The Lady Letitia sat before the fire in the red parlor with a copy of
the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ lying upon her lap. In the fender lay a
bundle of feathers which the old lady was burning, having heard that the
smoke therefrom was very efficacious in the preventing of fevers. Very
cross and querulous she felt, and very cross she looked as she sat there
burning the feathers and taking snuff from time to time, for the Lady
Letitia was not a woman fitted to play the Dorcas or to take pleasure in
ministering to the sick. Pain, disease, and poverty were things she
dreaded and detested as vulgar intruders, marring the polite gayeties of
life.
Hence she had shown no little impatience that morning when Peter Gladden
had announced the fact that Mr. Richard was indisposed and would keep
his bed. Gladden, bearer of cocoa and shaving-water, had found his
master looking flushed and feverish, with dry lips and heavy eyes, and
complaining of sickness and headache and sharp pain in the small of the
back. Jeffray would not have the curtains drawn, for the sunlight seemed
to intensify his feeling of nausea and the feverish throbbing in his
head. He had ordered Gladden to send a groom down to Rodenham village to
insure Surgeon Stott’s calling that day.
As the Lady Letitia sat burning her feathers and muttering to herself in
the red parlor, Peter Gladden’s black-coated figure appeared in the
doorway, his colorless face imperturbable as ever. The dowager glanced
at the butler irritably over her shoulder, and asked him, sharply, what
he wanted.
“Surgeon Stott, madam, requests the honor of speaking with you.”
“What’s the man want with me, Gladden?”
“It concerns Mr. Richard, madam.”
The Lady Letitia scowled—and straightened her cap.
“Tell the man to come in, Gladden,” she said. “Tell him to remain by the
door. Of course his clothes reek of the small-pox.”
The butler disappeared with a cynical twinkle in his eyes, and turned to
where Mr. Stott was standing with his broad back to the hall fire. The
surgeon and Mr. Gladden looked at each other with a certain comical
flash of sympathy. Stott was a florid and well-complexioned person who
wore a blue coat, a scratch wig, brown riding-breeches, and top-boots.
The surgeon did not cultivate the town graces and delicacies of “the
faculty.” He had to ride through mud and ford streams, dive into hovels
where gowns and periwigs would have been a nuisance and the pomposities
of the profession more than ridiculous.
The dowager scrutinized Mr. Stott from top to toe with an air of
aristocratic insolence as he bowed himself into the red parlor. She
scanned his muddy boots, noticed the bourgeois redness of his face and
hands, and desired him, with some hauteur, not to approach too near her
chair. Surgeon Stott’s humorous mouth twitched expressively. He inhaled
the odors of lavender and burned feathers, and seated himself, with the
amiable docility of a philosopher, near the door.
The Lady Letitia had cocked her beak at him commandingly.
“Well, sir, what is your business with me?”
“I have come to speak to you about Mr. Jeffray, madam.”
The dowager caught a solemn twinkle in the man’s vulgar, blue eyes; the
suave curve of his clean-shaven mouth seemed to suggest that the surgeon
possessed a strong sense of humor. The Lady Letitia’s dignity increased.
She did not exist to amuse muddy apothecaries peddling boluses in
provincial towns. She, to whom the great Dr. Billinghurst, of London,
would listen for an hour, was not to be smiled at by this rustic
blue-bottle.
“You are the apothecary from Rookhurst, sir, I believe?”
“Surgeon, madam.”
“A member of the company?”
“I claim that distinction.”
The Lady Letitia’s face expressed surprise. Her manner suggested to Mr.
Stott that he had not impressed her with any great degree of authority
in the art of healing.
“We thought we would have your opinion, sir,” she explained, “as a
temporary satisfaction. Should my nephew show signs of serious
indisposition, we shall send for a responsible physician to attend him.
Now, sir, will you oblige me with your candid opinion as to Mr.
Jeffray’s health.”
Surgeon Stott was watching the old lady with grim curiosity. She was a
distinct study in aristocratic arrogance with her air of condescending
patronage, and her detestable old face painted and powdered to the very
complexion of her vanity.
“If you care to consider my opinion, madam—”
“Well, sir?”
“I may state that Mr. Jeffray is sickening with the small-pox.”
“What!”
The Lady Letitia perked up like a frightened hen, much to Surgeon
Stott’s inward satisfaction.
“That is my diagnosis, madam,” he said. “I have bled Mr. Jeffray of ten
ounces, and ordered him to be sponged with tepid water. One of the
grooms is to ride back with me to Rookhurst for the physic. There will
be a fever mixture and a bolus. Can I oblige your ladyship in any way?”
The dowager plied her handkerchief and strove to recover her disturbed
dignity. Richard with the small-pox! How deplorably vexatious, not to
say—inconsiderate—her nephew’s illness appeared! Meanwhile, Surgeon
Stott had risen. He bowed to the dowager till his tight riding-breeches
creaked, and seemed not a little amused at the old lady’s fluster.
“With your kind permission, madam,” he said, “I will call again
to-morrow. Your ladyship may even need my humble attention.”
The dowager bridled at the insinuation.
“Call by all means,” she retorted, “but I shall have transferred myself
to some locality where I can obtain trustworthy advice.”
When Mr. Stott had gone, the dowager pealed the bell, and almost
squealed at Gladden when his emotionless face appeared at the door.
“Send Parsons to me at once, and order Betsy to pack my boxes.”
Peter Gladden bowed, smiled curiously, and departed. At the end of three
minutes Parsons, the Lady Letitia’s confidential man, a thin,
circumspect individual with a prim mouth and a long nose, marched in to
receive his mistress’s orders.
“Parsons, we must leave Rodenham at once. Have the coach ready by one,
and order Betsy to pack my trunks. Can we make Tunbridge Wells before
dusk?”
Parsons bowed, and apologized for the roads—in that they had the bad
taste to be execrably heavy.
“Drat the roads,” quoth the old lady, in a fine fume. “No decent folk
should venture into this abominable wilderness. Where can we bait for
the night, Parsons?”
“We can find a good inn at Grinstead, madam.”
“Let it be Grinstead, then. And Parsons, see that Gladden and the
servants have their vails; a guinea will do for the wenches; here is my
purse. And see to your pistols, Parsons; this beggarly slough is full of
smugglers and footpads.”
The suave and obsequious Parsons left to prepare his mistress’s
departure. The Lady Letitia, still unduly distressed, hobbled up to her
bedroom by the back stairs, so that she should not pass her nephew’s
door. The guineas Richard had loaned to her were sewn up in a leather
bag under her hoop. Miss Betsy was flinging gowns, petticoats, and
underclothing into the trunks, being no less eager than the Lady Letitia
to flee the house that the pest had entered. The room was littered with
scarves, pomade-boxes, pins, ribbons, jewelry, gowns, stockings, and
shoes. The dowager stood leaning on her stick, scolding and directing
the girl as she hurried the multifarious articles into the trunks.
The old lady did not attempt to conceal either her nervousness or her
annoyance from her maid.
“Drat the small-pox,” she said, with feeling; “one would think that the
devil had the sowing of the pest. Confusion, wench, what are you doing
with that green silk sack? Don’t crush it up as though it were dirty
linen. Yes. I have told Parsons that we must make Grinstead before
dusk.”
Miss Betsy sat back on her heels as she knelt beside the largest trunk,
and glanced round at the hundred and one articles littering the floor.
“Poor Mr. Richard!” she said.
“What’s that you’re saying?”
“It does seem mean, ma’am, that we should be running away and leaving
him alone.”
“Betsy,” quoth the dowager, curtly, “you’re a fool.”
“La, ma’am!”
“What good can we do by staying here, hey? You should be grateful that I
have the moral courage to go.”
Before she departed the Lady Letitia wrote an affectionate note to her
nephew, addressing him as “Mon beau Richard, mon cher neveu,” praying
for his speedy recovery, and explaining that nothing but the extreme
delicacy of her health persuaded her to leave him at such a crisis.
Shortly after noon the dowager’s coach rolled away from the priory
porch, with Peter Gladden bowing stiffly on the threshold, and staring a
contemptuous farewell at Mr. Parsons on the back seat, who was looking
to his pistols. Richard, half delirious in his room above, heard the
grinding of the wheels and the rattling of the harness. He understood
dimly that his aunt was deserting him with his guineas under her
petticoat. And thus the small-pox drove the old lady out of Rodenham,
and the sick man was left to Peter Gladden and Surgeon Stott.