Chapter XLII: Where Am I?

At an early hour the next morning two sad-faced, anxious women presented themselves at St. George’s Hospital, and, with quaking hearts, inquired regarding the condition of Philip Paxton.

After some delay Arley was admitted to the room where Philip now lay prostrate and helpless, perhaps dying.

She went close up to him and bent down to study his face. His features were very peaceful in their unconscious repose, and those evil lines which she remembered so well had all seemed to have faded out from it, leaving him, save for his exceeding pallor, more like her handsome, attractive Philip whom she had learned to love so well at Hazelmere.

The tears rained over her cheeks as she gazed at him, but she made no sound, only silently wiping them away as they fell, while the surgeon, watching her, felt a tender pity and sympathy for the sad-hearted young wife.

Presently she stayed her weeping, and, moving up to him, signified by a gesture that she wished to confer with him, and, opening the door for her, they both passed noiselessly out of the room.

“You will let me stay with him?” she said, appealingly, the moment the door was shut again.

He hesitated, scanning her face closely for a moment.

“I know what you are thinking,” she continued, as she noticed his look, while a quick sob escaped her. “You are wondering if I am strong enough to stay here and see him die. But whether he lives or dies, I must stay,” she added, resolutely. “I am his wife, and my place is at his bedside. I do not know,” she went on, hurriedly, “whether I could be of any use or not, but, at least, I will not make any disturbance; I will be perfectly quiet and calm; but, you know, if he should have one lucid moment, it will belong to me. Say that you will let me stay, doctor,” and involuntarily she clasped her hands in a way he could not resist, as she made this last appeal.

“Yes, you shall remain,” he replied, in an unsteady voice.

He did not really believe that the man would ever come out of the stupor in which he was lying, but if he did, and should have a lucid moment, he felt that it ought, as she had said, to belong to her--his wife.

Of course, he could not have any idea with what agony Arley was longing for consciousness to be restored to him, even momentarily, that she might breathe into his ear the forgiveness which she knew he craved. He did not dream that there had ever been a shadow between them--he simply regarded her as a fond and faithful wife, who could not endure the thought of being separated from her husband while there should be any sign of life in him, and so he had given the desired permission.

Arley went back to Lady Elaine and told her her decision.

“I do not think he will live,” she said, with a quiver of pain in her voice, while she twined her arms about her sister’s waist and dropped her head for a moment on her shoulder; “but the surgeon says I may stay, and, oh! darling, pray that he may have but one single moment of consciousness in which to know me and to let me make my peace with him. He looks noble and good now--like the man I believed him to be when we first met at Hazelmere--as he lays there so still and pale, and those cruel, evil lines which came into his face after we were married are all gone.”

“I am glad that you are going to stay, Arley, dear,” Lady Elaine said; “I think it is right you should; the conviction has been growing upon me of late that Philip was really changed. I believe he has sincerely repented of his wrong-doing, and if he should come to himself and find you beside him, and ready to forgive him, it would be of the greatest comfort to him. But do not overtax yourself, dear,” she added, tenderly; “remember that I have only just found my sister, and I could not bear that ill should befall her. I shall be very lonely without you, but I know it is right for you to be here, and I shall come every day, as long as you stay, to see you and to inquire for Philip.”

She kissed her fondly, and then went away, and Arley, removing her hat and wraps, went back to that silent sickroom to watch and--wait.

Day after day she remained at her post, and there was no change.

No change, apparently, in Philip, but in the heart of the young wife a very radical one. In place of the hard and unforgiving feelings which for so long she had been cherishing against him, a tender yearning, a deep and absorbing love--akin to that of maidenhood--was taking possession of her, while every hour that first agonized prayer--save him, oh, save him! was whispered by her pale lips.

For a week Philip Paxton lay there but a mere breathing form, and though the surgeon considered it impossible for him to recover, each succeeding day seemed to find him the same--no better, no worse.

At last, on the eighth day, there was a copious discharge from his head through one of his ears, and then the patient appeared as if about to awake to life once more.

“There had been a fearful abscess in his head,” the surgeon said, with a puzzled look, “but it is impossible that such a gathering could have been the result of this recent injury--it may have aggravated it, but it never could have caused it in so short a time.”

Arley started, and then, remembering what Eddie Winthrope had told her, she said:

“He was severely injured about the head several months ago in a railway accident.”

“Aha!” ejaculated the surgeon, looking enlightened. “Has he complained since of any trouble there?” he asked.

Arley colored a vivid red.

Very little, indeed, did she know regarding Philip’s complaints during the last year, but, of course, she was not going to confess this to the doctor, so, quoting again from Eddie Winthrope, she said:

“Yes, he has complained of headache a good deal.”

The surgeon nodded many times, as if answering to himself what had all along been perplexing queries in his mind.

“I see--I see,” he said at length to her. “This abscess has been a great while forming, and it would have taken a good while longer for it to have reached a crisis had it not been for this recent injury, that has aggravated and hastened it to a termination. If”--and here he bent a penetrating look upon Arley--“if it does not gather again, I think there is hope that your husband may recover, madam.”

Arley started and looked at him with a frightened glance as he made this announcement.

She had never for a moment believed that Philip would get well. She had looked for his death daily, almost hourly, ever since she had entered the hospital.

Her first impulse was to fly back to Mordaunt House and hide herself again within its friendly walls; but she had presented herself at St. George’s Hospital and demanded admittance as Philip Paxton’s wife, and now she could not go away, she could not desert the post she had assumed, without exciting remark and scandal.

When Lady Elaine came she went down and told her.

“What shall I do?” she asked, helplessly. “How shall I meet this unexpected turn of affairs?”

“Question your own heart, Arley,” her sister answered, gravely. “You were ready to forgive him when you thought him about to die--will he be any less worthy if he lives? You have borne much, I know--you have a great deal to forgive; but----”

“Well?” questioned Arley, quickly.

“But if there is no love--no real love in your heart for him, it will be better for you to come away with me at once, before he realizes that you have been here.”

Arley burst into a torrent of tears at this.

“I do love him, Elaine; it has all come back to me while I have been watching and tending him here; and if--oh, if I only knew that he would prove to be the noble man that we have hoped he was striving to be of late, I could forget all the dreadful past.”

Lady Elaine kissed her with trembling lips.

“Try him, dear. He does not know anything about our recent discoveries; he has not a suspicion that you are a Mordaunt--no one knows it save the few who love you, and will keep the secret as long as you wish. Give Philip a trial. If he is really honest, and is earnest, if he truly loves you, he will only be too eager to win you back to him as the poor Arley he affected to despise. That will be a test of his sincerity which I think even you cannot doubt.”

The next day, as Arley was sitting beside Philip, calm and tranquil, now that she had decided upon the course that she was to pursue, he moved, and spoke for the first time in ten days.

“Where am I?” he asked.

He had been sleeping for several hours, a natural, healthful sleep, and his general appearance had indicated a marked improvement.

Arley was alone with him, the nurse having gone for a rest, and her heart flew into her throat as she heard his words, and knew that he was awake, and in another moment would doubtless recognize her.

She saw that his eyes were open and wandering with a bewildered look about the room.

Presently they rested upon her; but the light was dim, and at first he did not seem to know her. Then all at once a look of wonder shot into his eyes, which finally grew into a frightened stare.

His lips moved, forming her name, but no sound came from them; then a violent trembling seized him, and he cried out:

“Arley! Heavens! Where am I?”

“You are sick, Philip, and I am taking care of you,” she answered, in an even, gentle tone, as if it were a matter of course.

The sound of her voice seemed to strike him dumb again, and he lay regarding her with a vacant expression.

“You!” at length he whispered, and his lips seemed to grow stiff over the word.

Arley reached out for a bowl which stood near her, and put a spoonful of its contents to his mouth.

“You must drink this,” she said, with quiet authority, “and you must not talk any more now.”

He obeyed her, because he had not strength to do otherwise, but as he hungrily sipped the liquid with which she fed him his eyes never left her face, and the wondering, eager, questioning look in them she never forgot as long as she lived.

He lay very quiet after he had taken all that she thought best to give him, and soon the surgeon came in to see him.

“Aha!” he said, after one comprehensive glance at his patient, and in a tone of intense satisfaction; “I thought so! Well, sir!”--to Philip--“how do you find yourself to-day?”

“I am not sure that I have found myself at all,” Philip replied, weakly, and casting perplexed glances from him to Arley.

“Well, never mind; you’ll pick yourself up by degrees, I imagine,” was the smiling reply. “I am satisfied to find you as you are, for you’ve had quite a serious time of it, my friend.”

“I begin to remember something--I was thrown from my carriage--and Eddie--where is Eddie?” Philip questioned, consciousness beginning to assert itself.

The doctor now turned a puzzled look upon Arley, for this was the first he had heard about Eddie.

“Eddie is well; he escaped unhurt, and has been well cared for ever since the accident.”

It should have been mentioned before that Lady Elaine, at Arley’s request, had gone to Philip’s chambers to make inquiries regarding the lad, and had found him well, but greatly distressed upon his uncle’s account.

“Oh, I cannot have him die, too!” he cried, when he had told her all about the unmanageable horse and their great danger, and how people told him they feared Mr. Paxton could not live.

“We will pray that he may not,” she had answered, soothingly, and then she told him that she was the sister of the lady whom he had met in the art gallery and who had sent her to take him home to stay with her until his Uncle Philip should be better.

She did not tell him anything about Arley’s relations to Philip, thinking it best to wait for further developments; but she took him every day with her when she went to inquire about the sick man, though he sat in the carriage while she went into the hospital, and tried to be patient and content with the limited intelligence which she brought him. But he was very anxious, and his anxiety wore upon him sadly.

And this was how Arley could speak so confidently of the boy’s welfare when Philip asked for him.

Then, turning to the surgeon, she exclaimed:

“Eddie is a little boy whom Mr. Paxton has befriended, and who was riding with him at the time of his accident.”

The surgeon nodded, and then asked:

“Has he been talking much?”

“No, sir; I thought it best for him not to talk much at present,” she returned, a slight flush rising to her cheeks.

He smiled.

“A little moderate conversation will do him no harm,” he said, “and doubtless there are some things that he would like some help about recalling. It will take him some little time to recover his strength, but I think he is going to do very well.”

He made some little change in Philip’s medicines, and then went about other duties, leaving this strangely-reunited husband and wife once more alone.