DOLEFUL TIDINGS
"A LETTER from Paris! Grandmother, a letter from Paris!" cried Molly,
as she rushed into the dining-room of Mrs. Fairbank's house at Bath.
"And it is in my papa's handwriting."
Mrs. Fairbank, a comely elderly lady—in these days, with the same
weight of years, she would have been cheerfully middle-aged—adjusted
her horn spectacles, tied her loosened capstrings, and scrutinised
Molly's eager face.
"You make too much of things, child," she remarked. "Whatever befalls,
it is not worth while to discompose yourself."
Then she lifted the letter, examined it, weighed it in either hand—and
hesitated. Being an excellent disciplinarian, she was wont to welcome
opportunities for the exercise of self-control. Molly, squeezing her
hands together, wondered if the slow moments would ever pass, and Polly
found it scarcely easier to endure delay.
"Jack!" gasped Molly,—and "O Jack!" echoed Polly, in a tone of relief.
The young man who walked in—he was hardly more than a boy in years—bore
small resemblance to his sister. He was of squarer build than Polly,
under medium height, and muscular in make; his features were irregular,
and the eyes were light blue, instead of brown. Jack Keene boasted no
particular pretensions to good looks, but he was very generally liked;
and Mrs. Fairbank, after the manner of elderly ladies, doted on her
grandson.
Jack read the little scene at a glance, and as he stooped to greet one
after another, he said—"News from France, ma'am? And what may they say?"
Having no further excuse for delay, Mrs. Fairbank opened the letter,
and took thence a tiny missive, addressed to Molly. "From Roy," she
said. "I think—" and there was a dubious pause—"I think I may permit
you to read this to yourself, child. Doubtless your mamma has seen it."
Molly fled to the window-seat, and plunged into the delights of Roy's
epistle. Mrs. Fairbank's face of growing concern failed to draw her
attention; and a murmured consultation which took place might have gone
on in China, for all the impression that it made upon her. But having
three times gone through the contents of her little sheet, and having
kissed it tenderly, she at length carried it to Polly.
"Roy has forgotten to sign his name," she said. "And he said he had a
cold, and felt sea-sick."
"Roy, I regret to say, is far from well, my dear," replied Mrs.
Fairbank solemnly. "He has been taken ill with a most unexpected
disorder. It is truly unfortunate. He has the smallpox. Doubtless he
took it into his constitution before ever he left England."
Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe.
"But numbers and numbers of people have smallpox," she observed. "And
many get over the complaint." This was lame comfort; but what else
could Polly say? The reign of that awful scourge of nations was not
yet over. Vaccination had indeed been recently discovered, and was
making way; but it had not yet become general, even in England. Many
people, from ignorance, doubted its worth; many still preferred the
more dangerous safeguard of inoculation. Strange to say, the Barons had
not yet, as a family, undergone vaccination, though they had talked of
doing so. They had been half sceptical, half dilatory.
"Will his face be all marked?" asked Molly sadly, thinking of the
innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he be
like Mr. Bryce?"
"I hope not, indeed. All who have it are not scarred. Captain Ivor
is not, yet he has had it. Think, Molly, is not Captain Ivor kind
and brave? He has taken Roy into another house, and he will not let
your father or mother go near to Roy, or any one who has not had the
disorder. He is nursing Roy himself, and they hope it will not be a
severe attack."
Molly was hard to comfort; and no wonder. All her spirit went out of
her, and she seemed to care for nothing except clinging to Polly, and
being assured again and again that Roy would probably soon be better.
Letters then were not an everyday matter, as now. Posts were slow and
expensive, and people thought more than twice before putting pen to
paper. Colonel Baron had promised to write again soon, but he waited
till he should have something definite to say.
The suspense was almost as hard for Polly as for Molly—harder, perhaps,
in some respects. Only, as Ivor had had the disease, and had nursed a
friend through it without being the worse, he might be counted safe.
But Polly knew that his stay in Paris was likely to be much lengthened.
Weeks might pass before Roy would be able to travel. Denham would most
likely spend the whole of his leave in attendance upon the boy; and
when he returned, he would have no time left to spare for Bath. At
present her fears extended no further.
Meanwhile public events marched on with strides. That month of May 1803
was astir with events. The maintenance of peace between England and
France became daily more precarious. The feverish ambition of Napoleon
could know no rest, so long as he was confronted by a single nation in
Europe.
This state of tension increased, till the breaking out of war became
merely a question of days. Large numbers of English had seized the rare
opportunity of a year free from fighting to travel in France, and at
this time there were something like eight or ten thousand British in
that country. The French papers heartily assured English travellers of
their absolute safety, even supposing that war should break out; and
doubtless the editors meant what they said. Few men, French or English,
could have foreseen what was coming.
Despite such assurances, a homeward stampede took place; and the
thousands were, by some accounts, reduced rapidly to hundreds. Many
lingered, however; not all detained, as were the Barons, by illness.
War-clouds might threaten; but that travellers should be affected by a
declaration of war was a thing unheard-of.
In May, suddenly at the last, though the step had been expected, the
British ambassador was recalled from Paris, and the French ambassador
was recalled from London. Meanwhile the English Government, issuing
letters of marque, seized a number of French vessels which happened
then to be lying in English ports. This, it was said, took place before
the declaration of war could reach Paris. If so, though the deed was
sanctioned by centuries of custom, one must regret its haste. But no
excuse can be found for Napoleon's illegal and cruel act of reprisal.
Like a thunder-crash came the order, before the close of May, arresting
all peaceable British travellers or residents in France, and rendering
them "prisoners of war" or détenus, to be confined in France during
the pleasure of the First Consul. The shortened form of that direful
proclamation, as it was printed in English newspapers, spread dismay
through hundreds of English homes, and awakened a furious burst of
anger against the man who had dealt the blow.