PANIC.
The funerals were going about in Dallory. Dr. Rane's prognostications
had proved correct; the fever was severe. It spread, and a panic set
in.
As yet it had been confined to the poor. To those who for some months
now had been living in despair and poverty. Some called it a famine
fever; some a relapsing fever; some typhus fever: but, whatever the
name accorded to it, one thing was certain--it was of a malignant and
fatal type.
It possessed a somewhat singular feature: it had seemed to break out
all at once--in a single night. Before the doctors had well
ascertained that anything of the kind was in the air, before most of
the public had so much as heard of it, it came upon them. The
probability of course was that it had been smouldering for some days.
On the afternoon that witnessed madam's departure from Dallory
Hall--after the receipt of the telegram and the reading of Dick's
letter--there had not been one decided case: in the morning no less
than seven cases had shown themselves. After that, it spread rapidly.
Madam remained away. James Bohun was dead, and she stayed with Sir
Nash. Matilda North, taking French leave, went up to join her without
an invitation; she did not care to stay in the midst of the sickness.
So the master of Dallory Hall was alone, and enjoyed his liberty as
much as trouble had left him any capacity for enjoyment.
A week or ten days had passed on since the outbreak, and the funerals
were going about Dallory. The two medical men, Dr. Rane and Mr.
Seeley, were worked nearly off their legs. The panic was at its
height. Dallory had been an exceptionally healthy place: people were
not used to this state of things, and grew frightened. Some of the
better families took flight, for the seaside, or elsewhere. The
long-continued distress, resulting on the strike, had predisposed the
poorer classes for it. It was they whom it chiefly attacked, but there
were now two or three cases amongst their betters. This was no time
for the medical men to speculate whether they should or should not be
paid; they put all such considerations aside, and gave the poor
sufferers their best care. Dr. Rane in particular was tenderly
assiduous with his patients. In spite of that fatal letter and the
mistake--nay, the sin--it involved, he was a humane man. Were he a
successful practitioner, making his hundreds or his thousands a-year,
as might be, he would be one of the first and readiest to give away
largely of his time and skill to any who could not afford to pay him.
The last person whom the fever had attacked was one of the brothers
Hepburn, of Dallory, undertakers, carpenters, and coffin-makers. Both
were sickly men, but very steady and respectable. The younger brother,
Henry, was the one seized: it was universally assumed that he caught
it in the discharge of certain of the duties of his calling, and the
supposition did not tend to decrease the public panic. Dr. Rane
thought him a bad subject for the illness, and did all he could for
him.
Bessy Rane stood in her kitchen, making an apple pudding. It is rather
a sudden transition of subject, from sickness to puddings, but only in
accordance with life. Whatever calamity may be decimating society
around, the domestic routine of existence goes on at home in its
ordinary course. Molly Green was pudding-maker in general: but Molly
was hastening over her other work that day, for she had obtained leave
to go home in the evening to see her mother: a woman who had been
ailing for years with chronic illness, and lived at Whitborough. So
Bessy this morning took the pudding upon herself.
Mrs. Rane stood at the table; a brown holland apron tied over her
light morning gown, her sleeves turned up to the middle of her
delicate arms. Hands and wrists and arms were alike pretty and
refined. The apples were in a basin, ready pared, and she was rolling
out the crust. Ever and anon she glanced at the kitchen clock. Her
husband had been called out at four o'clock that morning, and she was
growing a little anxious. Now it was close upon eleven. It cannot be
said that Bessy was afraid of the fever for him: she shared in the
popular belief that medical men are generally exempt from infection;
but she was always glad to see him arrive home safe and well.
His latch-key was heard in the door whilst she was thinking of him.
Dr. Rane went straight up to the unused top-room, changed his clothes,
and washed his hands and face--a precaution he always took when he had
been with fever patients. Bessy put the kitchen-door open, that he
might see her when he came down.
"Pudding-making, Bessy!" he cried, looking in. "Why don't you let
Molly do that?"
"Molly's busy. She wants to go home this evening, Oliver, as soon as
we can spare her, and will not come back until tomorrow night. She
received a letter this morning to say her mother has at last taken to
her bed, and the doctor thinks her very ill. I have given her leave to
go."
"But how shall you manage without her?"
"I shall have old Phillis in. Molly has been to her, and she says
she'll be glad to come."
Dr. Rane said no more. It was quite the same to him whether Molly or
Phillis did what was wanted. When men are harassed in spirit, they
cannot concern themselves with the petty details of domestic life.
"I was thinking, Oliver, that--if you don't mind--as we can have
Phillis, I would leave it to Molly whether to come back tomorrow
night, or not. If her mother is really growing worse, the girl may
like to stay a day longer with her."
"My dear, do just as you like about it," was the doctor's rather
impatient answer.
"Your breakfast shall be ready in a moment, Oliver."
"I have taken breakfast. It was between eight and nine before I could
get away from Ketler's, and I went and begged some of Mrs. Gass. After
that I went the round of the patients."
Bessy was putting the crust into the basin. She lifted her hands and
turned in some dismay.
"Surely, Oliver, they have not got the fever at Ketler's!"
Dr. Rane laughed slightly. "Not the fever, Bessy: something else. The
baby. It was Ketler who called me up this morning."
"Oh dear," said Bessy, going on with her pudding. "I thought that poor
baby was not expected for a month or two. How will they manage to keep
it? It seems to me that the less food there is for them, the quicker
the babies come."
"That's generally the case," observed Dr. Rane.
"Is the mother well?"
"Tolerably so."
"And--how are the other things going on, Oliver?"
He knew, by the tone of her voice, that she meant the fever. Bessy
never spoke of that without a kind of timidity.
"Neither better nor worse. It's very bad still."
"And fatal?"
"Yes, and fatal. Henry Hepburn is in danger."
"But he will get over it?" rejoined Bessy quickly.
"I don't think so. His brother will have it next if he does not mind.
He is as nervous over it as he can be. I am off now, Bessy, up the
Ham."
"You will be in to dinner?"
"Before that, I hope."
Bessy settled to her pudding again, and the doctor departed. Not into
danger this time, for the fever had not yet shown itself in Dallory
Ham. Scarcely a minute had elapsed when the door-bell rang, and Molly
went to answer it. Mrs. Rane, her hands all flour, peeped from the
kitchen, and saw Mr. North.
"Oh papa! How glad I am to see you! Do you mind coming in here?"
Mind! Mr. North felt far more at home in Bessy's kitchen than in his
wife's grand drawing-room. He had brought a small open basket of
lovely hot-house flowers for Bessy. He put it on the table, and sat
down on one of the wooden chairs in peace and comfort. Richard had not
returned, and he was still alone.
"Go on with your pudding, my dear. Don't mind me. I like to see it."
"It's all but done, papa. Molly will tie it up. Oh, these beautiful
flowers!" she added, bending down to them. "How kind of you to think
of me!"
"I'm going to Ham Court about some seeds, child; the walk will do me
good, this pleasant day. I feel stronger and better, Bessy, than I
did."
"I am so glad of that, papa."
"And so I thought--as I intended to call in here--that I would cut a
few blossoms, and bring them with me. How's the fever getting on,
Bessy?"
"It is not any better, I am afraid, papa."
"So I hear. They say that Henry Hepburn's dying."
Bessy felt startled. "Oh, I trust not! Though I think--I fear--Oliver
has not very much hope of him."
"Well, I've heard it. And I came here, Bessy, to ask if you would not
like to come to the Hall for a week or two. It might be safer for you.
Are you at all afraid of catching it, child?"
"N--o," answered Bessy. But it was spoken doubtfully, and Mr. North
looked at her.
"Your husband has to be amongst it pretty well every hour of his life,
and I can only think there must be some risk in it for you. You had
better come to the Hall."
"Oliver is very careful to change his clothes when he comes in; hut
still I know there must of course be some little risk," she said. "I
try to be quite brave, and not think of it, papa: and I have a great
piece of camphor here"--touching the bosom of her dress--"at which
Oliver laughs."
"Which is as good as confessing that you are nervous about it, Bessy,"
said Mr. North.
"Not very, pupa. A doctor's wife, you know, must not have fancies."
"Well, come up to the Hall to-day, Bessy. It will be a change for you,
and pleasant for me, now I'm alone; it will be like some of the old
days come back again, you and me together. As to Oliver, I dare say
he'll be glad to have the house to himself a bit, whilst he is so
busy."
Bessy, wiping the flour off her hands, consented. In point of fact,
her husband had proposed, some days ago, that she should go away: and
she did feel half afraid of taking the fever through him.
"But it cannot be until tomorrow, papa," she said, as Mr. North rose
to depart, and she accompanied him to the door, explaining that Molly
was going home. "I should not like to leave Oliver alone in the house
for the night. Phillis will be here tomorrow: she can stay and sleep,
should Molly Green not return."
"Very well," said Mr. North.
So it was left. Bessy opened the door for her father, and watched him
on his way up the Ham.
Dr. Rane came back to dinner; and found his patients allowed him an
hour's peace for it. Bessy informed him of the arrangement she had
made: and that he was to be a bachelor from the morrow for an
indefinite period. The doctor laughed, making a jest of it:
nevertheless he glanced keenly from under his eyelids at his wife.
"Bessy! I do believe you are afraid!"
"No, not exactly," was her answer: "I don't think 'afraid' is the
right word. It is just this, Oliver: I do not get nervous about it;
but I cannot help remembering rather often that you may bring it home
to me."
"Then, my dear, go--go by all means where you will be out of harm's
way, so far as I am concerned."
Dinner over, Dr. Rane hastened out again, on his way to see Mrs.
Ketler. He had just reached that bench in the shady part of the road
at the neck of the Ham, when he saw Jelly coming along. The doctor
only wished there was some shelter to dart into, by which he might
avoid her. Ever since the night when he had heard that agreeable
conversation as he sat under the cedar-tree, Jelly's keen green eyes
had been worse than poison to him. She stopped when she met him.
"So that child of Susan Ketler's is come, sir!"
"Ay," said Dr. Rane.
"What in the world brings it here now?"
"Well, I don't know," returned the doctor. "Children often come
without giving their friends due notice. I am on my way there."
"And not as much as a bed gown to wrap it in," resentfully went on
Jelly, "and not a bit of tea or oatmeal in the place for her! My
faith! baby after baby coming into the world, and the men out on
strike! This makes seven--if they'd all been alive: she'll be
contented perhaps when she has seventeen."
"It is the way of the world, Jelly. Set up the children first, and
consider what to do with them afterwards."
"What's this that's the matter with Tim Wilks, sir?" demanded Jelly,
abruptly changing the subject.
"With Tim Wilks! I did not know that anything was the matter with
him."
"Yes, there is," said Jelly. "I met old Green just now, and he said
Timothy Wilks was in bed ill. They thought it might be a bilious
attack, if it was not the fever."
"I'll call in and see him," said Dr. Rane. "Has he been drinking
again?"
Jelly's eyes flashed with resentment. Considering that Tim had really
kept sober and steady for the past year and a half, she looked on the
question as a frightful aspersion. More especially so as proceeding
from Dr. Rane.
"_I_ can answer for it that he has not been drinking--and so, as I
supposed, might everybody else," was her tart reply. "Timothy Wilks is
worried, sir; that's what it is. He has never been at ease since
people accused him of writing that anonymous letter: and he never will
be till he is publicly cleared of it. Sir, I think he ought to be
cleared."
Was it an ice-bolt that seemed to shoot through Oliver Rane's
heart?--or only a spasm? Something took it: though he managed to keep
his countenance, and to speak with quiet indifference.
"Cleared? Cleared of what? I fancied it had been ascertained that
Wilks was the man who spoke of the affair out of Dale's office. He
can't clear himself from that. As to any other suspicion, no one has
cast it on him."
"Well, sir--of course _you know best_," answered Jelly, recollecting
herself and cooling down: but she could not help emphasizing the
words. "If Tim should become dangerously ill, it might have to be done
to set his mind at rest."
"What might have to be done?" demanded Dr. Rane with authority.
And Jelly did not dare to answer the direct question. She could boast
and talk _at_ people in her gossiping way as long as she felt safe,
but when it came to anything like proving her words, she was a very
coward. Dr. Rane was looking at her, waiting for her to speak, his
manner stern and uncompromising.
"Oh well, sir, I'm sure I don't know," she said, feeling as if her
throat had dried up. "And I'm sure I hope poor Tim has not got the
fever."
"I'll call and see him," repeated Dr. Rane, proceeding on his way.
Jelly curtsied and went on hers.
When beyond her view, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face,
damp as with the dews of death. He must, he must get away from Jelly
and Dallory! But for having a wife on his hands, he might have felt
tempted to make a hasty flitting to America and join Dr. Jones. Join
Dr. Jones? But how obtain the funds to do it with? His thoughts
turned, as they ever did on these occasions, to that money of his
locked up in the Tontine. _Of his_: that was how Dr. Rane had come to
regard it. That money would bring him salvation. If he could only
obtain it----
A bow from some white-haired old gentleman, passing in a carriage. Dr.
Rane returned it, the singular coincidence of his appearance at that
moment flashing through his mind. For it was Sir Thomas Ticknell. Yes:
it truly seemed that that Tontine money would be nothing less than
salvation to him. He went on with a great fear and pain in his
throbbing heart, wondering for how long or how short a time Jelly
would keep her counsel.
The next morning was Thursday. It brought news that almost struck
people dumb: Henry Hepburn, the undertaker, was dead, and Mrs. Rane
had been seized with the fever. Dr. Rane's account was, that his wife
had been very restless all night; he gave her a composing draught,
which seemed to be of use for the time: but upon attempting to get up
she was attacked with nausea and faintness, and had to go back to bed.
The symptoms that subsequently set in he feared were those of fever.
It was an awkward time for Bessy to be ill, as Molly Green had gone
homo: but Phillis, an excellent substitute, was there. She attended on
Mrs. Rane, and the doctor went abroad to his patients. Mr. North,
disappointed at Bessy's non-arrival, hearing of her indisposition,
came to the house; but Bessy sent down an urgent message by Phillis,
begging him not to run any danger by coming up to her chamber. And Mr.
North, docile and obedient--as madam in her imperiousness had trained
him to be--left his best love, and went home again.
In the course of the morning Dr. Rane called in at Hepburn's. It was a
double shop and house; in the one were sold articles of furniture, in
the other the carpenter's work was carried on. Thomas Hepburn and his
family lived in the former; Henry, now dead, had occupied the latter.
He was a married man, but had no children. When Dr. Rane entered the
second shop, he did not at first see Thomas Hepburn; the shutters up
at the window made the place dark, coming in from the bright sunshine.
Thomas Hepburn saw him, however, and came forward from the workshop
behind, where he had been looking on at his men. Various articles
seemed to be in the course of active construction, coffins amongst the
rest.
"I am very sorry for this loss, Hepburn," began the doctor.
"Well, sir, I've not had any hope from the first," sighed Hepburn, his
face looking careworn and unusually sickly in the half light. "I don't
think poor Henry had."
"The fact is, Hepburn, he had not strength to carry him through the
disorder; it did not attack him lightly. I did all I could."
"Yes, sir, I'm sure of that," returned Hepburn--and what with his
naturally weak voice, and the hammering that was going on behind, Dr.
Rane had to listen with all his ears to catch the words. "We've been
an ailing family always: liable to take disorders, too, more than
others."
Dr. Rane made no reply for the moment. He was looking at the speaker.
Something in his aspect suggested the suspicion that the man was in
actual fear himself.
"You must keep up a good heart, you know, Hepburn."
"I'd rather go a hundred miles, sir, than do what I've got to do just
now amidst the dead," said Hepburn, glancing round, "_That's_ how my
brother took it."
"Let the workman go instead of you."
The undertaker shook his head. "One _has_ to go with me; and the other
is just as afraid as can be. No, I must go on myself. There'll be
double work for me, now Henry's gone."
"Well, Hepburn, I begin to think the fever is on the turn," said the
doctor cheerily, as he walked away.
The day wore on. Mrs. Rane's symptoms were decidedly those of fever,
and the doctor went all the way to Whitborough himself: not far in
point of distance, only that he could not well spare the time: to tell
Molly Green she was to keep where she was, out of harm's way, and not
return until sent for. When he returned home his wife was worse.
Phillis met him at the door, and said her poor mistress's face was
scarlet, and she rolled her head from side to side. Phillis wanted to
remain the night, but the doctor would not have it: there was no
necessity for it, he said, and she had better not be subjected to
infection more than could be helped. So Phillis went away at ten
o'clock.
Between eleven and twelve, just as Mr. Seeley was preparing for rest,
Dr. Rane came in and asked him to go over to see his wife. The surgeon
went at once. Bessy was lying in her comfortable chamber, just as
Phillis had described--her face scarlet, her head turning uneasily on
the pillow. A candle stood on the table, dimly lighting the room; Mr.
Seeley took it close to inspect her face; but Bessy put up her hand
and turned her head away, as if the light disturbed her.
"She seems slightly delirious," whispered Mr. Seeley apart, and Dr.
Rane nodded. After that, the two doctors talked together a little on
the stairs, and Mr. Seeley went away, saying he would come again in
the morning.
In the morning, however, Dr. Rane went over to tell him that his wife,
after a most restless night, had dropped into a quiet doze, and had
better not be disturbed. He felt sure she was better. This was Friday.
Phillis arrived betimes. She found a wet sheet flapping in the grey
ante-room, just outside the bedroom door, which Dr. Rane had saturated
with disinfecting fluid. Jars of disinfectants stood on the wide
landing, on the staircase, and in other parts of the house. Phillis
had no fear, and went in behind the flapping sheet. She could make
nothing of Mrs. Rane. Instead of the scarlet face and restless head,
she now lay buried in her pillow, still, and pale, and intensely
quiet. Phillis offered her some tea; Mrs. Rane just opened her eyes,
and feebly motioned it away with her hand, just as she had motioned
away the light the previous night. "It's a sudden change," thought
Phillis. "I don't like it."
Later in the morning, Dr. Rane brought up Mr. Seeley. She lay in
exactly the same position, deep in the pillow. What with that, and
what with the large night-cap, the surgeon could get to see very
little of her face.
"Don't disturb me," she faintly said, when he would have aroused her
sufficiently to get a good look. "I am easy now."
"Do you know me?" questioned Mr. Seeley, bending over her.
"Yes," she answered, opening her eyes for a moment. "Let me sleep; I
shall be better tomorrow."
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Only tired. Let me sleep."
"Bessy," said her husband, in the persuasive voice he used to the
sick, "won't you just turn to Mr. Seeley?"
"To-morrow. I want to sleep."
And so they did not disturb her further. After all, sleep does
wonders, as Dr. Rane remarked.
It might have been that Mr. Seeley went away somewhat puzzled,
scarcely thinking that the fever had been on her sufficiently long to
leave her in this state of exhaustion.
As the day went on a rumour was whispered that Mrs. Rane was dying.
Whence it arose none could trace, unless from a word or two dropped by
Dr. Rane himself to Thomas Hepburn. They happened to meet in the
street, and the undertaker stopped to inquire after Mrs. Rane. She was
in a most critical state, was the doctor's answer; the night would
decide it, one way or the other.
Phillis went up to her mistress several times. Dr. Rane kept the
hanging sheet well saturated, and flapped it often. Mrs. Rane never
seemed to rouse herself throughout the day: seemed, in fact, to sleep
through it. Phillis began to hope that it was indeed comfortable,
refreshing rest, and that she would wake from it better.
"You'll let me stay here to-night, sir?" she said, when there was
nothing more to be done, as Dr. Rane--who had been out--came in, and
passed by the kitchen.
"No need," he answered in his decisive manner. "Be here the first
thing in the morning."
Phillis put on her shawl and bonnet, wished him goodnight, and
departed. It was about ten o'clock. Dr. Rane saw her out and went up
to the sick room. In less than five minutes he came down again with a
white face, opened the front-door, and strode across the road to Mr.
Seeley's. The latter was in his surgery, in the act of pouring some
medicine into a small phial.
"Seeley! Seeley! My wife is gone!"
What with the suddenness of the interruption, and the words, the
surgeon was so startled that he dropped the bottle.
"Gone!" he cried. "Do you mean _dead?_"
"I do."
"Why, when I saw you at dusk, you told me she was sleeping
comfortably!" said the surgeon, staring at Dr. Rane. "Phillis also
said it."
"And so she was. She was to all appearance. Heaven is my witness that
I thought and believed the sleep then to be natural, and was
refreshing her. She must have died in it. I went up now, and found
her--found her--gone."
Oliver Rane put his arm on Mr. Seeley's counter and bent his face to
hide his emotion. The surgeon in the midst of his surprise, had hardly
ever felt so sorry for any one as he felt in that moment for his
brother practitioner.