Page 29 of The Widower of Pemberley

Elizabeth held her father’s hand, desperately hoping he would be well but expecting that he would die suddenly. It had become impossible to wake him.

No, no, no, no.

Jane came to sit next to Elizabeth, wrapping her arms around her, but she did not say any unwelcome words.

Mrs. Bennet entered the room, looked at her husband, then muttered, “Oh, we shall starve! Oh, oh, oh!”

The younger girls did not come in, but Elizabeth heard them sobbing in the hall.

What followed was an hour of dread, during which Elizabeth listened closely to her father’s breathing, wondering at any catch or change and whether any delay between breaths would be the end.

At last, the physician arrived.

Dr. Cliff was an old friend of Mr. Bennet’s, and they met several times most months to argue about scientific journals and old books. He looked pained as he approached.

The physician took her father’s arm from Elizabeth to measure his pulse. “Without a doubt it is an apoplectic attack. When did the symptoms begin?”

Elizabeth could hardly speak. “It was…that is…it has been so long.”

“We had just sat down to breakfast,” Jane said. “It must have been about nine in the morning.”

Dr. Cliff pulled his watch from his coat and looked at it. “I shall take off some blood. The pulse is still strong and full, rather than weak and reedy. There is some hope.”

The doctor removed from his bag a curved knife and a cup to take the blood. He asked the footman who had come in with him to hold Mr. Bennet’s head up so that he could easily make a cut in a vein around the throat.

Elizabeth trembled as she watched.

Her father did not stir as the cut was made.

Her mother entered the room while the cup was against his throat, and she made an inarticulate sound of despair.

The blood was taken off, and the physician then measured the patient’s pulse once more before standing back.

“How quickly will he die?” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Oh, this waiting is terrible for my nerves! Tell me how fast it will happen.”

Dr. Cliff rinsed the blood off with a bowl of water that one of the footmen had brought for him. “In such cases it is impossible to tell. He may last in this state for some hours before beginning to rouse. Or he may suddenly be taken off by a new attack.His pulse is such that I do not expect this attack to kill him immediately. If he does rouse, he is likely to have a continuing palsy. Even if he wakes and begins to recover, another attack may take him off in the first week or two. If he survives to the end of the month, there will be hope. Especially if he adopts a proper scheme of diet and exercise—there is always a great risk of an additional attack of apoplexy in those who have suffered once.”

“Oh, Lord! He will die within the week—that is what you say? Do not give me false hope.”

“I do not,” The physician replied. “Death without ever regaining consciousness, or shortly afterwards, is possible, but he might wake.”

“Do not lie to me!” Mrs. Bennet shrieked.

Mr. Bennet stirred, opened his eyes briefly, looked about, then groaned and slumped again.

“Be quiet, madam,” Dr. Cliff said to Mrs. Bennet. “You will make your husband’s state infinitely worse with your squalling.” He turned to the footman. “Have her removed from the sick room.”

Mrs. Bennet shook off the hands of the servant. “I am still the mistress here! Until my husband dies, I shall not be dragged from his side!”

Jane tried to walk to her mother, but she tripped over the doctor’s bag. Elizabeth caught her so that she did not fall.

When Jane reached Mrs. Bennet, she embraced her and, sobbing, led her, though she was the blind girl, out of the room.

Elizabeth listened to the sound of her father’s breathing. She felt all the anxiety and fear that might be imagined to be felt as a woman watching a most beloved parent in such a state.

After another half an hour of observation during which Mr. Bennet stirred twice, the physician took his pulse once again, pronounced himself satisfied with the effect of the blood that he had taken off, then he withdrew an additional pint, this time from the arm.

Elizabeth rather wondered why the difference, but she did not ask Dr. Cliff, who had a fiercely unhappy expression as he studied his friend.