DEATH AND VICTORY.
It was late in October when Lady Kilrush arrived at her house in St.
James's Square. What a gloomy splendour, what an unromantic luxury the
spacious mansion presented after the lake and mountains, the chestnut
woods and rose gardens of Lombardy. Yet this old English comfort
within doors, while the grey mists of autumn brooded over the square
where the oil lamps made spots of quivering golden light amidst the
deepening gloom, had a certain charm, and Antonia was not ill pleased
to find herself taking a dish of tea by the fire in the library with
her old friend Patty Granger, who brought her the news of the town, the
weddings and elopements, the duels and law-suits, the beauties who had
lost their looks, and the prodigals who had anticipated their majority
and ruined an estate by a single cast at hazard.
"And so Lord Dunkeld travelled all the way from Como with you and Mrs.
Potter?" said Patty, when she had emptied her budget. "You must have
been vastly tired of him by the time you got home, after being boxed in
a travelling chariot for over a se'nnight."
"There are people of whose company one does not easily tire, Patty."
"Then my old General ain't one of 'em; for I yawn till my jaws ache
whenever we spend an evening together, and he sits and proses over
Marlborough's wars and the two chargers he had shot under him at
Malplaquet. Sure I knew all his stories by heart long before we were
married; and 'tain't likely I'll listen to 'em now. But if you can
relish Lord Dunkeld's conversation for a week in a chaise, perhaps
you'll be able to endure it from year's end to year's end when you're
his wife."
"What are you thinking of, child? I am not going to marry Lord Dunkeld,
or any other man living."
"Then I think you ought to have put the poor wretch out of his pain a
year ago, and not let him dance attendance on you half over Europe."
"His lordship has known my mind for a long time, and is pleased to
honour me with his friendship."
"Ah, you have a knack of turning lovers into friends. You was friends
with Mr. Stobart till you quarrelled with him and sent him off to the
wars. And I doubt he's killed by this time, if he was with Wolfe; for
the General tells me our soldiers haven't a chance against the French."
"Does the General say that, Patty?" Antonia asked anxiously.
She had read all the newspapers on her home-coming. There was no fresh
news from America; but the tone about the war was despondent. Wolfe's
army before Quebec was but nine thousand, the enemy's force nearly
double. Amherst was at a distance, winter approaching, the outlook of a
universal blackness.
"The General has hardly any hopes," said Patty. "He has seen Wolfe's
last letter, such a down-hearted letter; and the poor man is fitter
to lie a-bed in a hospital than to storm a city. He has always been a
sickly wretch; never could abide the sea, and suffers more on a voyage
than a delicate young woman."
* * * * *
Antonia lay awake half that night, despondent and uneasy, and in her
troubled morning sleep dreamt of George Stobart, in a grenadier's
uniform, with an ashen countenance, the blood streaming from a sabre
cut on his forehead. He looked at her with fading eyes, and reproached
her for her cruelty. 'Twas her unkindness had sent him to his doom.
She woke out of this nightmare vision to hear news-boys yelling in the
square. "Taking of Quebec. A glorious victory. Death of General Wolfe.
Death of General Montcalm." She sprang from her bed, threw up a window,
and looked down into the square. It was hardly light. The news-boys
were bawling as if they were mad, and street doors and area gates were
opening, and eager hands were stretched out to snatch the papers. A
ragamuffin crowd was following the news-boys, the crowd that is afoot
at all hours, and comes from nowhere. "Great English victory--Slaughter
of the enemy. Death of General Wolfe on the field of battle. Death of
General Montcalm. Destruction of the French. Quebec taken."
Mr. Pitt had received the news late last night, and this morning 'twas
in all the papers. The shouting of the news-vendors made a confusion
of harsh noises, each trying to bawl louder than his fellows. And then
came the sound of trumpet and drum in Pall Mall, as the guard marched
to the Palace, and anon loud hurrahs from the excited crowd in the
square, in Pall Mall, everywhere, filling the air with vociferous
exultation.
Death and victory! The words reached Antonia's ear together. Victory
purchased at what cost of blood, what sacrifice of lives that were
dear? She had met old General Wolfe and his handsome wife, now a widow,
the hero's proud mother; and it was sad to think of that lady's agony
to-day, while all England was rejoicing, all who had not lost their
dearest as she had.
Both generals slain! And how many of those they led to battle? Were
George Stobart's bones lying on the heights of Abraham, the prey of
eagles and wolves, or buried hastily by some friendly hand, hidden for
ever under that far-off soil, which the winter snow would soon cover?
Her heart ached at the thought that she would see him no more, she who
had desired, or thought she desired, never to look upon his face.
She sent her woman for the newspapers, and turned them over with
trembling hands, standing by the open window in the chill autumnal air,
too much discomposed even to sit down. The _Daily Advertiser_ had a
letter with a description of the siege; all the wonder of it; the boats
creeping up the river under the midnight stars; the ascent of that grim
height through the darkness, the soldiers clambering with uncertain
foothold, clutching at bushes, struggling through trees, their muskets
slung at their backs, the _qui vive?_ of the French sentinel above, the
courage, the address, the presence of mind of leaders and men. There
had been great losses; but there was no list of the killed; and Stobart
might be among them.
She ordered her coach to be at the door in an hour, and waited only to
dress and take a cup of chocolate before she went to see Mrs. Stobart,
who, if her husband had survived the siege, might have had a letter by
the ship that brought England the news from Quebec.
A stranger opened the door at Crown Place. Instead of Mrs. Stobart's
handmaiden, in white apron and mob cap, Antonia saw an old woman,
of dejected aspect, who stared at the footman and coach as at some
appalling vision.
Yes, Mrs. Stobart was at home, but she was very ill, the woman said,
and it might be dangerous for the lady to see her.
The lady, who had alighted at the opening of the door, took no heed of
this warning. The wife was ill, struck down perhaps by the shock of
fatal news. Antonia instantly associated Lucy's illness with the fate
of her husband.
"Where is she?" she asked, and ran upstairs without waiting to be
answered. In an eight-roomed house it was not difficult to find the
mistress's chamber. She opened the door of the front room softly, and
found herself in darkness, an obscurity made horrible by the stifling
heat of the room, where the red cinders of what had been a fierce fire
made a lurid glow behind the high brass fender. The dimity curtains
were closed round the bed. Antonia drew one of them aside and looked
at the sick woman. She was asleep, and breathing heavily, her forehead
bound with a linen cloth, and the hand lying on the coverlet burnt like
a hot coal under Antonia's touch.
The old woman came panting up the stairs, and after stopping to recover
her normal breathing power, which was but feeble, she addressed the
visitor in a voice of alarm.
"Oh, madam, you had best come away from the bed. 'Tis the small-pox, a
bad case, and if you have never had the disease----"
"I have been inoculated. I am not afraid," Antonia answered quickly,
thinking only of the patient. Alas, poor soul, to be seized with that
hateful sickness, which she so feared. "How did she come by this
horrible malady, ma'am?"
"She caught it from an old gentleman, my lady--I believe he was a
relation--who died in the house. She was taken ill the night after
his funeral, a fortnight ago. 'Tis the worst kind of small-pox. She
was quite sensible two days ago, and then the fever came back, the
secondary fever, the doctor calls it. Even if she gets over it she
will be disfigured for life, poor lady, and may lose her eyesight.
'Tis as bad a case as I ever nursed, and if your honour hadn't been
inoculated----"
"But I have, woman, and I have no fear. Pray tell me where is this
lady's son? Was he in the house when she was taken ill?"
"No, my lady. The little master is living with his gran'ma, the servant
girl told me."
"That is fortunate. Are you Mrs. Stobart's only nurse?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And at night when you are asleep, who attends upon her?"
"I am a very light sleeper, ma'am. I mostly hears her when she calls
me, if she calls loud enough."
"She must have two nurses. I will get another woman to help you, and I
shall come every day to see that she is attended properly. Pray, who is
her doctor?"
The woman named a humble apothecary in Lambeth, called Morton, whom
Antonia had often met in her visits to the poor, a meek elderly man in
whose skill and kindness she had confidence, in spite of his rusty coat
and breeches, coarse cotton stockings and grubby hands.
"I will send a physician to see her. Tell Mr. Morton that I shall send
Dr. Heberden, who will confer with him. Do you know if Mrs. Stobart has
had any trouble on her mind lately, any anxiety?"
"Only about her house, my lady. Her slut of a maid ran away directly
she heard 'twas small-pox."
The apothecary came in while Antonia was standing by the bed, and was
aghast at the spectacle.
"Does your ladyship know what risk you run here? Oh, madam, for God's
sake, leave this infected air."
"I am not afraid. I did not take the disease when the doctors tried to
inoculate me. I doubt I am proof against the poison."
"Nay, madam, you must not count on that. I implore you to leave this
room instantly, and never to re-enter it. 'Tis a bad case of confluent
small-pox, and I fear 'twill be fatal."
"And this poor lady is alone, her husband fighting in America, killed
in the late battle, perhaps. At whatever risk I shall do all I can for
her. And I hope we may save her, sir, with care and good nursing."
"Your ladyship may be sure I will do my best," said Morton.
"I will go out into the air while you see to your patient. This room is
stifling. You will find me below, waiting to talk to you."
She walked on the footpath by the river till the apothecary came to
her, and then gave him her instructions. Dr. Heberden was to see the
patient that afternoon, if possible. Antonia would wait upon him and
persuade him to do so. And Mr. Morton was to be at hand to receive his
instructions. And a nurse was to be found, more serviceable than the
old woman on the premises, who seemed civil and obliging, and could be
kept to help her.
"And I shall see the patient every day," concluded Antonia.
"I must warn your ladyship once more, that you will do so at the peril
of your life."
"My good Mr. Morton, there are situations in which that hazard hardly
counts. This poor lady's husband, for instance, has he not risked his
life a hundred times in America? Risked and lost it, perhaps!"
There was a catch in her voice like a stifled sob, as she spoke the
last sentence.
"That is a vastly different matter, your ladyship," said Morton
gravely; but he ventured no farther remonstrance.
* * * * *
Antonia saw the physician, and obtained his promise to see Mrs. Stobart
that afternoon. She drove through streets that were in a tumult of
rejoicing at the success of British arms. No one thought of the
general who had fallen, the soldiers who had died. Victory was on every
lip, exultation in every mind. 'Twas all the coachman could do to steer
horses and chariot through the crowd.
Arrived at home safely, Lady Kilrush told the hall porter to deny her
to all visitors, which would not be difficult, since her arrival in
London had not been recorded in the newspapers, and Lord Dunkeld was
on the road to Scotland, to shoot grouse on his own moors. She ordered
her chair for six o'clock, and in the meanwhile shut herself in her
dressing-room, where Sophy found her, to whom she related her morning's
work.
"If you are frightened don't come near me," she said.
"I am frightened for you, madam, not for myself. I suppose after having
had such a bout when I was inoculated I am safe to escape the small-pox
for the rest of my life. Sure I carry the marks on my face and neck,
though they mayn't be so bad as to make me hideous."
"Then if you are not afraid, you can keep me company in this room of an
evening, till Mrs. Stobart is well enough to be sent into the country;
and you can drive and walk with me. I will admit no visitors, for I
must see her every day if I would be sure that her nurses do their
duty. Poor soul, she is alone, and in great danger."
Sophy implored her mistress to run no such hazard, besought her with
tears, and with the importunity of a warm affection. In her ladyship's
case inoculation had been a failure. She would be mad to re-enter that
infected house. Sophy would herself visit Mrs. Stobart, and see that
she was properly nursed.
"No, child, no, it is I who must go. It is my duty."
"Why, I never knew you was so fond of her--a pretty simpleton, with
scarce a word to say for herself."
"Don't argue with me, Sophy. It is useless. If there is any risk, I
have run it," Antonia answered.
She shivered as she recalled that darkened chamber, the tainted
atmosphere, the oppressive heat of a fire that had been burning day and
night through the mild October weather. She knew that there was poison
in that pestilential air, and that she had inhaled it, knew and did not
care.
Her eyes were shining with a feverish light. Her heart ached with
remorseful pity for the deserted wife, deserted by the man who had fled
from his country, flung himself into a service of danger, flung away
his life perhaps. It was because she had been unwise, had encouraged a
close friendship that was but a mask for love, that yonder poor woman
was lying on her sick bed deserted by her natural protector. He had
sacrificed every tie, renounced every duty, on account of that guilty
love. She hated herself when she thought that she had lured him from
his home, had made him her friend and counsellor, at the expense of his
young wife. Every hour he had spent with her in St. James's Square had
been stolen from Lucy and her boy. It was the wife who had a right to
his thoughts, his counsels, his leisure; and she had filched them from
her. He had lingered by the fireside in her library, reluctant to leave
her, when he should have been brightening Lucy's monotonous existence,
elevating her mind by his conversation, continuing that education of
heart and intellect in which he had been engaged before he lost himself
in a fatal friendship. She had driven him from her with anger and
contempt, driven him into exile and danger; but had she not as much
need to be angry with herself, remembering her pleasure in his company,
her forgetfulness of his wife's claims?
This one thing remained for her to do, to watch over the lonely wife
in her day of peril, to win her back to life and health if it were
possible. This atoning act would ease her conscience, perhaps, and
bring her peace of mind. If George Stobart lived to come back to
England he would know that she had done her duty, and, although not a
Christian, had fulfilled the Christian's mission of mercy and love.
And if that ghastly distemper struck her down--a possible result,
though she did not apprehend it--what then? She had no keen love of
life, and would not much regret to lay down the load of days that had
lost their savour. She had tasted all the pleasures that the world,
the flesh, and the devil can offer a beautiful woman, all the luxuries
that gold can buy, all the homage that rank can claim, the adulation of
high-born profligates, the envy of rival beauties, and every trivial
diversion that Satan can put into the minds of the idle rich. She had
struck every note in the gamut of elegant pleasures; and had arrived at
that period of satiety in which some women take to vice as the natural
crescendo in the scale of emotion. What sacrifice would it be to die
for her who feared no hereafter, had no account to render?
She visited Mrs. Stobart every day, questioned nurses and doctors,
and took infinite trouble to secure the patient's comfort. She sat by
the sick-bed, endured the fetid atmosphere of a room carefully shut
against the air of heaven, she listened to Lucy's delirious ravings,
her frantic appeals to her husband to come back to her. She, who in
her right senses had seemed to grieve so little at his absence, in her
wanderings was for ever recalling the happy hours of their courtship,
acting over again that simple story of a girl's first love for a
sweetheart of superior station.
Antonia listened with an aching heart. The love was there then; the
woman was not the pink-and-white automaton she had once thought her.
And she had come between George Stobart and this idyllic affection, had
spoiled two lives, unwittingly, but not without guilt. She had absorbed
him, suffered him to squander all his leisure upon her company, sought
his counsel, invited his sympathy, made herself a part of his life, as
no woman has the right to do with another woman's husband.
And now, sitting by what might be the bed of death, she could not
forgive herself for that friendship which she had cherished without
thought of the cost. She had courted his company, and reproached him
when he absented himself. He had been her most cherished companion;
those days had been blank on which they had not met. All the feverish
pleasures of the great world had not been enough to make up for one
lost hour of his society. Their talk beside the firelit hearth, in the
darkening twilight, their meetings in poverty-stricken garrets and
loathsome alleys, had been more to her than all the rest of her life.
"If she should die before he comes back to her it will be on my
conscience for ever that I was the wretch who parted them," she thought.
The doctors were not hopeful of Mrs. Stobart's recovery. She had very
little strength, they told Lady Kilrush, very little power to fight
against the disease, which had attacked her in its most virulent form.
Should she recover, she would be disfigured for life, and possibly
blind.
Oh, the horror of it! If he came home to find the pretty childish face,
the lily and rose complexion, so cruelly transformed! Was not death
almost better for the victim than such a resurrection?
Heaven was kinder to this weak soul than to spare her for such a cruel
fate. After Antonia had been visiting her for over a week, in which
time there had been no improvement in the symptoms, there came a rally
with some hours of consciousness; but this was only the prelude of
approaching death.
Lucy recognized Antonia, spoke of her husband and her son in a sage and
matter-of-fact tone which was quite unlike her talk in delirium, was
glad that the boy was safely out of the way when she was seized with
the malady.
"My father came here one night, in a raging fever," she told Antonia.
"I was frightened; but I hadn't the heart to drive him out of the
house. He looked like a dying man. It was the small-pox. He had sent
the disease inward by getting up from his bed and going out into the
streets in the rain. He lay ill over a week, and I got an old woman to
nurse him. I never went near him after I knew. But the infection was
in the house, I suppose. I remember the night of his funeral, and my
aching bones, and my burning head. I knew I was going to be ill. And
then I remember nothing more--nothing more. Was it last night--the
funeral?"
She spoke in a weak voice, in broken sentences, with long pauses
between, Antonia holding her hand as she talked. The poor wasted hand
was icy cold now; the fever was gone--gone with the life of the patient.
"You'll give Mr. Stobart my love," she said, "and please tell him I was
very unhappy after he went to America. It was very kind of you to come
to me; but then you like visiting sick people. I don't. Mr. Stobart
used to tell me I was no Dorcas."
She lingered for a day and a night after this return of consciousness;
but her last hours were passed in a stupor, and she died in her sleep,
so quietly that the nurse who kept watch by her bed knew not the moment
of her last sigh.