I feel a wish for something."
"For what, Caroline?"
"You know I always delight to hear you sing. Sing me a just now. Sing that hymn which begins,—
'Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
Our refuge, , home!'"
Mrs. Pryor at once complied.
No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing. Her voice, even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear; in song it was almost divine. Neither nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone was secondary, compared to the expression which trembled through—a tender from a feeling heart.
The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the stair-foot to listen. Even old Helstone, as he walked in the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature of women, stood still amongst his borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded374 him of his forgotten dead wife, he could not tell; nor why it made him more concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline's fading girlhood. He was glad to that he had promised to pay Wynne, the , a visit that evening. Low spirits and gloomy thou............