ABSTRACT
Ned rose as soon as it was day; and being impatient to hear something of the lady, went immediately to the parlour to his father. ‘Well, Sir,’ said he, ‘what tidings have you heard of our unfortunate lodger, and do you know how she has passed the night?’ ‘I have not heard a word,’ said Mr. Evans, ‘nor seen a creature but the maid, who has just been here to make up the re; but go, my dear, and bid her tap at the door, and ask your mother how she is.’ Ned did as directed, and then went out to see about the horses and postillions: they were up getting ready to go away. He desired them to go into the house, and get some cheese and ale for their breakfast, and not to go away without seeing his father. He then returned to the parlour, where he found Mrs. Evans sitting/ with her husband; when asking about the lady, ‘Alas!’ said she, ‘poor soul, she has not closed her eyes the whole night, and indeed I am greatly alarmed for her health. She complains of a violent pain in her head and back, and is continually shivering with cold, though to the touch she is like a coal of re. I am going to make her a little warm tea, which perhaps may throw her into a perspiration, and be of service to her.’ ‘Do, my dear,’ said Evans, ‘and I think it would be prudent to send to Conway for Doctor Jones, for God knows how her illness may turn out.’ is thought was highly approved of, and Ned said that he would be himself the messenger, in order to be sure to bring him, let him be where he would; and now going out to order the horse, the postillions told him he should be welcome to a seat in their chaise, and they would engage to carry him quicker than any other conveyance. is was accepted of; and Mr. Evans nding the chaise had been/ paid for by the ladies at Conway, gave the lads half a crown each, in reward for their activity and attention; and Ned hastily taking o a bowl of milk, and eating a crust with it, set o at full speed with them. He got to Conway in little more than an hour, and was lucky enough to nd Doctor Jones at home. e doctor was not a regular physician,17 but had long practised as a surgeon and apothecary with good reputation. He was a benevolent and humane man; qualities which are peculiarly necessary in his profession, and which o en do more in curing a patient than the drugs he swallows. When the doctor heard the tale, it awakened all his feelings: ‘I will go with you, my friend,’ said he, ‘in ten minutes; I will only order
other horses for expedition, and I will take back the chaise at my own expence; for, exclusive of the lady who calls for all tenderness and attention, I would go to the world’s end to serve your father or any of his family.’ Ned thanked him/ for his kindness; and now nding that a chaise was to carry him back, he took care to get a dozen of the best wine that could be had in Conway, that the poor lady might want no comfort that could be procured for her. e rumour of the robbery and murder had reached Conway the night before; but now that Ned and the postillions appeared, every body crowded about them to hear the particulars. He satis ed them as concisely as he could, and then set o with the doctor for his father’s, accompanied with the praises and the blessings of all who had heard the story. e lads drove at a good rate, and when Mr. Evans heard the chaise, guessing by its return that the doctor was come, he went out to meet him. ‘My dear doctor,’ said he, as he was alighting, ‘I always am glad to see you, but never did your presence give me so much pleasure as at this instant; I am in nitely obliged to you for the haste you have made to visit my unfortunate guest, whose situation/ is so distressing, that all the tenderness and attention we can pay to her is not equal to her claim upon us for it.’ ‘Her situation is deplorable indeed’, replied the doctor, ‘and her claim for attention and tenderness as great: it is a consolation, however, to know that she has happened among those who can fully feel for her; and whose sympathetic hearts will do every thing that can alleviate her distress. Does she know,’ continued he, ‘that I have been sent for, or was it only a mere motion of your own?’ ‘She knows nothing about it,’ replied Mr. Evans; ‘my wife represented her to me to be in such a situation as I thought alarming; and as I know that in all distempers much may be done in the beginning, which, if that opportunity be lost, may never be able to be done a erwards, I took the liberty to send for you of my own head, without consulting her on the subject, which might perhaps have alarmed her more, and could answer no good end that I can see.’ ‘You have/ done wisely,’ replied the doctor; ‘it is of no consequence who sent for me, nor did I ask the question with any other view than merely to know the fact before I speak to herself; it is enough for me that she is in distress, and that she wants medical assistance; and I shall be happy, my dear friend, to go hand in hand with you in giving her that and every other assistance that the may happen to want. ‘You speak like a gentleman and a christian,’ replied Evans, ‘and I only pray that our assistance may be e ectual.’ Mrs. Evans now came down; and the doctor, a er the rst salutation, enquiring about the lady, she told him she was just then in a doze, but it did not seem like one that would refresh her; she breathed hard, and started o en, and sometimes muttered something which she could not understand. ‘Will you step up yourself, doctor, and look at her? and you will be better able to judge.’ ‘No, my dear madam,’ replied the doctor, ‘I will not go to her till she is apprised of my coming./ If she happened to wake while I was at her bed-side, there is no saying what e ect the seeing a stranger in her
room might have upon her in her present weak condition. Be you so good as to return to her, and sit by her till she wakes; and then tell her, that seeing her out of order, you took the liberty to send for me, as I lived in the neighbourhood, and ask her leave to bring me to her.’ ‘I believe indeed you are right,’ replied Mrs. Evans; ‘her spirits are so uttered that she could not bear surprise of any kind; I will go and do as you bid me, and return again as soon as I am authorised.’ Mr. Evans then o ered the doctor some refreshment; and he said he would take a bit of dry toast and some mulled ale, for the day was cold, and he had come o without any breakfast. ey talked of indi erent matters while this was preparing; and when it came, Ned’s stomach was so complaisant as to enable him to assist the doctor very e ectually in demolishing the ale and toast, together/ with half a dozen eggs that they got boiled. ey had scarcely nished when Mrs. Evans came down, and acquainted the doctor that the lady had waked, and readily consented to see him. He immediately followed her up stairs; when he came to the bed side, and beheld the lovely object he came to see, he could not suppress the emotion her beauty and her distress inspired – he was obliged to turn aside his head to conceal the manly tear which trembled in his eye. e voice of the lady recalled him to himself. ‘I am obliged to you, Sir,’ said she, ‘and to this kind gentlewoman, for the tender concern you seem to take for my health: I was in hopes to have been able to continue my journey home; but alas! I am very unable even to speak; and if Providence designs to make this my home, his will be done; I think I am content.’ ‘Oh, my dear madam!’ replied the doctor, ‘I trust you have many many years of health and happiness before you yet. It is natural, and/ what might be expected, that the violent shock your spirits have received should have an e ect on your health, but I trust there is no reason to apprehend but that rest and a little time will perfectly restore you.’ e lady gazed on him with a languid eye for a little time: at length the spoke again. ‘Oh! Mrs. Melville – Sir – my dear Mrs. Melville – have you seen her? e robbers did not kill her – they could not kill her – has she slept, Sir? – do tell me, has she slept?’ e doctor now perceived that she was raving, and that the dreadful accident of the night before had brought a fever on her spirits: he felt her pulse; and nding them extremely low, he told Mrs. Evans, that, for the present, there was nothing to be done but to keep her quiet – that rest was of the greatest importance to her – that the least sudden noise might prove fatal, or drive her into madness – that she must be soothed, and crossed in nothing; and for nourishment she might give her a little wine whey,18 acidulated with/ juice of lemon, or a little cream of tartar; but that bleeding, or any thing of that kind, was highly improper. ‘All that can be done at present is to keep her quiet, and endeavour to support her strength. I will call again to-morrow,’ said he, ‘and even stay with her, should it become necessary.’ He now le the room totally unobserved by the lady, who indeed was not in a condition to observe any thing.
