The loyalists : $b an historical novel, Vol. 1-3West, Jane
History
The loyalists : $b an historical novel, Vol. 1-3
West, Jane
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
There was not one of the party who did not anxiously join in expressing,
by their active services, the sense they entertained of former kindness.
Williams hastened to bring a wain and mattress; Mrs. Mellicent ran for
bandages and styptics; and the wounded gentleman was safely conveyed to
the house, still in a state of insensibility. Mrs. Mellicent's skill had
stopped the hemorrhage; and a more scientific surgeon, who was called
in, pronounced that, with proper care, his wounds would not prove
mortal. Isabel claimed the office of chief nurse; the patient's senses
gradually returned; and his eyes, when again capable of distinguishing
objects, recognized one which had long been impressed on his heart. He
rewarded her benevolent ministration with a grateful smile and feeble
pressure of her hand; and Isabel felt happier at that moment than she
had ever done since her dear mother was interred among Fourness Fells,
when, with a voice convulsed with grief, she joined in the requiem,
filled her coffin with funeral herbs, and scattered the emblems of
sorrow on her grave.
"You must not speak," said Isabel; "the Doctor has prescribed the utmost
quietness; you must only listen while I tell you, that for a thousand
worlds I would not have lost the pleasure of saving your life. Had I not
turned back you would have bled to death in a few minutes. Alas!"
continued she, recollecting herself, "the hope of your recovery
transports me too far. I forget that your exertions probably contributed
to make the battle of Preston end so fatally to our cause? Why are you
the enemy of my King and of my father?"
"I will never be the enemy of those you love," replied he, with a look
of languishing pain and grateful anxiety. Isabel burst into tears. "Say
that again," said she; "just those words and no more, lest your wounds
should bled afresh; and if you die--"
"Sweet Isabel, finish that sentence."
"I shall surely die of grief," said she, rushing out of the room to call
her aunt to take her office, ashamed that her joy at her patient's
recovery of his senses had overpowered her habitual self-command.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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