“Oh! thank God, then you do think him better?”
“In that sense, yes,” he answered cautiously, “but, of course, we must have patience, and we shall soon know more, a great deal more, and I do sincerely hope it may all turn out quite right; but the brain has been a good deal overpowered; there’s a tendency to a sort of state we call comatose; it indicates too much pressure there, d’ye see. I’d rather have him talking more nonsense, with less of that sleep, as you suppose it, but it isn’t sleep—a very different sort of thing. I’ve been trying to salivate him, but he’s plaguy obstinate. We’ll try tonight what dividing the pills into four each, and shortening the intervals a little will do; it sometimes does wonders—we’ll see—and a great deal depends on our succeeding in salivating. If we succeeded in effecting that, I think all the rest would proceed satisfactorily, that’s one of our difficulties just at this moment. If you send over your little messenger, the sooner the better, she shall have the pills, and let him take one the moment they come—pretty flower that is,” he interpolated, touching the petal of one that stood neglected, in its pot, on a little table at the window. “That’s not a geranium: it’s a pelargonium. I did not know there were such things down here—and you’ll continue, I told her everything else, and go on just as before.”
“And you think he’s better—I mean just a little?” she pleaded again.
“Well, well, you know, I said all I could, and we must hope—we must hope, you know, that everything may go on satisfactorily, and I’ll go further. I’ll say I don’t see at all why we should despair of such a result. Keep up your spirits, ma’am, and be cheery. We’ll do our duty all, and leave the rest in the hands of God.”
“And I suppose, Dr. Willett, we shall see you tomorrow at the usual hour?”
“Certainly, ma’am, and I don’t think there will be any change to speak of till, probably, Thursday.”
And her heart sank down with one dreadful dive at mention of that day of trial that might so easily be a day of doom.
And she answered his farewell, and smiled faintly, and followed his steps through the passage, freezing with that fear, it seemed, that she did not breathe, and that her heart ceased beating, and that she glided like a spirit. She stopped, and he passed into the yard to his horse, turning his shrewd, pale face, with a smile and a nod, as he stepped across the door-stone, and he said—
“Goodbye, ma’am, and look out for me tomorrow as usual, and be cheery, mind. Look at the bright side, you know; there’s no reason you shouldn’t.”
She answered his smile as best she could, but her heart was full; an immense sorrow was there. She was frightened. She hurried into the homely sitting-room, and wept in an agony unspeakable.
The doctor, she saw, pitied and wished to cheer her; but how dreadful was his guarded language. She thought that he would speak to others in a different vein, and so, in fact, he did. His opinion was clear against Charles Fairfield’s chance of ever being on his feet again. “It was a great pity—a young fellow.” The doctor thought everyone young whose years were ten less than his own. “A tall, handsome fellow like that, and Squire of Wyvern in a year or two, and a good-natured sort of fellow he heard. It was a pity, and that poor little wife of his—and likely to be a mother soon—God help her.”
XLV
Speech Returns
The dreaded day came and passed, and Charles Fairfield was not dead, but better. The fever was abating, but never did the vital spark burn lower in living man. Seeing that life was so low in his patient, that there was nothing between it and death, the doctor ordered certain measures to be taken.
“The fever is going, you see, but his strength is not coming, nor won’t for a while. It’s a very nice thing, I can tell you, to bring him to land with such fine tackle. I’ve brought a salmon ten pound weight into my net with a bit of a trout rod as light as a rush almost. But this is nicer play—not, mind you, that I’d have you in the dumps, ma’am, but it will be necessary to watch him as a cat would a mouse. Now, you’ll have on the table by his bed three bottles—decanted all, and ready for use instantaneously. Beside that claret you’ll have a bottle of port, and you must also have a bottle of brandy. He’ll be always at his tricks, going to faint, and you mustn’t let him. Because, ma’am, it might not be easy to get him out of such a faint, and a faint is death, ma’am, if it lasts long enough. Now, you’re not to be frightened.”
“Oh, no, Doctor Willett.”
“No, that would not do neither; but I want you clearly to see the importance of it. Let him have the claret to his lips constantly—in a tumbler, mind—you can’t give him too much; and whenever you see him look faint, you must reinforce that with port; and no mincing of matters—none of your half measures. I’d rather you made him drunk three times a day than run the least risk once of the other thing; and if the port doesn’t get him up quick enough, you must fire away with the brandy; and don’t spare it—don’t be afraid—we’ll get him round, in time, with jellies and other good things; but life must be maintained in the meanwhile any way—every way—whatever way we can. So mind, three—claret, port, brandy.”
He held up three fingers as he named them, touching them in succession.
“That’s a fire it’s better should burn a bit too fiercely for an
