Lydia Trent

by Abigail Blanchart

  “The doctor is with him now. I am afraid he was utterly prostrate when I saw him – stay, here is the doctor coming out now.”

  The doctor, after being assured that these young ladies were connections of Mr Alcott, being his two daughters and their stepsister, spoke freely.

  “Well, Sir, my dears, it looks a most unpromising case, most unpromising. I am sorry to alarm you, but the gentleman appears to have a bilious fever, which under normal circumstances would not in itself be dangerous, but the feverish symptoms, coupled as they are with his past head injury, are very worrying. Our first priority must be to break the fever. I have prescribed some draughts, which must be given hourly until the fever breaks. I shall also have to bleed him – we shall see if this is effective. In addition, he must be kept cool by the constant application of wet cloths.”

  Catherine indicated her willingness to apply these remedies, and of course Lydia and Adeline spoke up offering to help her. Adeline, of course, had the most natural right to be there, but not only did she have less experience of nursing than Lydia, but she had not been in strong health herself of late.

  “Adeline, my dearest, you have been in delicate health – you cannot be allowed to destroy your health by the rigours of nursing. You had much better nurse yourself – Lydia and I will inform you of any change, however slight.”

  Adeline made some demur at this, and made some allusion to Lydia's own recent illness.

  “Pho, as to that, I am very much recovered – I am as strong as ever. But what will it avail, if we should bring your father back into health, if he should then find his daughter well-nigh broken by the effort?” persuaded Lydia. “You are not strong, and I would have the reunion between you two unmarred by the shadow of illness. Go, and be assured I shall do the very best I can for your father. Besides, we shall want someone who is free to come and go, to fetch things, and take messages, and be in every way useful. See, there is the doctor's prescription to be made up – you could go for it, and we shall need various supplies, for I do not believe Mrs Gant will be inclined to let us make free with her things.”

  Adeline immediately agreed to take the prescription to be made up, and fetch anything needful. Thus the matter was settled, and the two elder girls took up their station in the sickroom.

  They soon discovered that their wants were many, for the room was almost bare, and Mrs Gant disinclined to provide anything beyond the scant and indifferent breakfast and dinner which were included in the terms of her lodging. When Adeline returned with the medicine, she found herself furnished with a great list of things to be either borrowed from their uncle's house, or purchased at nearby shops, ranging from beef tea and calfs foot jelly, to a supply of rags to bathe the poor gentleman's forehead, to a spirit burner for boiling water, and bedding that the girls might supply the deficiency in the lodging house bed, as well as make up a couch for their own use.

  How quickly the sickroom routine establishes itself – that strange twilit half-life, its time measured not by days and nights, but by the intervals of physic and fomentations, the odd hours of rising and sleeping, interrupted by the doctor's visits, and punctuated by the lancet. The patient was bled twice a day for the first few days, and the girls became quite accustomed to seeing the slow drip-drip-drip, staining the water in the basin below his arm pinker at ever splash. Despite this, and the constant wetting and bathing of the patient's forehead, which required a fresh cool cloth to be laid on his brow every ten minutes, despite the hourly draughts and the lowering diet (though the man scarce took anything, being unconscious for a great deal of the time, and wandering when he was awake) – despite all that medicine and two constant and devoted nurses could do, the fever raged unabated into the second week.

  At this point Mr Dodd, who though his professional duties were not just then required, still took an interest in the case, asked permission to call in a second physician, a gentleman of his odd and varied acquaintance. This practitioner duly arrived, and proceeded to frighten the girls half out of their wits by railing against almost every treatment thus far employed.

  “Cool cloths I approve of, but look here – the man needs all his strength, and what does my esteemed colleague do, but prescribe the very things that will most weaken him. He is low and weak, his illness has been exacerbated by poor diet – so what shall we do? Why, give him only modest amounts of barely nutritious food, and so starve him still further. His stomach lining is irritated – therefore let us prescribe strong raking medicines.” stormed the Doctor Spratt. This was as nothing to his ire, however, when he found out the gentleman had been bled – and bled freely, twice a day.

  “It's murder, that's what it is!” he blazed. “Without that, I could have saved him, but he needs strength, and what does the man do but rob him twice daily of the precious fluid which is the basis of his strength. He has dripped out his very life into that basin. I will do my best to repair the damage, but in the face of this, I am forced to say that I believe the case is hopeless, quite hopeless.”

  The girls were utterly dismayed at this pronouncement, but hoped that things were not quite so black as the good doctor painted them. They speedily obeyed the doctor's injunctions as to medicine, which was to be of a strengthening rather than lowering tendency, and diet, which consisted of such items as brandy and strong beef tea, also intended to have a strengthening, stimulating effect.

  Their efforts were rewarded by a lessening of the fever overnight, and the girls became quite hopeful, but the doctor did not share their optimism.

  “See, he has not yet regained consciousness. It is all the fault of that cursed bleeding.”

  He persevered with his treatment, however, though the ladies were much troubled by the intervals of delirium becoming longer and the intervals of sleep – or rather stupor – becoming less. At the end of the second week, however, their patient showed a change. His breathing eased, and there appeared a light perspiration upon his brow. Both Adeline and Doctor Spratt were called.

  “Ah, he is sleeping naturally. I do not hold out hopes of a full recovery, but he is somewhat better. Keep the room quiet, and let him sleep. When he wakes, give him the draught I will now prescribe, and whatever nourishment he can take. I will return in a few hours.”

  The girls hugged each other, but sensibly kept their joy in abatement. The gentleman slept for almost two hours, at the end of which time he opened his eyes, and, starting slightly at the slim figure of the girl seated by the bed, spoke in a thin, weak voice.

  “What, am I still wandering? This is witchery, I am sure, for you look very like someone dear to me.”

  “Yes, father, it is I, Catherine.”

  “But how come you to be here? Did you come to the hotel after all? The man said he did not know where you were. Where is he? How came he to lie to me? Am I still at the Lambscourt? I came here seeking for you, Catherine.”

  “No, father, you are not at the Lambscourt Hotel – you have not been there in a year.” and in a few short sentences she described how he had been living, under a name not his own, since his fall. Mr Wade was amazed at this, but Lydia hushed his questions.

  “Do not excite yourself, sir, you are still very ill. When you are a little better, you may speak with your daughters, but for now, you must drink this, and eat a little if you can, and husband your strength.”

  Mr Wade was too weak to object, and after he had taken his medicine and drunk a little beef broth, he lapsed back into sleep. When next he awoke, Adeline was there.

  “Father,” said Catherine, “This is Adeline.”

  “Why, yes,” he replied, weakly, “I should have known her at once – for she is the very image of her mother when first I married her. Now then, I am glad you are both here, for I have something to say to you.”

  “Sir, cannot it wait?” interrupted Lydia, “You are very weak, and I am sure you will overtax your strength.”

  “Nay, it would overset me more to leave this unsaid, for I am as conscious of my weakness as you are, a
nd fear if I do not speak now then my tale will never be heard.” Lydia was silent at this, and so he continued.

  “When I lost my Adeline – I speak of my wife, not you my dear – I believed I had stopped caring for any living thing. I could hardly bear to look on the baby which my love had died bringing into the world, and my elder daughter, in trying to comfort me, only served to irritate me. You distracted me from my grief, girls, when all I wanted was to treasure it up and hide from the world, hugging my pain to my myself.

  “It was a hard pain to bear, however, and I sought relief in drink. In my selfish grief, I forgot that two little girls had lost their mamma – I felt as if I alone had the right to mourn that angel.

  “When I married your stepmother, there was no love in the case. It was a matter of convenience only – she particularly needed a home, and I hoped that she would take the care of you off my hands. I believed she had, and so I was free to sink further into my selfish courses, and when she took Adeline off my hands entirely, I was, at the time, more glad than sorry, and so I did not bother to seek my recreant wife or missing daughter.

  “That left you, Catherine, on my hands. But every day that passed increased my self-devotion, and my dependence on drink and the excitements of the card table and the race track. For I felt that my heart had died within me, and the only time I felt alive was the moment before the turn of a card or the start of a race, when a fortune may be won or lost in the next breath.

  “I had sunk so low as prison, and Martin Parrish's offer, to secure my release from both prison and the encumbrance of a daughter I had forgotten how to love, I greeted with open arms. And so I played that shabby trick upon you, Catherine, and took myself off to the antipodes basely hugging myself for what I thought was my good fortune.

  “I started out on a sheep station, and then when gold was found I took myself off to the diggings to try my luck. I did not prosper at first, as I soon found out that a gold mine is not a good place for a habitual drunkard. A besotted man cannot get the best claim, and he is cheated and robbed at every turn.

  “And so I gave up drinking, and threw myself into my work. It was slow at starting, but I had a few pieces of good fortune, and so I persevered. But it was a lonely life. The man I ended up going into a company with – for it is very hard to mine and defend a claim alone – had a family, a wife and two young daughters. I found myself watching those two little girls as they played around the diggings, and fell to wondering what had become of my own girls. My companion was injured, and I saw how tenderly he was nursed by his wife, and how lovingly his girls came and made sunshine for papa, and it finally came to me just what I had lost.

  “There was also a parson at the diggings, who had come out and started a sort of church in a tent. I had never had much truck with the church before, but this good father found me when I was low, and through kind words, which rebuked me, but showed me love and compassion, led me into a penitent spirit.

  “And so I came home, and tried to find you. I had some inkling of my second wife's whereabouts, and found her easily enough, but she would not at first tell me anything of either of you. I had seen Adeline, but had frightened her, and Evelyn warned me not to approach you again if I wished to know where Catherine was. At last she told me news of you could be found at the Lambscourt Hotel in London, and there I went as fast as I could. I was met by a gentleman who was welcoming at first, and poured me a drink, and professed to know all about you, but when I tried to move, I found myself faint and drowsy – I believe the drink must have been drugged. And then... then I woke up here with you, and was informed a year had passed without my knowing it.

  “Girls, my daughters, I cannot hope for your forgiveness – I have done you both too great a wrong for that. I cannot hope to stand in a father's place to you, for I have been worse than no father at all. The money I made at the diggings in Australia, I came to place entirely at your disposal – not that money is any recompense, but the only fatherly action I can now perform is to provide for my daughters.”

  “Oh, father, on my part there is nothing to forgive!” wept Adeline, kissing the sick man's hand.

  Catherine hesitated a moment, but then laid her hand on Adeline's shoulder as she leaned over the pale, wasted form of her father.

  “You did me a great and cruel wrong when you tricked me into marrying Martin Parrish, father,” she said slowly, her eyes burning with repressed emotion, “But yes, I give you my forgiveness likewise.”

  “Then I have nothing left on this Earth to wish for.” said their father, and, sinking back on his pillows, closed his eyes, with a calmer expression than he had worn for days.

  “All through this weary fever, I have seen my Adeline calling to me – 'where are my girls, Malcolm?' - now I can answer her.” and he was silent, and before long lapsed back into sleep.

  He roused again when the doctor came, and was able to give that gentleman the details of his true identity, as well as the direction of his banker in London, who held his will and other important documents as well as the money he had raised at the Australian gold fields. The doctor took down these particulars, and then examined him. Alas, there were some disturbing hectic symptoms becoming apparent – Mr Wade was flushed, his eye bright and feverish. The doctor ordered another draught, and advised the patient to sleep as much as he could, while the girls, his nurses, were to pursue the same cooling treatment as before.

  It was to no avail – Mr Wade suffered a relapse. He lingered several days more, and the doctor and the girls laboured manfully to bring him through, but it was no use. The sick man was sinking hourly, and in the early hours of the fourth day, he breathed his last. The doctor railed against the murderous practice of bleeding, and the girls quietly knelt and prayed that their father would find forgiveness in heaven as easily as he had on Earth.

  Malcolm Wade was buried in a quiet churchyard close to his lodgings, and when his will and papers were examined, it was found he had left Catherine and Adeline the possessors of over thirty thousand pounds, to be shared equally between them.

  Chapter the 26th

  What of the house at Bayswater, while this drama had been taking place? Uncle John was concerned by his nieces taking so much upon themselves, but he acknowledged both Catherine's right to nurse her father, and Lydia's being the more suitable to assist her.

  In the meantime he sent every comfort he could think of, both for the patient and his nurses, along with loving messages and injunctions not to overtax themselves – a professional nurse could easily be hired if they felt the work was affecting their health. He also coddled and amused Adeline, who was fast fretting herself into ill health. That young lady was sadly disturbed in spirits, even going as far as being – for the first time - cross and pettish to her beloved Alfred, when that gentleman had the temerity to claim her attention from her father and sisters, to his latest piece, which was to be published, and for which he was to receive the princely sum of five pounds, and of which he was immensely proud.

  The return of Catherine and Lydia to the house was therefore felt to be a great blessing by all. John Trent, though he had had the pleasure of their company for only a few months, had fast come to value – nay, to rely on - the society of the sensible, intelligent, gentle young ladies. He enjoyed their conversation, and their softening, homely presence at his fireside. In their turn, Lydia loved him for her father's sake, while Catherine respected him for his own.

  Alas, their return did not seem to have much positive effect on either Adeline's health or her spirits. Without any positive malady, both continued low and a little weak. Mr Trent spoke of spending some time by the seaside, however, once the weather was more settled, and all hoped this would improve matters.

  The three young ladies resumed their quiet life, with some relief, for both Lydia and Catherine were very tired from the past few hard weeks. Alfred visited three or four times a week, bringing news of his little successes, which brought a proud flush to the cheeks of both Adeline and Lydia. Thoug
h she still idolised Alfred as much as ever, there seemed to have crept into their relationship a note of dissention – but this could easily be attributed to Adeline's poor health.

  In the midst of this tranquil respite, peace was disturbed by the receipt of a thick letter from Allenham. It had come addressed to Mr Trent in an unknown feminine hand, and when he opened it, he found a second envelope, along with a note from one of Evelyn's nurses.

  'Dear Mr Trent,' it began,

  I am sorry to trouble you with this letter, but I have promised my patient, and so I must send it on. Mrs Trent has been quite calm and lucid, of late, and has spent many hours in her room writing this letter to her stepdaughters. I beg you will read it, and decide whether it ought to be given to the young ladies.

  And oblige,

  Mrs Mary Haig'

  This little epistle Mr Trent dropped into Lydia's lap, with the longer envelope, still sealed.

  “I have not read it, you see. I thought that by rights you ought to be the first to see what your stepmother has to say for herself. I trust your good sense – share what ought to be shared with Adeline.”