THE DOWAGER'S ALARM.
Again the years went on, bringing not altogether comfort to the house of
Hartledon. As Anne's children were born--there were three now--a sort of
jealous rivalry seemed to arise between them and the two elder children;
and this in spite of Anne's efforts to the contrary. The moving spring
was the countess-dowager, who in secret excited the elder children
against their little brothers and sister; but so craftily that Anne could
produce nothing tangible to remonstrate against. Things would grow
tolerably smooth during the old woman's absences; but she took good care
not to make those absences lengthened, and then all the ill-nature and
rebellion reigned triumphant.
Once only Anne spoke of this, and that was to her father. She hinted at
the state of things, and asked his advice. Why did not Val interpose his
authority, and forbid the dowager the house, if she could not keep
herself from making mischief in it, sensibly asked the Rector. But Anne
said neither she nor Val liked to do this. And then the Rector fancied
there was some constraint in his daughter's voice, and she was not
telling him the whole case unreservedly. He inquired no further, only
gave her the best advice in his power: to be watchful, and counteract the
dowager's influence, as far as she could; and trust to time; doing her
own duty religiously by the children.
What Anne had not mentioned to Dr. Ashton was her husband's conduct in
the matter. In that one respect she could read him no better than of old.
Devoted to her as he was, as she knew him to be, in the children's petty
disputes he invariably took the part of his first wife's--to the glowing
satisfaction of the countess-dowager. No matter how glaringly wrong they
might be, how tyrannical, Hartledon screened the elder, and--to use the
expression of the nurses--snubbed the younger. Kind and good though Lady
Hartledon was, she felt it acutely; and, to say the truth, was sorely
puzzled and perplexed.
Lord Elster was an ailing child, and Mr. Brook, the apothecary, was
always in attendance when they were in London. Lady Hartledon thought the
boy's health might have been better left more to nature, but she would
not have said so for the world. The dowager, on the contrary, would have
preferred that half the metropolitan faculty should see him daily. She
had a jealous dread of anything happening to the boy, and Anne's son
becoming the heir.
Lord Hartledon was a busy man now, and had a place in the
Government--though not as yet in the Cabinet. Whatever his secret care
might have been, it was now passive; he was a general favourite, and
courted in society. He was still young; the face as genial, the manners
as free, the dark-blue eyes as kindly as of yore; eminently attractive in
earlier days, he was so still; and his love for his wife amounted to a
passion.
At the close of a sharp winter, when they had come up to town in January,
that Lord Hartledon might be at his post, and the countess-dowager was
inflicting upon them one of her long visits, it happened that Lord Elster
seemed very poorly. Mr. Brook was called in, and said he would send a
powder. He was called in so often to the boy as to take it quite as a
matter of course; and, truth to say, thought the present indisposition
nothing but a slight cold.
Late in the evening the two boys happened to be alone in the nursery,
the nurse being temporarily absent from it. Edward was now a tall,
slender, handsome boy in knickerbockers; Reginald a timid little fellow,
several years younger--rendered timid by Edward's perpetual tyranny,
which he might not resent. Edward was quiet enough this evening; he felt
ill and shivery, and sat close to the fire. Casting his eyes upwards, he
espied Mr. Brook's powder on the mantelpiece, with the stereotyped
direction--"To be taken at bedtime." It was lying close to the jam-pot,
which the head-nurse had put ready. Of course he had the greatest
possible horror of medicine, and his busy thoughts began to run upon how
he might avoid that detestable powder. The little fellow was sitting on
the carpet playing with his bricks. Edward turned his eyes on his
brother, and a bright thought occurred to him.
"Regy," said he, taking down the pot, "come here. Look at this jam: isn't
it nice? It's raspberry and currant."
The child left his bricks to bend over the tempting compound.
"I'll give it you every bit to eat before nurse comes back," continued
the boy, "if you'll eat this first."
Reginald cast a look upon the powder his brother exhibited. "What is it?"
he lisped; "something good?"
"Delicious. It's just come in from the sweet-stuff shop. Open your
mouth--wide."
Reginald did as he was bid: opened his mouth to its utmost width, and the
boy shot in the powder.
It happened to be a preparation of that nauseous drug familiarly known
as "Dover's powder." The child found it so, and set up a succession of
shrieks, which aroused the house. The nurse rushed in; and Lord and Lady
Hartledon, both of whom were dressing for dinner, appeared on the scene.
There stood Reginald, coughing, choking, and roaring; and there sat
the culprit, equably devouring the jam. With time and difficulty the
facts were elicited from the younger child, and the elder scorned to deny
them.
"What a wicked, greedy Turk you must be!" ejaculated the nurse, who was
often in hot water with the elder boy.
"But Reginald need not have screamed so," testily interposed Lord
Hartledon. "I thought one of them must be on fire. You naughty child,
why did you scream?" he continued, giving Reginald a slight tap on the
ear.
"Any child would scream at being so taken by surprise," said Lady
Hartledon. "It is Edward who is in fault, not Reginald; and it is he who
deserves punishment."
"And he should have it, if he were my son," boldly declared the nurse, as
she picked up the unhappy Reginald. "A great greedy boy, to swallow down
every bit of the jam, and never give his brother a taste, after poisoning
him with that nasty powder!"
Edward rose, and gave the nurse a look of scorn. "The powder's good
enough for him: he is nothing but a young brat, and I am Lord Elster."
Lady Hartledon felt provoked. "What is that you say, Edward?" she asked,
laying her hand upon his shoulder in reproval.
"Let me alone, mamma. He'll never be anything but Regy Elster. _I_ shall
be Lord Hartledon, and jam's proper for me, and it's fair I should put
upon him."
The nurse flounced off with Reginald, and Lady Hartledon turned to her
husband. "Is this to be suffered? Will you allow it to pass without
correction?"
"He means nothing," said Val. "Do you, Edward, my boy?"
"Yes, I do; I mean what I say. I shall stand up for myself and Maude."
Hartledon made no remonstrance: only drew the boy to him, with a hasty
gesture, as though he would shield him from anger and the world.
Anne, hurt almost to tears, quitted the room. But she had scarcely
reached her own when she remembered that she had left a diamond brooch in
the nursery, which she had just been about to put into her dress when
alarmed by the cries. She went back for it, and stood almost confounded
by what she saw. Lord Hartledon, sitting down, had clasped his boy in his
arms, and was sobbing over him; emotion such as man rarely betrays.
"Papa, Regy and the other two are not going to put me and Maude out of
our places, are they? They can't, you know. We come first."
"Yes, yes, my boy; no one shall put you out," was the answer, as he
pressed passionate kisses on the boy's face. "I will stand by you for
ever."
Very judicious indeed! the once sensible man seemed to ignore the evident
fact that the boy had been tutored. Lady Hartledon, a fear creeping over
her, she knew not of what, left her brooch where it was, and stole back
to her dressing-room.
Presently Val came in, all traces of emotion removed from his features.
Lady Hartledon had dismissed her maid, and stood leaning against the arm
of the sofa, indulging in bitter rumination.
"Silly children!" cried he; "it's hard work to manage them. And Edward
has lost his pow--"
He broke off; stopped by the look of angry reproach from his wife, cast
on him for the first time in their married life. He took her hand and
bent down to her: fervent love, if ever she read it, in his eyes and
tones.
"Forgive me, Anne; you are feeling this."
"Why do you throw these slights on my children? Why are you not more
just?"
"I do not intend to slight our children, Anne, Heaven knows. But I--I
cannot punish Edward."
"Why did you ever make me your wife?" sighed Lady Hartledon, drawing her
hand away.
His poor assumption of unconcern was leaving him quickly; his face was
changing to one of bitter sorrow.
"When I married you," she resumed, "I had reason to hope that should
children be born to us, you would love them equally with your first;
I had a right to hope it. What have I done that--"
"Stay, Anne! I can bear anything better than reproach from you."
"What have I and my children done to you, I was about to ask, that you
take this aversion to them? lavishing all your love on the others and
upon them only injustice?"
Val bent down, agitation in his face and voice.
"Hush, Anne! you don't know. The danger is that I should love your
children better, far better than Maude's. It might be so if I did not
guard against it."
"I cannot understand you," she exclaimed.
"Unfortunately, I understand myself only too well. I have a heavy burden
to bear; do not you--my best and dearest--increase it."
She looked at him keenly; laid her hands upon him, tears gathering in her
eyes. "Tell me what the burden is; tell me, Val! Let me share it."
But Val drew in again at once, alarmed at the request: and contradicted
himself in the most absurd manner.
"There's nothing to share, Anne; nothing to tell."
Certainly this change was not propitiatory. Lady Hartledon, chilled and
mortified, disdained to pursue the theme. Drawing herself up, she turned
to go down to dinner, remarking that he might at least treat the children
with more _apparent_ justice.
"I am just; at least, I wish to be just," he broke forth in impassioned
tones. "But I cannot be severe with Edward and Maude."
Another powder was procured, and, amidst much fighting and resistance,
was administered. Lady Hartledon was in the boy's room the first thing
in the morning. One grand quality in her was, that she never visited
her vexation on the children; and Edward, in spite of his unamiable
behaviour, did at heart love her, whilst he despised his grandmother; one
of his sources of amusement being to take off that estimable old lady's
peculiarities behind her back, and send the servants into convulsions.
"You look very hot, Edward," exclaimed Lady Hartledon, as she kissed him.
"How do you feel?"
"My throat's sore, mamma, and my legs could not find a cold place all
night. Feel my hand."
It was a child's answer, sufficiently expressive. An anxious look rose to
her countenance.
"Are you sure your throat is sore?"
"It's very sore. I am so thirsty."
Lady Hartledon gave him some weak tea, and sent for Mr. Brook to come
round as soon as possible. At breakfast she met the dowager, who had
been out the previous evening during the powder episode. Lady Hartledon
mentioned to her husband that she had sent a message to the doctor, not
much liking Edward's symptoms.
"What's the matter with him?" asked the dowager, quickly. "What are his
symptoms?"
"Nay, I may be wrong," said Lady Hartledon, with a smile. "I won't infect
you with my fears, when there may be no reason for them."
The countess-dowager caught at the one word, and applied it in a manner
never anticipated. She was the same foolish old woman she had ever been;
indeed, her dread of catching any disorder had only grown with the years.
And it happened, unfortunately for her peace, that the disorder which
leaves its cruel traces on the most beautiful face was just then
prevalent in London. Of all maladies the human frame is subject to,
the vain old creature most dreaded that one. She rose up from her seat;
her face turned pale, and her teeth began to chatter.
"It's small-pox! If I have a horror of one thing more than another, it's
that dreadful, disfiguring malady. I wouldn't stay in a house where it
was for a hundred thousand pounds. I might catch it and be marked for
life!"
Lady Hartledon begged her to be composed, and Val smothered a laugh. The
symptoms were not those of small-pox.
"How should you know?" retorted the dowager, drowning the reassuring
words. "How should any one know? Get Pepps here directly. Have you sent
for him?"
"No," said Anne. "I have more confidence in Mr. Brook where children are
concerned."
"Confidence in Brook!" shrieked the dowager, pushing up her flaxen front.
"A common, overworked apothecary! Confidence in him, Lady Hartledon!
Elster's life may be in danger; he is my grandchild, and I insist on
Pepps being fetched to him."
Anne sat down at once and wrote a brief note to Sir Alexander. It
happened that the message sent to Mr. Brook had found that gentleman away
from home, and the greater man arrived first. He looked at the child,
asked a few bland questions, and wrote a prescription. He did not say
what the illness might be: for he never hazarded a premature opinion.
As he was leaving the chamber, a servant accosted him.
"Lady Kirton wishes to see you, sir."
"Well, Pepps," cried she, as he advanced, having loaded herself with
camphor, "what is it?"
"I do not take upon myself to pronounce an opinion, Lady Kirton,"
rejoined the doctor, who had grown to feel irritated lately at the
dowager's want of ceremony towards him. "In the early stage of a disorder
it can rarely be done with certainty."
"Now don't let's have any of that professional humbug, Pepps," rejoined
her ladyship. "You doctors know a common disorder as soon as you see it,
only you think it looks wise not to say. Is it small-pox?"
"It's not impossible," said the doctor, in his wrath.
The dowager gasped.
"But I do not observe any symptoms of that malady developing themselves
at present," added the doctor. "I think I may say it is not small-pox."
"Good patience, Pepps! you'll frighten me into it. It is and it
isn't--what do you mean? What is it, if it's not that?"
"I may be able to tell after a second visit. Good morning, Lady Kirton,"
said he, backing out. "Take care you don't do yourself an injury with too
much of that camphor. It is exciting."
In a short time Mr. Brook arrived. When he had seen the child and was
alone with Lady Hartledon, she explained that the countess-dowager had
wished Sir Alexander Pepps called in, and showed him the prescription
just written. He read it and laid it down.
"Lady Hartledon," said he, "I must venture to disagree with that
prescription. Lord Elster's symptoms are those of scarlet-fever, and it
would be unwise to administer it. Sir Alexander stands of course much
higher in the profession than I do, but my practice with children is
larger than his."
"I feared it was scarlet-fever," answered Lady Hartledon. "What is to be
done? I have every confidence in you, Mr. Brook; and were Edward my own
child, I should know how to act. Do you think it would be dangerous to
give him this prescription? You may speak confidentially."
"Not dangerous; it is a prescription that will do neither harm nor
good. I suspect Sir Alexander could not detect the nature of the illness,
and wrote this merely to gain time. It is not an infrequent custom to
do so. In my opinion, not an hour should be lost in giving him a more
efficacious medicine; early treatment is everything in scarlet-fever."
Lady Hartledon had been rapidly making up her mind. "Send in what you
think right to be taken, immediately," she said, "and meet Sir Alexander
in consultation later on."
Scarlet-fever it proved to be; not a mild form of it; and in a very few
hours Lord Elster was in great danger, the throat being chiefly affected.
The house was in commotion; the dowager worse than any one in it. A
complication of fears beset her: first, terror for her own safety, and
next, the less abject dread that death might remove _her_ grandchild. In
this latter fear she partly lost her personal fears, so far at any rate
as to remain in the house; for it seemed to her that the child would
inevitably die if she left it. Late in the afternoon she rushed into the
presence of the doctors, who had just been holding a second consultation.
Sir Alexander Pepps recommended leeches to the throat: Mr. Brook
disapproved of them. "It is the one chance for his life," said Sir
Alexander.
"It is removing nearly all chance," said Mr. Brook.
Sir Alexander prevailed; and when they came forth it was understood that
leeches were to be applied. But here Lady Hartledon stepped in.
"I dread leeches to the throat, Sir Alexander, if you will forgive me for
saying so. I have twice seen them applied in scarlet-fever; and the
patients--one a young lady, the other a child--in both cases died."
"Madam, I have given my opinion," curtly returned the physician. "They
are necessary in Lord Elster's case."
"Do you approve of leeches?" cried Lady Hartledon, turning to Mr. Brook.
"Not altogether," was the cautious answer.
"Answer me one question, Mr. Brook," said Lady Hartledon, in her
earnestness. "Would you apply these leeches were you treating the case
alone?"
"No, madam, I would not."
Anne appealed to her husband. When the medical men differed, she thought
the decision lay with him.
"I'm sure I don't know," returned Val, who felt perfectly helpless to
advise. "Can't you decide, Anne? You know more about children and illness
than I do."
"I would do so without hesitating a moment were it my own child," she
replied. "I would not allow them to be put on."
"No, you would rather see him die," interrupted the dowager, who
overheard the words, and most intemperately and unjustifiably answered
them.
Anne coloured with shame for the old woman, but the words silenced her:
how was it possible to press her own opinion after that? Sir Alexander
had it all his own way, and the leeches were applied on either side the
throat, Mr. Brook emphatically asserting in Lady Hartledon's private ear
that he "washed his hands" of the measure. Before they came off the
consequences were apparent; the throat was swollen outwardly, on both
sides; within, it appeared to be closing.
The dowager, rather beside herself on the whole, had insisted on the
leeches. Any one, seeing her conduct now, might have thought the invalid
boy was really dear to her. Nothing of the sort. A hazy idea had been
looming through her mind for years that Val was not strong; she had been
mistaking mental disease for bodily illness; and a project to have full
control of her grandchild, should he come into the succession
prematurely, had coloured her dreams. This charming prospect would be
ignominiously cut short if the boy went first.
Sir Alexander saw his error. There must be something peculiar in Lord
Elster's constitution, he blandly said; it would not have happened in
another. Of course, anything that turns out a mistake always is in the
constitution--never in the treatment. Whether he lived or died now was
just the turn of a straw: the chances were that he would die. All that
could be done now was to endeavour to counteract the mischief by external
applications.
"I wish you would let me try a remedy," said Lady Hartledon, wistfully.
"A compress of cold water round the throat with oilsilk over it. I have
seen it do so much good in cases of inward inflammation."
Mr. Brook smiled: if anything would do good that might, he said, speaking
as if he had little faith in remedies now. Sir Alexander intimated that
her ladyship might try it; graciously observing that it would do no harm.
The application was used, and the evening went on. The child had fallen
into a sort of stupor, and Mr. Brook came in again before he had been
away an hour, and leaned anxiously over the patient. He lay with his eyes
half-closed, and breathed with difficulty.
"I think," he exclaimed softly, "there's the slightest shade of
improvement."
"In the fever, or the throat?" whispered Lady Hartledon, who had not
quitted the boy's bedside.
"In the throat. If so, it is due to your remedy, Lady Hartledon."
"Is he in danger?"
"In great danger. Still, I see a gleam of hope."
After the surgeon's departure, she went down to her husband, meeting
Hedges on the stairs, who was coming to inquire after the patient for his
master, for about the fiftieth time. Hartledon was in the library, pacing
about incessantly in the darkness, for the room was only lighted by the
fire. Anne closed the door and approached him.
"Percival, I do not bring you very good tidings," she said; "and yet they
might be worse. Mr. Brook tells me he is in great danger, but thinks he
sees a gleam of hope."
Lord Hartledon took her hand within his arm and resumed his pacing; his
eyes were fixed on the carpet, and he said nothing.
"Don't grieve as those without hope," she continued, her eyes filling
with tears. "He may yet recover. I have been praying that it may be so."
"Don't pray for it," he cried, his tone one of painful entreaty. "I have
been daring to pray that it might please God to take him."
"Percival!" she exclaimed, starting away from him.
"I am not mad, Anne. Death would be a more merciful fate for my boy than
life. Death now, whilst he is innocent, safe in Christ's love!--death, in
Heaven's mercy!"
And Anne crept back to the upper chamber, sick with terror; for she did
think that the trouble of his child's state was affecting her husband's
brain.