RICHARD COEUR-DE LION
'What is life, father?'
'A battle, my child,
Where the strongest lance may fail;
Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail;
Where the foes are gathered on every hand
And rest not day or night,
And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight.'--Adelaide Anne Procter.
The next day the vicarage had not regained its wonted atmosphere of
quiet cheerfulness, which had been its normal condition since Mildred's
arrival.
In vain had 'the sweet Whistler' haunted the narrow lobby outside
Olive's room, where, with long legs dangling from the window-seat, he
had warbled through the whole of 'Bonnie Dundee' and 'Comin' thro' the
Rye;' after which, helping himself _ad libitum_ from the old-fashioned
bookcase outside Mildred's chamber, he had read through the whole index
of the _Shepherd's Guide_ with a fine nasal imitation of Farmer
Tallentire.
'Roy, how can you be so absurd?'
'Shut up, Contradiction; don't you see I am enlightening Aunt Milly's
mind--clearing it of London fogs? Always imbibe the literature of your
country. People living on the fellside will find this a useful handbook
of reference, containing "a proper delineation of the usual horn and
ear-marks of all the members' sheep, extending from Bowes and Wensley
dale to Sedbergh in Yorkshire, from Ravenstone-dale and Brough to
Gillumholme in Westmorland, from Crossfell and Kirkoswold----"'
Here, Chriss falling upon the book, the drawling monotone was quenched,
and a sharp scuffle ensued, in which Royal made his escape, betaking
himself during the remainder of the day to his glass studio and the
society of congenial canaries.
The day was intensely hot; Olive's headache had yielded at last to
Mildred's treatment, but she seemed heavy and languid and dragged
herself with difficulty to the dinner-table, shocking every one but
Richard with her altered appearance.
Richard had so far recovered his temper that he had made up his mind
with some degree of magnanimity to ignore (at least outwardly) what had
occurred. He kissed Olive coolly when she entered, and hoped, somewhat
stiffly, that her head was better; but he took no notice of the yearning
look in the dark eyes raised to his, though it haunted him long
afterwards, neither did he address her again; and Mildred was distressed
to find that Olive scarcely touched her food, and at last crept away
before half the meal was over, with the excuse that her head was aching
again, but in reality unable to bear the chill restraint of her
brother's presence.
Mildred found her giddy and confused, and yet unwilling to own herself
anything but well, and with a growing sense of despondency and
hopelessness that made her a trying companion for a hot afternoon. She
talked Mildred and herself into a state of drowsiness at last, from
which the former was roused by hearing Ethel Trelawny's voice on the
terrace below.
Mildred was thankful for any distraction, and the sight of the tall
figure in the riding-habit, advancing so gracefully to meet her, was
especially refreshing, though Ethel accosted her with unusual gravity,
and hoped she would not be in the way.
'Papa has ridden over to Appleby, and will call for me on his return. I
started with the intention of going with him, but the afternoon is so
oppressive that I repented of my determination; will you give me a cup
of tea instead, Mildred?'
'Willingly,' was the cheerful answer; and as she gave the order, Ethel
seated herself on the steps leading down to the small smooth-shaven
croquet-lawn, and, doffing her hat and gauntlets, amused herself with
switching the daisy-heads with her jewelled riding-whip until Mildred
returned.
'Is Olive better?' she asked abruptly, as Mildred seated herself beside
her with needlework.
Mildred looked a little surprised as she answered, but a
delicately-worded question or two soon showed her that Ethel was not
entirely ignorant of the state of the case. She had met Richard in the
town on the previous day, and, startled at his gloomy looks, had coaxed
him, though with great difficulty, to accompany her home.
'It was not very easy to manage him in such a mood, continued Ethel,
with her crisp laugh. 'I felt, as we were going up the Crofts, as though
I were Una leading her lion. He was dumb all the way; he contrived a
roar at the end, though--we were very nearly having our first quarrel.'
'I am afraid you were hard on your knight then.'
Ethel coloured a little disdainfully, but she coloured nevertheless.
'Boys were not knighted in the old days, Mildred--they had to win their
spurs, though,' hesitating, 'few could boast of a more gallant exploit
perhaps;' but with a sudden sparkle of fun in her beautiful eyes, 'a
lionised Richard, not a Coeur-de-Lion, but the horrid, blatant beast
himself, must be distressful to any one but a Una.'
'Poor Richard! you should have soothed instead of irritated him.'
'Counter-irritants are good for some diseases; besides, it was his own
fault. He did not put me in possession of the real facts of the case
until the last, and then only scantily. When I begged to know more, he
turned upon me quite haughtily; it might have been Coeur-de-Lion
himself before Ascalon, when Berengaria chose to be inquisitive. Indeed
he gave me a strong hint that I could have no possible right to question
him at all. I felt inclined half saucily to curtsey to his mightiness,
only he looked such a sore-hearted Coeur-de-Lion.'
'I like your choice of names; it fits Cardie somehow. I believe the
lion-hearted king could contrive to get into rages sometimes. If I were
mischievous, which I am not, I would not let you forget you have likened
yourself to Berengaria.'
It was good to see the curl of Ethel's lips as she completely ignored
Mildred's speech.
'I suppressed the mocking reverence and treated him to a prettily-worded
apology instead, which had the effect of bringing him 'off the stilts,'
as a certain doctor calls it. I tell him sometimes, by way of excuse,
that the teens are a stilted period in one's life.'
'Do you mean that you are younger than Richard?'
'I am three months his junior, as he takes care to remind me sometimes.
Did you ever see youth treading on the heels of bearded age as in
Richard's case, poor fellow? I am really very sorry for him,' she
continued, in a tone of such genuine feeling that Mildred liked her
better than ever.
'I hope you told him so.'
'Yes, I was very good to him when I saw my sarcasms hurt. I gave him tea
with my own fair hands, and was very plentiful in the matter of cream,
which I know to be his weakness; and I made Minto pet him and Lassie
jump up on his knee, and by and by my good temper was rewarded, and
"Richard was himself again!"'
'Did he tell you he is going to Oxford after Christmas?'
'Yes; I am thankful to hear it. What is the good of his rusting here,
when every one says he has such wonderful abilities? I hope you do not
think me wrong, Mildred,' blushing slightly, 'but I strongly advocated
his reading for the Bar.'
Mildred sighed.
'There is no doubt he wishes it above all things; he quite warmed into
eagerness as we discussed it. My father has always said that his clear
logical head and undoubted talents would be invaluable as a barrister.
He has no want of earnestness, but he somehow lacks the persuasive
eloquence that ought to be innate in the real priest; and yet when I
said as much he shook his head, and relapsed into sadness again, said
there was more than that, hinted at a rooted antipathy, then turned it
off by owning that he disliked the notion of talking to old women about
their souls; was sure he would be a cypher at a sickbed, good for
nothing but scolding the people all round, and thought writing a couple
of sermons a week the most wearisome work in the world--digging into
one's brains for dry matter that must not be embellished even by a few
harmless Latin and Greek quotations.'
Mildred looked grave. 'I fear he dislikes the whole thing.'
But Ethel interposed eagerly. 'You must not blame him if he be unfit by
temperament. He had far better be a rising barrister than a half-hearted
priest.'
'I would sooner see him anything than that--a navvy rather.'
'That is what I say,' continued Miss Trelawny, triumphant; 'and yet when
I hinted as much he threw up his head with quite a Coeur-de-Lion look,
and said, "Yes, I know, but you must not tempt me to break through my
father's wishes. If it can be done without sacrilege----" And then he
stopped, and asked if it were only the Westmorland old women were so
trying. I do call it very wrong, Mildred, that any bias should have been
put on his wishes in this respect, especially as in two more years
Richard knows he will be independent of his father.' And as Mildred
looked astonished at this piece of information, Ethel modestly returned
that she had been intimate so many years at the vicarage--at least with
the vicar and his wife and Richard--that many things came to her
knowledge. Both she and her father knew that part of the mother's money
had, with the vicar's consent, been settled on her boy, and Mildred, who
knew that a considerable sum had a few years before been left to Betha
by an eccentric uncle whom Mr. Lambert had inadvertently offended, and
that he had willed it exclusively for the use of his niece and her
children, was nevertheless surprised to hear that while a moderate
portion had been reserved to her girls, Roy's share was only small,
while Richard at one-and-twenty would be put in possession of more than
three hundred a year.
'Between three and four, I believe Mr. Lambert told my father. Roy is to
have a hundred a year, and the girls about two thousand apiece. Richard
will have the lion's share. I believe this same uncle took a fancy to
Roy's saucy face, and left a sum of money to be appropriated to his
education. Richard says there will be plenty for a thorough art
education and a year at Rome; he hinted too that if Roy failed of
achieving even moderate success in his profession, there was sufficient
for both. Anything rather than Roy should be crossed in his ambition! I
call that generous, Mildred.'
'And I; but I am a little surprised at my brother making such a point of
Richard being a clergyman; he is very reticent at times. Come, Ethel,
you look mysterious. I suppose you can explain even this?'
'I can; but at least you are hardly such a stranger to your own nephews
and nieces as not to be aware of the worldly consideration there is
involved.'
'You forget,' returned Mildred, sadly, 'what a bad correspondent my
brother is; Betha was better, but it was not often the busy house-mother
could find leisure for long chatty letters. You are surely not speaking
of what happened when Richard was fourteen?'
Ethel nodded and continued:
'That accounts of course for his being in such favour at the Palace.
They say the Bishop and Mrs. Douglas would do anything for him--that
they treat him as though he were their own son; Rolf and he are to go to
the same college--Magdalen, too, though Mr. Lambert wanted him to go to
Queen's; they say, if anything happened to Mr. Lambert, that Richard
would be sure of the living; in a worldly point of view it certainly
sounds better than a briefless barrister.'
'Ethel, you must not say such things. I cannot allow that my brother
would be influenced by such worldly considerations tempting as they
are,' replied Mildred, indignantly.
But Ethel laid her hand softly on her arm.
'Dear Mildred, this is only one side of the question; that something far
deeper is involved I know from Richard himself; I heard it years ago,
when Cardie was younger, and had not learned to be proud and cold with
his old playmate,' and Ethel's tone was a little sad.
'May I know?' asked Mildred, pleadingly; 'there is no fear of Richard
ever telling me himself.'
Ethel hesitated slightly.
'He might not like it; but no, there can be no harm; you ought to know
it, Mildred; until now it seemed so beautiful--Richard thought so
himself.'
'You mean that Betha wished it as well as Arnold?'
'Ah! you have guessed it. What if the parents, in the fulness of their
fresh young happiness, desired to dedicate their first-born to the
priesthood, would not this better fit your conception of your brother's
character, always so simple and unconventional?'
A gleam of pleasure passed over Mildred's face, but it was mixed with
pain. A fresh light seemed thrown on Richard's difficulty; she could
understand the complication now. With Richard's deep love for his
mother, would he not be tempted to regard her wishes as binding, all the
more that it involved sacrifice on his part?
'It might be so, but Richard should not feel it obligatory to carry out
his parents' wish if there be any moral hindrance,' she continued
thoughtfully.
'That is what I tell him. I have reason to know that it was a favourite
topic of conversation between the mother and son, and Mrs. Lambert often
assured me, with tears in her eyes, that Richard was ardent to follow
his father's profession. I remember on the eve of his confirmation that
he told me himself that he felt he was training for the noblest vocation
that could fall to the lot of man. Until two years ago there was no hint
of repugnance, not a whisper of dissent; no wonder all this is a blow to
his father!'
'No, indeed!' assented Mildred.
'Can you guess what has altered him so?' continued Ethel, with a
scrutinising glance. 'I have noticed a gradual change in him the last
two or three years; he is more reserved, less candid in every way. I
confess I have hardly understood him of late.'
'He has not recovered his mother's death,' returned Mildred, evasively;
it was a relief to her that Ethel was in ignorance of the real cause of
the change in Richard. She herself was the only person who held the full
clue to the difficulty; Richard's reserve had baffled his father. Mr.
Lambert had no conception of the generous scruples that had hindered his
son's confidence, and prevented him from availing himself of his
tempting offer; and as she thought of the Coeur-de-Lion look with
which he had repelled Ethel's glowing description, a passionate pity
woke in her heart, and for the moment she forgave the chafed bitter
temper, in honest consideration for the noble struggle that preceded it.
'What were you telling me about Richard and young Douglas?' she asked,
after a minute's pause, during which Ethel, disappointed by her
unexpected reserve, had relapsed into silence. 'Betha was ill at the
time, or I should have had a more glowing description than Arnold's
brief paragraph afforded me. I know Richard jumped into the mill-stream
and pulled one of the young Douglases out; but I never heard the
particulars.'
'You astonish me by your cool manner of talking about it. It was an act
of pure heroism not to be expected in a boy of fourteen; all the county
rang with it for weeks afterwards. He and Rolf were playing down by the
mill, at Dalston, a few miles from the Palace, and somehow Rolf slipped
over the low parapet: you know the mill-stream: it has a dangerous eddy,
and there is a dark deep pool that makes you shudder to look at: the
miller's man heard Richard's shout of distress, but he was at the
topmost story, and long before he could have got to the place the lad
must have been swept under the wheel. Richard knew this, and the gallant
little fellow threw off his jacket and jumped in. Rolf could not swim,
but Richard struck out with all his might and caught him by his sleeve
just as the eddy was sucking him in. Richard was strong even then, and
he would have managed to tow him into shallow water but for Rolf's
agonised struggles; as it was, he only just managed to keep his head
above water, and prevent them both from sinking until help came.
Braithwaite had not thrown the rope a moment too soon, for, as he told
the Bishop afterwards, both the boys were drifting helplessly towards
the eddy. Richard's strength was exhausted by Rolf's despairing
clutches, but he had drawn Rolf's head on his breast and was still
holding him up; he fainted as they were hauled up the bank, and as it
was, his heroism cost him a long illness. I have called him
Coeur-de-Lion ever since.'
'Noble boy!' returned Mildred, with sparkling eyes; but they were dim
too.
'There, I hear the horses! how quickly time always passes in your
company, Mildred. Good-bye; I must not give papa time to get one foot
out of the stirrup, or he will tell me I have kept him waiting;' and
leaving Mildred to follow her more leisurely, Ethel gathered up her long
habit and quickly disappeared.
Later that evening as Dr. Heriot passed through the dusky courtyard, he
found Mildred waiting in the porch.
'How late you are; I almost feared you were not coming to-night,' she
said anxiously, in answer to his cheery 'good evening.'
'Am I to flatter myself that you were watching for me then?' he
returned, veiling a little surprise under his usual light manner. 'How
are all the tempers, Miss Lambert? I hope I am not required to call
spirits blue and gray from the vasty deep, as I am not sure that I feel
particularly sportive to-night.'
'I wanted to speak to you about Olive,' returned Mildred, quietly
ignoring the banter. 'She does not seem well. The headache was fully
accounted for yesterday, but I do not like the look of her to-night. I
felt her pulse just now, and it was quick, weak, and irregular, and she
was complaining of giddiness and a ringing in her ears.'
'I have noticed she has not looked right for some days, especially on
St. Peter's day. Do you wish me to see her?' he continued, with a touch
of professional gravity.
'I should be much obliged if you would,' she returned, gratefully; 'she
is in my room at present, as Chriss's noise disturbs her. Your visit
will put her out a little, as any questioning about her health seems to
make her irritable.'
'She will not object to an old friend; anyhow, we must brave her
displeasure. Will you lead the way, Miss Lambert?'
They found Olive sitting huddled up in her old position, and looking wan
and feverish. She shaded her eyes a little fretfully from the candle
Mildred carried, and looked at Dr. Heriot rather strangely and with some
displeasure.
'How do you feel to-night, Olive?' he asked kindly, possessing himself
with some difficulty of the dry languid hand, and scrutinising with
anxiety the sunken countenance before him. Two days of agitation and
suppressed illness had quite altered the girl's appearance.
'I am well--at least, only tired--there is nothing the matter with me.
Aunt Milly ought not to have troubled you,' still irritably.
'Aunt Milly knows trouble is sometimes a pleasure. You are not well,
Olive, or you would not be so cross with your old friend.'
She hesitated, put up her hand to her head, and looked ready to burst
into tears.
'Come,' he continued, sitting down beside her, and speaking gently as
though to a child, 'you are ill or unhappy--or both, and talking makes
your head ache.'
'Yes,' she returned, mechanically, 'it is always aching now, but it is
nothing.'
'Most people are not so stoical. You must not keep things so much to
yourself, Olive. If you would own the truth I daresay you have felt
languid and disinclined to move for several days?'
'I daresay. I cannot remember,' she faltered; but his keen, steady
glance was compelling her to rouse herself.
'And you have not slept well, and your limbs ache as though you were
tired and bruised, and your thoughts get a little confused and
troublesome towards evening.'
'They are always that,' she returned, heavily; but she did not refuse to
answer the few professional questions that Dr. Heriot put. His grave
manner, and the thoughtful way in which he watched Olive, caused Mildred
some secret uneasiness; it struck her that the girl was a little
incoherent in her talk.
'Well--well,' he said, cheerfully, laying down the hand, 'you must give
up the fruitless struggle and submit to be nursed well again. Get her to
bed, Miss Lambert, and keep her and the room as cool as possible. She
will remain here, I suppose,' he continued abruptly, and as Mildred
assented, he seemed relieved. 'I will send her some medicine at once. I
shall see you downstairs presently,' he finished pointedly; and Mildred,
who understood him, returned in the affirmative. She was longing to have
Dr. Heriot's opinion; but she was too good a nurse not to make the
patient her first consideration. Supper was over by the time the draught
was administered, and Olive left fairly comfortable with Nan within
earshot. The girls had already retired to their rooms, and Dr. Heriot
was evidently waiting for Mildred, for he seemed absent and slightly
inattentive to the vicar's discourse. Richard, who was at work over some
of his father's papers, made no attempt to join in the conversation.
Mr. Lambert interrupted himself on Mildred's entrance.
'By the bye, Milly, have you spoken to Heriot about Olive?'
'Yes, I have seen her, Mr. Lambert; her aunt was right; the girl is very
far from well.'
'Nothing serious, I hope,' ejaculated the vicar, while Richard looked up
quickly from his writing. Dr. Heriot looked a little embarrassed.
'I shall judge better to-morrow; the symptoms will be more decided; but
I am afraid--that is, I am nearly certain--that it is a touch of typhoid
fever.'
The stifled exclamation came not from the vicar, but from the farthest
corner of the room. Mr. Lambert merely turned a little paler, and
clasped his hands.
'God forbid, Heriot! That poor child!'
'We shall know in a few hours for certain--she is ill, very ill I should
say.'
'But she was with us, she dined with us to-day,' gasped Richard, unable
to comprehend what was the true state of the case.
'It is not uncommon for people who are really ill of fever to go about
for some days until they can struggle with the feelings of illness no
longer. To-night there is slight confusion and incoherence, and the
ringing in the ears that is frequently the forerunner of delirium; she
will be a little wandering to-night,' he continued, turning to Mildred.
'You must give me your instructions,' she returned, with the calmness of
one to whom illness was no novelty; but Mr. Lambert interrupted her.
'Typhoid fever; the very thing that caused such mortality in the Farrer
and Bales' cottages last year.'
'I should not be surprised if we find Olive has been visiting there of
late, and inhaling some of the poisonous gases. I have always said this
place is enough to breed a fever; the water is unwholesome, too, and she
is so careless that she may have forgotten how strongly I condemned it.
The want of waterworks, and the absence of the commonest precautions,
are the crying evils of a place like this.' And Dr. Heriot threw up his
head and began to pace the room, as was his fashion when roused or
excited, while he launched into bitter invectives against the suicidal
ignorance that set health at defiance by permitting abuses that were
enough to breed a pestilence.
The full amount of the evil was as yet unknown to Mildred; but
sufficient detail was poured into her shrinking ear to justify Dr.
Heriot's indignation, and she was not a little shocked to find the happy
valley was not exempt from the taint of fatal ignorance and prejudice.
'Your old hobby, Heriot,' said Mr. Lambert, with a faint smile; 'but at
least the Board of Guardians are taking up the question seriously now.'
'How could they fail to do so after the last report of the medical
officer of health? We shall get our waterworks now, I suppose, through
stress of hard fighting; but----'
'But my poor child----' interrupted Mr. Lambert, anxiously.
Dr. Heriot paused in his restless walk.
'Will do well, I trust, with her youth, sound constitution, and your
sister's good nursing. I was going to say,' he continued, turning to Mr.
Lambert, 'that with your old horror of fevers, you would be glad if the
others were to be removed from any possible contagion that might arise;
though, as I have already told you, that I cannot pronounce decidedly
whether it be the _typhus mitior_ or the other; in a few hours the
symptoms will be decided. But anyhow it is as well to be on the safe
side, and Polly and Chriss can come to me; we can find plenty of room
for Richard and Royal as well.'
'You need not arrange for me--I shall stay with my father and Aunt
Milly,' returned Richard abruptly, tossing back the wave of dark hair
that lay on his forehead, and pushing away his chair.
'Nay, Cardie, I shall not need you; and your aunt will find more leisure
for her nursing if you are all off her hands. I shall be easier too.
Heriot knows my old nervousness in this respect.
'I shall not leave you, father,' was Richard's sole rejoinder; but his
father's affectionate and anxious glance was unperceived as he quickly
gathered up the papers and left the room.
'I think Dick is right,' returned Dr. Heriot, cheerfully. 'The vicarage
need not be cleared as though it were the pestilence. Now, Miss Lambert,
I will give you a few directions, and then I must say good-night.'
When Mildred returned to her charge, she found Richard standing by the
bedside, contemplating his sister with a grave, impassive face. Olive
did not seem to notice him; she was moving restlessly on her pillow, her
dark hair unbound and falling on her flushed face. Richard gathered it
up gently and looked at his aunt.
'We may have to get rid of some of it to-morrow,' she whispered; 'what a
pity, it is so long and beautiful; but it will prevent her losing all.
You must not stay now, Richard; I fancy it disturbs her,' as Olive
muttered something drowsily, and flung her arms about a little wildly;
'leave her to me to-night, dear; I will come to you first thing
to-morrow morning, and tell you how she is.'
'Thank you,' he replied, gratefully.
Mildred was not wrong in her surmises that something like remorse for
his unkindness made him stoop over the bed with the softly uttered
'Good-night, Livy.'
'Good-night,' she returned, drowsily. 'Don't trouble about me, Cardie;'
and with that he was fain to retire.
Things continued in much the same state for days. Dr. Heriot's opinion
of the nature of the disease was fully confirmed. There was no abatement
of fever, but an increase of debility. Olive's delirium was never
violent--it was rather a restlessness and confusion of thought; she lay
for hours in a semi-somnolent state, half-muttering to herself, yet
without distinct articulation. Now and then a question would rouse her,
and she would give a rational answer; but she soon fell back into the
old drowsy state again.
Her nights were especially troubled in this respect. In the day she was
comparatively quiet; but for many successive nights all natural sleep
departed from her, and her confused and incoherent talk was very painful
to hear.
Mildred fancied that Richard's presence made her more restless than at
other times; but when she hinted this, he looked so pained that she
could not find it in her heart to banish him, especially as his ready
strength and assistance were a great comfort to her. Mildred had refused
all exterior help. Nan's watchful care was always available during her
hours of necessary repose, and Mildred had been so well trained in the
school of nursing, that a few hours' sound sleep would send her back to
her post rested and refreshed. Dr. Heriot's admiration of his model
nurse, as he called her, was genuine and loudly expressed; and he often
assured Mr. Lambert, when unfavourable symptoms set in, that if Olive
recovered it would be mainly owing to her aunt's unwearied nursing.
Mildred often wondered what she would have done without Richard, as
Olive grew weaker, and the slightest exertion brought on fainting, or
covered her with a cold, clammy sweat. Richard's strong arms were of use
now to lift her into easier positions. Mildred never suffered him to
share in the night watches, for which she and Nan were all-sufficient;
but the last thing at night, and often before the early dawn, his pale
anxious face would be seen outside the door; and all through the day he
was ever at hand to render valuable assistance. Once Mildred was
surprised to hear her name softly called from the far end of the lobby,
and on going out she found herself face to face with Ethel Trelawny.
'Oh, Ethel! this is very wrong. Your father----'
'I told her so,' returned Richard, who looked half grateful and half
uneasy; 'but she would come--she said she must see you. Aunt Milly looks
pale,' he continued, turning to Ethel; 'but we cannot be surprised at
that--she gets so little sleep.'
'You will be worn out, Mildred. Papa will be angry, I know; but I cannot
help it. I mean to stay and nurse Olive.'
'My dear Ethel!' Richard uttered an incredulous exclamation; but Miss
Trelawny was evidently in earnest; her fine countenance looked pale and
saddened.
'I can and must; do let me, Mildred. I have often stayed up all night
for my own pleasure.'
'But you are so unused to illness--it cannot be thought of for a
moment,' ejaculated Richard in alarm.
'Women nurse by instinct. I should look at Mildred--she would soon
teach me. Why do you all persist in treating me as though I were quite
helpless? Papa is wrong; typhoid fever is not infectious, and if it
were, what use am I to any one? My life is not of as much consequence as
Mildred's.'
'There is always the risk of contagion, and--and--why will you always
speak of yourself so recklessly, Miss Trelawny?' interposed Richard in a
pained voice, 'when you know how precious your life is to us all;' but
Ethel turned from him impatiently.
'Mildred, you will let me come?'
'No, Ethel, indeed I cannot, though I am very grateful to you for
wishing it. Your father is your first consideration, and his wishes
should be your law.'
'Papa is afraid of everything,' she pleaded; 'he will not let me go into
the cottages where there is illness, and----'
'He is right to take care of his only child,' replied Mildred, calmly.
Richard seemed relieved.
'I knew you would say so, Aunt Milly; we are grateful--more grateful
than I can say, dear Miss Trelawny; but I knew it ought not to be.'
'And you must not come here again without your father's permission,'
continued Mildred, gently, and taking her hands; 'we have to remember
sometimes that to obey is better than sacrifice, dear Ethel. I am
grieved to disappoint your generous impulse,' as the girl turned
silently away with the tears in her eyes.
'Dr. Heriot said I should have no chance, and Richard was as bad. Well,
good-bye,' trying to rally her spirits as she saw Mildred looked really
pained. 'I envy you your labour of love, Mildred; it is sweet--it must
be sweet to be really useful to some one;' and the sigh that accompanied
her words evidently came from a deep place in Ethel Trelawny's heart.