HUGH TO THE RESCUE
“Fever epidemic in Blankshire. Medical help urgently required. The
villages specially affected by the fever, are Loam, Hurstleigh, Marston,
Styles, and Lislehurst—all on the estate of the Marquess of St. Quentin.
“The epidemic is of a very serious nature. The Chief Sanitary Inspector
of Donisbro’ visited the affected villages upon the outbreak of the
illness, and declares the cottages to be in a greatly neglected condition.
“The local physician has applied for help to the staff of the London
Hospitals.”
* * * * *
Hugh Chichester read these words in the hall of the Blue-friars Hospital,
as he and another young doctor waited for a “case,” which was being
brought in from the street.
“Estate of the Marquess of St. Quentin,” his companion commented. “Isn’t
that the chap who had that frightful motor-smash three months ago? Why,
hullo! Chichester, old man! Are you off your head?”
For Hugh had flung himself into the lift without a word, and was swooping
upward to the first floor, where he knew that he would find his father.
The doctor was free for the moment, but Hugh knew that he himself was
not. He only paused to thrust the paper in his father’s hand, with a
hoarse “Read that,” and was down the staircase and in the hall again,
before the “case,” upon its stretcher, had crossed the wide open paved
courtyard of the Blue-friars Hospital.
Dr. Chichester was quick of understanding, as doctors generally are.
“You want to go to Blankshire, my boy?” he said, when he and his son met
for their hastily-snatched luncheon.
“Yes, father.”
“I think it may be possible,” the doctor said. “Help is certainly needed,
to judge from the papers, and I would not hold you back. But, my boy, you
must remember it may mean the loss of your post here, unless the Hospital
elects to send you to Blankshire.”
Hugh nodded.
“And, Hugh,” his father went on, “you must give me your word that you
keep away from Sydney. It won’t be easy, but I know that I can trust you
to think of her and not yourself. You want to spare her from suffering
what you suffer. You will prove yourself her true ‘servant’ in this, as
‘Dorothy Osborne’ would say to us. If you can trust yourself to keep
clear of intercourse with her, I think that you are right to volunteer
your services. I should have done so myself years ago.”
“Yes, I’ll keep away from her,” Hugh muttered, and the doctor said, “All
right, my boy, I trust you. We will see what your mother says to sending
you to Blankshire.”
And Mrs. Chichester said “Yes.” Perhaps those little snatches of
fireside talk, for which big bearded sons on the other side of the
world grow homesick, had made her understand her boy with that absolute
understanding sympathy which only mothers have the power to give.
“Yes, you must go, my Hugh,” she said, “for you will be able to help
those poor people, and I know that you will be my unselfish son, as you
have always been, and make it easy for Sydney.”
“I will, mother,” Hugh said, and so packed his things and offered his
services to Dr. Lorry.
The old doctor met him at Dacreshaw Station; he was looking older and his
cheery utterances came out with an effort.
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Chichester, extremely glad; for I can’t
deny that this fever is a very serious one, and the condition of the
cottages is so much against the poor people’s chances of recovery. Still,
I have no doubt, no, none at all, that, with your able assistance, we
shall soon see a marked improvement.”
“They haven’t got it at the Castle, have they?” Hugh asked anxiously as
he climbed up into the high dog-cart by the old doctor’s side, and was
driven rapidly along the muddy country roads towards Lislehurst.
“No! no!” Dr. Lorry said, “and I see no real reason why they should. Lady
Frederica is extremely anxious to carry off Miss Lisle to town, but I
have endeavoured to dissuade her. Miss Lisle has been so much about among
the cottages of late, that I am anxious—not about her, oh dear no! but
anxious, I repeat, to have her under my own eye for a day or two longer.
And it is not as though she ran any risk in remaining, as I have assured
Lord St. Quentin. These low fevers cannot well be called infectious.” He
relapsed into silence,—an unusual state with him—which lasted till they
reached Lislehurst, and his own gate. They got down and a man took the
cob’s head. “Now we are at my house, my dear—er, Chichester,” he said,
rousing himself, “and perhaps, when you have lunched, you would not mind
coming round with me to see the little boy at the Vicarage, who is, I
fear, in a rather critical condition.” Hugh started. “Little Paul ill! I
will come at once, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“You will come at once? Well, if you are not fatigued, I own it would
be a relief. His condition is decidedly critical, and your science is
a good deal fresher than mine. Not that I take at all a hopeless view
of his case, far from it!” the old doctor said, blowing his nose rather
fiercely; “but he’s his father’s only child, sir, and—motherless.”
Hugh was already hurrying out into the village by the old doctor’s side.
“Little Pauly ill!—that jolly little chap!” he kept on saying, and he
walked so fast that the old man could hardly keep pace with him.
There was a strange silence in the village. Hardly any children were
playing in the road. “We had to shut the schools,” said Dr. Lorry.
The village seemed almost as though it held its breath and waited for
some stroke to fall.
Hugh looked up at the tall, grey tower of Lislehurst Church as they
passed beneath it, and thought of little Pauly as he had been on that
bright December morning, full of life and mischief. It seemed incredible
to imagine illness or death coming near him.
Dr. Lorry followed the direction of his eyes.
“The Vicar told me of that morning on the tower,” he said. “You saved the
boy once, Chichester; please God, you’ll save him again.”
The Vicarage nursery was a good deal changed from the cheerful room where
Sydney had sat on her first morning in Blankshire. The toys, no longer
wanted, were pushed aside and put away in cupboards; their absence giving
a curiously forlorn appearance to the room.
Sickroom appliances had taken their place, and the little iron cot,
from which Pauly’s restless fingers used to scrape the paint on summer
mornings when getting-up time seemed long in coming, was pulled into the
centre of the room.
Pauly’s thick red curls had been cropped close to his head for coolness,
and the sturdy, roundabout figure was shrunk to a mere shadow of its
former self. It was hard to believe him the same child who had displayed
the glory of his first knickerbockers with such pride at the Castle only
a short week ago!
Beside the little cot the Vicar stood, very quiet, as he had been all
through the illness, but with eyes that asked more questions than his
lips.
But he held out his hand to Hugh with a look which showed that he had
not forgotten that morning on the church tower in the midst of all this
trouble.
“Mr. Chichester indeed! I could hardly believe Dr. Lorry’s new colleague
to be you. This is luck. I am very glad.”
His eyes were searching Hugh’s face as he spoke, as if to read there what
he thought of little Pauly.
“These young men have all the science nowadays,” old Dr. Lorry said, in a
very audible aside. “We’ll see him work wonders with the boy, please God!”
Pauly was lying in a sort of restless doze, and they would not wake him.
One arm clasped Carlo’s black form to his heart.
“He wakes and cries for that beast if he finds it gone,” the Vicar
whispered, with a sad little smile. “Tell Miss Lisle when you see her,
Lorry.”
The eyes of the elder men watched Hugh with a pathetic eagerness as he
bent above the little cot, feeling the wasted wrist, and listening to the
uncertain breathing.
“These young men ... more scientific treatment,” the old doctor said
again and again, in a husky whisper. But all Hugh said was, “I should
like to consult with Dr. Lorry over a new treatment.”
Further directions having been given to the nurse, who seemed a capable
kind of person, the doctors took their departure, and Mr. Seaton
accompanied them out.
“You coming, Vicar?” Dr. Lorry questioned with surprise in his tone.
“Yes,” Mr. Seaton said. “I must do some visiting. Mine is not the only
house in trouble to-day.”
And with a last look at Pauly, lying in his cot, he passed out with the
doctors from the shadowed Vicarage.
Where the road to the village skirted the Park they met Sydney, alone.
She was walking fast, and with her head bent down: she did not see them
till they were quite close to her. Then she looked up suddenly, and a
quick flush overspread her pale face. She hesitated for a moment: then
went forward with outstretched hand.
Hugh found himself taking it and speaking to her as a mere acquaintance.
He had seen the account of the epidemic in the papers, and the
Blue-friars had given him permission to volunteer his services. He was
glad to have met Sydney to-day, as he should be—very busy—he expected,
and there would be no seeing anybody, he believed.
And there he broke off, stammering, as the clear eyes seemed to ask the
meaning of this strange manner from her brother Hugh, who had said at
their last parting that “he understood.”
There was an awkward silence of full a minute before Sydney recollected
herself and asked after Pauly. “Thank you, he is very ill,” said Pauly’s
father.
And then Dr. Lorry, whose kind eyes had seen a good deal during Hugh’s
rather halting explanation, interposed with professional authority.
“Miss Lisle, my dear young lady, you really must not stand about in the
cold; you are looking quite chilled. Take an old man’s advice, walk home
as fast as you can, and have a good cup of chocolate or cocoa as soon as
you get to the Castle.”
“Thank you,” said Sydney, and the three men took the small tan-gloved
hand again, and passed on to their work.
And Sydney passed on also, thinking with a strange, sore feeling in her
heart, that Hugh had changed a good deal. He had not even seemed pleased
to see her: Hugh—who had been her special friend from babyhood!
Had there ever been a time when Hugh had not wanted her before? She could
not recollect it, if there were. How many times had she not sat beside
a big, long-limbed school-boy, doing his preparation at the school-room
table, with its much-kicked legs and much-inked table cover, and been
proud to think she was “helping Hugh” when she blotted his exercises, or
held the book, while he reeled off pages in some tongue unknown to her!
Had he ever failed to seem pleased when she offered her assistance, even
when he was working with a pucker on his forehead, and ten fingers
running through his hair? He had always seemed to want the little Sydney
in an inky pinafore, however busy he might be; but now he had changed.
“He did not think he should see her again—he would be very busy.” Could
the Hugh of old days have spoken to her in that cool, indifferent tone?
Sydney felt sure that he could not. For the first time the girl found the
homeward walk too far for her active feet. The distance seemed unending
through the Park.
Pauly was very ill, very likely going to die, and Hugh—Hugh did not care
to see her any more.