Chapter 13
PERITONITIS. MEASLES. PERITONITIS.
Dr. Acland could not make up his mind as to the cause of Edith’s sudden decline. He felt her pulse, looked at her dilated pupils, and palpated her stomach, even cut her wrist to study her blood. In the end, all he could do was shake his head and try to make her comfortable. Yet he could not even do that. In her half-conscious state she moaned, she writhed, she gasped and pleaded with words that did not make sense even as they pierced the heart.
I sat next to her; I would not leave her for a minute. Mamma sat on the other side of the bed. But the men—Papa, devastated; ashen Aubrey—could not take it. They stood outside the room and talked in low, unbelieving murmurs, while Ina officiously declared that she was there to tend to them, for there was no place for her in the sickroom.
During my vigil, I did not weep. Neither did Mamma. We sat, silent sentries, and did not speak, not to each other; we did both try to comfort Edith, try to soothe her, try to bring her back from her purgatory of pain, but there was no reaching her. The poor, pale face—there were some outbreaks of spots, but not many—was drenched in sweat, her hair, dark with perspiration, spread out over her pillow; her entire body seemed twisted, wrung out like a wet dish towel. She rarely opened her eyes, and when she did, they were a dull, muddy color, clouded over with pain. I know she did not see us. All I could pray for was that she felt us; felt my hand in hers as I tried so very hard to pass my strength on to her frail, tortured body.
Even during my vigil—did I sleep? Eat? I do not recall—I was aware of one thing.
I was aware that Leo had not called.
I had expected him to be here; if not here, precisely—knowing his own tendency to sickness—then at least sending me notes of comfort and hope. I had expected him, at the very least, to call asking about Edith, for he was very fond of her, as was everyone who knew her gentle spirit.
His absence was conspicuous; I even heard Papa, outside in the hall, remark upon it.
Mamma did not. She spoke to me only once, after a particularly anguished spell during which Edith’s limbs went rigid, her back arched off the mattress in agony; I pressed my lips together, holding in a cry of my own to see my sister so. I asked, finally, for God to put a stop to it, however best He saw fit; I vowed I would never ask for anything again—for what else would I need, if Leo were by my side?—if only she didn’t have to suffer.
After Edith went limp again, unconscious but mercifully out of pain, Mamma sagged in her chair, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth and giving way to a heartbreaking moan. When I looked over at her, with eyes too full of my sister’s agony to truly see anything else, she removed her handkerchief and said, “Why couldn’t it be you? You’ve never brought me anything but pain, while she has brought me nothing but joy.”
I knew she spoke the truth as she saw it; I also knew I would remember her words, and cry against their cruelty later. Later, when I had emotion, strength, to spare for myself.
But at that moment I could only listen, and stare at my mother, and be grateful, at least, that here was one child she would truly mourn.
The second day of our vigil, I was told, very sternly by Dr. Acland, that I must get some fresh air or else there would be another patient on his hands. So I rose—my neck was stiff, the small of my back ached, and I felt, immediately, dizzy upon my feet—and somehow stumbled out of Edith’s room, pleading with Dr. Acland to come get me the minute she awoke, or—
I would not give voice to the alternative; I would not. I shut my eyes but could not prevent the hot, tired tears from rolling down my cheeks. I drifted down the stairs—I do not know how, for my legs were as numb as my other senses—and found myself outside, in the garden. It was a beautiful day, I thought automatically, looking up at the bright sun, the blue sky, noting that the roses were almost in bloom. I must fetch Edith, for she would enjoy it so—
Falling down upon a stone bench, I buried my face in my hands and allowed my fears to take over, driving all hope from my heart. How could she recover? I knew she could not. Yet it was too cruel to contemplate, my sister being taken just as her life was starting; I recalled the wedding dress she had recently ordered, the excitement in her eyes as she sketched out the flowers she would carry in her bridal bouquet. My heart could not bear it, but I could not stop trying, somehow, to understand; she was healthy, she was strong, she was in love. How could this happen? Wasn’t goodness—wasn’t love—enough for God?
My stomach lurched, pushing bile up in my throat; I retched, although nothing came up but sobs—huge, racking sobs that shook my very bones, rattled my weary heart. I could not bear to lose my sister—I already felt an empty ache in my chest where she should be, as if I’d carried her around with me always, and I knew, of course, that I had. Who would I turn to if she wasn’t there? What would I ever do with all that emptiness? My sister was my only friend, except for Leo, and he was not here, either. Where was he? What could his absence mean? I couldn’t bear to lose him, too—oh, I could not possibly bear any more!
And then he was standing before me. I looked up, blinking through my tears, not at all sure it was him—it could have been an apparition, a dream of him, so golden was his hair as the sun shone through it—but then my arms were about his neck, my head upon his shoulder, and he was stroking my forehead, murmuring my name.
“Leo, Leo, where were you? I needed you so—but you’re here now.” I was babbling, too exhausted to try to collect my thoughts; every nerve was raw, worn to a frazzle.
“Dearest, I’m so sorry. I—I had—that is, how is she? Tell me, how is Edith?” Gently, he lowered me to the bench and sat beside me, my head still upon his shoulder. I closed my eyes, felt his strength and his protection, and I wanted to remain there forever. If I did, then everything would be all right; Edith would simply be waiting for me in her room, pouting about not being able to go to the ball. And Leo and I would always be together, and the burden of being myself—watched, watchful, and so very, very careful—would be lifted from me.
“She’s—oh, Leo, she’s so ill! She’s delirious, burning with fever, racked with pain, and Dr. Acland won’t say it, but I know—I know—he despairs!” Each word was wrenched from my heart, until it could give no more and I had nothing left but tears, steadily shredding the remnants of my poor heart apart.
“Shhh, shhh—don’t speak,” he whispered.
We sat for the longest time, until my sobs subsided, leaving my ribs aching, my chest in spasms. There was a warm breeze ruffling the thin flowered muslin of my dress; I looked at my sleeves in wonder, not knowing just when I had changed from my ball gown.
As I continued my observations—to my astonishment, I heard carriages clattering in the distance, horses neighing, a bell ringing from far off; time had not stopped, after all, and outside of Edith’s room the world was continuing its business—I saw that Leo had changed, too. Not simply his attire—he was wearing an ordinary white linen suit, already crumpling from the heat of the June day—but also his behavior. While he held me, it felt almost like an obligation; there was a hesitation in his manner. He had not looked into my eyes once.
Pushing myself away from him, patting my wayward hair, I searched about for a handkerchief but found I had none; without a word, he handed me his own, and I attempted to dry my eyes.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice thick; my eyes felt raw and hot. “What happened? There is something strange in your behavior.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat staring at a far-off tree—a willow—for a few moments. When he turned back to me, finally, I saw that there were tears in his eyes.
“I cannot—I cannot bear to add to your distress at this time,” he said, his voice anguished, his face twisted up as if in pain. “I cannot.”
“Yet you must.” It was not a question. The dread that had been in my heart—my poor, battered heart—for weeks, heightened by his absence these past two days, settled over me, numbing my senses, dulling my voice.
“Yes, I’m afraid I—I must.” He clenched his fists, stiffened his body; I saw that he was making a great effort not to fall apart himself. Despite my own pain, I was touched.
“You heard from the Queen.”
“Yes.”
“She does not approve of our—of me.”
“Please don’t keep—please let me speak, let me shoulder the burden of this, at least, for you’ve had so very much to bear!” Again he turned from me, unable to control his voice.
I could only nod, wishing I could shake this strange detachment; realizing it was probably a blessing that I could not.
“Mamma has decided it’s best for me to look to royalty for a match, like my siblings. I had hoped that my—circumstances—might have persuaded her otherwise, and she did give me reason to hope that. The other night, at the ball—I had received a letter earlier indicating this reason. Ultimately, however, she felt she must not deviate from her plans.” Now Leo’s voice matched my own in dullness; he had obviously rehearsed this speech, or memorized it word for word from her letter.
In my odd detachment—there was a barrier between myself and the rest of the world, I felt; as if I were encased in tin, or glass—I asked the question I would not have been able to otherwise. But I desired information, in the place of emotion.
“Was there mention of some past business of mine, perhaps? Involving Mr. Dodgson?”
With a strangled cry, Leo buried his face in his hands and nodded.
I longed to put my arm around him, to comfort him, for he was in such despair; he was not protected from his pain, as I was. I felt such pity for him.
“Tell me, who brought it up—Mr. Ruskin or Mr. Duckworth?”
“Both—both made mention of some—confusion, regarding a break with Mr. Dodgson. Mr. Ruskin was rather more forthcoming, to my surprise; I had not imagined him to have any concerns, given his enthusiasm for my request. Yet he swore that he was acting in your best interest, too, for he feared a renewal of old gossip. But it was put to Mr. Dodgson, to confirm or deny, just this morning.”
“And?”
“He did neither. He would not speak of the subject.”
“He was silent?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” With a jolt—an oddly mechanical click, as if a missing piece of machinery had finally fallen into place—I remembered. Out of all the things I could not recall of that afternoon so long ago, now, at last, here was one.
I remembered silence. My own silence, in the face of similar questions. Understanding—or perhaps hoping—that I could not trust my own memories, as words and images of the past filled my eleven-year-old mind with conflicting emotion, I simply took refuge in silence. It was that silence, I knew—that much, now, I knew, despite the kindness I thought I had seen in his eyes—that had wounded Mr. Dodgson forever. I had wounded him, so that when it came his time to clarify, he could not bring himself to speak, either. So, in the end, he might destroy my happiness, as I had destroyed his.
Wonderland was all we had in common, after all; Wonderland was what was denied the two of us. I had denied him his; he had denied me mine.
“I’m so very sorry,” I told Leo, finally. Turning to him—steeling myself to receive his pain and rejection—I placed my hand upon his shoulder and accepted my punishment.
I was not spared it, for his eyes were anguished, large, and reproachful; his mouth was twisted, as if trying not to accuse me of anything further. There were gaunt hollows under his cheeks, and I had the burden of knowing that I had caused him more pain than typhoid fever had done.
“No!” With a cry he grasped my hand, like a drowning man would a strong rope; he pulled it to his lips and kissed it passionately. “No, I will not believe any of this. You’re still my Alice, my heart—I may not be permitted to have you, but I will not allow myself to think that you are not the woman I know and love. Please tell me that, at least. Please!”
I knew that no matter what I said, it would not be enough; when you’re on the other side of the looking glass, nothing is as it seems.
“My love for you is unchanged; my heart—the heart you hold, that you will always possess—is unchanged. I can’t undo what’s been said, what’s been done. I could have—I could have allowed myself to be—used—in order to preserve Mr. Ruskin’s silence, for he is not the friend to either of us that you believe him to be. But I could not do it—and because I could not, you must know that I am the woman you love!”
Shutting his eyes—either against my words or against the pain they caused—he bit his lip, as if to prevent himself from asking the question that, in the end, would burst out anyway: “Did he—did he ever touch you?”
“Mr. Ruskin? No.”
“Then—Dodgson?”
Hands, upon my shoulders; lips, upon my—
“I can’t recall—you must believe me! I was just a child—and I don’t—I didn’t understand what I was—what was happening. I only know that he was forbidden to see me, after a time. And that I’ve not been five minutes in his company since, until he took my photograph for you.”
Stifling a moan, Leo put his finger to my lips, pulled me to him, forgiving me with this gentle act; briefly I felt the peace of lying upon his breast and hearing his heart beating, calling my name. “What will I do?” he whispered, his lips upon my hair. “What will I do without you?”
“And I you?” Now my protective layers were cracking; I thought of tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that; weeks, months, years when I would not be allowed to see him, to hear his voice, to know his thoughts, his heart. I would never again feel as loved as I did in that moment; knowing this, I could not prevent my mind from racing ahead, reminding me of all I would miss. His habit of patting his mustache with two fingers, when he was deep in thought; his merry laugh—as innocent, as pure, as a child’s; his unabashed enjoyment of life, the easy way he gave of himself, his humor, his love.
The way he said my name—simply Alice. No other words were necessary. I was not “Alice dear,” “Alice my pet,” “Miss Alice;” I was simply his. His Alice.
“I can’t go. I can’t leave you.” Leo tightened his arms about me. “I don’t have that strength.”
“Nor do I.” I began to weep, quietly now, tears of benediction. An almost peaceful sadness had overcome me, stealing over my limbs; I longed to linger, to sleep in his arms, until the moment I had to be wrenched from them.
“Here.” Still holding me against his shoulder, he reached into his breast pocket and then held out his hand; whatever was in it sparkled, catching the rays of the sun.
“What is it?”
“Your hair clip. It fell, the other night when—when we were—at any rate, I went back to get it for you.”
I took the small silver clip, decorated in a starburst of tiny diamonds, and closed my fingers over it; it was cool and surprisingly heavy.
“It’s Edith’s,” I whispered, shutting my eyes. “She lent it to me. I was so happy—she was so happy—”
Then I heard a cry from across the garden.
“Alice, come quickly! Oh, Alice—come before it’s too late!” It was Rhoda, standing at the garden gate, gesturing wildly.
I shot up, every nerve and muscle suddenly energized; my heart raced, and I knew what lay before me; I knew what I had to do.
I began to run. Leo held on to my hand until the very last moment, until my fingertips touched his, and then there was nothing between us; nothing but the truth. I heard him call out, “I’ll wait for you, oh, do hurry!”
“No!” I could not look back. I could only look ahead, my hand tightening about the diamond clip until I felt the sharp end bite into my palm, and even so, I clasped it tighter. The ground was skimming before me, the gate still banging in Rhoda’s wake. “No, don’t wait—for God’s sake, go now, while I can bear it!” For this instant, I could; as soon as I ran through the door of the Deanery—already I heard voices from inside the house, urgent, loud voices, doors slamming, a desperate wail—I knew I would not have the strength to watch him leave me, too.
And my heart, at that moment, split in two; I gave one half to Leo and one half to my sister and, saying good-bye to both, knew that I would never be whole again.
MY SISTER EDITH WAS buried on a magnificent June day; the sun was so brilliant, the birds in such full-throated song, one felt either the cruelty of such a day or the comfort of it. She was laid to rest in the wedding dress that had arrived the day before. Rhoda, Violet, and I followed behind her casket, wearing the bridesmaids’ dresses she had chosen. A bridal bouquet rested on top of the casket instead of the usual wreath. Aubrey Harcourt was the chief mourner; his sobs could be heard throughout the service.
Among the pallbearers was Prince Leopold, the black silk armband on his left arm. Many of those present commented upon how pale and grave he looked, and remarked upon his touching devotion to the Dean’s family.
Only once did our eyes meet. After the pallbearers had placed the casket at the head of the cathedral, he walked back to take his seat. But before he did, he paused, turned to me, and gazed down into my face. I absorbed the sorrow in his beautiful blue eyes, the wordless grief upon his face, and knew for whom he was truly mourning; still gazing into his eyes, I raised my fingers to my lips, kissed them, and finally turned away, my eyes too full of hot tears to see anything but the glorious light shining in through the stained-glass windows.
My love walked down the aisle, away from me. And I knew I would never see him again.