THE FEVER.
ABOUT nine o'clock Lady Corbet came softly into the room where Betty
had at last fallen into a quiet and sound slumber.
"Poor little dear!" said she, sadly, as she looked at the pale face of
the little sleeper. "She really breathes more gently, does she not? How
lucky that the doctor happened to be in the house! But, sweetheart, you
must go and got some supper and a breath of fresh air, for I am sure
you need it. And, my dear, will you, as you come back, just step in
and see if Pall is asleep? The poor child is all but broken-hearted. I
could not be hard upon her when I saw how sorry she was for her fault,
especially as it is so rare for her to own herself in the wrong."
Winifred was rather unwilling to leave her charge, but she was afraid
of an argument on the subject which would waken Betty, so she slipped
gently out of the room. She had eaten nothing since her twelve o'clock
dinner, and felt herself refreshed by the delicate little supper which
had been prepared for her by the motherly care of Lady Corbet. She went
to the garden door to catch a breath of fresh air, but there seemed to
be no air abroad. The heat was melting, and a low, heavy cloud brooded
over the whole sky.
"What a stifling heat!" thought Winifred, drawing a long breath. "I
wonder if it is any fresher on the top of Holford heath? It seems as
though one breath smelling of the furze would put new life into my
heart."
She drew another long breath, and went slowly up-stairs to Paulina's
little chamber. She opened the door, and at first thought no one was
in the room, but a closer inspection showed her Paulina, in her white
night-dress, prostrate on the bare boards, her face hidden in her arms,
and her whole body shaking with suppressed sobs.
"My poor, dear child!" said Winifred, kneeling beside her. "Why are you
here, when you should be in bed and asleep?"
Paulina did not reply, save by her deeper sobs.
"Even if you have done wrong, which I do not deny, you know there is
forgiveness for the worst of sinners," continued Winifred, in soothing
tones. "Do you not remember who it was that came into the world to save
sinners?"
"'Don't,' Mrs. Evans!" interrupted Paulina, in tones of agony. "You
will kill me. For three long years I have been trying to make myself a
Christian, and I am no nearer to it than when I began. I have fasted
and prayed, and done penance, and thought upon death and judgment, till
my head was like to burst, and all to no purpose. I shall never be
prepared for them nor for heaven!"
"Poor child!" said Winifred, soothingly, as Paulina dropped her
head upon her arms with a fresh burst of sobs. "No wonder you are
discouraged. Your efforts have been like your tapestry work. You have
begun all wrong, and therefore it is no wonder that your labors have
produced nothing but confusion. Do you remember what I told you about
it—that you would never do anything with that piece, but you must begin
anew?"
"Yes!" answered Paulina, interested, as it were, in spite of herself.
"And you found it so, did you not? You had to take all new
materials—canvas, worsted, and silk—after you had tried two or three
days to rectify your mistakes. After that you went on prosperously
enough."
"Well?" said Paulina.
"Well, Paulina, you have made the same mistake in your religion. You
have begun wrong, and thus you have gone on from bad to worse; and if
you were to go on forever, you can never get to heaven in this way,
because you are not in the way thither."
"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Winifred," said Paulina, both roused
and piqued by this unexpected statement. "I don't know how one is to
got to heaven except by being good."
"Then no one will over go there, for assuredly no one was ever good
enough yet. You are fond of saying that you know all the prayers in
the church service, Paulina. Who is it who is said, in the Communion
Service, to have made by His one oblation of himself once offered, a
full, perfect, and sufficient satisfaction for the sins of the whole
world?"
"Our Lord, of course!"
"Well, what was the need of His making that costly offering, if people
can gain salvation and heaven by their own efforts without Him; above
all, if by penance and fasting they can make atonement for their own
sins? No, no, my child, you are wrong. Do you think that by lying
all night weeping on the ground you can blot out the evil you have
done this day, and thus make your account even with the God you have
offended?"
"No, oh, no!" cried Paulina, letting her head fall again. "Oh! If any
penance, any pilgrimage, could make amend or restore my poor sister,
how gladly would I do it!"
"But if the way is already provided whereby your sin may be blotted
out as if it had never been," said Winifred; "if by no action upon
your part, save sorrow for your sins and faith in your Saviour, you
could settle all the long account against you and receive strength
for all time to come, would it not be worth while to try? O Paulina!
Give up this wretched and false idea of earning the favor of God. Cast
yourself just as you are—a poor, lost, dying sinner—utterly unworthy of
anything save condemnation, upon the mercy of God in Jesus Christ His
Son, and beg forgiveness for His sake who died and rose again for you.
Then indeed you may feel yourself forgiven. Then you will know what it
is to love your Father in heaven as well as to fear Him; and humbled
yet encouraged, you may go on striving to please God, not because He
is a hard and exacting master, but because He is a dear Father, who
so loved you that He gave His own Son to die for you. I must go back
to your sister now, but, Paulina, think of what I have said, and try
to act upon it. And do not by thus exposing your health add to your
mother's cares and anxieties. Believe me that is only another form of
selfishness!"
"I will do as you tell me," said Paulina, submissively, "but oh! Mrs.
Winifred, do not be hard upon me! I am so very, very unhappy!"
"But what is there to make you so unhappy, Paulina? Anything but what
happened to-day?"
"Everything!" said Paulina, abruptly. "I wish I had never been born.
But there, Betty will want you. Good-night!"
"I must indeed go to her!" said Winifred. "Good-night, my dear child,
and may God bless you and teach you by His Holy Spirit!"
"Well, and how did you find Pall?" asked Lady Corbet.
"Very sad, madam, but I left her more quiet, and, I trust, in a way to
be comforted. And now, let me beg you to rest, and leave our little one
to my care."
The next morning found Betty decidedly improved, though very weak and
languid, and much disposed to insist upon her privileges as an invalid,
and keep the whole house waiting upon her. At last, however, she was
prevailed upon to let Phyllis sit by her side and tell her stories,
while Winifred refreshed herself with washing and dressing and a walk
in the garden. She looked up at Paulina's window, but the curtain was
drawn. Winifred gathered a handful of flowers and leaves, and made a
couple of little nosegays to carry up to her patient. She peeped into
Paulina's room, and found her awake, but not up.
"I do not know what is the matter with me," was her reply to Winifred's
question, "but I cannot rise at all. I am so sick and giddy, and my
head feels so strangely! I have been hot and cold by fits all night,
and so thirsty I have drunk up all the water in the jug. But oh! please
do open the window, and let in the fresh air. I am stifled in this
close room."
Winifred undrew the curtains and let in the light and air. As she
did so, she looked at Paulina, and her heart sank within her, for
she thought she recognized in the girl's face the first signs of the
dreadful fever which had swept away in five weeks more than half the
inhabitants of Bridgewater.
"Do not try to rise," said she. "You are not able. I will excuse you to
madam your mother, and will bring the doctor to you when he comes to
see Betty."
Paulina, sank back on her pillow with a sigh, as though it were a
sort of comfort to find herself relieved from exertion, and Winifred
hastened down-stairs as she heard the doctor's foot ascending.
He looked at Betty, pronounced her doing well, and quite won her heart
by his jokes and a new picture-book, so that she readily agreed to stay
in bed and play with her doll if only Phyllis might stay with her.
"If you please, madam, I should like the doctor to see Mrs. Paulina,"
said Winifred. "She seems to me far from well and is quite unable to
rise."
The moment Doctor Mercer entered the room, he exchanged a glance with
Winifred, which seemed to say on one side, "Do you know the state of
the case?" and on the other, "Yes, I do."
Paulina was heavy and drowsy, answering intelligently when roused, but
soon dropping of again.
The doctor felt her pulse and head, examined her tongue, and asked many
questions as to how she had rested and how she had felt for some days
back. Then he beckoned Lady Corbet out of the room.
"Your daughter is very ill, madam," said he, gravely, "and, I fear, is
likely to be worse. She has every symptom of the prevailing fever."
Lady Corbet turned pale and trembled. She had the dread of infection
common to the time, when, indeed, there was every excuse for it; since,
owing to the manner of life and the ignorance of hygienic laws, almost
all diseases took on an infectious character. But she was, as I have
said, a woman great in emergencies, and it was but a moment before she
recovered herself, and asked, anxiously indeed but calmly, what was to
be done, and whether any measures could be taken to prevent the spread
of the disease.
"You see, Doctor Mercer, I do not exactly know to whom to turn. Our old
family doctor is lately dead, and Doctor Butler, who would be my next
dependence, has turned papist, and can think of nothing but his crosses
and medals and other popish trinkets, besides which he is not a man of
such character as I should like to have about my young daughters. He
hath made trouble in more than one family. O doctor! If you could only
stay and attend upon my children!"
The doctor smiled. "I have been thinking, madam, of spending some time
in the West, specially for the purpose of studying this fever, which
has made such ravages of late years. I shall be happy to attend your
daughters, but I warn you that I am considered little better than a
heretic by many of my medical brethren. I shall not bleed Mrs. Paulina,
nor shut her up in a close room with neither air nor water."
"You shall do just as you please," said Lady Corbet, evidently greatly
relieved. "To be sure, it does not seem very sensible to heat up folks
that are burning up already."
"Have you servants upon whom you can rely?" asked Doctor Mercer.
"That I don't know," answered Lady Corbet. "There is Ashwell, who would
go through fire and water to serve me, and scold and grumble at me all
the time! But as for the rest, I cannot answer for them."
"This Mrs. Evans, now?" said the doctor, in an inquiring tone.
"Oh, yes; I doubt not she would be worth a host, but you see, Doctor
Mercer, she is an orphan child, and under no obligation to me, and I
could not ask her to put her life in peril for a stranger."
"You are a good woman, I am sure of that," said the doctor, abruptly.
"But the gentlewoman has been exposed already. Does not that make a
difference?"
"I shall remain, of course," said Winifred, who had come to the door in
time to hear the last few words. "If you, madam, will send some one to
my aunt's to let her know the reason of my stay and to bring me some
clothes, I shall remain with Mrs. Paulina till she is better. I am not
afraid."
"But you do not, perhaps, understand the danger?" said the doctor,
kindly.
"My grandfather and my mother, and many of our neighbors, died of the
fever," replied Winifred. "I have nothing to hinder my staying, and I
am not in the least afraid."
"But can you have your wits about you, and not go off in a fit yourself
if your patient swoons or bleeds at the nose?" asked the doctor,
gruffly. "The sick-room is no place for nervous fine ladies."
"I can do as I am bid," replied Winifred, simply.
"If you can, you are a wonderful woman and worth your weight in gold.
Come with me, that I may tell you what to do."
Paulina grew rapidly worse, and by noon was utterly prostrated.
Sir John, coming home to dinner, complained of headache and pains in
all his joints; and though he made light of it, and declared that
nothing ailed him but his yesterday's dinner, it was plain that the
disease was upon him. By night he was unable to rise, and one of the
'prentice lads showed symptoms of coming down.
"Only think, Mrs. Evans," said Ashwell, as Winifred came down-stairs
to prepare same gruel for her patient, "here have all the servants run
away and left us—yes, every maid in the house, and the two men, and
the knife-boy that my good lady took out of the very street, as a body
may say—all gone but poor black Jack, who has hardly the sense of an
ape and cannot talk like a Christian. Yes, every one, the ungrateful
hussies, and after all the time I have spent teaching them, and my
mistress giving them each a new gown only last quarter! And this
new-fangled doctor, with his fancies about fresh air and cool water for
Mrs. Paulina, as if any one ever heard of such a thing in a fever!"
"Why did not Jack go with the rest?" asked Winifred.
"Me not going to run away and leave my kind massa what tooked me out
of de ship, gave me good clothes and all, and missus that was always
kind to poor Jack," said the negro, answering for himself. "Me stay and
wait on my massa! Suppose I do get fever, what then? I got no fader nor
moder, no wife, no babies! Suppose Jack die, he buried in the ground;
there's an end of poor black man, unless maybe that good Lord Jesus my
missus tell me 'bout come some day, and say, 'Get up, Jack, and come
'long with me!'"
"Just hear the poor creature!" said Ashwell, wiping the tears from her
eyes. "Whoever thought of his having feeling like that? Well, Mrs.
Evans, I suppose you will be going to leave us, like the rest?"
"No, Ashwell, I have no notion of going at present," replied Winifred,
who was, as she well knew, no favorite with the spoiled and jealous old
servant. "I am like poor Jack," she added, with a sad smile. "Suppose I
do die, there is no one to cry for me. I shall not leave Lady Corbet so
long as I can do anything for her."
"Mighty fine!" grumbled the old woman. "But who is to do all the work,
I should like to know?"
"You and I, and poor Jack, and Mrs. Jem and Phyllis—begging their
pardon for putting them in such company," replied Winifred, smiling.
"As for what cannot be done, we must just leave it undone; and I am
sure Jack will help us all he is able."
"Yes, dat I will, young missus!" replied Jack, briskly. "Me could cook
do dinner as well as dat greasy Jenny Cook," he added, with an injured
air, "only Misses Ashwell she never tink Jack know nothing!"
"Yes, you look like it!" said Ashwell, and then added, in a softer
tone, "I dare say you would do your best."
"I should not wonder if he did know how!" said Winifred. "I have heard
my father say that some of the best cooks he ever saw were West India
negroes."
"Dat de livin' truth, young missus!" said Jack, eagerly. "My moder she
cook for old massa, and I learnt all her ways, for I was big boy before
massa sold me. You just let me try, that's all!"
"Well, well, we will see! See who is knocking there!"
The knocker was no less a person than Dame Evans herself. That good
woman had been thrown into ten times more than her usual fume and
flutter by the receipt of her niece's note, which she had been unable
to read till her husband came home. Then indeed there was a breeze.
Dame Evans wept and scolded—declared that there never was such an
unlucky woman, and that everything turned out just to spite her.
"Here, just as we had made up our minds to go out into the country—to
the very house this wilful, troublesome girl was born in and was always
raving about—and an awful piece of work it will be, no doubt, and
endless damage—Winifred must go and expose herself to the fever, so
that we cannot take her without danger to all our precious lives. And
as if that was not enough, she must go and make up her mind to stay and
nurse these gentlefolks, who are neither kith nor kin to her. I declare
it is enough to provoke a saint!" concluded Dame Evans, in her usual
style.
"Since you could not take her without danger, it is well that she has
made up her mind to remain with my Lady Corbet!" observed Dame Joyce,
who had run in to hear and tell the latest news about the fever, the
Irish army King James was bringing over, and the dreadful doings of the
papists. "The Corbets are fine, open-handed people, and can pay them
that serve them—that is one thing."
"And suppose they can—is that any reason my niece should endanger her
precious life and put me to all this inconvenience?" said Dame Evans,
turning angrily upon her visitor. "Thank goodness, we are not dependent
upon the pay of great folks, nor need to be, seeing we have means of
our own, and know how to use them too, if we don't wear lace whisks and
camlet gowns every day!" casting a glance of supreme contempt upon the
somewhat superabundant finery of the goldsmith's wife.
Good, easy Dame Joyce laughed, and addressed herself to Master Evans.
"And so you are going out into the country, for all the world like
gentlefolks. But maybe you will not be so much better off, for they say
the fever was very bad at Bridgewater last time. Who knows," she added
mischievously, "that the seeds of the fever may not be remaining in the
house, since your father and sister died of it, and the place has been
shut up for so long?"
"I'll tell you what, Mistress Joyce, you are not to judge every one by
yourself," said Dame Evans, sharply. "You won't find any slat-holes or
filthy, dirty cupboards about my place, or my sister's either, for ill
smells and sickness to lurk in. It is my opinion that if folks were
as careful as they should be to keep clean and decent, we should not
have so much of these fevers!" A remark in which the good woman was
undoubtedly correct.
"Well, well, dame, we will not quarrel about that!" said Mrs. Joyce.
"What are you going to do about your niece?"
"I'm sure I don't know!" said Dame Evans, pettishly. "I don't quite
like to leave her behind, but I don't see how we are to take her, now
that she has been exposed to the fever."
"Yes, and so bad as they have it, too!" said Mrs. Joyce, who seemed
to take delight in tormenting her neighbor. "Their servants have all
run away, men and maids and all, except old Sarah Ashwell and the
blackamoor who waits on Sir John."
"Winifred must do as she thinks right," said Master Evans, who had not
spoken before. "If the family is in such straits, I do not believe she
will leave them, nor can I blame her if she does not. Nevertheless she
must have the choice of going with us or staying behind, as she thinks
best. Perhaps, when she knows we are going to the Stonehill farm, she
may change her mind."
"And that is true, too!" said Dame Evans. "I will see her this
afternoon, and I doubt not I can bring her to reason. She has been well
brought up—not like some people's children, left to go to rack and
ruin, while their mother goes about the street to show her finery."
Dame Evans always bestowed these hints and innuendoes upon her
easy-tempered neighbor in great abundance: nevertheless she would have
felt herself much aggrieved if Dame Joyce had not run in at least every
other day to give her the news of the street and the city.
Dame Evans dressed herself with extra care for walking, and, having set
the little girls their tasks of knitting and sewing, she sallied out
and took her way to Sir John Corbet's house, fortifying her mind with
all the arguments she could think of wherewith to overcome Winifred's
obstinacy. She would not come within the door, but remained in the
court while Jack called Winifred out of the housekeeper's room.
"There, don't come too near me, child!" said Dame Evans, shrinking
back. "I suppose you have just come from that poor young lady's
sickbed."
"Yes, I have been over her all day," replied Winifred. "Will you come
into the house, aunt, or will you walk into the garden?"
"Let us go into the garden," said Dame Evans, though she felt a great
desire to see the fine house of which she had heard so much. "We shall
be in the fresh air at least."
Winifred opened the gate which led into the garden, and conducted her
aunt to a pleasant little arbor at the opposite end from the house.
"Well, this is a fine place, to be sure!" said Dame Evans, looking
about her. "What a large garden, and what a great house! Which is Mrs.
Paulina's room, now?"
"That one with the projecting window and the open casement."
"You don't mean to say you leave the window open, and she lying ill of
a fever!" exclaimed Dame Evans, in horror. "What can you be thinking
of, child? 'Tis enough to be her death!"
"It is by the doctor's orders," said Winifred. "He is a new doctor from
London, who is taking care of the family."
"Aye, some of those new-fangled notions! No doubt, he must be setting
up to know more than all his elders and betters. Tis the way of this
age! I dare say the poor child will die, and Sir John too."
"Almost every one does die who has the fever, anyway," observed
Winifred. "Perhaps it may be well to try some new method, since the old
ones certainly seem to answer no good purpose."
"Well, well, 'twas not for that I came," said Dame Evans, pettishly.
"I want to know what you mean, Winifred, by staying here in this
plague-stricken house? Why did you not come home directly Mrs. Paulina
was taken? And now they say all the maids have run away—idle, cowardly
jades! I'll be bound I'd teach them! And who is to do anything?"
"Why, aunt, it seems to me that I should have been as bad as the
maids, if I had gone away and left the family in their distress!" said
Winifred. "Why not?"
"Why not, gurtha! Why, because they are hired servants bound to stay
till their quarter-day, whatever happens! Do you mean to even yourself
to a common serving-wench?"
"No, and for that reason I would not be willing to leave in their
trouble a family who have been kind to me. The maids are poor, ignorant
creatures, of whom we cannot expect a great deal. I should not like to
show that I am worth no more than they!" added Winifred, smiling.
"Well, well!" said her aunt, somewhat taken aback by being thus met
on her own ground. "All that does not signify. What I want to know
is, whether you will go out to Stonehill farm with us to-morrow or
no. The house is empty, and business here is dull, besides that the
fever is already growing bad down by the water-side, and you uncle
hath concluded to take a holiday for once and go into the country for
a month. He says that you shall have your choice, for all you have
behaved so ill, and are just as like as not to bring the fever among
us," added the dame, falling into her usual grumbling strain. "But you
must make up your mind quickly."
For one moment Winifred's heart bounded. To see the old place once
more—to visit all the old haunts where she had walked with her
mother—to go over the Hall and the gardens, and walk across the moor to
Dame Sprat's old cottage! But long before Dame Evans had finished her
speech, Winifred's mind was made up.
She glanced up at Paulina's casement, and then at the window of the
school-room, where she could see the little girl anxiously watching
her. Then she thought how lonely and sad all the old haunts would seem,
with none of the dear familiar faces—the once cheerful farm-house under
the different rule of her aunt, who never allowed any one about her to
be happy if she could help it; and she felt as if she had little to
regret.
"No, aunt, I cannot go!" she replied. "It would not be right, as you
say, to expose you all to the fever, and besides I am needed here.
Madam must needs be with Sir John, and Ashwell will have her hands
full, besides that she will not follow the doctor's rules in anything.
Then there is Betty, who will mind no one but me. No, I do not see well
how I can go."
"Mighty well!" grumbled her aunt, who, though inwardly relieved by
Winifred's decision, was not disposed to let it pass without a proper
amount of fault-finding. "Mighty fine, indeed! I suppose you learned
all that out of your books that you are always poring over? To my
mind, such fine notions are only fit for gentlefolks—though I suppose
you think yourself a gentlewoman, as good as the best. Look out for
yourself, that is my notion!"
"But, aunt, the Bible—"
"Oh, don't go talking to me about the Bible, Mrs. Winifred!" retorted
the dame, not unwilling to work herself into a passion, that she might
stifle certain unpleasant qualms of conscience. "The Bible is all well
enough for Sundays and such like, and for sick people, maybe, but I
never saw any good come of those folks who are always making a fuss
about the Bible and religion. They were just the people who got up
Monmouth's war, and made all that distress. If there is anything I do
despise, it is a hypocrite. But your uncle says you are to have your
own way, so I must e'en leave you to your own destruction!" added Dame
Evans, in whose mind existed a great contention between her selfish
fears and her real affection for her niece. "'Twill be worth a fortune
to you if you do live through it, that is one thing, for the Corbets
are generous people, and they will never forget it of you. I should not
wonder if it should be the making of you. But then, if you should die!"
"Then I shall go home, indeed!" said Winifred, with her sad smile. "And
that will be better than going to Stonehill."
"Mrs. Evans, here's Missy Polly a-calling for you!" called Jack.
"Ah, the ugly ape! How any one can bear a blackamoor about them, I
can't tell!" said Dame Evans, rising.
"Well, good-bye, lovey! Take care of yourself!" And her heart getting
for once the better of her fears, she threw both her arms round her
niece, and kissed her, crying heartily. "Whatever happens, I will
always say that you have been a good, dutiful girl—that you have! I
will send by the 'prentice lad all your things, and as to the money you
have earned—"
"Dear aunt, please keep that, and buy with it the pair of pewter
tankards you liked so much, to remember your little Winifred! I have
money by me, and Lady Corbet will let me want for nothing."
"Well, well, we shall see about that. But, Winifred—" turning back at
the last moment—"is it true that Mrs. Paulina has turned papist?"
"No, I should think not," answered Winifred. "I have seen no signs of
it."
"Well, all I know is that neighbor Joyce says so, and pretends that she
had her news from her sister Jones, who is a papist herself. Dame Joyce
says she has been seen talking with that Doctor Butler they make such
a fuss about, and people talk of her giving him meetings and going to
confession. Moreover she is sure that she herself saw Mrs. Paulina in
the new Romish chapel on Ascension-day, whither she went herself—more
shame to her—to see the sights. She says Mrs. Paulina had her hood
pulled over her face, but she knew her directly!"
"I hardly think that can be true. Dame Joyce must be mistaken."
"Not she! She has eyes in the back of her head, I think. Well,
farewell, sweetheart, and God bless thee!"
Winifred returned to the chamber of her patient, too much startled by
what she had just heard to think as much as she would otherwise have
done of the parting with her aunt. She could not believe the story, and
yet, if it were true, it explained many little things which had puzzled
her. Paulina's severe penances—her evident desire of late to avoid the
Bible readings—her self-righteous notions—her reserved and burdened
air, as if she had always something to conceal—all tended that way!
Nay, upon that very Ascension-day, Paulina had refused to go to church
with the rest on the ground of a headache, which excuse was fully borne
out by her paleness and her heavy, downcast eyes. She remembered,
too, that, when they returned, Paulina was nowhere to be found, and
that by-and-by she had come in from the garden, looking flurried and
flushed. Could it possibly be that the girl was deceiving her parents
and all about her? And if so, what could be done about the matter?
The last year of James the Second's most unfortunate reign was one of
great activity among that portion of the English Roman Catholics—not by
any means the most respectable or intelligent portion—who with the king
were guided by the counsels of the Jesuits rather than by those of the
pope. What might be called the Country party believed with the pontiff
that James was injuring the cause instead of benefiting it, and that a
reaction must inevitably follow, which would leave the English Roman
Catholics in a worse position than ever. Events proved them to have
been in the right, but nothing could induce the king or his advisers to
pause in their career. A good many people joined themselves to them,
some from policy, some, no doubt, from sincere conviction, and the new
recruits were more zealous than those who had grown up in the faith
from their childhood.
Amongst the most important converts in the city of Bristol was the
Doctor Butler who has been more than once mentioned. Though considered
a skilful physician, he had never been a man of good character, and
more than one family had had reason to repent the confidence placed in
him. Since his conversion by Father Hewling, the principal Jesuit in
the city, he had professed great repentance for his former misdeeds,
and an equal desire to atone for them by his zeal in the new religion,
but Father Kennedy, the harmless, good-natured old secular priest
who had looked after the spiritual interests of the few old Catholic
families in Bristol for thirty years, shook his head and raised his
eyebrows when the doctor was mentioned, and would not say one word in
his favor.
Winifred found Paulina, roused from her stupor, and raving in delirium,
declaring that Ashwell meant to suffocate her. With some trouble she
was persuaded to lie down, and her face being bathed with rose-water,
and the casement opened, she soon became quiet again.
"Very well, Mrs. Evans, mighty well, indeed!" said the old woman,
trembling with rage. "Only when you are called to account for the death
of that dear child, don't blame me! As if I, that nursed her and her
sister from their birth, and took care of all my five sisters in the
fever when they every one died, was to be taught my duty by a chit like
you!"
"But, Mrs. Ashwell, such are the doctor's orders! It is none of my
doing."
"Yes, you and your new-fangled doctor! Well, well, I wash my hands of
it!" And the old woman hobbled down-stairs, muttering to herself that
it should go hard but she would get better advice for her darling—that
she would, indeed!
All day long did Winifred go from one sick-room to another, and from
the kitchen to the school-room. An attempt had been made to isolate
the throe younger girls, but it was found impracticable, and they were
merely kept out of the presence of the sufferers. Even this did not
seem likely to be possible for any great length of time, since Sir John
claimed the whole of Lady Corbet's attention, with what help she could
receive from black Jack; and Ashwell's inveterate prejudice against the
doctor made her worse than useless in the sick-room.
The little girls were very good, waiting upon themselves and making
a conscience of doing some part of their usual tasks every day. They
were very kind and patient with Betty, and Betty herself, warned by the
violence of her late attack, and helped by the forbearance with which
she was treated, had fewer "tantrums," as Ashwell called them, than
ever before in her life.
Paulina's case was the worst of all. Day by day she sank more and more
under the power of the disease, her lucid intervals became fewer,
and her delirium worse in its character. Doctor Mercer came to see
her twice a day, and sometimes oftener, but all his remedies seemed
powerless to arrest the course of the disease. He had become very
popular among the poorer class in the city, helped, probably, by the
fact that he gave away liberally both advice and medicine, but few of
the upper classes employed him, and by most of the medical fraternity,
he was denounced in no measured terms. What indeed was to be expected
of a man who would have the casements of his patients' rooms opened all
day, and sometimes all night, and allowed the sick to drink as much
cold water as they desired!
"Well, and how is our young lady to-day?" he asked, one morning, of
Winifred, as she met him at the door of Paulina's room.
"Worse and worse!" said Winifred, with tears in her eyes. "She has not
spoken or shown any sign of sense since midnight."
"Aye, I think this will be the crisis," said the doctor, as he
examined the patient, whose senses now appeared closed to all external
impressions, while her sunken features seemed already to have assumed
the immobility of death. "You must not be discouraged, however. The
case is not yet hopeless so long as she can swallow, but you must watch
her carefully, for the next twenty-four hours will decide the question
of life or death. I have not seen so bad a case as hers among any of my
Protestant patients."
"Is the fever, then, worse among the papists?" asked Winifred.
"The worst cases I have met with seem to have been among those who were
at the new Romish chapel on Ascension-day," replied the doctor. "It
seems there was a great crowd, and the heat was intense. I suppose I
have had at least twenty cases which originated there, all taken down
at once. And, by the way, this young lady was attacked at the very same
time. It can hardly be, I suppose, that she was among them?"
Winifred thought, with a start, of her aunt's gossip, which had nearly
faded from her mind.
"I cannot believe it!" said she. "Lady Corbet would never allow such
a thing, and I cannot think Mrs. Paulina would deceive her parents.
She always went to the early morning prayers at the cathedral, rather
against the will of her mother, who, however, permitted it, partly
because Mrs. Paulina was delicate, and the walk was thought good for
her."
"Did she go alone?" asked Doctor Mercer.
"No, one of the maids, who lately left us, went with her."
"Hath she ever seemed to you to have any burden upon her mind?"
"I have sometimes thought so, especially during the two weeks before
she was taken ill. But why do you ask, Doctor Mercer? Have you any
suspicions?" asked Winifred.
"I can hardly tell you why, but I certainly have!" answered Doctor
Mercer. "You know the Jesuits are making converts all over the nation.
I will not conceal from you, Mrs. Evans, that I have heard some such
reports about this poor young lady, and I fear she may have fallen
among the Philistines, as the phrase is. But that is not our business
just now. We will bring our patient through the present distress, if
possible, and then we will see what can be done."
Doctor Mercer gave Winifred very particular directions about the
treatment of Paulina, charging her to watch her most carefully, visited
the other patients and pronounced them to be going on favorably, all
but coaxed old Ashwell into a good humor, and then went home to snatch
such rest as he could before he should be called out again.
The day waned into evening, and still Paulina continued apparently
unconscious and motionless, though she swallowed what was put into her
mouth. The house grew still as the grave, save where a mouse squeaked
or rattled down the wall, or some of those unaccountable creaks and
rustlings which are always to be heard by a watcher in an old house,
made themselves audible. The night drew towards dawn, and still there
was no change. At last, a bird chirped in the dark garden below, and
was answered by another.
"Winifred!" said a faint, oh, such a faint voice from the bed. "Are you
here, Winifred?"
"Yes, dear child!" answered Winifred, striving to speak calmly,
although her heart bounded as if she had heard a voice from the dead.
"You are better, are you not?"
"Winifred!" said Paulina, arresting her hand as she put a spoonful of
wine and water to the parched lips. "It is all true—all the doctor
said! I heard, though I could not speak. It is all true!"
"Do not talk now, Paulina," said Winifred. "I trust you are better, and
that you will have ample time to say all you wish, but you must not
speak now. Your life depends upon your keeping quiet."
"I 'must!'" said Paulina, detaining Winifred's hand with more force
than seemed possible in her weak state. "I shall not be better till
this is off my mind. Is my father living?"
"Yes, and going on well. Your mother is with him."
"My sisters?"
"Are all well, as yet. Dear Paulina, be quiet, I beseech you!"
"I tell you, Winifred, I 'must' speak!" said Paulina, almost fiercely.
"I must tell the truth before I die! Listen, that you may tell my
parents, if I do not see them again!"
Winifred felt, for a moment, in an agony of indecision and distress.
The next, her own calm, good sense, and the habit of looking to a
Higher Power for aid, quieted her, and she made up her mind what to do.
"Speak then, dear, if it will relieve your mind, but be short. You wish
to tell me that you were at the Romish chapel on Ascension-day?"
"Yes, and before—many times!"
Paulina's voice was weak, and she spoke with many pauses, but her words
were clear and coherent, and her skin felt cool and natural.
"When you thought I went to the cathedral—I went to the chapel!"
"But Molly?" exclaimed Winifred, astonished.
"I bribed her. She waited outside. It was Doctor Butler who took me
there. I met him at my cousin's, and then at my Lady Germaine's. They
are Catholics, you know, but she was not to blame, nor Father Kennedy.
They said I was deceiving my parents—that it would come to no good.
Doctor Butler took me to Father Hewling. They flattered and coaxed me,
especially Doctor Butler."
"But how could you have anything to do with him?" Winifred could not
help saying. "You knew what a bad man he has been, and all the trouble
he made in your cousin Chester's family. It has been town talk!"
"I was a conceited fool!" said Paulina. "He made me think myself a
martyr and a saint, and persuaded me to deceive my mother. I was
wretched all the time. I see all now—all so clearly!"
"You mean that you see the truth now," said Winifred, fearing the
effect of every word, yet desiring, for the sake of the poor girl's
parents, to have something of comfort to repeat.
"Yes, indeed—all! Winifred, say those verses in the Communion Service."
Winifred's gentle voice repeated the "comfortable words."
Paulina caught eagerly at the last verse. "Yes, that is it! He is the
propitiation. It has all been made plain to me the last few hours! I
could think, though I could not speak. Oh, how I have been misled!"
"Paulina, you must not say one word more!" said Winifred, with the
authority she well knew how to assume. "I shall find it hard to answer
to the doctor for what has already passed. Now take some more wine, be
silent, and let me read you to sleep."
"Pray—pray!" said Paulina, eagerly. "For forgiveness—that I may make
amends to my dear parents!"
Winifred knelt by the bedside, and prayed as desired, and then,
softly repeating psalms and verses of Scripture, she had at last the
satisfaction of seeing her patient sink into a quiet sleep. She herself
was worn out by watching, and, leaning her head upon the bedside, she
slumbered for half an hour, starting like a guilty creature, as the
first rays of the sun aroused her. Full of terror and reproach, she
glanced at her patient.
Paulina was sleeping, her breathing faint indeed, but regular, while a
change, indescribable save to those who have seen it, had come over her
face.
"Surely, surely she must be—she is better!" thought Winifred. "Oh, if
she is but spared after all!"
She drew the curtain to shut out the sun, and as she did so, the sick
girl awoke—not as before to muttering delirium or sad, half-conscious
moaning, but with a look of full reason and a faint, but natural smile.
"You are better, sweetheart!" said Winifred, bending over her.
"O yes! Surely I am better! My mind and body are in most bland ease. Is
this the lighting up before death of which I have heard, or am I going
to get well?"
Winifred half feared the first, and anxiously did she await the
doctor's opinion.
He came very early, with his soft footstep, and entered the room before
she was aware of his presence. His first look reassured her.
"Here is a change indeed!" said he, cheerily, as he examined the
patient. "You mean to do me credit yet, I see, my fair mistress."
"Then she is really better!" said Winifred, hardly able to credit the
words she had so earnestly desired to hear.
"Of course! Cannot you see for yourself?" returned the doctor, roughly
but kindly. "I do not say we are out of the woods yet, but with care
and good nursing, I trust we shall do well."
"I shall be sure to be well nursed while I have Winifred!" said
Paulina, smiling.
"See you do as she bids you, then. And look you, young lady, I will
have no talking. I am Fine Ear the fairy, and can tell when my patients
are misbehaving, though I were at the other end of the town; so do not
think to deceive me!"
"I will not," said Paulina, sadly smiling. "I have had enough of that!"
"Yes, I should think so!" muttered the doctor. "Now, Mrs. Winifred,
since that is your name, come with me that I may give you further
directions."
As they left the room, they met Ashwell, so near the door that it
seemed as if she must have been listening. The old woman trembled
visibly as the doctor's eye fell upon her, and seemed as if she would
have shrunk out of sight, but he called her.
"See here, Dame Ashwell! Do you sit by Mrs. Paulina awhile, and let our
other nurse rest for a few minutes. Give her the wine and water every
half hour, and do not let her talk.—I believe that old woman has a hand
in this business!" he added, as they passed on down-stairs. "I saw
her last night, as I came down the street, talking with Butler at the
garden gate."
"I cannot think so," said Winifred. "She is a zealous Protestant. She
has talked sometimes of getting better advice for her young lady, for
she is as much alarmed as my aunt at the fresh air and cold water. It
might be that which took her to Doctor Butler."
"Possibly. Well, Mrs. Evans, I have run the fox to earth at last, I do
believe! I have heard the whole tale of Mrs. Paulina's church-goings."
"And so have I," said Winifred.
"Indeed! From whom?"
"From the culprit herself." And Winifred repeated what had passed,
adding: "I feared it was wrong to let her talk, but I saw that she
would never rest while it was on her mind."
"You acted sensibly, as usual. Well, you must know, I was called last
night, as soon as I left here to see a poor woman not far from the
water-side. I knew the moment I set eyes on her that she had not a
chance, and I suppose she read it in my face, for she fell a-screaming
and crying, and calling for a clergyman, that she might free her mind.
I sent a lad for Mr. Gunnison, who hath been unwearied in visiting the
poor (as I must say, so have most of the city clergy), but he had gone
out, so I was fain to do what I could to take his place, at least so
far as to comfort the poor creature by Scripture and prayers. But she
said she must tell what was on her mind, and at last out it came—that
she had been bribed by Mrs. Paulina and Doctor Butler both, to be a
sort of go-between; that she had carried messages, and had gone with
Paulina to chapel when her friends supposed her at church; and she
feared she had been the ruin of her dear young lady.
"I was startled at first, and did not know what to fear, but she
guessed my thought, and eagerly assured me that I was mistaken, that
Mrs. Paulina had never been alone with the man nor with the priest,
but would always have her near, though not to hear what they said. She
begged me to ask forgiveness of Sir John and Lady Corbet, who, she
said, had ever been good to her, and of Mrs. Paulina, and died at last,
poor thing, in great distress, though I believe sincerely penitent."
"Poor Molly!" said Winifred. "She was a great favorite with madam and
with Ashwell, but she was the first to desert us. I am heartily glad
the truth has come out in time to save further mischief. But is it not
strange that my old Lady Germaine, who has always been a friend to this
family, should not have told Lady Corbet what was going on?"
"She hardly dared go as far as that, I suppose," remarked the doctor.
"I believe many of the old Catholic families are grieved and distressed
at the present state of things, and their position is a very painful
one. For of course, if they say a word, they are taxed by the zealous
party as being lukewarm and betrayers of the Church. Truly this nation
is in evil case! Are you feeling quite well this morning?" he asked,
changing the subject abruptly and scrutinizing Winifred's face closely.
"I feel more tired than usual, and my head seems both drowsy and
confused," replied Winifred. "I suppose it comes from want of sleep."
"I should not wonder," returned the doctor, dryly. "Few people learn to
do without sleep altogether, though we doctors come near to it in these
times. You must lie down this morning and have a good nap. I do not
quite like trusting Ashwell with our patient, either, but I see no help
for it."
"Doctor Mercer," said Winifred, gravely, "I think we should call Lady
Corbet and tell her all we know of this distressful matter. She is a
lady of great sense and discernment where her children are concerned,
and will know what is the best course in the present conjuncture."
"I believe you are right. The straight course is best in the end; and
though I dread adding to her burdens, I think, with you, that she
should know the whole."
Lady Corbet was therefore called out of Sir John's room. And Winifred
related the story, interrupted by many tears and exclamations of
distress and wonder from the poor mother.
"That I should have been so deceived by my own child, whom I believed
to be the pattern of truth, for all her peevish ways! And my old Lady
Germaine, that I thought such a friend!"
"I imagine she had little free-will," remarked the doctor.
"To be sure, I remember now she hath of late given me many hints as
to letting the girls go out without me, and allowing them so much
liberty," resumed Lady Corbet, "but she is always giving advice, poor
old lady, and she thinks the young women of the present day are allowed
too much license. And Molly, whom I thought such a good girl! And that
wretch, Doctor Butler! Well, thank Heaven, Mrs. Winifred, I have you
and Ashwell left, and upon you I can depend!"
"I am not so sure of Ashwell," said the doctor, and he related what he
had seen the evening before.
Lady Corbet wrung her hands in renewed distress, but, suddenly
collecting herself, she spoke with much dignity and feeling.
"I thank you, Doctor Mercer, and you, Winifred, for the way in which
you have dealt in this delicate matter. I need not say how necessary
it is for my poor child's sake, that nothing should transpire out of
the family more than has already. I will myself stay with Pall, while
Winifred rests. Jack can easily do all which is needed for Sir John,
who sleeps almost all the time. You, Winifred, will go to your own room
and take a good rest, which I am certain you need. God bless you, my
dear! It was a happy day which brought you to this house."
Ashwell had established herself in Paulina's room, and was evidently
taken very much aback by her lady's orders "to betake herself to the
kitchen, see that things were made decent and comfortable, and have Sir
John's broth ready against he needed it." She began to say something
about Jack's making the broth, but was cut very short, and went
down-stairs, muttering to herself as usual.
"Not a word, my poor maid!" said Lady Corbet, as Paulina began to
speak. "I have heard all, and you have my full and free pardon, so long
as you do not attempt to deceive me again. I take blame to myself as a
careless mother—"
"No, no!" interrupted Paulina. "It was my pride and
self-conceit—thinking myself wiser than all the world!"
"Well, well, we will let by-gones be by-gones, as your father's Scotch
cousin hath it," said her mother, smiling, and kissing her. "I will not
deny that you have always been somewhat prone to be wiser than your
elders, since you used to advise me upon household matters before you
could speak plain. Show that you have learnt more wisdom by obeying the
doctor's orders, and not trying to talk when you are forbid to speak a
word! There, that smile is more like my own little Pall than aught I
have seen this many a day."
Winifred had a long and deep sleep, and awoke feeling somewhat giddy
and confused. A plentiful ablution of cold water and the process of
dressing refreshed her. Startled to find by the striking of the clock
how long she had slept, she went straight down to the housekeeper's
room, where she was amazed at finding Ashwell drowned in tears and
sobs. Her first thought was that Paulina was worse, perhaps dying.
"No, no!" sobbed Ashwell. "Poor dear, she is better, if I have not
killed her! But oh, Mrs. Winifred, intercede with my lady for me. I
meant no harm, and if I had but known that he was trying to make a
papist of Mrs. Pall, I would never have come near him. But I thought
the doctor was killing her, and the windows open and all—"
Ashwell became totally incoherent, and her words were drowned in sobs.
"What do you mean, Ashwell?" asked Winifred, bewildered. "What has
happened?"
It was not easy to get at the story, but at last Winifred extracted
from the weeping old woman, that, being dissatisfied with the new
doctor's treatment, she had been holding secret conferences with
Doctor Butler as to her darling's health, and had finally undertaken
to introduce him into the house, that he might judge of the patient's
state. She had calculated very nicely that she would be called upon to
sit with her young lady while Winifred rested, and Lady Corbet was busy
with Sir John and making her morning visit to the school-room. She had
agreed with Doctor Butler to be in the garden at that hour, when she
would bring him in by the little turret staircase which opened near
Paulina's room.
All these plans had been disconcerted by the straightforward counsels
of Winifred and the doctor, and also by a very simple accident. Paulina
had expressed a wish for some flowers, and her mother, always kind
and desirous by every means in her power to show that she had fully
forgiven the poor child, went down to the garden to gather them. In
so doing, she came upon Ashwell in close conference with Butler, and
heard enough of their conversation to discover their design. She had
confronted them on the spot, ordered Butler from the premises, and
taken possession of the keys of the gate; and had then sternly given
Ashwell warning, saying she would have no traitors about her.
The poor old soul, who had been totally innocent of any connivance at
the doctor's proselyting schemes, was thunder-struck at the treachery
of her ally and the anger of her lady, and implored Winifred to
intercede for her. Winifred, thankful that the matter was no worse,
soothed and quieted her, promised to see what could be done, persuaded
Ashwell to busy herself in sending up an unusually dainty dinner to
the school-room, and finally left her in a tolerably reasonable and
comfortable frame of mind.
It was long before Lady Corbet would listen to any plea on her behalf,
but at last her own good-nature and Winifred's influence prevailed,
and she was brought to tell Ashwell that, for the sake of Mrs. Evans'
intercession, she would pass over the present offence.
It was a bitter pill to poor Ashwell, after all her years of service,
to be forgiven for the sake of one on whom she had always looked
with jealousy and contempt. But love for her lady and her nurselings
prevailed over every other consideration.
It was well that it was so; for the very next day poor little Betty was
attacked with the fever, and died after only a week's illness. And on
the day of her burial, Winifred was taken with the same disease, and
was declared by the doctor to be in the utmost danger. Her system was
prostrated by all the fatigue she had undergone, and it would be all
but a miracle if she lived through it.