MY LITTLE ONE DAUGHTER.
“Misery,—oh! Misery,
This world is all too wide for thee!”
The very next day came a letter from India.
“Oh, this beautiful, beautiful country!” wrote Esther. “Oh, the
colouring, the life in everything! I cannot tell you how _new_,
painfully new, Australia seems compared with it. Imagine a little
perky, pretty cottage beside a grand old castle, whose walls bear the
mark of centuries. India is the castle. Or a nice, clean, healthy
child in pinafores, very fond of play, and more than a little
inclined to be spoilt, beside an old, old seer with a grand head
grown white with wisdom, and wide eyes dim with staring at eternity.
Australia is the nice clean child.
“It is the age of the place that sobers me. I feel I ought to go
about on tiptoe and speak in a whisper half the time. We are at
Ajmere just now: from the window here I can see a white temple on the
peak of wild mountains. It is called Taraghur, or the abode of the
stars, and the Mohammedans make pilgrimages to it. Yesterday we rode
(I wear a white linen habit and a helmet, girls) to Pookur, twelve
miles away. It is a spot considered sacred by the Hindoos; indeed, it
is one of the most sacred places in India. There is a lake lying in
a basin among the hills, with its banks studded with buildings, old
temples, and gardens, and in the centre a ruined fane I am afraid to
say how many hundreds and hundreds of years old.
“To-morrow we go to Musseerabad, where the garrison is that your
father has to take notes about; then on to Oodeypore; after that I
am not certain of the programme, only—don’t all exclaim at once, or
I shall hear even at this distance—we cannot possibly be back in the
time we said. Your father has written for two months’ extension, and
really, though of course I want to see you all, and ache sometimes
for a sight of my baby’s little dear dirty face, I shouldn’t like
to come without seeing more. Fancy if we had to come back without
visiting the Taj Mahal! My only anxiety is that any one should
be ill; but then, again, I don’t see why any one should be so
inconsiderate,—you’ve all managed to keep in splendid health for
years; just keep a clean bill till I get back, and then you shall
all take it in turns if you like. Dear Meg, keep Essie’s hands from
picking and stealing. I dreamt the other night she ate a cocoanut and
went in a fit. And Peter, my precious son, don’t climb the pine tree
till mum comes back—if you must break your dear little collar bone
at least give me the satisfaction of seeing it done. Of course there
is no earthly reason why any of you should be ill, but I worry a
little at times; I suppose it is because of the difficulty in getting
letters. We never know where we are going next, so they can’t send
on the mails from Bombay to us till we write for them. I will send
you, by the next mail, an address to write to: we have not decided
yet whether we are going to Hyderabad, Madras, or Calcutta. We are
picking up presents for you all,—the loveliest chessmen for Pip, a
wonderful cabinet of Bhoondee carving for Meg, moonstones from Ceylon
for Nell,—something for every one. Such a box we shall have.
“Good-bye, my chickies all; take care of yourselves, and have as good
a time as you can. If you should be just a little extravagant with
the housekeeping money, Meg, I won’t scold you much; you can let
Bennett’s bill run if you like, and have a little garden party or
jollification. Every one kiss my little one daughter for me.
“Your loving old mother,
“Esther.”
It was only the last part they heeded. What were descriptions of old
temples to them with that little tossing head on the pillow?
“Oh, Esther,—poor, poor Esther!” Meg said, with the first sob in her
throat since Alan had pronounced it to be the fever—“oh, _if_ she
knew!” But she was mercifully spared that knowledge. They held a grave
consultation together, Meg, Nell, Pip, and the family doctor, while
Alan stayed at the bedside. It really seemed useless to send for the
travellers to come home. If it was only a slight attack the child would
be quite well again by the time they returned; if—there was a catching
of breaths—if even the very worst should happen, still they could not
be home in time, and oh! what agony of mind they would have during the
long voyage. It was even no use sending a cable until they received
Esther’s next letter, for they had no address.
The doctor decided the matter.
“Don’t send,” he said; “please God we’ll have the little woman up and
well in no time. I will send in a trained nurse, she shall have every
care possible. Mrs. Woolcot could not do anything further if she were
here herself. Now about the other little folks.”
It had been decided at once to send the others away from fear of
infection. Pip had even suggested packing them off by the early morning
train to Yarrahappini.
But the doctor shook his head. There was the chance that they had the
germs in their systems even now; it was neither fair to send them into
other families, nor yet wise to allow them to go far from home nursing.
There was a furnished cottage about half a mile up the road: he advised
that Poppet, Peter, and Bunty should be removed there until all danger
of infection was over.
“This young lady might go to look after them,” he said, laying his hand
on Nellie’s shoulder. “They will want some one, of course, and Miss
Margaret will be quite sufficient to help the lady I shall send in.”
Nellie lifted great beseeching eyes, rimmed with the shadows of a
sleepless night.
“Oh, let me stay! oh, I must stay,—it would kill me to have to go!” she
said, with a great sob.
“Of course you will have to go, Nellie,” Pip said hastily; “don’t make
extra trouble by being tiresome,—surely you have done enough.”
“Oh, hush!” said Meg.
Pip knew now how the infection had been brought, and could not find any
excuse for his sister.
[Illustration: “‘OH, LET ME STAY! OH, I MUST STAY!’”]
But Meg saw the wince of pain that his words caused the poor girl, and
knew a little what an agony of remorse she was suffering.
“She’ll be out of the danger, too,” Pip added, a little ashamed of
himself when he saw the beautiful, miserable eyes.
Out of the danger! And the girl was in such a frenzy of repentance and
grief, she would gladly have laid down her life just to see Essie go
flying down the drive in a losing race with Flibbertigibbet.
She caught the doctor’s arm.
“I would watch night and day—I would do anything in the world,
anything—oh! _let_ me stay,” she said.
“Poor little girl!” he answered, and patted her bright head; he had
learnt something of the heart apart from its physiological formation
during his long practice. “Poor little girl! standing still is very
hard work, isn’t it? But all soldiers can’t fight at the same time, you
know.
“‘Yours not to reason why,
Yours but to do or die.’
That’s not for sword-soldiers only, little girl.”
Poor Nellie! no punishment on earth could have been harder for her. To
die—that would be quite easy, pleasant even; but to remain passive—oh!
it needed greater courage than hers.
To go away, to leave the house, and not even venture past the gates
again for weeks, not to see the little sweet sister upon whom her
wilfulness alone had brought this suffering, not even to have the
relief of spending her strength in nursing! To go away, and eat and
sleep and pass the time doing ordinary things, and trying to keep
Bunty, and Poppet, and Peter comfortable and happy!
No one would ever know quite what it cost the girl, but it had to be
done.
“Mayn’t I just see her for one minute, Meg?” she said, her courage
failing her at the last minute.
It almost made Meg cry to see the utter despair and misery on her face,
and to have to refuse her.
“Alan shall tell you every day how she is. Dear Nell, you know I dare
not let you go into the room.”
Then she went away to take up her post with the nurse. And Nellie, with
that unutterable ache at her heart; had to go and collect the clothes
they would all need, the books, playthings,—everything.
She and Poppet, with Bunty’s help, were to do the work of the cottage
between them. At first, Meg had thought of letting Martha go with them,
but afterwards it occurred to her it might be better to let Nellie
cook, wash up, and see to everything, just to keep her time occupied.
Bunty was to go to school daily, but Miss Monson relinquished her
duties for a time. She had two little sisters and a baby brother
at home; no one could say that Peter or Poppet would not sicken
personally, and she dare not run the risk. “But Nellie can easily
manage the little ones,” she said, “and even keep up her own studies;
she will have plenty of time.”
The little sick child was put into Esther’s room, and a bed made up on
the sofa for Meg or the nurse. The window looked straight to the gate,
and could be seen through a gap in the acacias. They arranged a code
of signals to be waved by Meg through it three times a day. She kept
a walking-stick of the Captain’s just near the window, and with it a
white towel, an old red dressing-gown of Poppet’s, and a black wool
shawl belonging to Martha. The black signal meant “Better,”—not for
worlds would they have used the black for “Worse”; the white meant “No
change”; the red, “Not so well.”
And when that was settled, and every other little matter, and the
dogcart filled and sent off with the luggage, then the four sorrowful
little figures walked slowly down the drive, waved with wet eyes to Meg
at the window, and disappeared round the bend in the road.
And Misrule, strangely quiet for days and days, saw only the
silent-footed nurse in her grey dress and cap, and poor Meg with her
young shoulders weighed down with the responsibility; the two doctors,
Alan and the old one, on occasion, and the maids. Nobody shouted in the
nursery or quarrelled and laughed along the passages; no little girls
ran lightly down the stairs; no boys tramped up with muddy boots. No
ringing voices floated from the grounds through the open windows; no
flying figures and yelping dogs went down the drive.
Meg’s face grew grave and old-looking those long, slow, silent days
when there was so little to be done and so much to fight for. She lost
her old trick of dimpling when she smiled—she almost lost the trick
of smiling at all. Always there was a picture before her eyes,—Esther
coming towards her, radiant with the happiness of home-coming, Esther
with outstretched arms and bright eyes with no shadow of suspicion in
them.
Always the picture was speaking—
“Meg, where is Essie?—what have you done with my baby, Meg?”