Ruth (60 page)

As Mr Benson was showing Mr Davis out, Ruth opened the study-door,
and said, in a very calm, low voice:

"Mr Benson! will you allow me to speak to Mr Davis alone?"

Mr Benson immediately consented, thinking that, in all probability,
she wished to ask some further questions about Leonard; but as Mr
Davis came into the room, and shut the door, he was struck by her
pale, stern face of determination, and awaited her speaking first.

"Mr Davis! I must go and nurse Mr Bellingham," said she at last,
clenching her hands tight together, but no other part of her body
moving from its intense stillness.

"Mr Bellingham?" asked he, astonished at the name.

"Mr Donne, I mean," said she, hurriedly. "His name was Bellingham."

"Oh! I remember hearing he had changed his name for some property.
But you must not think of any more such work just now. You are not
fit for it. You are looking as white as ashes."

"I must go," she repeated.

"Nonsense! Here's a man who can pay for the care of the first
hospital nurses in London—and I doubt if his life is worth the risk
of one of theirs even, much more of yours."

"We have no right to weigh human lives against each other."

"No! I know we have not. But it's a way we doctors are apt to get
into; and, at any rate, it's ridiculous of you to think of such a
thing. Just listen to reason."

"I can't! I can't!" cried she, with sharp pain in her voice. "You
must let me go, dear Mr Davis!" said she, now speaking with soft
entreaty.

"No!" said he, shaking his head authoritatively. "I'll do no such
thing."

"Listen," said she, dropping her voice, and going all over the
deepest scarlet; "he is Leonard's father! Now! you will let me go!"

Mr Davis was indeed staggered by what she said, and for a moment he
did not speak. So she went on:

"You will not tell! You must not tell! No one knows, not even Mr
Benson, who it was. And now—it might do him so much harm to have it
known. You will not tell!"

"No! I will not tell," replied he. "But, Mrs Denbigh, you must answer
me this one question, which I ask you in all true respect, but which
I must ask, in order to guide both myself and you aright—of course
I knew Leonard was illegitimate—in fact, I will give you secret for
secret: it was being so myself that first made me sympathise with
him, and desire to adopt him. I knew that much of your history; but
tell me, do you now care for this man? Answer me truly—do you love
him?"

For a moment or two she did not speak; her head was bent down; then
she raised it up, and looked with clear and honest eyes into his
face.

"I have been thinking—but I do not know—I cannot tell—I don't
think I should love him, if he were well and happy—but you said he
was ill—and alone—how can I help caring for him?—how can I help
caring for him?" repeated she, covering her face with her hands, and
the quick hot tears stealing through her fingers. "He is Leonard's
father," continued she, looking up at Mr Davis suddenly. "He need not
know—he shall not—that I have ever been near him. If he is like the
others, he must be delirious—I will leave him before he comes to
himself—but now let me go—I must go."

"I wish my tongue had been bitten out before I had named him to
you. He would do well enough without you; and, I dare say, if he
recognises you, he will only be annoyed."

"It is very likely," said Ruth, heavily.

"Annoyed,—why! he may curse you for your unasked-for care of him.
I have heard my poor mother—and she was as pretty and delicate a
creature as you are—cursed for showing tenderness when it was not
wanted. Now, be persuaded by an old man like me, who has seen enough
of life to make his heart ache—leave this fine gentleman to his
fate. I'll promise you to get him as good a nurse as can be had for
money."

"No!" said Ruth, with dull persistency—as if she had not attended to
his dissuasions; "I must go. I will leave him before he recognises
me."

"Why, then," said the old surgeon, "if you're so bent upon it,
I suppose I must let you. It is but what my mother would have
done—poor, heart-broken thing! However, come along, and let us
make the best of it. It saves me a deal of trouble, I know; for, if
I have you for a right hand, I need not worry myself continually
with wondering how he is taken care of. Go! get your bonnet, you
tender-hearted fool of a woman! Let us get you out of the house
without any more scenes or explanations; I'll make all straight with
the Bensons."

"You will not tell my secret, Mr Davis," she said, abruptly.

"No! not I! Does the woman think I had never to keep a secret of the
kind before? I only hope he'll lose his election, and never come near
the place again. After all," continued he, sighing, "I suppose it is
but human nature!" He began recalling the circumstances of his own
early life, and dreamily picturing scenes in the grey dying embers of
the fire; and he was almost startled when she stood before him, ready
equipped, grave, pale, and quiet.

"Come along!" said he. "If you're to do any good at all, it must be
in these next three days. After that, I'll ensure his life for this
bout; and mind! I shall send you home then; for he might know you,
and I'll have no excitement to throw him back again, and no sobbing
and crying from you. But now every moment your care is precious to
him. I shall tell my own story to the Bensons, as soon as I have
installed you."

Mr Donne lay in the best room of the Queen's Hotel—no one with him
but his faithful, ignorant servant, who was as much afraid of the
fever as any one else could be, but who, nevertheless, would not
leave his master—his master who had saved his life as a child, and
afterwards put him in the stables at Bellingham Hall, where he learnt
all that he knew. He stood in a farther corner of the room, watching
his delirious master with affrighted eyes, not daring to come near
him, nor yet willing to leave him.

"Oh! if that doctor would but come! He'll kill himself or me—and
them stupid servants won't stir a step over the threshold; how shall
I get over the night? Blessings on him—here's the old doctor back
again! I hear him creaking and scolding up the stairs!"

The door opened, and Mr Davis entered, followed by Ruth.

"Here's the nurse, my good man—such a nurse as there is not in the
three counties. Now, all you'll have to do is to mind what she says."

"Oh, sir! he's mortal bad! won't you stay with us through the night,
sir?"

"Look there!" whispered Mr Davis to the man, "see how she knows how
to manage him! Why, I could not do it better myself!"

She had gone up to the wild, raging figure, and with soft authority
had made him lie down: and then, placing a basin of cold water by the
bedside, she had dipped in it her pretty hands, and was laying their
cool dampness on his hot brow, speaking in a low soothing voice all
the time, in a way that acted like a charm in hushing his mad talk.

"But I will stay," said the doctor, after he had examined his
patient; "as much on her account as his! and partly to quieten the
fears of this poor, faithful fellow."

The third night after this was to be the crisis—the turning-point
between Life and Death. Mr Davis came again to pass it by the bedside
of the sufferer. Ruth was there, constant and still, intent upon
watching the symptoms, and acting according to them, in obedience
to Mr Davis's directions. She had never left the room. Every sense
had been strained in watching—every power of thought or judgment
had been kept on the full stretch. Now that Mr Davis came and took
her place, and that the room was quiet for the night, she became
oppressed with heaviness, which yet did not tend to sleep. She could
not remember the present time, or where she was. All times of her
earliest youth—the days of her childhood—were in her memory with a
minuteness and fulness of detail which was miserable; for all along
she felt that she had no real grasp on the scenes that were passing
through her mind—that, somehow, they were long gone by, and gone by
for ever—and yet she could not remember who she was now, nor where
she was, and whether she had now any interests in life to take the
place of those which she was conscious had passed away, although
their remembrance filled her mind with painful acuteness. Her head
lay on her arms, and they rested on the table. Every now and then she
opened her eyes, and saw the large room, handsomely furnished with
articles that were each one incongruous with the other, as if bought
at sales. She saw the flickering night-light—she heard the ticking
of the watch, and the two breathings, each going on at a separate
rate—one hurried, abruptly stopping, and then panting violently, as
if to make up for lost time; and the other slow, steady, and regular,
as if the breather was asleep; but this supposition was contradicted
by an occasional repressed sound of yawning. The sky through the
uncurtained window looked dark and black—would this night never have
an end? Had the sun gone down for ever, and would the world at last
awaken to a general sense of everlasting night?

Then she felt as if she ought to get up, and go and see how the
troubled sleeper in yonder bed was struggling through his illness;
but she could not remember who the sleeper was, and she shrunk
from seeing some phantom-face on the pillow, such as now began to
haunt the dark corners of the room, and look at her, jibbering and
mowing as they looked. So she covered her face again, and sank into
a whirling stupor of sense and feeling. By-and-by she heard her
fellow-watcher stirring, and a dull wonder stole over her as to what
he was doing; but the heavy languor pressed her down, and kept her
still. At last she heard the words, "Come here," and listlessly
obeyed the command. She had to steady herself in the rocking chamber
before she could walk to the bed by which Mr Davis stood; but
the effort to do so roused her, and, although conscious of an
oppressive headache, she viewed with sudden and clear vision all the
circumstances of her present position. Mr Davis was near the head of
the bed, holding the night-lamp high, and shading it with his hand,
that it might not disturb the sick person, who lay with his face
towards them, in feeble exhaustion, but with every sign that the
violence of the fever had left him. It so happened that the rays of
the lamp fell bright and full upon Ruth's countenance, as she stood
with her crimson lips parted with the hurrying breath, and the
fever-flush brilliant on her cheeks. Her eyes were wide open, and
their pupils distended. She looked on the invalid in silence, and
hardly understood why Mr Davis had summoned her there.

"Don't you see the change? He is better!—the crisis is past!"

But she did not speak; her looks were riveted on his softly-unclosing
eyes, which met hers as they opened languidly. She could not stir
or speak. She was held fast by that gaze of his, in which a faint
recognition dawned, and grew to strength.

He murmured some words. They strained their sense to hear. He
repeated them even lower than before; but this time they caught what
he was saying.

"Where are the water-lilies? Where are the lilies in her hair?"

Mr Davis drew Ruth away.

"He is still rambling," said he, "but the fever has left him."

The grey dawn was now filling the room with its cold light; was it
that made Ruth's cheek so deadly pale? Could that call out the wild
entreaty of her look, as if imploring help against some cruel foe
that held her fast, and was wrestling with her Spirit of Life? She
held Mr Davis's arm. If she had let it go, she would have fallen.

"Take me home," she said, and fainted dead away.

Mr Davis carried her out of the chamber, and sent the groom to keep
watch by his master. He ordered a fly to convey her to Mr Benson's,
and lifted her in when it came, for she was still half unconscious.
It was he who carried her upstairs to her room, where Miss Benson and
Sally undressed and laid her in her bed.

He awaited their proceedings in Mr Benson's study. When Mr Benson
came in, Mr Davis said:

"Don't blame me. Don't add to my self-reproach. I have killed her. I
was a cruel fool to let her go. Don't speak to me."

"It may not be so bad," said Mr Benson, himself needing comfort in
that shock. "She may recover. She surely will recover. I believe she
will."

"No, no! she won't. But by — she shall, if I can save her." Mr
Davis looked defiantly at Mr Benson, as if he were Fate. "I tell you
she shall recover, or else I am a murderer. What business had I to
take her to nurse him—"

He was cut short by Sally's entrance and announcement that Ruth was
now prepared to see him.

From that time forward Mr Davis devoted all his leisure, his skill,
his energy, to save her. He called on the rival surgeon to beg him
to undertake the management of Mr Donne's recovery, saying, with his
usual self-mockery, "I could not answer it to Mr Cranworth if I had
brought his opponent round, you know, when I had had such a fine
opportunity in my power. Now, with your patients, and general Radical
interest, it will be rather a feather in your cap; for he may want a
good deal of care yet, though he is getting on famously—so rapidly,
in fact, that it's a strong temptation to me to throw him back—a
relapse, you know."

The other surgeon bowed gravely, apparently taking Mr Davis in
earnest, but certainly very glad of the job thus opportunely thrown
in his way. In spite of Mr Davis's real and deep anxiety about Ruth,
he could not help chuckling over his rival's literal interpretation
of all he had said.

"To be sure, what fools men are! I don't know why one should watch
and strive to keep them in the world. I have given this fellow
something to talk about confidentially to all his patients; I wonder
how much stronger a dose the man would have swallowed! I must
begin to take care of my practice for that lad yonder. Well-a-day!
well-a-day! What was this sick fine gentleman sent here for, that she
should run a chance of her life for him? or why was he sent into the
world at all, for that matter?"