WATCHING AND WAITING.
The news which she had learned from Doctor Joyce, and had in her brief
pencil-note communicated to her husband, was horribly annoying to Lady
Muriel Kilsyth. To have her party broken up--and there was no doubt
that, as soon as the actual condition of affairs was known, many would
at once take to flight--was bad enough; but to have an infectious
disorder in the house, and to be necessarily compelled to keep up a
semblance of sympathy with the patient labouring under that disorder,
even if she were not required to visit and tend her, was to Lady
Muriel specially galling; more specially galling as she happened not
to possess the smallest affection for the individual in question,
indeed to regard her rather with dislike than otherwise. When Lady
Muriel Inchgarvie married Kilsyth of Kilsyth,--the Inchgarvie estates
being heavily involved, and her brother the Earl, who had recently
succeeded to the title, strongly counselling the match,--she agreed to
love, honour, and obey the doughty chieftain whom she espoused; but
she by no means undertook any responsibilities with regard to the two
children by his former marriage. The elder of these, Ronald, was just
leaving Eton when his stepmother appeared upon the scene; and as he
had since been at once gazetted to the Life-guards, and but rarely
showed in his father's house, he had caused Lady Muriel very little
anxiety. But it was a very different affair with Madeleine. She had
the disadvantage of being perpetually _en évidence_; of being very
pretty; of causing blundering new acquaintances to say, "Impossible,
Lady Muriel, that this can be your daughter!" of riling her stepmother
in every possible way--notably by her perfect high-breeding, her calm
quiet ignoring of intended slights, her determinate persistence in
keeping up the proper relations with her father, and her invariable
politeness--nothing but politeness--to her stepmother. One is
necessarily cautious of using strong terms in these days of persistent
repression of all emotions; but it is scarcely too much to say that
Lady Muriel hated her stepdaughter very cordially. They were too
nearly of an age for the girl to look up to the matron, or for the
matron to feel a maternal interest in the girl. They were too nearly
of an age for the elder not to feel jealous of the younger--of her
personal attractions, and of the influence which she undoubtedly
exercised over her father. Not that Lady Muriel either laid herself
out for attraction, or was so devotedly attached to her husband as to
desire the monopoly of his affection. By nature she was hard, cold,
self-contained, and very proud. Portionless as she had been, and
desirable as it was that she should marry a rich man, she had refused
several offers from men more coeval with her than the husband she at
last accepted, simply because they were made by men who were wealthy,
and nothing else. Either birth or talent would, in conjunction with
wealth, have won her; but Mr. Burton, the great pale-ale brewer, and
Sir Coke Only, the great railway carrier, proffered their suits in
vain, and retired in the deepest confusion after Lady Muriel's very
ladylike, but thoroughly unmistakable, rejection of their offers. She
married Kilsyth because he was a man of ancient family, large income,
warm heart, and good repute. At no period, either immediately before
or after her marriage, had she professed herself to be what is called
"in love" with the worthy Scottish gentleman. She respected, humoured,
and ruled him. But not for one instant did she forget her duty, or
give a chance for scandal-mongers to babble of her name over their
five-o'clock tea. No woman married to a man considerably her senior
need be at any loss for what, as Byron tells us, used to be called a
_cicisbeo_, and was in his time called a _cortejo_, if she be the
least attractive. And Lady Muriel Kilsyth was considerably more than
that. She had a perfectly-formed, classical little head, round which
her dark hair was always lightly bound, culminating in a thick knot
behind, large deep liquid brown eyes, an impertinent _retroussé_ nose,
a pretty mouth, an excellent complexion, and a ripe melting figure.
You might have searched the drawing-rooms of London through and
through without finding a woman better calculated to fascinate every
body save the youngest boys, and there were many even of them who
would gladly have boasted of a kind look or word from Lady Muriel.
When her marriage was announced, they discussed it at the clubs, as
they will discuss such things, the dear genial old prosers, the
bibulous captains, the lip-smacking Bardolphs of St. James'-street;
and they prophesied all kinds of unhappiness and woe to Kilsyth. But
that topic of conversation had long since died out for want of fuel to
feed it. Lady Muriel had visited London during the season; had gone
every where; had been reported as perfectly adoring her two little
children; and had no man's name invidiously coupled with hers. Peace
reigned at Kilsyth, and the intimates of the house vied with each
other in attention and courtesy to its new mistress; while the gossips
of the outside world had never a word to say against her. I don't say
that Lady Muriel Kilsyth was thoroughly happy, any more than that
Kilsyth himself was in that beatific state; because I simply don't
believe that such a state of things is compatible with the ordinary
conditions of human life. It is not because the old stories of our
none of us being better than we should be, of our all having some
skeleton in our cupboards, and some ulcerated sores beneath our
flannel waistcoats, have been so much harped upon, that I am going to
throw my little pebble on the great cairn, and add my testimony to the
doctrine of _vanitas vanitatum_. It would be very strange indeed, if,
as life is nowadays constituted, we had not our skeleton, and a time
when we could confront him; when we could calmly untwist the button on
the door and let him out, and pat his skull, and look at his
articulated ribs, and notice how deftly his wire-hooked thigh-bones
jointed on to the rest of his carcass; and see whether there were no
means of ridding ourselves of him,--say by flinging him out of window,
when the police would find him, or of stowing him away in the
dust-bin, when he would be noticed by the contractor; and of
finally putting him back, and acknowledging ourselves compelled
to suffer him even unto the end. I do not say that in the
broad-shouldered, kind-hearted, jovial sportsman Lady Muriel had found
exactly what she dreamed upon when, in the terraced garden at
Inchgarvie, she used to read Walter Scott, and, looking over the
flashing stream that wound through her father's domain, fancy herself
the Lady of the Lake, and await the arrival of Fitzjames. I do not say
that Kilsyth himself might not, in the few moments of his daily life
which he ever spared to reflection, and which were generally when he
was shaving himself in the morning,--I do not say that Kilsyth himself
might not have occasionally thought that his elegant and stately wife
might have been a little kinder to Madeleine, a little more
recognisant of the girl's charms, a little more thoughtful of her
wants, and a little more tender towards her girlish vagaries. But
neither of them, however they may have thought the other suspected
them, ever spoke of their secret thoughts; and to the outer world
there was no more well-assorted couple than the Kilsyths. It was a
great thing for the comfort of the entire party that Lady Muriel was a
woman of nerve, and that Kilsyth took his cue from her, backed up by
the fact that it was his darling Madeleine who was ill, and that any
inconvenience that might accrue to any of the party in consequence of
her illness would be set down to her account. Lady Muriel gave a good
general answer, delivered with a glance round the table, and was
inclusive of every body, so as to prevent any further questioning.
Dr. Joyce had said that Madeleine was not so well that night;
but that was to be expected; her cold was very bad, she was slightly
feverish: any one--and Lady Muriel turned deftly to the Duchess of
Northallerton--who knew any thing, would have expected that, would
they not? The Duchess, who knew nothing, but who didn't like to say
so, declared that of course they would; and then Lady Muriel, feeling
it necessary _that_ conversation should be balked, turned to Sir
Duncan Forbes, and began to ask him questions as to his doings since
the end of the season. Forbes replied briskly,--there was no better
man in London to follow a lead, whether in talk or at cards,--and so
turned the talk that most of those present were immediately
interested. The names which Duncan Forbes mentioned were known to all
present; all were interested in their movements; all had something to
say about them; so that the conversation speedily became general, and
so remained until the ladies quitted the table. When they had retired,
Kilsyth ordered in the tumblers; and it was nearly eleven o'clock
before the gentlemen appeared in the drawing-room. Then Lady Fairfax,
with one single wave of her fan, beckoned Charley Jefferson into an
empty seat on the ottoman by her side,--a seat which little Lord
Towcester, immediately on entering the door, had surveyed with vinous
eyes,--and, while one of the anonymous young ladies was playing
endless variations on the "Harmonious Blacksmith," commenced and
continued a most vivid one-sided, conversation, to all of which the
infatuated Colonel only replied by shrugs of his shoulders, and tugs
at his heavy moustache. Then the Duchess pursued the Duke into a
corner; and rescuing from him the _Morning Post_, which his grace had
pounced upon on entering the room with the hope of further identifying
Mr. Bright with Judas Iscariot, began addressing him in a low
monotone, like the moaning of the sea; now rising into a little hum,
now falling into a long sweeping hiss, but in each variety evidently
confounding the Duke, who pulled at his cravat and rubbed his right
ear in the height of nervous dubiety. In the behaviour of the other
guests there was nothing pronounced, save occasional and unwonted
restlessness. The Danish Minister and his wife played their usual game
at backgammon; and the customary talk, music, and flirtation were
carried on by the remainder of the company; but Lady Muriel knew that
some suspicion of the actual truth had leaked out, and determined on
her plan of action.
So that night, when the men had gone to the smoking-room, and the
ladies were some of them talking in each other's bedrooms, and others
digesting and thinking over, as is the feminine manner, under the
influence of hair-brush, the events of the day; when Kilsyth had made
a tip-toe visit to his darling's chamber, and had shaken his head
sadly over a whispered statement from her little German maid that she
was "_bien malade_," and had returned to his room and dismissed his
man, and was kicking nervously at the logs on the hearth, and mixing
his "tumbler preparatory to taking his narcotic instalment of
_Blackwood_,--he heard a tap at his door, and Lady Muriel, in a most
becoming dressing-gown of rose-coloured flannel, entered the room. The
tumbler was put down, the _Blackwood_ was thrown, aside, and in a
minute Kilsyth had wheeled an easy-chair round to the hearth, and
handed his wife to it.
"You're tired, Alick, I know, and I wouldn't have disturbed you now
had there not been sufficient reason--"
"Madeleine's not worse, Muriel? I was there this minute, and Gretchen
said that--"
"O no, she's no worse! I was in her room too just now,--though I think
it is a little absurd my going,--and there does not seem to be much
change in her since I saw her, just before dinner. She is asleep just
now."
"Thank God for that!" said Kilsyth heartily. "After all, it may be a
fright this doctor is giving us. I don't think so very much of his
opinion and--"
"I could not say that. Joyce is very highly thought of at Glasgow, and
was selected from among all the competitors to take charge of this
district, and that, in these days of competition, is no ordinary
distinction. And it is on this very point I came to speak to you. You
got my pencil-note at dinner? Very well. Just now you contented
yourself with asking a question of Gretchen--"
"She said Madeleine was asleep, and would not let me into the room."
"And quite rightly; but I went in to the bedside. Madeleine is asleep
certainly; but her sleep is restless, broken, and decidedly feverish.
There is not the smallest doubt that Dr. Joyce is right in his
opinion, and that she is attacked with scarlet-fever."
"You think so, Muriel?" said Kilsyth anxiously. "I mean not blindly
following Joyce's opinion; but do you think so yourself?"
"I do; and not I alone, but half the house thinks so too. How do they
know it? Heaven knows how these things ever get known, but they get
wind somehow; and you will see that by to-morrow there will be a
general flight. It is on this point that I have come to speak to you,
if you will give me five minutes."
"Of course, Muriel; of course, my lady. But I think I've done the best
that could be done; at all events, the first thing that occurred to me
after you wrote me that note. Duncan Forbes had been saying in the
drawing-room before dinner, before you came in, that the great London
fever-physician, Dr. Wilmot, was staying at Burnside, away from here
about fifty miles, with old Sir Saville Rowe, whom I recollect when I
was a boy. Duncan had left him this morning, and he was going to stay
at Burnside just a day or two longer; and I sent one of the men with a
telegram to the station, to ask Dr. Wilmot to come over at once, and
see Maddy."
Lady Muriel was so astonished at this evidence of prompt action on her
husband's part that she remained silent for a minute. Then she said,
"That was quite right, quite right so far as Madeleine was concerned;
but my visit related rather to other people. You see, so soon as it is
actually known that there is an infectious disorder in the house, the
house will be deserted. Now my question is this: will it not be better
to announce it to our guests, making the best and the lightest of it,
as of course one naturally would, rather than let them--"
"Ye-es, I see what you mean, my lady," said Kilsyth slowly; "and of
course it would not do to keep people here under false pretences, and
when we knew there was actual danger. Still I think as this story of
scarlet-fever is only Joyce's opinion, and as I have telegraphed for
Dr. Wilmot, who will be here to-morrow; and as it seems strange, you
know, to think that poor darling Maddy should be the cause of any
one's leaving Kilsyth, perhaps, eh? one might put off making the
announcement until Joyce's opinion were corroborated by Dr. Wilmot."
"I am afraid the mischief is already done, Alick, and that its results
will be apparent long before Dr. Wilmot can reach here," said Lady
Muriel. "However, let us sleep upon it. I am sure to hear whether the
news has spread in the house long before breakfast, and we can consult
again." And Lady Muriel took leave of her husband, and retired to her
room.
Trust a woman for observation. Lady Muriel was perfectly right. The
nods and shoulder-shrugs and whisperings which she had observed in the
drawing-room had already borne fruit. On her return to her own room
she saw a little note lying on her table--a little note which, as she
learned from Pinner, her attendant, had just been brought by Lady
Fairfax's maid. It ran thus:
"DEAREST LADY MURIEL,--A _frightful_ attack of neuralgia (_my_
neuralgia)--which, as you know, is so _awful_--has been hanging over
me for the last three days, and now has come upon me in its _fullest
force_. I am quite out of my mind with it. I have striven--O, how I
have striven!--to keep up and try to forget it, when surrounded by
your pleasant circle, and when looking at your _dear self_. But it is
all in vain. I am in _agonies_. The torture of the rack itself can be
_nothing_ to what I am suffering tonight.
"Poor dear Sir Benjamin Brodie used to say that I should never be well
in a _northern_ climate. I fear he was right. I fear that the air of
this darling Kilsyth, earthly Paradise though it is--and I am sure
that I have found it so during three weeks of bliss; O, such
_happiness!_--is too bracing, too invigorating for poor me. But I
should _loathe_ myself if I were to make this an _open_ confession. So
I will steal away, dearest Lady Muriel, without making any formal
adieux. When all your dear friends assemble at breakfast to-morrow, I
shall be on my _sorrowing_ way south, and only regret that my wretched
health prevents me longer remaining where I have been so entirely
happy.
"With kindest regards to your dear husband, I am, dearest Lady Muriel,
ever your loving
"EMILY FAIRFAX.
"P.S.--I have told my maid to beg some of your people to get me horses
from the Kilsyth Arms; so that I shall _speed_ away early in the
morning without disturbing any one. I hope dear Madeleine will soon be
_quite herself_ again."
Lady Muriel read this letter through twice with great calmness, though
a very scornful smile curled her lip during its perusal. She then
twisted the note up into a wisp, and was about to burn it in the flame
of the candle, when she heard a short solemn tap at her chamber-door.
She turned round, bade Pinner open the door, and looked with more
displeasure than astonishment at the Duchess of Northallerton, who
appeared in the entrance. The Duchess had the credit in society of
being a "haughty-looking woman." Her stronghold in life, beyond the
fact of her being a duchess, had been in her Roman nose and arched
eyebrows. But, somehow, haughty looks become wonderfully modified in
_déshabillé_, and Roman noses and arched eyebrows lose a good deal of
their potency when taken in conjunction with two tight little curls
twisted up in hairpins, and a headdress which, however much fluted and
gauffered, is unmistakably a nightcap. The Duchess's nocturnal
adornments were unmistakably of this homely character, and her white
wrapper was of a hue, which, if she had not been a duchess, would have
been pronounced dingy. But her step was undoubtedly tragic, and the
expression of her face solemn to a degree. Lady Muriel received her
with uplifted eyebrows, and motioned her to a chair. The Duchess
dropped stiffly into the appointed haven of rest; but arched her
eyebrows at Pinner with great significance.
"You can go, Pinner. I shall not require you any more," said Lady
Muriel; adding, "I presume that was what you wished, Duchess?" as the
maid left the room.
"Precisely, dear Muriel; but you always were so wonderfully ready to
interpret one's thoughts. I remember your dear mother used to say--but
I won't worry you with my stories. I came to speak to you about dear
Madeleine."
"Ye-es," said Lady Muriel quietly, finding the Duchess paused.
"Well, now, she's worse than any of them suspect. Ah, I can see it by
your face. And I know what is the matter with her. Don't start; I
won't even ask you; I won't let you commit yourself in any way; but I
know that it's measles."
Lady Muriel kept her countenance admirably while the Duchess
proceeded. "I know it by a sort of instinct. When Madeleine first
complained of her head, I looked narrowly at her, and I said to
myself, 'Measles! undoubtedly measles!' Now, you know, Muriel, though
there is nothing dangerous in measles to a young person like
Madeleine,--and she will shake them off easily, and be all the better
afterwards,--they are very dangerous when taken by a person of mature
age. And the fact is, the Duke has never had them--never. When
Errington was laid up with them, I recollect the Duke wouldn't remain
in the house, but went off to the Star and Garter, and stayed there
until all trace of the infection was gone. And he's horribly afraid of
them. You know what cowards men are in such matters; and he said just
now he thought there was a rash on his neck. Such nonsense! Only where
his collar had rubbed him, as I told him. But he's dreadfully
frightened; and he has suggested that instead of waiting till the end
of the week, as we had intended, we had better go to-morrow."
"I think that perhaps under all circumstances it would be the best
course," said Lady Muriel, quite calmly.
"I knew your good sense would see it in the right light, my dear
Muriel," said the Duchess, who had been nervously anticipating quite a
different answer, and who was overjoyed. "I was perfectly certain of
your coincidence in our plan. Now, of course, we shall not say a word
as to the real reason of our departure--the Duke, I know, would not
have that for the world. We shall not mention it at Redlands either;
merely say we--O, I shall find some good excuse, for Mrs. Murgatroyd
is a chattering little woman, as you know, Muriel. And now I won't
keep you up any longer, dear. You'll kindly tell some one to get us
horses to be ready by--say twelve to-morrow. Stay to luncheon? No,
dear. I think we had better go before luncheon. The Duke, you see, is
so absurd about his ridiculous rash. _Good_night, dear." And the
Duchess stalked off to tell the Duke, who was not the least
frightened, and whose rash was entirely fictitious, how well she had
sped on her mission.
Lady Muriel accurately obeyed the requests made to her in Lady
Fairfax's letter, and verbally by the Duchess; and each of them found
their horses ready at the appointed time. Lady Emily departed
mysteriously before breakfast; but as the Duchess's horses were not
ordered till twelve, and as the post came in at eleven, her grace had
time to receive a letter from Mrs. Murgatroyd, of Redlands, whither
they were next bound, requesting them to postpone their arrival for a
day or two, as a German prince, who had by accident shot a stag, had
been so elated by the feat, that he had implored to be allowed to stay
on, with the chance of repeating it; and as he occupied the rooms
intended for the Duke and Duchess, it was impossible to receive them
until he left. After reading this letter, the Duchess went to Lady
Muriel, and expressed her opinion that she had been too precipitate;
that, after all, nothing positive had been pronounced; that there were
no symptoms of the Duke's rash that morning, which had been
undoubtedly caused, as she had said last night, by his collar, and
which was no rash at all; and that perhaps, after all, their real duty
was to stay and help their dear Muriel to nurse her dear invalid. But
they had miscalculated the possibility of deceiving their dear Muriel.
Lady Muriel at once replied that it was impossible that they could
remain at Kilsyth; that immediately on the Duchess's quitting her on
the previous night she had made arrangements as to the future
disposition of the rooms which they occupied; that she would not for
the world take upon herself the responsibility which would necessarily
accrue to her if any of them caught the disease; and that she knew the
Duchess's own feelings would tell her that she, Lady Muriel, however
ungracious it might seem, was in the right in advising their immediate
departure. The Duchess tried to argue the point, but in vain; and so
she and the Duke, and their servants and baggage, departed, and passed
the next three days at a third-rate roadside inn between Kilsyth and
Redlands, where the Duke got lumbago, and the Duchess got bored; and
where they passed their time alternately wishing that they had not
left Kilsyth, or that the people at Redlands were ready to receive
them.
Very little difference was made by the other guests at Kilsyth in the
disposition of their day. If they were surprised at the sudden
defection of the Northallertons and Lady Fairfax, they were too
well-bred to show it. Charley Jefferson mooned about the house and
grounds, a thought more disconsolate than ever; but he was the only
member of the party who at all bemoaned the departure of the departed.
Lady Dunkeld congratulated her cousin Muriel on being rid of "those
awful wet blankets," the Northallertons. Captain Severn, in whispered
colloquy with his wife, "hoped to heaven Charley Jefferson would see
what a stuck-up selfish brute that Emily Fairfax was." Lord Roderick
Douglas and Mr. Pitcairn went out for their stalk; and all the rest of
the company betook themselves to their usual occupations.
"Where's her ladyship?"
"In the boudoir, sir, waiting for the doctor."
"What doctor? Dr. Joyce?"
"And the strange gentleman, sir. They're both together in Miss
Madeleine's room."
"Ah, Muriel! So Dr. Wilmot has arrived?"
"Yes, and gone off straight with Joyce to Madeleine. You see I was
right in recommending you to go out as usual. Your fine London
physician never asked for you, never mentioned your name."
"Well, perhaps you were right. I should have worried myself into a
fever here; not that I've done any good out--missed every shot. What's
he like?"
"He! Who? Dr. Wilmot? I had scarcely an opportunity of observing, but
I should say _brusque_ and self-sufficient. He and Joyce went off at
once. I thanked him for coming, and welcomed him in your name and my
own; but he did not seem much impressed."
"Full of his case, no doubt; these men never think of anything
but--Ah, here he is!--Dr. Wilmot, a thousand thanks for this prompt
reply to my hasty summons. Seeing the urgency, you'll forgive the
apparent freedom of my telegraphing to you."
"My dear sir," said Wilmot, "I am only too happy to be here; not that,
if you could have engrossed the attention of this gentleman, there
would have been any necessity for the summons. Dr. Joyce has done
every thing that could possibly be done for Miss Kilsyth up to this
point."
"_A laudato viro laudari_," murmured
Dr. Joyce. "But, fortunately or unfortunately, as I learn from him, a
district of thirty miles in circumference looks to him for its health.
Now I am, for the next few days at least, a free man, and at liberty
to devote myself to Miss Kilsyth."
"And you will do so?"
"With the very greatest pleasure. In two words let me corroborate the
opinion already given. I understand by my friend here Miss Kilsyth has
an attack, more or less serious, of scarlet-fever. She must be kept
completely isolated from every one, and must be watched with
unremitting attention. Dr. Joyce will send to Aberdeen for a skilled
nurse, upon whom he can depend; until her arrival I will take up my
position in the sick-room."
"Ten thousand thanks; but--is there any danger?"
"So far all is progressing favourably. We must look to Providence and
our own unremitting attention for the result."
"I'm so hot and so thirsty, and these pillows are so uncomfortable!
Thanks! Ah, is that you, Dr. Wilmot? I was afraid you had gone. You
won't leave me--at least not just yet--will you?"
"Not I, my dear. There--that's better, isn't it? The pillow is cooler,
and the lemonade--"
"Ah, so many thanks! I'm very weak tonight; but your voice is so kind,
and your manner, and--"
"There; now try and sleep.--Good heavens, how lovely she is! What a
mass of golden hair falling over her pillow, and what a soft,
innocent, childish manner! And to think that only this morning I--ah,
you must never hear the details of this case, my dear old master. When
I get back to town I will tell you the result: but the details--never."