Chapter VI: The Consultation

‘Yes, Miss Carry, if you like. Your dear mamma is falling into a doze; and I don’t wonder, poor dear, after all those doctors a-poking and fingering. Oh, it turns my heart sick! If I don’t get a breath of air I’ll die. Sit in the corner, honey, behind the curtains. Don’t you tease her, nor talk to her; if she wants anything, ring the bell. There now, my darling, don’t say as you haven’t got your way. How that child has worried to get into the room!’ said nurse, confidentially, as she went soft-footed and noiseless downstairs, with an anxious maid in attendance. ‘But a sick-room ain’t a place for a child. It’s bad enough for the like of me.’

‘Yes, poor soul! I can’t think how you stand it night and day as you do,’ said Sarah the housemaid, under her breath.

‘Bless you, I’m used to it,’ she said; ‘but there’s things as I can’t bear. Them doctors a-staring and a-poking, and looking as if they knowed everything. What do they know more than me? It’s experience does it, not their Latin and their wise looks. I know well enough what they’ll say--and I could have said it myself and welcome, ‘stead of taking all that money out of master’s pocket, as can’t do good to nobody. I’d have said it as easy as they could--allowing as it’s any good to say it, which is what I can’t see.’

‘What is it then, nursey?’ said Sarah. ‘It seems awkward like, when folks comes with kind inquiries, never to know no more nor the door you’re opening. But I won’t say a word,’ she added, contradictory but coaxing, ‘if you mind.’

‘I’ll warrant as you won’t,’ said nurse; and so disappeared down the kitchen stairs to snatch that cup of tea which is the saving of poor women. ‘And make it strong, do, or I can’t go through with it much longer,’ she said, throwing herself into a chair.

This was some months after the home-coming of the invalid. Mrs. Beresford had rallied, and spent a pleasant Christmas with her friends round her once more, and she recovered her looks a little, and raised high hopes in all those who watched her so curiously. But just as spring began to touch the Square, and the crocuses appeared, a sudden and rapid relapse had come on, and to-day there had been a consultation of the doctors of a kind which could not be mistaken, so deeply serious was it. They were in Mr. Beresford’s study while nurse went downstairs, and he had just been called in solemnly from the next room to hear her fate, which implied his own. She had dropped into an uneasy sleep when her trial was over, too tired and worn out to be capable of more; and it was during this moment that nurse had yielded to Cara’s entreaties, made through the half-open door. The child had not seen her mother all day, and her whole being was penetrated by the sense of anxiety and foreboding that was in the house. She had wandered up and down the staircase all the time the doctors had been about, and her little, anxious face affected nurse with pity. It was the best thing for Cara to take the watch by her mother’s side during this moment of suspense, as it was the best thing for nurse to get out of the sick-room and refresh herself with change. Nurse’s heart was heavy too, but not with suspense. There had been no mystery to her in the growing illness. She was an ‘old-fashioned servant’--alas! of a very old-fashioned sort indeed; for few in any age, we fear, are those poetical retainers whose service is given for duty, not for need. Nurse served not for duty, indeed; to which word she might have objected--for was it not the duty ‘of them as she had done everything for’ to look after her, as much as hers to look after them?--but for love, which is a more effectual argument. She liked her good wages and her comforts, as an honest woman has a right to do; but she liked the ‘family’ better still, and cared not very much for any other family, not even that with which she was herself connected in the capacity of sister and aunt--for, though she had been married, she had no children of her own. Mrs. Beresford had been her child; then, so long after, Cara. Her heart was concentrated in those two. But after this trial of the medical examination, which was almost as hard upon her as upon her mistress, nurse was very thankful to take advantage of that door, and escape for a little into the more cheerful world of the kitchen, with all its coming and going, and the cup of tea which cook, sympathetic and curious, and very anxious to hear all that could be heard, made for her with such friendly care.

Thus little Cara stole in and established herself noiselessly in the corner by her mother’s bedside, hidden by the curtains. Many and strange had been the thoughts in the child’s head through these winter months, since her parents came home. She had lived a very quiet life for a child since ever she could remember, though it was a happy life enough; and the curious baby rigidity of the little code of morals which she had formed for herself had been unbroken up to that time. Cara had felt that, whosoever did wrong ought to be hanged, beheaded, burnt, or whatsoever penalty was practicable, at once, without benefit of clergy. A lie being the worst possible offence that ever came within her ken, had been as murder in the swift and sudden vengeance of her thoughts. The offence had been considered capital, beyond the reach of pardon or extenuation. It is impossible to tell what horrible overthrow of all her canons ensued when her father and aunt not only sanctioned, but enforced, lying upon her, and boldly avowed their practice of it themselves as a duty. Cara had lost herself for a long time after that. She had wandered through that bottomless darkness for months, and now had only just come to a glimmering of daylight again by aid of the individual argument, that though truth was necessary for the world in general, modifications were permitted in cases where people were ill--in the case of mamma being ill, which was the immediate thing before her. It was the one evil she was individually cognisant of in the world; but the thing was to accept it, not struggle against it, as guilt which was justified by necessity. Cara felt that here was one thing upon which more light would come as one grew older--a prospect which generally this little idealist treated with the contempt it deserves. Mamma would be better then, she thought, and the world get back into its due balance and equilibrium without any one being the worse. Probably now that time was soon approaching, now that the doctors had come and found what was the matter, and probably very soon, Cara hoped, the worst of all her difficulties would be removed; and upon this doubtful subject she would be able to get the opinion of the individual on whose behalf the others were defying Heaven with so much horrible daring, of mamma herself, for whom the sun and moon were being made to stand still, and all the world was put out of joint for the time. This hope was in her thoughts as she took her seat in nurse’s big, softly-cushioned chair, which never creaked nor made any noise, and sat there as still as a mouse, sometimes not unlike a mouse, peeping round the corner of the curtain at her charge, who lay half buried among the pillows which her restlessness had thrown into disorder, with little starts and twitches of movement, and now and then a broken moan. Worn as she was, there was still beauty in the face--white and sharpened with pain, with red hectic spots upon it, like stains on the half-transparent flesh. Her hair had been pushed away under a cap, which had come loose, and only half confined the soft golden brown locks, which had not lost their lustre; she had thrown out one arm from under the bedclothes, which lay on the white coverlet, an ivory hand, half visible only through the lace and needlework of the sleeve. With what wondering awe and pity Cara looked at her--pity which was inexpressible, like all profound childish sentiments! Poor mamma! who suffered as she? for whom else did God permit the laws of truth to be broken? She was very fond of her beautiful mother, proud of her, and oh, so piteously sorry for her. Why should she be ill--she who hated it so much? Cara herself now and then was ill, and had to put up with it, without making any fuss. But mamma was different. The still child watched with a pity which was unfathomable, and beyond the reach of words.

The room was very still; it was at the back of the house, looking out upon nothing but gardens; so quiet that you could not have thought you were within reach of the full torrent of London life. The little _pétillement_ of the fire, the occasional soft falling of the ashes, the ticking of the small, soft-toned clock, were the only audible sounds. It was a warm spring afternoon, and, but that Mrs. Beresford liked to see it, there was no need for a fire. It made the room warm and drowsy. How it was that, amid all her confused and troubled thoughts, such a reflective child as little Cara should have got drowsy too, who can tell? The stillness and quiet were unusual to her. She was leaning back against nurse’s chair, her feet curled up, her small frame entirely contained within it, her mother sleeping beside her, the room very still, with those soft rhythms of periodic sound. All at once she came to herself in a moment, after a lapse, the duration of which she knew nothing of. It was the sound of voices which roused her. Her mother speaking--her father, though how he got there she could not tell, standing very haggard and pale, in front of the fire.

‘You said you would tell me--oh, tell me the truth! I am tired of waiting, and of uncertainty. James, in pity, the truth!’

‘Yes, my darling; but they came--to no decision. It is so long since Sir William saw you. You could not bear him, you know. He must come again--he must have time----’

‘James! You are not telling me the truth!’

Cara saw that her father turned round to the fire, and held out his hands to it, as if he were cold. That change made his voice sound further away. ‘Annie, Annie! do you think I would deceive you?’ he said, faltering. Neither of them knew that the child was there behind the curtain, but of that Cara never thought.

‘What did they say?’ she cried. ‘Oh, yes, you deceive me: you do nothing but deceive me; and now, at least, I must know the truth. I will send for Maxwell to come back, and he will tell me--he is honest, not like you. James, James! have you no love for me left? You did love me once--and promised. What did they say? I _know_ they have told you. You cannot hide it from me--it is in your face.’

He made no answer, but stooped down over the fire, so that his very profile might be hid from her. She could not see anything, he thought, in his shoulders--and yet the tremor in his frame, the very gesture told more plainly than words. She sat up in her bed, growing wild with eager energy. Her cap fell back, which had been loose before, and her long hair streamed over her shoulders. ‘Bring me the medicine-box, quick, quick!’ she cried. He ran to obey her, glad of the diversion, and knowing how often she had paroxysms of pain, which had to be stilled at all hazards. The neat little medicine-chest, with its orderly drawers and shelves, like a toy in tiny regularity and neatness, was kept in a closet at the other end of the room. He brought it out, and put it down on the table by her bedside. ‘Is it the usual pain?’ he said, his voice trembling. And now she could see all the misery in his haggard face. She clutched with her white, feverish fingers at his arm.

‘Tell me. You have heard--oh, I can see, you have heard--tell me, what do they say?’

He tried for a moment to get free; but what was the use? His face, all quivering with miserable excitement, his heavy eyes that would not look her in the face, his lips, not steady enough even to frame an excuse, were more telling than any words. She devoured his face with her strained eyes, holding him by his sleeve. Then, with a convulsive shiver, ‘It is as I thought. I see what it is,’ she cried.

‘O my darling!’ he said, sinking down on his knees by her bedside. ‘What do they know? They are mistaken every day. How often have we said that, you and I? Why should we make gods of them now? Annie! we never believed in doctors, you and I!’

‘I believe in them now,’ she said. All her excitement had faded from her. The hectic red had disappeared from her cheeks, a convulsive shivering was all that remained of her strong excitement and emotion. She was hushed by the certainty. No doubt was in her mind as to the truth of it. There was silence for a moment--a long, long time, as it seemed; and when the silence was broken, it was she who spoke, not in complaint or despair, but with a strange, chill wonder and reflective pain. ‘There are some people who would not have minded so much,’ she said, in a half whisper. ‘Some people do not feel the pain so much--or--the loathing. O my God, my God, _me_!’ What could be said? Hard sobs shook the man’s helpless frame. He could do nothing for her--and she was dearer to him than his life.

‘Do not cry,’ she said, as if she had been talking to a child; ‘that hurts me more. Don’t you remember when we talked of it--if it ever came to this, James--and I made you promise. You promised. Surely, surely, you must remember? In summer, before we went away.’

He tried to look at her blankly, as if he did not know what she meant; but, God help him, he remembered every word.

‘Yes; you know what I mean. I can see it in your eyes. You can’t deceive me now, James! you promised!’

‘Never! never!’ he said, his voice broken with passionate sobs.

‘I think you promised; but at least you said it was right--no wickedness in it. Oh, do it, James! You can save me still. Why should I have any more pain, now? I could bear it if it was for any good; but why should I _now_, James?’

‘I cannot, I cannot,’ he cried; ‘do not ask me. Myself, if you will, but not you--not you!’

‘Yourself!’ she said, with a dreamy contempt. In her deadly danger and despair she was somehow raised above all creatures who had no warrant of death in them. ‘Why yourself? You are safe; there is no vulture coming to gnaw _your_ flesh. O James, have you not the heart of a man to save me! Think if it had been in India, in the Mutiny--and you said it would be right.’

‘How could I know?’ cried the unhappy man, with the artlessness of despair; ‘how could I tell it was coming to us? I did not think what I was saying. I thought of others--strangers. Annie! oh, let me go!--let me go!’

‘Think a moment,’ she said, still holding him; ‘think what it will be. Torment! It is hard to bear now, but nothing to what it will be--and worse than torment. You will sicken at me; the place will be unendurable. O God! James, save me! oh, save me! It would be so easy--nothing but a dose, a drink--and all safe. James! James!’

The man burst out into terrible tears--he was beyond the stage at which self-restraint exists--but as for her, she was calm. It was she who held the chief place in this conflict. He was but secondary. The day, the moment was for him but one of many; his life would flow on the same as before, but hers had to stop if not now, yet immediately. She had her sentence delivered to her. And suddenly a fever of longing woke up in her--a desire to taste this strange death, at once to anticipate fate, like that vertigo which makes shipwrecked people plunge into the sea to meet their end a few minutes before it comes inevitably, forestalling it, not waiting for it. She rushed all at once into sudden energy and excitement.

‘Come,’ she cried, with a breathlessness which was half taste, half from the sudden acceleration of her heart. ‘Come; this is the moment. There could be no time as good as now. I am not unhappy about it, nor sorry. It is like champagne. James, if you love me, do it at once; do it now!’

He made no reply, but clung to the bed, hiding his face, with a convulsive shivering all over him. Was it that the excitement in her communicated itself to him, and that he was tempted to obey? There was a singing and a buzzing in his ears. Despair and misery stupefied him. Sooner or later she was to be taken from him: now, or a few weeks, a few months hence through a burning path of, torture. And he could make it easy. Was it a devil or an angel that tugged at his heart, and echoed what she said?

‘Come,’ she said, in soft tones of pleading, ‘cannot you see? I am in the right mind now. Death takes people constantly by surprise, but I am just as I should like to be, able to understand everything, able to feel what is happening to me, not in pain, or unhappy. Oh, quick, quick, James! you shall hold my hand, and as long as I can speak I will tell you how it feels; like your friend. You remember Como and the boat and the floating away. Quick, quick, while I am happy, out of pain, clear in my head!’ Then her voice softened still more, and a piteous smile came upon her face. ‘Sorry only for you--O my James, my poor James! But you would rather send me away like this than see me perishing--perishing! Come, James!’

She loosed her hold upon him to let him rise, and he stumbled up to his feet like a man dazed, paused, looked at her; then throwing up his arms in a paroxysm of despair and misery, turned and fled from the room. ‘Ah!’ she gave a cry that he thought pursued him, echoing and echoing round his head as he rushed out of the house like a hunted man. But she had no power to pursue him, though her cry had. She sat up gazing after him, her arm stretched out, her head bent forward as when she was talking. Then her arm relaxed, her head drooped, a rush of womanish childish tears came to her eyes. Tears! at such a moment they made everything dim around her, but cleared away gradually like a mist, and once more the doomed woman saw clear. He was gone who should have been her loving executioner and saviour; but--her heart, which had sunk with the disappointment, gave another leap in her breast. He had left the remedy in her hands. The little medicine-chest stood open beside her on the table, within her reach. She did not pause to think, but put out her hand and selected one of the bottles firmly yet trembling, trembling only in her nerves, not in her courage. It required a little effort to pluck it out of the closely-fitting case, and then she held death in her hands.

Just then a little rustle behind the curtain, a childish face peeping round the corner, disturbed her more than anything else in the world would have done. ‘Mamma,’ said Cara, ‘what is that? What is that you are going to take? If papa would not give it you, can it be good for you? Oh, don’t take it, mamma!’

Mrs. Beresford trembled so much that she could scarcely hold the bottle in her hand. ‘It is something that will put my pain away,’ she said, quite humbly. ‘O Cara, my darling, I must take it; it will put away my pain!’

‘Are you sure, quite sure?’ said the child. ‘Shall I ring for nurse, mamma, or shall I do it? My hand is quite steady. I can drop medicine as well as nurse can. Mamma, you are quite, quite sure it will do you good; then let me give it you.’

‘No, no,’ she said, with a low shriek and shudder, turning away from her. ‘No, Cara, not for the world.’

‘But I am very steady; and here is your glass, mamma.’

‘God forbid!’ she cried, ‘not you, not you.’ This last strange incident seemed to take from her the last excuse for delay, and hurried on her fate. She paused a moment, with her hands clasped close upon the little phial, and looked upward, her face inspired and shining with a wonderful solemnity. Then slowly she unclasped her fingers, sighed, and put it to her lips. It was not the right way to take medicine, poor little Cara thought, whose mind was all in a confusion, not knowing what to think. But the moment the deed was done, that solemn look which frightened Cara passed away from her mother’s face. ‘Ah!’ she cried, fretfully, wiping her lips with her handkerchief, ‘how nasty, how nasty it is! Give me a piece of sugar, a bit of biscuit, anything to put the taste away.’

Cara brought the biscuit, pleased to be of use. She picked up the bottle which had dropped out of her mother’s hand, and put it back tidily in the case. She smoothed the disordered pillow. Mamma had been vexed because papa would not tell her something, would not let her know the truth, which was precisely what Cara herself objected to in him; but perhaps papa might have reason on his side too, for she was not strong enough to be agitated. And no doubt he would come back presently and make amends. In the meantime it pleased Cara to be her mother’s sole attendant; she put everything tidy with great care, drawing the coverlet straight, and smoothing the bed. The medicine chest was too heavy for her to carry back to its proper place, but at least she put it exactly level upon the table, with the other things cosily arranged round it. Her mother, following her movements with drowsy eyes, smiled softly upon her. ‘Cara, come here,’ she said; ‘come and give me a kiss. You will be good, and take care of papa?’

‘Yes,’ said Cara, astonished. She was almost frightened by the kiss, so clinging and solemn, which her mother gave her, not on her cheek, but her mouth. Then Mrs. Beresford dropped back on the pillow, her eyes closing. Cara had finished her tidying. She thought the room looked more still than ever, and her patient more comfortable; and with a curious mixture of satisfaction and wonder she went back behind the curtain to nurse’s big chair. Then her mother called her again; her eyes altogether closed this time, her voice like one half asleep.

‘Cara, tell him I was not angry; tell him it is quite true--no pain, only floating, floating away.’

‘What are you saying, mamma?’

‘Floating, floating; he will know.’ Then she half opened the drowsy eyes again, with a smile in them. ‘Give me one kiss more, my Cara. I am going to sleep now.’

The child could not tell what made her heart beat so, and filled her with terror. She watched her mother for a moment, scarcely daring to draw her breath, and then rang the bell, with a confused desire to cry for help, though she could not have told why.