'Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.' 'Papa!' said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with
pain. 'Papa! Speak to me!' The speculation came again into his
eyes, and he made a great effort.
'Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!' 'No, sir, it was not cruel!' replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick
decision. 'Miss Hale acted under my directions. There may have
been a mistake, but it was not cruel. Your wife will be a
different creature to-morrow, I trust. She has had spasms, as I
anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale of my apprehensions.
She has taken the opiate I brought with me; she will have a good
long sleep; and to-morrow, that look which has alarmed you so
much will have passed away.' 'But not the disease?' Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her face raised
with no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick
observer of human nature that she thought it better that the
whole truth should be told.
'Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor
vaunted skill. We can only delay its progress--alleviate the pain
it causes. Be a man, sir--a Christian. Have faith in the
immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal disease, can
assail or touch!' But all the reply he got, was in the choked words, 'You have
never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you do not know what it is,'
and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through the stillness of
the night like heavy pulses of agony. Margaret knelt by him,
caressing him with tearful caresses. No one, not even Dr.
Donaldson, knew how the time went by. Mr. Hale was the first to
dare to speak of the necessities of the present moment.
'What must we do?' asked he. 'Tell us both. Margaret is my
staff--my right hand.' Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for
to-night--nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet.
But no enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale to go to
bed, and leave only one to watch the slumber, which he hoped
would be undisturbed. He promised to come again early in the
morning. And with a warm and kindly shake of the hand, he left
them. They spoke but few words; they were too much exhausted by
their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate course of
action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the night, and
all that Margaret could do was to prevail upon him to rest on the
drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly refused to go to
bed; and, as for Margaret, it was simply impossible that she
should leave her mother, let all the doctors in the world speak
of 'husbanding resources,' and 'one watcher only being required.'
So, Dixon sat, and stared, and winked, and drooped, and picked
herself up again with a jerk, and finally gave up the battle, and
fairly snored. Margaret had taken off her gown and tossed it
aside with a sort of impatient disgust, and put on her
dressing-gown. She felt as if she never could sleep again; as if
her whole senses were acutely vital, and all endued with double
keenness, for the purposes of watching. Every sight and
sound--nay, even every thought, touched some nerve to the very
quick. For more than two hours, she heard her father's restless
movements in the next room. He came perpetually to the door of
her mother's chamber, pausing there to listen, till she, not
hearing his close unseen presence, went and opened it to tell him
how all went on, in reply to the questions his baked lips could
hardly form. At last he, too, fell asleep, and all the house was
still. Margaret sate behind the curtain thinking. Far away in
time, far away in space, seemed all the interests of past days.
Not more than thirty-six hours ago, she cared for Bessy Higgins
and her father, and her heart was wrung for Boucher; now, that
was all like a dreaming memory of some former life;--everything
that had passed out of doors seemed dissevered from her mother,
and therefore unreal. Even Harley Street appeared more distinct;
there she remembered, as if it were yesterday, how she had
pleased herself with tracing out her mother's features in her
Aunt Shaw's face,--and how letters had come, making her dwell on
the thoughts of home with all the longing of love. Helstone,
itself, was in the dim past. The dull gray days of the preceding
winter and spring, so uneventless and monotonous, seemed more
associated with what she cared for now above all price. She would
fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed
it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued
while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed!
How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if
from some aerial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the
earth, there was a bell continually tolling, 'All are
shadows!--all are passing!--all is past!' And when the morning
dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier morning before--when
Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the
terrible night were unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It,
too, was past.