Harry Coverdale was blessed with an iron constitution, or as he would himself have expressed it, the good keep and training he had come in for ever since he was a colt, had put real hard flesh and muscle on him, so that take him when you would, he was always in working order. Thus, although the hurried journey he had performed with a broken arm and a series of bruises from head to foot, would have stretched most men on a bed of sickness, and although Scalpel Gouger, M.D., elongated his already sufficiently lengthened visage on beholding his condition, and prophesied results of which lock-jaw was by no means one of the most terrible, Harry yet experienced no ill effects from his imprudence. His stiffness wore off after a day or two, the bruises disappeared one by one, and the broken bone began to re-unite as quickly as in the nature of things was possible. But although his bodily ailments gave him little cause for uneasiness, his mind remained a prey to anxiety, grief, and remorse; for Alice, his young wife—the depth and strength of his love for whom he became painfully aware of, now that, as it appeared, he was about to lose her—lay at the point of death. The demon of fever had fixed his burning fingers upon her, and held her in an iron grasp which no mortal power seemed able to unclasp. When Harry arrived, Alice did not recognize him, her state alternating between attacks of delirium, in which she talked with the wildest incoherence, and intervals of stupor, during each of which she lay perfectly unconscious and prostrated by the violence of the paroxysm which had preceded it. Poor Harry lost not an instant in making his way to her room, disregarding the housekeeper’s entreaties to wait for Dr. Gouger’s return. When he entered, Alice was sitting up in bed, with flushed cheeks and eyes brilliant with the unnatural lustre of feverish excitement, and talking with the utmost volubility; at first he fancied she recognized him, for regarding him earnestly, she exclaimed—

“So you have come at last, have you?—and now tell me quickly, what news do you bring me?” Without waiting a reply, she continued: “Why don’t you speak? No news, do you say?—it is false, you are trying to deceive me. I can read it in your face.—What! have they met already? then Harry is killed. Ah! I knew it, I knew it! D’Almayne is a dead shot—Alfred Courtland told me so in that letter.—What did you mutter?—an accident,—it was no accident.—D’Almayne has shot him, killed him in a duel; but it was my fault, I made him angry,—I drove him to go up to London,—it is I who have murdered him. Oh, Harry, my own loved husband, if I could but have died for you!—shall I never see him again?” She continued wildly: “Ah, yes, I must, I will! Let me go to him, I say;” and as she spoke she attempted to get out of bed. Throwing his uninjured arm round her, Harry prevented her from accomplishing her purpose, though she struggled so violently that he was obliged to obtain the assistance of the hired nurse who had been recommended by the medical man.

“Alice, love, look at me,” he said, tenderly. “I am safe—I am here by your side—I will not leave you. Do you not know me?” Gazing at him wildly, she tore herself from his embrace, exclaiming in a tone of horror—

“Know you? yes, I know you, fiend! demon! you are Horace D’Almayne! Do you come here with my husband’s blood fresh upon your hands, and dare to insult me by your detestable caresses?—are not you afraid that the ground will open and swallow you? Leave me, leave me instantly, or, weak woman as I am, I will take my vengeance into my own hands, and stab you to the heart!”

This idea that Harry was D’Almayne recurred to Alice’s mind whenever she beheld her husband, and was the source of so much pain and distress to him, that for both their sakes Mr. Gouger forbade him to enter her room for two or three days, by which time he trusted the delusion might have worn itself out. The prohibition was a judicious one, as it enabled Harry to obtain the rest he so much required; and when, after an interval of nearly a week, he again returned to his wife’s apartment, although she was still unable to recognize him, she no longer evinced any repugnance on his approach. Her fits of delirium became less violent and frequent, but she appeared to be gradually sinking into a state of prostration, mental and bodily, which to the eye of the medical man was even more alarming. Her next fancy was, that Harry was her brother Arthur; she talked to him of old scenes and recollections, of their childhood, and half broke poor Harry’s heart by deploring in the most pathetic terms the loss of her husband’s affection, which she declared Arabella Crofton had stolen from her.

“Ah, Arthur,” she would exclaim, “it is cruel of her, because, you know, I loved him so very, very much! Until I saw him I meant never to marry; I fancied I could not bear to leave dearest mamma, and Emily, and Tom, and all of you. But it was of no use: he was so good and kind, and brave, and handsome; and though he was a little rough at first, I soon saw what a noble, gentle heart his rough manner concealed, and when I found he loved me (for he did love me once, Arthur), how could I, how could any girl, help loving him with her whole soul.”

Poor Harry, as she thus wildly talked, would lean over and kiss her pale, worn cheeks, and tell her he was her own loving husband, and doted on her, and her only,—that he never cared, and never would care, for any other woman, and she would smile faintly, and reply—

“No, Arthur, Harry would not say that; he loved her before he knew me, over in Italy; Alfred Courtland told me all about it,—how they ran away together, and all.”

As she uttered these words Coverdale started, and a shade passed across his brow; not heeding it, Alice continued—

“Oh! she is a dreadful woman, and so clever! all the foolish things I did to pique Harry, in order to regain his affection, she showed them up to him in a false light, and made him believe me as wicked as herself, and so she stole his love away from poor, poor Alice;” then she would turn her face from him, and wail feebly like an unhappy child. At other times she would burst into the most violent self-reproaches.

“Yes, I deserve it all,” she would exclaim; “I deserve to lose his affection; what right had I to expect him to give up all his manly sports, which had made him so brave and strong, to sit at home with a poor foolish girl like me, who have not even wit enough to amuse him; I who should have been too proud even of his slightest notice, and to thwart him and try to make him do foolish and wrong things, and to lose my temper, and grieve and wrong him,—oh! how wrong and wicked of me! —I must have been mad to do it; and now he has left me, gone with Arabella Crofton to Italy, and I shall never see him again, never, never!” and then she would break off and resume her weeping.

And so the weary days passed on; Emily, who had come over as soon as she had heard of her sister’s illness, was an indefatigable nurse, and she and Harry sat up with the patient on alternate nights, Coverdale having on one occasion discovered the hired nurse fast asleep when she ought to have been wide awake and giving Alice her medicine. As soon as his arm ceased to cause him such violent pain, Harry’s attendance by his wife’s bedside became unremitting, and night after night he sent Emily to bed, and remained watching Alice’s broken slumbers, or to the best of his power soothing her, during her fits of delirious excitement. Could those who had known Coverdale as the rough and eager sportsman, or the just, but stern and inflexible, magistrate, have seen him then, as (heedless of the pain of his injured arm) he tended with all a woman’s devotion, and more than woman’s strength and judgment, the sick couch of his (as at times he feared) dying wife, they would have been unable to recognize the same individual whose nature they, in their hasty judgment, had so wholly mistaken. His dying wife! ah! how the idea haunted him. Alice, his loved one, would die; she would be taken from him while they were both so young, and he would have to live on during long, dreary years alone!—alone! yes, but how bitterly did he feel the hope-crushing significance of that cruel word! true his married life had been a somewhat stormy one, still it had taught him the charm of that spiritual companionship with a beloved and loving woman, without which a man’s best nature remains incompletely developed. To feel a deep, true, and unselfish affection for an object worthy of so precious a boon, raises a man’s whole moral nature, and (if he is good for anything) makes him wiser and better; to be loved in return, renders him happy despite the toils and trials of life.

Of these great truths, the events which we have in the course of this history endeavoured to pourtray, had caused Harry to acquire a painful consciousness; he had become aware also of the causes which had hitherto militated against the full amount of the happiness to be enjoyed in such a position. He had learned from poor Alice’s delirious confessions, both the depth of her attachment to him, and the fact that experience had in her case also produced its bitter but salutary fruits. Thus, should she indeed be restored to him, what a bright, enviable future lay extended before them! even as the thought occurred to him, his eye fell upon her thin, pale features, her parched lips, sunken cheeks, and the dark, ominous hollows beneath her closed eyes; nay, as she lay motionless, wrapped in a heavy, oppressive slumber, the horrible idea flashed across him that she might be dead already; and with a shudder he placed his hand upon her wrist, to feel the beating of her feeble yet rapid pulse, ere he could satisfy himself that his frightful suspicion was but the offspring of a morbid fancy. Still, the idea had occurred to him, and he could not divest himself of it—what if she should never wake again, or if she should die without any return of reason—die, ignorant of the depth of loving tenderness towards her which filled his breast! Oh! if he could but purchase her life at any sacrifice; there was nothing he would not gladly give up—wealth, position, even his cherished field-sports, everything!—how powerless he was, and how utterly wretched! Accustomed, as he had hitherto been, to rely entirely on his own strength, both of mind and body, to accomplish his wishes, the situation was equally new and painful to him. But Coverdale had a powerful and singularly healthy mind, and even while he smarted under this severe chastening, he recognized the Hand which inflicted it, and the purpose for which it was sent; and, mindful of the lessons of his childhood, the strong man sank upon his knees by the side of his wife’s sick couch, and prayed to his Father in Heaven to spare, in His mercy, the one little ewe-lamb, without which he must wear out the rest of his earthly pilgrimage desolate and lonely-hearted.

The crisis of Alice’s complaint was now rapidly approaching, and Harry sent for one of the leading London physicians, who, after a careful examination of the patient, and a long and solemn consultation with Dr. Gouger, was pleased to say the latter gentleman had pursued exactly the orthodox method of treatment; that he feared Mrs. Coverdale’s state was a very precarious one, but that she could not be in safer hands than those of Scalpel Gouger, M.D.

After Sir J. C———— had taken his departure and his fee of fifty guineas, Coverdale, who had sent Emily from Alice’s bedside, with strict orders to take a long stroll and refresh herself, was somewhat surprised to see her return in less than half an hour considerably excited, and with a heightened colour, which made her look remarkably pretty. She beckoned Coverdale out of the sick room, and then began—

“Oh! Harry, dear, I want to speak to you, please; and you must be good and kind, and not fierce, you know!”

In spite of his heavy heart, Coverdale could not help smiling at his little sister-in-law’s address.

“What is it, my dear child,” he said, kindly; “I’ll promise to behave prettily; my fierceness, as you call it, is tolerably well taken out of me by this time.”

“Well, I was walking in the Park, you know,” resumed Emily, “and just as I got to Markum’s cottage, I perceived a tall, aristocratic-looking young man talking to Mrs. Markum; as soon as she caught sight of me, she exclaimed, ‘Here is Miss Hazlehurst, sir; she has just come from the house, and can tell you the last account of poor mistress.’ Whereupon, the gentleman approached me, and taking off his hat, said, ‘I believe I have the pleasure of addressing a sister of Mrs. Coverdale?’ I bowed assent, and he continued, ‘My name is Alfred Courtland. I do not know whether Coverdale has told you—(here he stammered and blushed, so like a frightened girl, that I began to feel quite brave)—that is, whether you are aware, that it was in my service he met with his accident, and that—that, in fact, I cannot but feel that your sister’s illness has been, in great measure, brought on by my folly; the consequence is, that ever since I heard of her attack, I have been miserable. Coverdale said he would write me word how she was going on, but I suppose in his sorrow and anxiety his promise has escaped his memory. I bore the suspense as long as I was able, until yesterday, hearing by accident that Sir J. C———— had been sent for, I could stand it no longer;’ so I put myself into a train the first thing this morning, and came down to learn the truth; may I venture to hope that, as you are able to leave your sister, her danger has been exaggerated?’ Then I told him that dearest Ally was still very ill, but that you were head nurse, and had forced me to come out to get a little air; and I said I was sure you would like to see him. He was dreadfully afraid of intruding, and for some time refused to come, but at last he changed his mind, and walked home with me; he’s in the library, and you will go and see him, there’s a dear boy, for he is very unhappy, and I’m sure he’s a nice fellow.”

At any other time Coverdale would have been amused at the extreme zeal with which Emily had taken up and advocated Lord Alfred’s cause, and have teased her about her undisguised admiration of the handsome young peer, but his heart was too heavy for jesting, so he merely replied—

“In the library, did you say? it’s very good of the boy to take such interest about poor Alice, but he always was kind-hearted. Go to her at once, Emily, dear; she was asleep when you sent for me, but she might wake at any minute, you know—go to her, I won’t be away long.”

On reaching the library, Coverdale found Lord Alfred awaiting his arrival in an extreme state of nervous trepidation; grasping his hand, Harry shook it warmly, saying—

“This is very kind of you, Alfred, my dear boy; you see you find us still anxious; I hope there is no serious cause for alarm, but you know it’s a case in which a man can’t help feeling very, very anxious.”

As Coverdale thus spoke words of encouragement, which his looks and manner, his quivering lip, brimming eye, and the forced cheerfulness of his voice, alike belied, Lord Alfred, more deeply affected than he could have been by the most vehement reproaches, lost all self-control, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed:—

“Do not speak so kindly to me; it kills me. I’d rather by half you would horsewhip me until I could not stand, for that is what I deserve. Oh! what misery my wicked folly has brought about! But for me, you would never have met with this accident, and Mrs. Coverdale would have escaped the anxiety and the shock which has brought on this illness; if I could but do anything to help you or her, I should hate myself less.”

Harry approached him, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Listen to me, my dear boy,” he said, kindly, but impressively, “these things cannot happen to a man without obliging him to reflect seriously, and, as I hope, to some good purpose; you should not judge of your own conduct, or of any one’s else, simply by results; we are instruments in God’s hands to work out His designs; and all that we can do is to make ourselves acquainted with the rules He has laid down for our guidance, and strive to act according to them, but the results are in His hands, and there we must be content to leave them. You have acted foolishly, but you are aware of it, and sorry for it; and in such a case, to look back is worse than useless; the only good in ever recalling the past is, that the recollection may guard you against falling again into a similar temptation should such a outcome in your way. So much for sermonizing; and now, you say you want to make yourself of use, and I can see you mean it. My poor Alice’s mother is a great invalid, and the shock of hearing of this affair has made her more ill than usual; she is most anxious about her daughter. Emily—you met Emily?”

“Yes, a most interesting, charming young lady; I knew her directly from her likeness to poor Mrs. Coverdale,” was the reply.

“Well, Emily or I write every day, but the letter takes twelve hours to get there by post; now, Sir J. C———— is coming down this afternoon to see poor Alice again, and Gouger fancies some change is about to take place in her; he supposes the crisis of the complaint is at hand—in fact—” Harry paused, for as he spoke of the approach of the moment in which Alice’s sentence for life or death was to declare itself, a choking sensation in his throat deprived him of the power of utterance; trying to conceal his emotion under a feigned cough, he resumed, “Now, if you wish to perform a really kind and good-natured action, will you remain here until the physician has given his opinion, and then take my dog-cart and mare, and drive over to the Grange, and detail his report to Mrs. Hazlehurst? They will give you a kind welcome and a bed, and you can either go to town from thence, or come back and dine and sleep here; you’ll not be a bit in the way, and will help to amuse Emily, and tempt her out of the sick room; for the good little girl is so zealous in her attendance on her sister that I live in constant dread of her knocking up, and then I should have two of them on my hands at once—what do you say?”

“Say! if you think that by going to the world’s end I can be of the smallest use or comfort to you, you have only to speak the word, and I’m off,” was the eager reply; then in a plaintive tone, Lord Alfred continued: “Coverdale, are you quite sure you don’t hate me for all this misery I’ve brought upon you?”

“Go into the dining-room and eat some luncheon, you young muff,” was the unsentimental reply; “why, you have not a better friend in the world than I am, or at all events a more sincere one, you stupid boy; but, come along, I’ll send Emily to play hostess, and mind you make her eat well. I know that girl will knock up if she refuses her corn.”

The luncheon passed off pleasantly enough—Emily not being overburthened with shyness, and possessing a flow of animal spirits, which even her anxiety for her sister could not wholly overcome, chatted away so pleasantly, that Lord Alfred caught the infection, and took his share in the conversation with spirit, so that when the meal was over, they parted mutually pleased.

Sir J. C———— arrived true to his appointed time, examined his patient, looked grave, consulted with Dr. Gouger, and then the two medicos summoned Coverdale. As he entered, the physician, who was a tall gaunt man, with a large, sharp nose, raised himself on tiptoe, as if he were trying to fly, then giving it up as hopeless, subsided on his heels again, cleared his throat, stroked his chin, looked at Coverdale as if he wished to feel his pulse or give him a pill, and began in a bland and insinuating tone of voice—

“You are anxious, my dear sir—naturally anxious as to the state in which we (here by a little condescending but patronizing pantomimic action he indicated Gouger) have found Mrs. Coverdale?”

Poor Harry, boiling with anxiety and impatience, shot a “Yes, of course,” at him as if he had been a partridge. In no way disturbed, however, the autocrat of all the pill-boxes continued—

“The duration of your justifiable anxiety, my dear sir, will not be much further prolonged; in less than twelve hours the complaint will have reached its crisis, and the result will not be long in revealing itself to educated eyes.”

“And you think——you feel reason to believe that———the result will be favourable,” stammered Harry, his stalwart frame trembling from head to foot with the emotion he was unable to conceal—“You do not think your patient worse than when you last saw her?”

The physician paused: then replied, gravely—

“It would be mistaken kindness to disguise from you the truth, sir. Mrs. Coverdale is in a most precarious state—her life hangs on a thread; I do not say that she must die, but it is my duty to tell you that it is more than probable that she may do so; the next twelve hours will probably decide the question. She is now apparently sinking into a heavy slumber—from this she may never awake, or it may be succeeded by fits of delirium, from which she would be unable to rally.”

Harry shuddered, then asked—

“And what would be a favourable symptom?”

“If Mrs. Coverdale should wake free from delirium, so as to be able to recognize those about her, you may reckon that the fever has worn itself out; and the only thing then to dread will be her extreme weakness; in that case every effort must be made to keep her up; give her port wine, or even brandy, a teaspoonful every five minutes if she appears faint; but my friend, Mr. Gouger, is quite aware of the proper measures to be taken—she cannot be in better hands.”