THE GREAT DREAD!
"WHY, Annie, my child!" the Rector said, raising himself on one elbow,
and greeting her with a smile, in which some veiled anxiety might have
been detected. "We did not hear you coming. Are those roses for me? How
has the class gone to-day?"
Annie could not answer him. She hardly knew what it was that restrained
her to some appearance of calm. That terrible word "Hydrophobia" seemed
to be ringing still through the room, and with it an awful dread had
rushed in upon her. Yet she only stood motionless, holding the back of
a chair with one hand and clutching the rose buds fast in the other.
"I did not go to the school this afternoon," pursued Mr. Wilmot. "The
truth is, I was not feeling quite—well, not quite as I should; so I
took an hour's rest instead."
Annie seemed to hear herself speaking in a hollow distant tone—"And you
sent for Mr. Rawdon?"
"No, I came without being sent for," said Mr. Rawdon. He uttered the
words in a deliberate repressive manner, as if to impress upon Annie
a need for caution. "I was not satisfied with your father's look in
Church this morning."
Then a pause. Annie remained perfectly still, her eyes fixed on
vacancy. All colour had fled from her face. The two gentlemen exchanged
meaning glances.
"Come, my child—sit down here, and tell me about your class," said Mr.
Wilmot.
He made a little space on the sofa, and Annie went to it mechanically,
but not to talk. In another moment, she had buried her face on his
shoulder, and was clinging to him in a passionate wordless agony.
For two or three minutes there was silence, which nobody liked to
break. The brisk ticking of the clock sounded clearly; but to Annie
that sound was lost in the rapid fluctuating throb of something nearer
at hand, something fast yet broken. She could not see her father's
face, but Mr. Rawdon could, and his hand took firm hold of Annie's arm.
"Miss Wilmot! Stop this, please. You must get up."
There was a sound of warning in the tone. Annie obeyed, still as one in
a maze. It seemed to her that the whole world was suddenly changed with
this new fearful dread. Then she saw her father's ghastly look, and
she knew that something must be very wrong. He could not speak—could
not breathe. Mr. Rawdon had moved away to the table, to pour out some
liquid into a small glass, and now he was administering it, holding up
Mr. Wilmot. The breathless struggle lessened slowly; and then a fresh
fear came over Annie. Had she done him harm? With that thought she was
herself again.
"It is going off now—not much this time, I hope," Mr. Rawdon said
cheerfully. "Keep still, Wilmot. Don't try to talk yet. Miss Wilmot and
I will arrange about the evening."
Annie could only look at the doctor imploringly, and Mr. Wilmot's hand
drew her back to her former position—except that she sat upright, not
leaning against him.
"Now," Mr. Rawdon said, with a glance at Annie and a movement as if to
leave the room. But Annie could not stir. The restraining arm around
her might be weak, yet it held her fast. Mr. Rawdon had taken one step
towards the door, and he paused hesitatingly.
"The fact is, Wilmot, any kind of agitation is bad for you, in the
present state of your heart," he said. "Miss Wilmot and I are used to
each other. Better let us have our little talk in another room."
"No," said Mr. Wilmot gently. "Here, please. It will distress me less.
Annie must be good and calm."
Mr. Rawdon took a chair, by no means with the air of a man convinced.
Then another pause. Mr. Wilmot's eyes were on his child lovingly; and
Annie could be seen to draw one or two deep breaths, as if mastering
herself with difficulty.
"Yes," she said at length. "Please tell me."
"I will see some one, and arrange for the service this evening." Mr.
Rawdon spoke deliberately. "I have already warned your father that he
must consent to do less work.
"I am ready," Mr. Wilmot said, in a quiet voice.
"The fact is, Miss Wilmot—the fact is, your father has had lately a
severe return of certain troublesome heart symptoms, from which he
suffered a good deal about two years ago. You will probably remember."
"Yes—I remember," Annie found herself saying. "He had to take a long
holiday—and—But—but that is not—not—"
"It is essential that he should greatly lessen work now. I tell you
both honestly, I don't like these attacks; and this is the third, I
believe, within a fortnight."
Annie looked bewildered, even while scarcely taking in the full sense
of his words. She could only feel that something more terrible lay
behind, something not yet touched upon. But for her father's sake, she
dared not ask questions, till she should see Mr. Rawdon alone.
Doubtless, Mr. Rawdon too purposed putting off until then the needful
telling. Mr. Wilmot was of a different mind.
"Annie, my child, did you happen to hear what Mr. Rawdon and I were
talking about when you came in?"
"Yes, father," she whispered.
"That comes of stealing in upon folks without warning," said Mr. Rawdon.
"What did you hear?" Mr. Wilmot asked.
Annie hid her face in her hands.
"Wilmot, I don't like this for you," the doctor said.
"I must risk it. What did you hear, my darling?"
She lifted her face, and said in a voice quiet as his own:
"Father, Mr. Rawdon will tell me, please—not you." She grew paler:
turning to the doctor—"Was father—? Did the dog—?"
"No, not bitten; but he had a touch from the creature's tooth. A mere
scratch," said Mr. Rawdon. "Of course the slightest scratch should
be avoided. He came to me, however, at once, and I burnt the place
out—burnt deeply. I believe he managed to conceal from you that
anything was the matter with his wrist."
"Wrist!" Annie repeated the word, and Mr. Wilmot drew up his sleeve.
"That is the scar of the burn," said Mr. Rawdon. "The scratch itself
was a mere nothing. The wound healed slowly but thoroughly, as you may
see. My own belief is that the remedy was prompt and complete enough to
ensure safety."
But Annie knew that these words did not imply certainty. She sat silent
once more, hardly thinking, but rather weighed down by a dull pressure
of misery.
"And I was never told!" she murmured at length.
"There was no need," said Mr. Rawdon. "The less said and thought about
the matter, the better. Now I must be off, Wilmot, to arrange for your
evening's work being done by somebody else. You may leave that in my
hands. Keep very quiet, and don't exert yourself. I shall see you early
to-morrow."
He said good-bye to Mr. Wilmot, but not to Annie, and turned away.
Annie knew that she was to accompany him out of the room, and she stood
up, her father's arm relaxing to set her free.
He said only, "Come back to me, Annie."