"AND TO THE VIEWLESS SHADES HER SPIRIT FLED."
It was a habit with the two little girls, when the weather was bad and
they could not ramble far afield in the spacious park, to take their
exercise anywhere they could about the old rambling house, chasing each
other up and down the corridors, skipping and dancing in the great
unused reception-rooms, penetrating into every nook and corner,
fearless, inquisitive, full of life and fun; but the sport which they
enjoyed most of all was a game of hide-and-seek in the offices, the
wood-sheds, and breweries, and disused coach-houses, kennels, and
stabling. This was their sovereign domain, a region in which no one had
ever interfered with their rights. Here they could be as noisy and as
boisterous as they pleased, could give full indulgence to the riotous
spirits of childhood. Mrs. Bridget was a kind nurse, but she was by no
means a watchful one. The doctor had told her that it was good for
children to run wild, most especially for little Rena, whose brain was
in advance of her years; and Bridget acted upon this advice in a very
liberal spirit. She was an arrant gossip, and would spend hours in the
kitchen, with her arms folded in her apron, talking to the cook and
housemaids, while her charges amused themselves as they listed in the
house, or in the offices outside the house.
"They can't come to any harm," said Bridget. "They are not like
mischievous boys, who would go climbing out of windows and getting into
dangerous places. My little dears only run about and play prettily
together."
A shout, a rush of little feet, and a peal of childish laughter in the
passage outside the great stone kitchen would emphasise Bridget's
remark.
No, they had never come to any harm in those rambling desolate stables,
brewhouses, and wood-houses, till about three days after Roderick
Layburne's departure, when, in a grand game of hide-and-seek, which had
lasted over an hour, Linda, flushed and breathless with exercise and
excitement, crept into the room which the sick man had occupied, and
seated herself to rest upon the bed he had lain upon for fourteen weary
days and fourteen restless nights.
She wondered a little at the tokens of recent occupation, such as she
had never seen in any of these rooms before: ashes in the grate, a
pipkin on one hob and a saucepan on the other, empty cups and jugs on a
little table, and blankets on the bed where she was sitting.
She was too young to reason upon these evidences.
"Some one lives here," she told herself simply, but had no fear of the
unknown personage. She waited so long for Rena to discover her
hiding-place that she fell asleep at last, nestling down among those
fever-tainted blankets. Rena found her there slumbering soundly, half an
hour later, after having examined every hole and corner in her search,
and crying with vexation at the difficulty of the quest.
It was not till ten days later that the evil result began to show
itself. First Linda began to droop, and then Rena, each falling ill
with exactly the same symptoms. The old doctor shook his head solemnly,
"Scarlet fever, with the rash suppressed," he pronounced like an oracle;
and immediately began to starve and to physic them, almost as if he were
voluntarily working in unison with that deadly fever which was burning
up their young blood.
The Squire was in an agony when he heard of his daughter's danger. He
had seemed a careless and an indifferent father, and had seen very
little of his child in those infantile years. He had no sympathy with
childhood, could not understand its ways and ideas, knew not what to say
to his little daughter or how to amuse her. It had been sufficient for
him to know that she was near at hand, and that she was thriving.
But at the idea of peril he was like a madman. Barbara Layburne was
surprised at the violence of his feelings. She looked at him with a
curious air of suppressed cynicism.
"I had no idea you were so wrapped up in that baby," she said.
"Then you might have known as much. What else have I in this world to
care for--to toil for--"
"Pray be reasonable, Mr. Bosworth. We all know that you love money for
its own sake--not for those who are to come after you."
"Yes, but to know that when I am gone my wealth must be scattered to the
four winds--that no grandchildren of mine will inherit all that I have
slaved for; that no grandson of mine will assume my name, and hand it
down to his son with the wealth. I have amassed, and which he should
increase! Money fructifies of itself when there is but common prudence
in the possessor. It is to my daughter's children I look for the reward
of all my toils, the perpetuation of my name: and if she dies, the cord
snaps, and all is over. I shall have to leave my money to a hospital or
an almshouse. Horrid thought!"
"Horrid thought, indeed, for Squire Bosworth to contemplate his fortune
as a means of blessing to the helpless!"
"You have a scathing tongue, Mrs. Barbara, and I sometimes think you
have a malignant mind to set the tongue wagging. I never met but one
woman who was true and pure and noble to the heart's core, and that was
the sweet saint whom Fate snatched away from me."
"And who never loved you," sneered Barbara. "That is to the credit of
her wisdom."
"Ay; but she was better to me than the women who have pretended to love
me--women whose love has been a curse. Do not speak of her. Your lips
befoul her."
And then he went to the chamber where the children were lying in their
two little beds side by side. It had been impossible to part them; they
would have fretted themselves to death in severance. And as they were
both sick of the same fever, there seemed no need for keeping them in
separate rooms.
The windows were curtained, the room kept in semi-darkness, as was the
fashion in those days. Invalids were supposed to thrive best in the
gloom. Every breath of air was excluded, and a large fire burned merrily
in the grate, where divers messes and potions were stewing. An odour of
drugs pervaded the room. The Squire could hardly draw his breath in
that stifling atmosphere. But fresh air in a fever! Heaven forbid!
Bosworth sat by his child's bedside for a few minutes, holding the
little burning hand in his, suffering an agony of helplessness and
apprehension. What could his hoards do for her? Croesus himself could
not have bought an hour's respite for the little life that seemed ebbing
away. How thick and laboured was her breathing!
"Surely she would do better with more air," said her father; but the
nurses assured him that a puff of cold wind would be deadly. They dared
not open a window. The nurses were Bridget and a woman from the village,
who had a reputation for skill in all diseases. But the chief nurse was
Barbara Layburne, who had taken up her abode in a room adjoining the
sick-chamber, and who scarcely ceased from her watching by day or night.
She had heard the history of that fatal game at hide-and-seek, and how
Rena had discovered Linda fast asleep on a bed in one of the rooms in
the deserted stable. She knew too well what the fever meant, with its
suppressed eruption--knew that she was to blame for the evil, by her
carelessness after the sick man's departure. She had kept so close in
her own den, had taken so little notice of the children, that she had
never known of their occasional inroads upon the disused stables. Had
she known more of children's ways, she would have known that it is just
in such deserted regions that they love to play. Imagination is free
amidst emptiness and solitude; and a child's fancy will convert a barn
or a wood-shed into an enchanted palace.
"I will post to London and get the cleverest doctor in the town,"
exclaimed Bosworth.
It was the one only thing his money could do for that perishing child.
He bent down and kissed the dry lips, inhaling the putrid breath, almost
wishing that it might poison him if _she_ were not to recover, and that
they two might be laid in the same grave with the young mother. And then
he left the sick-room, ordered a horse for himself, and another for his
groom. The groom was to gallop on ahead to the market-town, and order a
post-chaise to be in readiness for his master. The Squire was in London
soon after nightfall, and at his club, inquiring for the doctor who was
cleverest in fever cases. He was told of Dr. Denbigh in Covent Garden, a
youngish man, but a great authority on fevers; and to Covent Garden he
went between eleven o'clock and midnight.
Dr. Denbigh was a student, and given to working late. He answered the
door himself, in dressing-gown and slippers, and on the Squire's urgent
entreaty consented to start at once, or as soon as post-horses could be
got ready. He could return in the morning early enough to see his gratis
patients, who came to him in flocks. He was known in all the vilest
slums and alleys of London, and was the beloved of the London poor.
It was a three hours' journey, with good horses and short stages, to
Fairmile Court; and it was the dead of the night when Bosworth and the
physician stole softly into the children's sick-chamber, where nurse
Bridget was dozing in her armchair, while Mrs. Layburne sat bolt upright
beside Rena's bed, watching the child's troubled slumbers.
"What an atmosphere!" cried Dr. Denbigh. "Draw back those curtains,
madam, if you please; open yonder window."
"The doctor forbade us to open door or window."
"That is a fine old-fashioned style of treatment, madam, which has
helped to people our churchyards. You needn't be afraid of the night
air. It is a fine dry night, and as wholesome as the day. Pray let those
poor children have some fresh air."
Barbara Layburne obeyed, deeming herself the unwilling accessory to a
murder. Bridget had rubbed her eyes, and was staring wonderingly at the
strange doctor. The village nurse was snoring rhythmically in an
adjoining room.
Dr. Denbigh seated himself between the two little beds, and examined the
sufferers, each in turn, with ineffable gentleness, with thoughtful
patient care.
"The symptoms are exactly the same," he said gravely, "but they are
severest here."
It was on Rena that his hand rested. The Squire groaned aloud.
"Shall I lose her?" he asked. "She is my all."
"The child is very ill. What does your doctor call the malady?"
"Scarlet fever."
"Scarlet fever! Why, there is no rash!"
"He tells me that in some cases the rash does not appear--in some of the
worst cases."
"This is no scarlet fever, sir. It is typhus--commonly called gaol
fever--distinctly marked. It is a low form of putrid fever. Your child
and her companion must have been visiting some of the poor folks'
cottages, where the disease is often found."
"They have not been beyond the park-gates. You have not taken them among
the cottagers, have you, Bridget? You have not disobeyed my strict
orders?"
"Never, sir. The little dears will tell you themselves, when they have
got their senses back, that I never took them nowheres."
"Have you had any fever case lately among your servants, indoors or
out?"
"Mrs. Layburne, yonder, can answer that question better than I."
"No, there has been no such illness," said Barbara.
"Strange," said the doctor; "the fever is gaol fever, and no other."
He wrote a prescription, ordered an entire change of treatment: wine,
brandy, the strongest soup that could be made--a chicken boiled down to
a breakfast-cupful of broth--and, above all, cleanliness and fresh air.
He gave many directions for the comfort of the children, and left within
the hour of his arrival, promising to come again in three days, when he
would confer with the local doctor. He would write fully to that
gentleman next morning, to explain his change of treatment.
"I have no doubt I shall induce him to concur with me," he said.
Mr. Bosworth followed him to the chaise.
"Tell me the truth, for God's sake," he said. "Is there any hope for my
child?"
The physician shook his head with a sorrowful air.
"She is very ill; they are both dangerously ill," he answered. "I would
not trifle with you for worlds. You are a man, and can meet misfortune
with courage and firmness. I doubt if either of those children will
recover; but I will do my utmost to save both. If the nurses follow out
my instructions exactly, there may be a change for the better within
forty-eight hours; if not, the case is hopeless. I would have you
prepared for the worst."
They clasped hands and parted. It was some hours before Roland Bosworth
went back to the house. He roamed about the park in the cold starry
night, brooding over past and future. For the last fifteen years he had
given himself up to the pursuit of money for its own sake. He had
haunted the City and the Exchange; he had speculated successfully in
many a hazardous enterprise at home and abroad. At a period when
speculation was but a science in the bud, he had shown himself far in
advance of his class. He had added thousand to thousand, gloating over
every increase of his capital, every lucky transaction on 'Change; and
now it dawned upon him all at once that in the very pursuit of wealth he
had lost the faculty for enjoying it; that he had fallen unawares into
the miser's sordid habits--had lost all gusto for pleasure, all delight
in life. Nothing remained to him but the abstract idea of wealth, and
the knowledge that he could leave it behind him as a monument of his own
individual greatness when he should be dust. He could only thus leave
it--only secure his grip upon the future--through that little child who
lay dying yonder within those dimly-lighted windows. Again and again
during those melancholy hours he had drawn near the house, had stood for
a little while below those lighted windows, looking up at the open
lattice, and listening for some sound from within. But there had been
nothing--a solemn stillness, as it were the silence of death.
And now, when the first sign of daybreak showed cold and pale above the
eastern side of the park, a long gray streak against which the topmost
boughs of oak and elm showed inky black, Mr. Bosworth went back to the
house from a still wider circuit, and looked up again at the open
window. Suddenly as he stood there a long shrill shriek rose on the
silent air like a wild appeal to heaven; and then another and another
shriek; and then a burst of passionate sobbing.
"It means death," said the Squire, nerving himself like a stoic. "The
end has come quickly."
It was Bridget who had screamed. She was sitting on the floor with one
of the children on her lap, dead. A handkerchief had been hastily flung
over the dead face, upon which Bridget's tears were streaming. Barbara
Layburne sat beside the other bed, Rena's bed, soothing the little
sufferer.
The Squire stood on the threshold.
"Is my child still alive?" he asked, hardly daring to enter that room of
horror.
"Yes. She is a shade better, I think," answered Barbara; "the cold
lotions have relieved her head. Poor little Linda changed for the worse
soon after the doctor left. We have had a terrible night with her. Her
struggling and restlessness at the last were awful. We could not hold
her in her bed, and she died in Bridget's arms ten minutes ago."
"O my darling, my darling, my precious pet!" wailed the nurse, with her
face bent over that marble face under the handkerchief.
Roland Bosworth gave a long sigh, significant of intense relief; yet
this was but a reprieve after all, perhaps. One blossom had withered
and fallen from the stem: the other would follow.
"Dr. Denbigh told me that my child was in more imminent danger than the
other," he said.
"Ay, but fevers are so capricious," answered Barbara, calm and unshaken
in this hour of sorrow, "and with children no one can be sure of
anything. Yesterday Rena seemed the worst, but after Dr. Denbigh left
Linda began to sink rapidly. We gave her brandy and beaten eggs at
half-hour intervals; we cut off her hair and applied the cooling lotion
to her head; it was not for want of care that she died."
"What will Rena do without her?" exclaimed the Squire, thinking more of
the living than the dead. Linda had never been more to him than a
chattel--something bought for his daughter's pleasure.
He went over to the bed, and sat beside it in the faint gray morning
light. The candles had guttered and burnt low in the sockets of the
massive old silver candlesticks. The morning looked in at the open
casement, pale and cold.
They had cropped the child's golden hair close to her head. Pinched with
illness and thus shorn of its luxuriant curls, the whole character of
the face seemed altered.
"Why did you cut off her hair?" asked the Squire.
"It was by the doctor's orders. Did not you hear him tell us?"
"Ay, to be sure. My wits were wool-gathering."
He bent down and kissed the fevered lips as he had done before. The
child was lying in a kind of stupor, neither sleep nor waking.
"Try to save her for me," said Bosworth, as he rose and left the room.
The village nurse was still asleep in the next room; she had watched two
nights running, and was indemnifying herself for those two vigils.
Bridget and Barbara laid out their dead in another room before they
awakened the nurse. The doctor came at nine o'clock, heard what Dr.
Denbigh had said, and shrugged his shoulders unbelievingly. He was
disposed to ascribe Linda's death to that most reckless opening of a
window between midnight and morning. He even affected to disapprove of
those shorn tresses which lay in a golden heap upon the dressing-table,
Linda's and Rena's so near in tint that it was not easy to distinguish
one from the other.
"We shall see the effect of this new-fangled treatment," he said,
looking at the prescription. "If Squire Bosworth were a man of society,
he would not have committed such a breach of manners as to post off to
town and bring down a strange doctor without conferring with me."
"He wanted to save his child," said Barbara.
"That is what we all want, madam; but it might just as well be done in
accordance with professional etiquette," replied the doctor.
Although huffed by the Squire's conduct, he yet deigned to follow out
Dr. Denbigh's treatment: and by a strict adherence to those instructions
Rena began visibly to improve, and when the physician come to Fairmile
on the third day he was able to give a favourable verdict.
"Your daughter is decidedly better," he said. "I am very sorry we lost
her little companion. She was a pretty child--more robust than this
one, and, as I thought, in less danger; but these little lives hang by
the flimsiest thread."
The child who had been called Belinda was buried in the same churchyard
where her unknown father lay in his pauper's grave; but the Squire
showed himself unwontedly liberal, insomuch that he ordered a headstone
to mark the child's resting-place--a stone upon which this inscription
was cut at his own particular order:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
BELINDA,
A CHILD OF FIVE YEARS,
WHO WAS FOR THREE YEARS THE BELOVED COMPANION OF
IRENE BOSWORTH.
_Obit October 29, 1712._
Irene recovered, but her recovery was of the slowest. The loss of her
playfellow retarded her convalescence. She sorrowed with a deeper sorrow
than children are wont to feel at the loss of those they love. Fever and
delirium hung upon her for nearly a month after her child-friend had
been carried to Flamestead churchyard. Dr. Denbigh declared the case one
of the most interesting and the most difficult that had come within his
experience. There was a period in the history of the case when he began
to fear for the little patient's mind; and even after convalescence her
memory was found to be weakened, and there were moments of actual
hallucination.
"She owes her life, under Providence, to Mrs. Bridget's excellent
nursing," said Dr. Denbigh--commendation which brought sudden tears to
Bridget's eyes. This praise was thoroughly deserved, for the nurse had
devoted herself to her duties with untiring devotion, and had scarcely
enjoyed a night's sleep during the four weary weeks of uncertainty that
followed Linda's funeral. She grieved for the child that was gone with a
deeper sorrow than might have been anticipated, seeing that her own
particular charge, the child she had nursed from its birth, had been
given back to her as if from the very jaws of death. She did her duty to
the survivor with unstinted devotion; but it would have almost seemed
that her heart was in the grave of that child which had been taken.
Squire Bosworth's conduct in many of the relations of life changed in a
marked degree after this period of peril, in which his child's life,
and as it were his own fate, had trembled in the balance. He became a
more affectionate father, a better landlord, and a kinder master. He
still appeared on 'Change every week, still speculated and laboured for
the increase of his vast fortune, still hoarded and calculated and hung
fondly over his piles of debentures and securities, mortgages and New
River shares. The very bent and habit of his mind was too deeply
engrained in him to be changed at forty years of age; but he became less
miserly in many things, and he placed his establishment upon a more
liberal footing, although retaining Mrs. Layburne at the head of
affairs. For his daughter he spared nothing. He gave her toys, lap-dogs,
and a pony, and never allowed a day to pass while he was at Fairmile
without spending some portion of it in the little girl's society. For
the rest he was as much a recluse as ever, shunning all his neighbours,
and never sharing in any of those field-sports which are, and ever have
been, the chief bond of union between country gentlemen.