THE FEVER MOUND.
AS I have said, Giles Brent roused himself that summer to cut plenty of
turf, so that next winter fuel was plentiful. Then came summer again,
and I am sorry to say that Giles had a relapse into laziness, talked of
his "weakness," and put off going out for turf from day to day.
In truth, his habit of perpetual indulgence in ale and gin had now
gained a terrible mastery over him, as such habits always do. He was
rendered stupid and forgetful too, and the memory of his sufferings
during that cold winter seemed to pass away. Like all who take more
stimulant than is good for them, he also grew more selfish, and if he
thought about the long cold winter evenings, he remembered that Kate
had got coal from Marks; and no doubt she could get it again.
It was very sad to see how this poor fellow went on from one stage of
selfish idleness to another. He had once been a kind husband, if a
little masterful; now he let Kate slave and toil and run his errands,
while he sat by the fire or sunned himself at the door, and dozed
and drank, or held forth about Waterloo to any one who would listen.
It would have been well for him if his poor patient Kate had been a
little less patient, had admired and believed in him a little less. A
different kind of woman might have roused him. I think she would have
been perfectly justified in letting him feel the touch of scarcity,
instead of bearing it herself, and keeping him in comfort to the very
utmost of her power.
She even made the boy work hard, to help her. Christie had learned to
knit, and had found out how to make baskets of the rushes that grew by
"the Water," but their joint earnings were small, and Giles now drank
every penny of his pension. So that winter was one of considerable
privation; and then the summer came again.
One day, Giles, sitting in the sunshine at the door, heard Hessie
Marks talking to Christie; the boy was sitting on the low stone fence,
knitting away fast.
"Put it away when I tell you, and come up to the fever-pits. I want to
go."
"I can't indeed, Hessie. Mother and I are going to cut turf. Come down
with us—you shall ride in the cart."
"No, I will 'not.' It's too bad, Christie! Not once since the flowers
came, have you come with me to play. I'll just go and ask some one else
to go with me."
"Oh, Hessie, don't do that! I'll go the very first day I can. But we
'must' get turf, coal is so dear—and mother and I do cut it so slowly."
"I'll be bound you do," said naughty Hessie. "What could you expect of
a boy that knits! Woman's work, knitting is. Put it by, Christie, or
I'll go away this moment."
"No, don't, now. I must get on with it. I don't care if it is woman's
work, as long as it helps mother. Don't ye be unkind to me."
"But I will, if you're unkind to me. Promise faithful, now, that you'll
come to-morrow. I want badly to go up to the fever-pits, because your
Uncle Bob is going to level it down, and put the earth all over his
fields."
"Level it down!" cried Christie. "Why—there's people buried in it!"
"Not in the heap, but in great pits below—great deep pits. And I want
to go there again, Christie, before he does it."
"Yes—and so we will; we'll go to-morrow. I'll tell mother why, and
she'll let me go, I know."
"Mind she does, now. If you don't come to-morrow, I'll never marry you,
Christie."
"Oh, you must, you've promised. A promise can't be broke, Hessie."
"Indeed then it can," said Hessie, "quite easy."
"I'll ask father," cried Christie, springing up; "come here, Hessie.
Father, Hessie promised years ago that she'd marry me when we're older.
Now, mustn't her promise be kept?"
Giles laughed, drew the pretty little girl to him, and kissed her.
"Course it must be kept," he said, "and I'll say for you, Christie, you
show good taste. I'll be very glad when the day comes. You must keep
your promise, Hessie."
Hessie nodded. "I'll do just as I like about that," said she.
Just then Kate called from the house—
"Christie, get John Donkey ready now. I'm just coming."
Hessie darted away towards the village, and very soon the turf
expedition was ready.
"Now, Giles, you won't sit here too long, there's a dear man. When the
sun leaves, you go in and sit in the house. I've left your bit of bread
and cheese on the table, and when I come home, I'll make stirabout for
supper. If you 'can' manage to keep the fire alive, Giles, it would be
a comfort."
"I can do that much, my lass. Ah then, 'tis hard to be so weak!—for
I'm not to say an old man yet. Not much above fifty, I do think. 'Tis
hard to see you go turf-cutting, without me. If I had the right use
of my leg, I'd try if there's any coal left in the old workings. Even
a little lump would be worth having. Christie, you and I will go some
day."
By this time Christie had heard this speech so often that it failed to
excite him, so he only said, dutifully—
"I'd like it well, father."
Kate and her son worked hard, and cut what made a very light load for
John Donkey. They spread the fresh sods on the slope at the back of the
house, to dry in the sun, and then re-lighted the fire and had some
supper. Giles had gone down to the village.
"Now, Christie, you go to bed. I'll stay and keep the stirabout warm
for father. I couldn't sleep till I know he's safe home."
Christie was sound asleep before his father came, heavy and cross and
sleepy: he said he wanted no stirabout, but Kate must give him some
pence next day, for he had got a weak turn while sitting there alone,
and had actually to drag himself down to the Red Dog, or he'd have been
ill, and he had no money with him. Marks had helped him home. Marks
told him that Bob was talking of levelling the great mound up yonder,
and spreading the fresh earth over his fields, they were some of them
so bad that nothing would grow in them. Giles talked away, and Kate
scarcely heard, so tired was she.
Next day, Hessie came dancing up the valley, and found Christie ready
for her. On this she renewed her promise to be his wife "some time or
other," and they went off together, very happy. They reached the mound
and began to get their flowers; this time it was dog-roses, with white
stellaria mingled with them.
Hessie was in high good-humour, and made her slave very happy.
And they were sitting side by side making garlands, when they heard
rough voices and the jingling of a cart. Looking up, they saw Bob
Brent, his sons and daughters, and his wife Jane; also Ben Marks, and
with them poor, hard-worked John Donkey, with all the younger Brents
in the cart. Giles had actually lent the donkey and cart to help in
carrying the mould.
[Illustration: They were sitting side by side, making garlands.]
"Oh, Hessie, I'm afraid we've got our last flowers off the poor old
mound! Suppose we creep down the other side, and run off to some other
place?"
"Not I," said Hessie, "if they're going to dig, I want to see the fun.
Suppose they find men's bones?—They may, you know, though father says
they all lie in deep pits. Oh, what fun! Father, father, are you going
to help?"
Forgetting all her finery—for she was all decked out in flowers by this
time—Hessie ran forward along the top of the mound. And really, between
her beauty and her garlands, and her dancing step, the child was a
picture to look at.
Jane Brent said—
"Ben, your little lass is a beauty. Why don't you marry, and have some
one to take care of her?"
"She wants no better care than she gets," Ben answered, gruffly.
"Is yon Ben's lass?" asked Bob, "I truly thought as 'twas a fairy,"
which was a tremendous effort of imagination for Bob, and made his
family shout with laughter.
Christie now made his appearance, and he and Hessie having scrambled
down to join the others, the demolishing of the poor mound began. Ben
Marks, saying that digging was not in his way, sat down and looked
on. Hessie stayed with him, but Christie was pressed into his uncle's
service.
The lovely rose-briars were cut and flung aside; then a big patch of
grass was stripped off the sloping bank next the fields, and the rich
dark earth, lying unused so long, was thrown into the cart, or into
baskets, and carried off. But it was slow work, and one day would not
finish it.
Some time had passed. Christie and his cousin Jem were taking a turn
at digging, and Christie was working away manfully, when he heard his
mother's voice calling him.
"I'm here, mother, in the hole—O, Jem, what's this?"
For they had come now to great stones, laid on each other with some
attempt at regularity. A great shout arose from those that could see,
and Ben Marks, desiring Hessie to stay where she was, ran up to see
what was happening. Every one was shouting, and Kate could not make
herself heard. She stood panting and holding Hessie by the hand, until
the child said—
"I wonder now, have they found a man's bones?"
"Oh, Hessie! Oh, perhaps they have. Stay here child; I'll come back in
a moment."
With most unusual roughness, Kate forced her way through the younger
Brents, who were crowding round the hole, and struggled almost fiercely
with the few who were closely packed within.
"Christie, Christie!" she screamed. "Come out, come out. Bob, listen to
me!"
"Why, Kate, whatever 's the matter with you?" inquired her
sister-in-law. "See, we've come to a lot of stones. They must have
closed the pit with them, and then shovelled on the earth."
Kate, looking over the speaker's shoulder, saw the stones. They had now
cleared away just enough to show that these stones probably formed part
of a circle of eight or ten feet in diameter. And there was Christie,
putting forth all his small powers to help his cousin Jem, who was bent
upon dislodging one of the great stones.
"Christie," Kate cried, "come here—come out of this,—all of you come
out."
She made a desperate push, grasped Christie by the arm, and began to
drag him away.
"If you value your lives, come out," she cried.
And the whole party, alarmed by her manner, began to retreat hastily.
"What 'is' the matter?" cried Ben Marks, stopping them.
Kate held Christie fast; she was trembling all over, both from
excitement and the haste in which she had come.
"Giles says—he got up after you left him, Bob, and he says to me,—
"'I hope no harm may come of Bob's piece of work, but since he went,
I've remembered a thing. I mind that somewhere in Spain, just before
our soldiers went there, the people dug up a field where many that died
in a plague lay buried, and all the men that did the work got some
fearful illness and died.'
"And I knew Christie and Hessie were here—so I ran out."
"Indeed, I suppose," said Jane, "'twould be long before you'd have run
to save us. Bob, come away at once. If no harm happens, we can finish
another time. Where's Ben Marks?"
"He cotched up Hessie and run, soon as he understood," said Jem, with a
grin. "He's halfway home by this."
"Come, mother—let's get home," said Christie.
And in a few minutes, the poor disfigured mound was deserted.
Of course, I cannot positively affirm what followed was the consequence
of that day's work. But in about ten days Bob Brent, Ben Marks, and
poor Kate were down in a very bad kind of fever. Every one expected
that Jem and Christie, who had actually loosened one of the stones,
would be ill too, but they escaped altogether. As to Kate, she had been
of late overworked and underfed, and she had run herself out of breath
and was very hot—just in the condition to catch anything.
Kate was very ill. For many days she knew no one, not even Giles or
Christie. After the first week, no one came near the place, for they
were afraid of infection, and Jane, who had been really kind, had
enough to do with her own poor Bob—Bob, who would never vex her again
by standing about with his mouth open, for he died after three weeks'
illness.
It was Christie who brought the news of his uncle's death to the
cottage. He had run down to Widow Kirby's shop to buy a candle, and
Giles sat beside his wife, whom indeed he had not left since her
illness began.
Poor Giles, he was very miserable. In some dull, vague way, he felt he
was to blame for what had happened. Had he only warned Bob in time, the
mound might never have been opened. He had been too stupid, both on the
evening when Marks told him of the plan, and in the morning when Bob
came to ask for the cart, to remember the story he had heard in Spain.
And besides this, he had a terrible fear that Kate was dying. And with
that fear, his love for her, long lost in the overgrowth of bad habits
and selfishness, struggled up to the light again. And he thought of her
patient, gentle ways, her hard work, her untiring devotion; he looked
at her, so thin, so worn, so old-looking, and remembered that she could
not yet be forty years old, and what a pretty pink-and-white lass she
had been when he fell in love with her in Plymouth, where all the girls
are pretty pink-and-white creatures, and Kate had been one of the
prettiest.
He had promised her mother to be a good husband to her: how had he kept
his promise? At first, tolerably well, and he had never been actively
unkind to her. He had seldom said an angry word, and had never raised
his hand to her. But all this failed to comfort him now. He had refused
her request that they should live in Plymouth, though they were there
when he got his discharge.
Kate had sisters living there, and wished to be near them. Yet how
cheerfully she had obeyed him!—and he had brought her to this desolate
place, and even when its real condition forced itself on his notice,
he had stayed there to please himself. I do not say that Giles put all
this into these, or any words, or even that he thought it all at once,
but by degrees these things got into his mind, and on this day, while
Christie was away, he had some very bitter moments.
"Kate, my woman," he said, while giving her a little water, "tell me
true; you know 'tis all my fault,—can you forgive me, Kate?"
"They won't swarm yet a bit," said poor Kate, whose wandering wits were
with her bees.
"Father," said Christie softly, looking in, "come here a moment. Oh,
father, Uncle Bob is dead, and Auntie Jane is down with the fever!"
Giles made his way to a chair, dropped his crutch, and nearly fell.
"Bob dead," he muttered, "and my fault. Thirteen of
them,—fatherless,—not that Bob counted for much—poor Bob. And Jane
Christie, boy, 'tis awful. And I wasn't very kind to Bob. I thought I
was right, but it looks otherwise now.—How's Marks?"
"Better. And I've got the candles, but Widow Kirby would hardly let me
in. They're all frightened to death. Oh, father, if we had a little
money and could get medicine for mother!"
Giles groaned. Too well he knew that there was no money, and why. There
were some stockings ready for sale, but no one in the village would
touch them. His pension was all spent, and there would be no more due
to him for a month or more. From his experience in hospital, Giles knew
what medicine would be given in such cases as these, but he could not
get it without money.
"I hear her moving, Christie," he said; "go to her."
Christie went; and Giles sat thinking deeply. Suppose he went to
Grassley and sold John Donkey; poor old John, he would not bring much,
for he was getting old. And suppose him sold, it was doubtful if what
Giles wanted could be got in Grassley, and without John Donkey, how
could he get to Bradstone and back again? Even if he did not break down
altogether, it would take him several days.
What else was there that he could sell? Nothing! Nothing! Stay, there
was his Waterloo medal, the very pride and glory of his life, his one
most cherished possession. Could he part with it? It was there in
Kate's box, kept in a tiny brass box bought for it, and brightened up
by many rubbings with an old glove. With it was a queer-looking thing,
the bullet that had, as Giles often asserted, gone in by his chest and
come through his lungs, and been taken out by the surgeons "just under
my left shoulder."
These treasures were often shown as a choice favour to admiring
visitors; that is, when visitors used to come, for of late the Brents
had been left much to themselves. Ah, he could "not" sell that medal!
Yes, he would—for Kate's sake, and to try if poor Jane's life could be
saved: for he would bring medicine for her also.
He rose, hobbled over to Kate's box and took out his treasure. A doubt
of its money value never crossed the poor fellow's mind; it must be
very valuable. It shone beautifully indeed, but of course these medals
are not of much intrinsic value. Giles wrapped the medal up in the old
glove, and put the brass box with the bullet for its only treasure back
into its place. When Christie came back, Giles said to him—
"Christie, turn out early to-morrow and have John Donkey ready for me.
I've thought of a way to get some money, and I must go, for medicine
for your mother we must have. You must do the best you can while I'm
away. I won't lose a minute."
Poor little Christie! A terrible dread took possession of him, and
without thinking, he cried out—
"Father, you'll get some drink, and you'll be lost and never come home
any more!"
Giles took hold of his son and shook him, but not roughly.
"You young rascal, be respectful to your superior officers. No,
Christie, not with my poor lass lying there. Do you see this?"
"Why, father, 'tis your medal!"
"So 'tis, and the thing I think most of in the world. Well now, I do
swear on this medal, that I'll give up drink altogether. I've been
thinking, and I mean it. Nothing comes of it but mischief."
"'Twill be joyful news for mother, when she gets better," whispered
Christie.
"It will, Christie,—and yet I'd lay my life that your mother never
spoke to you in the way of blame to me."
"She never did," said Christie, getting very red.
"Not she. Your mother's the best woman and the best wife ever man had.
I may have seemed—careless; but I know this, and I'll prove that I do."
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