Complete Works of George Moore, page 114
“Oh, why,” he exclaimed, “did she fall over that thrice-accursed stile! In five minutes more we would have been locked in each other’s arms, and for ever. I had a couple of the best post-horses in Gort; they’d have taken us to Athenry in a couple of hours, and then... Oh! what luck, what luck!”
“But do you not know that Olive met Mrs. Lawler in the wood, and that it was she who...”
“What do you say?... You don’t mean to tell me that it was Mrs. Lawler who prevented Olive from meeting me?” Then grinding his teeth he said, “Oh! the vileness and the baseness! So she dared do that, the beastly creature!” and, looking a tower of athletic grace, he raised his arms, as if he would crush his enemy into the earth.
“Oh, what beasts, what devils women are,” he said; “and the worst of it is that one cannot be even with them, and they know it.... If you only knew,” he said, turning almost fiercely upon Alice, “how I loved your sister, you would pity me; but I suppose it is all over now. Is she very ill?”
“We don’t know yet. She has sprained her ankle very badly, and is shivering terribly; she was lying out all night in the wet wood.”
He did not answer at once. He walked once or twice up and down the room, and then he said, taking Alice’s hand in his, “Will you be a friend to me, Miss Barton?” He could get no further, for tears were rolling down his cheeks.
Alice looked at him tenderly; she was much touched by the manifestation of his love, and at the end of a long silence she said —
“Now, Captain Hibbert, I want you to listen to me. Don’t cry any more, but listen.”
“I daresay I look a great fool.”
“No, indeed you do not,” she answered; and then in kindly-worded phrases she told him that, at least for the present, he must not attempt to correspond with Olive. “Give me your word of honour that you will neither write nor speak to her for, let us say, six months, and I will promise to be your friend.”
“I will do anything you ask me to do, but will you in return promise to write and tell me how she is getting on, and if she is in any danger?”
“I think I can promise to do that; I will write and tell you how Olive is in a few days. Now we must say good-bye; and you will not forget your promise to me, as I shall not forget mine to you.”
When Alice went upstairs, Dr. Reed and Mrs. Barton were talking on the landing.
“And what do you think, doctor?” asked the anxious mother.
“It is impossible to say. She has evidently received a severe nervous shock, and this and the exposure to which she was subjected may develop into something serious. You will give her that Dover’s powder to-night, and you will see that she has absolute quiet and rest. Have you got a reliable nurse?”
“Yes, the young ladies have a maid; I think Barnes can be trusted to carry out your orders, doctor.”
“Oh, mamma, I hope you will allow me to nurse my sister; I should not like to leave her in charge of a servant.”
“I am afraid you are not strong enough, dear.”
“Oh, yes, I am; am I not strong enough, doctor?”
Dr. Reed looked for a moment steadily at Alice. “Your sister will,” he said, “require a good deal of looking after. But if you will not overdo it I think you seem quite strong enough to nurse her. But you must not sit up at night with her too regularly; you must share the labour with someone.”
“She will do that with me,” said Mrs. Barton, speaking more kindly, Alice thought, than she had ever heard her speak before.
Then a wailing voice was heard calling to Alice.
“Go in and see what she wants, dear, but you will not encourage her to talk much; the doctor does not wish it.”
The room did not look the same to Alice as it had ever looked before. Her eyes fell on the Persian rugs laid between the two white beds and the tall glass in the wardrobe where Olive wasted half-an-hour every evening, examining her beauty. Would she ever do so again? Now a broken reflection of feverish eyes and blonde hair was what remained. The white curtains of the chimneypiece had been drawn aside, a blight fire was burning, and Barnes was removing a foot-pan of hot water.
“Sit down here by me, Alice; I want to talk to you.”
“The doctor has forbidden you to talk, dear; he says you must have perfect rest and quiet.”
“I must talk a little to you; if I didn’t I should go mad.”
“Well, what is it dear?”
“I will tell you presently,” said the sick girl, glancing at Barnes.
“You can tidy up the room afterwards, Barnes; Miss Olive wants to talk to me now.”
“Oh, Alice, tell me,” cried the girl when the servant had left the room, “I don’t want to ask mamma — she won’t tell me the exact truth; but you will. Tell me what the doctor said... did he say I was going to die?”
“Going to die? Olive, who ever heard of such a thing? You really must not give way to such fancies.”
“Well, tell me what he said.”
“He said that you had received a severe nervous shock, that you had been subjected to several hours’ exposure, that you must take great care of yourself, and, above all, have perfect rest and quiet, and not excite yourself and not talk.”
“Is that all he said? Then he cannot know how ill I feel; perhaps I ought to see another doctor. But I don’t believe anyone could do me much good. Oh, I feel wretchedly ill, and somehow I seem to know I am going to die! It would be very horrible to die: but young girls no older than I have died — have been cut off in the beginning of their life. And we have seen nothing of life, only a few balls and parties. It would be terrible to die so soon. When Violet carried off the marquis I felt so bitterly ashamed that I thought I would have liked to die; but not now — now I know that Edward loves me I would not care to die; it would be terrible to die before I was married. Wouldn’t it, Alice? —
But you don’t answer me; did you never think about death?”
Then, as the thin wailing voice sank into her ears, Alice started from her dreams, and she strove to submit her attention to her sister.
“Yes, dear, of course I have. Death is, no doubt, a very terrible thing, but we can do no good by thinking of it.”
“Oh yes, we should, Alice, for this is not the only world — there is another and a better one; and, as mamma says, and as religion says, we are only here to try and get a good place in it. You are surprised to hear me speak like this; you think I never think of anything but the colour of a bonnet-string, but I do.”
“I am sure you do, Olive; I never doubted it; but I wish you would now do what the doctor orders, and refrain from talking and exciting yourself, and try and get well. You may then think of death and other gloomy things as much as you like.”
“You don’t understand, Alice; one can’t think of death then — one has so much else to think of; one is so taken up with other ideas. It is only when one is ill that one really begins to see what life is. You have never been ill, and you don’t know how terribly near death seems to have come — very near. Perhaps I ought to see the priest; it would be just as well, just in case I should die. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t think there is any more danger of your dying now than there was a month ago, dear, and I am sure you can have nothing on your mind that demands immediate confession,” she said, her voice trembling a little.
“Oh yes, I have, Alice, and a very great deal; I have been very wicked.”
“Very wicked!”
“Well, I know you aren’t pious, Alice, and perhaps you don’t believe there is harm in such things, but I do; and I know it was very wrong, and perhaps a mortal sin, to try to run away with Edward.”
Alice drew a long breath.
“But I loved him so very dearly, and I was so tired of staying at home and being taken out to parties; and then everything seemed to be going wrong. For, although I was the belle of the season, I did not get as many offers of marriage as I expected. Edward was, after all, the only one who proposed to me, and I was afraid of remaining an old maid; and when you are in love with a man you forget everything... at least I did; and when he asked to kiss me I couldn’t refuse. You will not tell anyone, Alice dear, that I told you this.” Alice shook her head, and Olive continued, in spite of all that the doctor had said.
“But you don’t know how lonely I feel at home; you never feel lonely, I dare say, for you only think of your books and papers, and don’t realise what a disgrace it would be if I didn’t marry, and after all the trouble that mamma has taken.. but I don’t know what will become of me now. I am going to be dreadfully ill, and when I get well I shall be pretty no longer; I am sure I am looking wretchedly; I must see myself — fetch the glass, Alice, Alice.”
All that day and night Alice remained in the sickroom. Towards morning she lay down; but every five minutes she was disturbed: suffering from intense nervousness, Olive lay whining and calling incessantly to her. And when Barnes came and suddenly raised the blinds there were shrieks of pain; and the room had to be kept darkened. Dr. Reed said that at present he could not speak with any certainty, but he ordered several inches of the pale silky hair to be cut away and a cold lotion to be applied to the forehead, and some sliced lemons were given to her to suck. She was obviously very ill. The clear blue eyes were dull, the breathing quick, the skin dry and hot; and on the following day four leeches had to be applied to her ankle. They relieved her somewhat, and, when she had taken her draught, she sank to sleep. But as the night grew denser and the silence of the house was tomb-like, Alice, who was dozing, was suddenly awakened by someone speaking wildly in her ear. Olive was delirious. Fancying herself with Edward, she cried, “Oh, take me away, dear! I am sick of home; I want to get away from all these spiteful girls... I know they are laughing at me because Violet cut me out with the marquis. We shall be married, shan’t we, the moment we arrive in Dublin? It is horrible to be married at the registrar’s, but it is better than not being married at all... But do you think they will catch us up? It would be dreadful to be taken back home, I could not bear it... Oh, do drive on; we don’t seem to be moving.... You see that strange tree on the right, we have not passed it yet; I don’t think we ever shall. Whip up that bay horse; don’t you see that he is turning round, that he wants to go back? And I am sure that this is not the road; that man at the corner told you a lie. I know he was mocking at us — I saw it in his eye.... Look, look, Edward! Oh, look — it is papa, or Lord Dungory, I can’t tell which, he will not lift his cloak.”... Then the vision would fade from her delirious brain, and she would fancy herself in the wood, arguing once again with Mrs. Lawler. “No, what you say is not true; he never loved you; how could he? You are an old woman.... Let me pass — let me pass.... Why do you speak to me? We don’t visit, we never did visit you. No; it was not at our house you met Edward.... You are a bad woman; and Edward shall not, he could not, think of running away with you — will you, darling? Oh! help me, help me out of this dreadful wood. I want to go home, but I cannot walk... and that terrible bird is still watching me, and I dare not pass that tree until you drive it away.”
Now only the two beds, with their white curtains and brass crowns, loomed through the pale obscurity, broken only by the red-glowing basin where a nightlight burnt, and tire long tongues of flame that the blazing peat scattered from time to time across the darkened ceiling. The solitude of the sleeping house grew momentarily more intense in Alice’s brain, and she trembled as she strove to soothe her sister, and covered the hot feverish arms over with the bedclothes. But gradually the lonely hours wore themselves away, and the morning broke with all its welcome sounds of fluttering wings, and footfalls in the echoing corridors.
About eight o’clock Mrs. Barton came in. “What sort of night has Olive had?” she asked anxiously.
“Not a very quiet one; I am afraid she was a little delirious.”
“Dr. Reed promised to be here early. How do you feel, dear?” Mrs. Barton asked, leaning over the bed.’
“Oh, very ill; I can scarcely breathe, and I have such a pain in my side.”
“Your lips look very sore, dear; do they hurt you?” — Olive only moaned dismally — and, looking anxiously at her elder daughter, she said:
“And you, too, Alice, you are not looking well; you are looking very tired. You must not sit up another night with you sister. To-night I will take your place.”
“Oh, mother, no! I assure you it is a pleasure to me to nurse Olive. I am very well indeed; do not think about me.”
“Indeed, I will think about you, and you must do as I tell you. I will look after Olive, and you must try and get a good night’s rest. We will take it in turns to nurse her. And now come down to breakfast; a cup of hot coffee will do you all the good in the world. Barnes, you will not think of leaving Miss Olive until we come back; and, if any change occurs, ring for me immediately.”
When Dr. Reed arrived, Alice was again sitting by the bedside. She rose to meet him. She noticed that he looked at her intently, but all was forgotten in the question:
“And how is our patient to-day?”
“I cannot say she is any better; she has a distressing cough, and last night I am afraid she was a little delirious.”
“Ah, you say the cough is very distressing?”
“I am afraid I must call it distressing; is that a very bad sign?”
“Probably there is not much wrong, but it would be better to ascertain the condition of the patient, and then we may be able to do something to relieve her.”
They approach the bed. The doctor draws a stethoscope from his pocket. From either side they aid each other, and they lift the patient into a sitting position.
“I should like to examine her chest,” said the doctor, and his fingers moved to unfasten her chemise. Olive looked at him at once timidly and suspiciously.
“Don’t expose me,” she murmured feebly, and, notwithstanding her condition, she blushed to the roots of her flaxen hair.
“Now, Olive dear, remember it is only the doctor; let him examine you.”
It was with difficulty Alice said the words. She felt her position sharply, but she mastered her sense of false shame and then forgot it in the keen sensations of pity which the sight of the poor sick beauty inspired.
The eyes were now but dull filmy blue, the lips were covered with sores, and there was a circumscribed redness over the cheekbones — not the hectic flush of phthisis, but the dusky red that is characteristic of pneumonia. And so weak was the patient that during the stethoscopic examination Alice had to support her; her head fell from side to side as she was moved, and when the doctor pressed her right side her moans were pregnant with pain.
“Now let me see the tongue.... Dry and parched.”
“Shall I die, doctor?” the girl asked feebly and plaintively as she sank amidst the pillows.
“Die! no, not if you take care of yourself and do what you are told.”
“But tell me, Dr. Reed.... you can tell me the truth. Is Olive dangerously ill, is her life in danger?” Alice asked anxiously as they moved away from the bed towards the window, towards Alice’s work-table.
“She will get well if she takes care of herself; she is suffering from an acute attack of pneumonia.”
“What is that?”
“Congestion of the lungs, or rather an advanced stage of it. It is more common in men than in women, and it is the consequence of long exposure to wet and cold.”
“Is it very dangerous?”
“No, not if the patient is taken great care of; and now let me tell you that it is all-important that the temperature of the room should not be allowed to vary. I attended a case of it some three or four miles from here, but the damp of the cabin was so great that it was impossible to combat the disease. The cottage, or rather hovel, was built on the edge of a soft spongy bog, and so wet was it that the woman had to sweep the water every morning from the floor where it collected in great pools. The poverty that these peasants endure is something shocking. I am now going to visit an evicted family, who are living in a partially-roofed shed fenced up by the roadside. There, in the most sheltered corner, the father, down with fever, lies shivering, with nothing to drink but cold water, nothing to eat but a potato. The wife told me that last week it rained so heavily that she had to get up three times in the night to “wring the sheets out.”
“And why were they evicted?”
“Oh, that is along story; but it is a singularly characteristic one. In the first place he was an idle fellow; he got into difficulties and owed his landlord three years’ rent. Then he got into bad hands, and was prevented from coming to terms with his landlord. Mr. Scully, who is the agent, did his best to come to terms, but there was a lot of jobbing going on between the priest and the village grocer. It was arranged that the latter should pay off the existing debt if the landlord could be forced into letting him the farm at a ‘fair rent,’ that is to say, thirty per cent, reduction on the old rent. Then, in recognition of his protecting influence, the priest was to take a third of the farm off the grocer’s hands, and the two were then to conjointly rack-rent poor Murphy for the remaining third portion, which he would be allowed to retain for a third of the original rent; but the National League heard of their little tricks, and now the farm is boycotted, and Murphy is dying in the ditch for the good of his counthry.”
“I thought boycotting was ended, that the League had lost all power.”
“It has and it hasn’t. Sometimes a man takes a farm and keeps it in defiance of his neighbours; sometimes they hunt him out of it. It is hard to come to a conclusion, for when in one district you hear of rents being paid and boycotted farms letting freely, in another, only a few miles away, the landlords are giving reductions, and there are farms lying waste, that no one dare look at. In my opinion the fire is only smouldering, and when the Coercion Act expires the old organisation will rise up as strong and as triumphant as before. This is a time of respite for both parties.”
