FEVER-STRICKEN.
When the servant who had been in the habit of waiting upon Lionel
Westford entered the young man’s bedroom late at night, in order to
close the shutters of the apartment, he found Lionel lying on the
bed in the state of unconsciousness into which he had fallen. The
astonishment of the servant was very great. Several hours had passed
since he had entered Lionel’s sitting-room in order to prepare the
table for dinner. He had then found the apartment empty, and the
letter addressed to Miss Godwin lying on the table. He had taken
that letter to Julia, and had been told by her that Mr. Wilton had
left the Hall for an indefinite period, and that his services would
therefore be no longer needed in the chintz-rooms at the end of the
corridor.
But now he found Lionel Westford lying on the bed, dressed in his
walking clothes, and his hair damp and dishevelled.
Lionel’s face was turned towards the wall, and it never occurred to
the man that he might possibly be ill. Only one idea entered his
mind; and that was, that the artist had been drinking somewhere
during his absence from the Hall, and had returned intoxicated to
fling himself dressed upon his bed.
“If a servant did such a thing, he’d lose his situation,” thought the
man; “but I suppose your artist chaps can do what they please. Miss
Godwin seems to have an uncommon fancy for this one, but I don’t know
what she’ll say when she hears of his goings-on.”
He left Lionel’s room, and descended to the lower part of the
house. Julia Godwin was seated in the drawing-room; but she was
not alone. Mrs. Melville was on guard as usual, with her eternal
embroidery-frame before her, the very pattern of primness and
propriety.
She had watched Julia narrowly since the coming of Lionel Westford,
and she by no means approved that young lady’s evident liking for the
artist.
The man-servant entered the drawing-room and told the two ladies of
Mr. Wilton’s return.
Nothing could exceed Mrs. Melville’s indignation.
“Returned!” she exclaimed; “returned to the Hall without giving
any notice of his return, or offering any explanation of his
conduct, after writing a formal letter to Miss Godwin announcing his
departure! I really never heard of such impertinence. What can he
mean by such conduct?”
Julia said nothing. She had been cruelly wounded by the receipt of
Lionel’s cold-worded letter telling her of his departure, and she had
been very silent throughout the afternoon and evening. She bent over
her book so as to keep her face concealed from Mrs. Melville and the
servant, and made no remark whatever.
“Julia, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Melville, “did you ever hear of such
mingled audacity and ingratitude? I am really quite distressed upon
your account, as this person is a kind of _protégé_ of yours. Are you
not surprised, my love, and are you not indignant at such insolence?”
Poor Julia was obliged to look up as she answered these energetic
questions.
“There may be some reason for his conduct, perhaps, Mrs. Melville,”
she said gently. “He may have changed his mind, and may have decided
on returning to the Hall. He knew how much I wanted those pictures
finished, and he may have been anxious to complete them.”
“But, my dearest Julia, to return in such a manner, and to lie down
in his clothes, just like some horrid intoxicated member of the
working-classes! O, it’s really dreadful!”
“That’s about it, I think, mum,” answered the servant, with an
ill-concealed grin. “I fancy as how Mr. Wilton has took a little more
than is good for him, and finding hisself queer, he come back here to
sleep instead of going up to London by rail.”
“Intoxicated!” shrieked Mrs. Melville; “an intoxicated man has dared
to enter this house! Go to Mrs. Beckson immediately Thomas, and
tell her to go to Mr. Wilton’s apartment and order him to leave the
Hall without a moment’s delay. Not for an instant will I suffer an
intoxicated person to pollute this house by his odious presence.”
“Stop, Mrs. Melville,” said Julia; “we do not know that Mr. Wilton
is intoxicated; and I should think from what I have seen of his
habits that such a thing is most unlikely. In any case, he must
not be turned out of this house to-night. It is just possible that
he may be ill. To-morrow morning will be quite soon enough for any
investigation that you may wish to make; and unless I am very much
mistaken, Mr. Wilton will be able to give a satisfactory explanation
of his conduct.”
“But, my darling Julia, I cannot really suffer an intoxicated person
to--”
“This is my father’s house, Mrs. Melville; and on this point I must
beg to have my own way.”
Mrs. Melville gave a dubious kind of cough. She felt that she was
treading on dangerous ground. Julia Godwin was a spoiled child,
and the banker might be very apt to resent any offence against his
darling.
“Well, my sweetest Julia,” murmured the widow meekly, “if you really
wish an intoxicated person to remain in the house--”
“I merely wish to hear Mr. Wilton’s own explanation of his conduct
to-morrow morning,” Julia answered quietly. “You can go, Thomas,” she
added, turning to the servant, who had lingered to see the result of
this little battle between the two ladies.
No more was said that night upon the subject of Lionel’s return,
but there was some little restraint between the two ladies all the
evening. Julia occupied herself with her book, which she affected
to find intensely interesting; but Mrs. Melville could see by the
subdued light of the reading-lamp that her face was very pale.
“There is no doubt as to the state of her feelings,” thought the
widow; “the silly girl has fallen in love with this handsome young
adventurer. I must enlighten Mr. Godwin upon the subject the first
time he comes to Wilmingdon.”
Early the next morning the two ladies were seated at breakfast in a
prettily-furnished room opening into the garden. Julia was still pale
and thoughtful; the widow was still watchful of her charge--fearing
that she might be blamed for any foolish attachment formed by the
banker’s daughter, and might perhaps forfeit a most profitable and
agreeable position. She tried to win Julia to talk in her usual
cheerful and animated manner; but the girl was evidently preoccupied,
and Mrs. Melville was obliged to abandon the attempt to sustain any
conversation.
They were still seated at the breakfast-table when a knock sounded on
the door, which was opened the next moment to give admittance to the
portly form of Mrs. Beckson, the housekeeper, who entered, curtseying
with profound respect.
“I am sure, ladies, I am very sorry to intrude upon you in the midst
of your breakfasts, especially being the bearer of unpleasant news,
as one may say, for of course illness is not pleasant, even when
relating to a stranger, thank Providence, and not a member of the
family, but still a remarkably civil-spoken and genteel young man,
who has no doubt seen better days, which is the case with so many of
us, only it isn’t our place to rebel against the ways of Providence;
and I’m sure, Miss Godwin, and you too, Mrs. Melville, ma’am----”
Julia had risen, deathly pale, and trembling violently. She did not
even make any attempt to conceal her agitation.
“For pity’s sake, tell us what is the matter, Mrs. Beckson!” she
exclaimed, interrupting the rapid flow of the housekeeper’s speech.
“Is Mr. Wil----is any one ill?”
“Yes; it is Mr. Wilton, Miss,” answered Mrs. Beckson. “And I think I
never, in the whole course of my life, see any one in such a raging
fever.”
Mrs. Melville turned uneasily towards Julia; she expected that the
girl would faint. But there was no weakness in Julia Godwin’s nature;
she had all a woman’s tenderness, but more than a woman’s courage and
endurance.
She resumed her seat, and betrayed no further emotion, except such
anxiety as any woman might reasonably feel for a person residing
beneath her father’s roof.
“Have you sent for the doctor, Mrs. Beckson?” she asked very quietly.
“O yes, Miss! I sent off immediately. William Jones, one of the
stablemen, has ridden off to Hertford as fast as he can gallop; but,
go as quick as he may, it must be some time before he can get back
with Doctor Granger; and in the meantime I’ve told Thomas to get
the poor young man into a nice warm bed, and to bathe his head with
vinegar and water.”
“He is very ill, then?” said Julia.
“Awful bad, miss! Since my poor cousin Caleb was took with the
brain-fever that night last June twelvemonth, I never see any one
half so bad--and this poor young man seems even worse than Caleb.
When our Thomas went into the room this morning, he found Mr.
Wilton sitting at the open window shivering just as if he’d shake
to pieces, and yet in a burning fever all the time. And what’s the
strangest part of the whole business, he was raving about murder, and
treachery, and stabbing, and such-like, just for all the world like
our Caleb.”
“Strange!” murmured Julia.
It was strange. A kind of horror filled the girl’s breast as she
thought that this was the second person who had been stricken with
sudden illness--with illness which reduced them from sanity to raving
madness; and that the minds of both should dwell on the same dark and
hideous subjects.
“It is enough to make one superstitious,” she exclaimed, with a
shudder; “it is enough to make one believe that there is really some
truth in the ghastly stories the servants tell of those empty rooms
in the northern wing.”
That morning was a sad one for Julia Godwin. She wandered from room
to room, trying to occupy herself, trying to distract her mind from
the one subject upon which it unceasingly brooded, but trying in vain.
She could only think of the artist whom she knew as Lewis Wilton. He
was ill--suffering; in danger, perhaps.
For the first time she discovered that this man, whom she had sought
to benefit from an impulse of pure womanly compassion, had now
become dearer to her than any other creature in the universe, except
her father. A blush of shame dyed her face as the truth gradually
revealed itself to her.
To love one who had never sought her love--to love a stranger, whose
station was in the eyes of the world infinitely beneath her own--a
stranger with whom she had become acquainted under such peculiar
circumstances! What would the world say, should it ever know that
Miss Godwin’s charity had ended by her falling in love with the
object of her compassion?
Then, after some minutes of bitter and humiliating reflection,
Julia’s mind wandered back to those long afternoons in which she had
wasted hours talking to the artist in the laurel-walk or beneath the
solemn darkness of the spreading cedars.
She remembered the low tones of his voice, the noble sentiments which
had dropped, as if unconsciously spoken, from his lips.
“The world might despise him because of his poverty,” she thought;
“but whatever his present position may be, I feel sure that he is a
gentleman by birth and education.”
There was some comfort in this thought. There is no such torture for
the heart of a proud woman as the idea that she has wasted her love
upon one who is unworthy of her respect.
“I am not so mean a wretch as to remember his poverty,” thought
Julia. “I know that he is noble-minded, generous-hearted,
intellectual. What more can be needed to render him worthy of any
woman’s affection?”
And then Julia Godwin bent her head with a modest gesture, and a
tender smile illumined her countenance, as some good fairy’s voice
seemed to whisper gently in her ear, “Ah, Julia, and you know, too,
that he loves you.”
Even at such a time as this Julia Godwin could not repress the thrill
of happiness that stirred her breast as the conviction that she was
beloved by the young artist stole gradually upon her. But in the
next moment the thought of his illness sent an icy chill through her
heart. He was in danger; he might die.
Men, as young and bright as he, had often been snatched suddenly away
in the very morning of life. He might die.
Julia threw down the book which she had been vainly trying to read,
and went out through the French window on to the broad gravel walk in
front of the house.
Along this walk the doctor must come. Julia paced slowly up and down,
waiting for his coming with extreme anxiety. Several times, almost
in spite of herself, her eyes wandered upwards to the windows of the
room in which she knew Lewis Wilton must be lying.
The Venetian shutters were closed; all was still. Mrs. Melville
came out of the breakfast-room, and joined the anxious girl in her
promenade up and down the gravel walk.
Her presence tortured Julia, who found herself compelled to reply to
all manner of commonplace observations at a time when her mind was
distracted by secret anxiety. But the widow was not a person to be
easily shaken off. She talked perpetually, and seemed as if she would
not allow Julia to escape from her sight.
At last the doctor’s gig drove up to the door of the Hall. Julia
hurried forward to receive him.
“My dear Mr. Granger,” she said, “I wish you to tell me the exact
truth with regard to the patient you are about to visit: for if there
is any danger, I must write at once to my father.”
Her manner was so calm and collected that the surgeon was quite
unable to guess the real state of her feelings.
“My dear young lady, you are perfectly right,” he replied; “if there
is any danger, it will be better for you to write at once to Mr.
Godwin. In any case you shall hear the truth directly I have seen
this young man.”
He entered the house. Julia remained without, still accompanied by
Mrs. Melville. An agony of suspense tortured the proud girl’s heart
during the interval that elapsed before the doctor returned.
He was not long absent, yet the time seemed intolerably tedious.
Every moment Julia fancied she heard the surgeon’s step in the hall;
every moment she expected him to emerge from the door.
At last he came. He looked very grave, and Julia could see at the
first glance that Mrs. Beckson had not exaggerated Lewis Wilton’s
illness.
“He is very ill?” she said interrogatively.
“Yes, my dear Miss Godwin; I am sorry to say the case is very
serious. It seems to be rather a complicated case. There is rheumatic
fever, evidently the result of exposure to cold and damp; and there
seems to be some very great disorder of the brain, which must have
been caused by mental excitement. I cannot imagine what has so upset
the young man’s mind; but the delirium is of an aggravated kind. I
am afraid the servants must have frightened him with some of their
stories about the haunted rooms in the northern wing, for his
ravings all seem to relate to some story of a murder in one of the
cellars under the deserted rooms.”
“That is very strange!” exclaimed Julia. “I should have fancied Mr.
Wilton was far too highly educated to be affected by any such foolish
stories.”
“There is no accounting for this sort of thing. Superstition is not
always to be controlled by education.”
“And you think there is danger, and that I ought to write to papa?”
“I do indeed, Miss Godwin.”
“You will require further medical help, perhaps,” said Julia. “Shall
I ask papa to bring a physician from London?”
“No, Miss Godwin; I think there is no necessity for that. There
is danger; but the case is not beyond the skill of an ordinary
practitioner. If there should be any change in the aspect of the
fever, I will ask for aid; as it is, care and watchfulness can alone
help our patient.”
“Who is watching him now?”
“Mrs. Beckson, and the servant, Thomas Morrison. He will need very
careful watching; for in those fevers in which the brain is affected
there is sometimes danger of the patient doing himself some desperate
injury. A man has been known to cut his throat--to jump out of a
window. There is always a risk of some terrible catastrophe.”
Julia’s face grew ashy white to the very lips.
“For shame, Mr. Granger!” cried Mrs. Melville indignantly; “you have
quite unnerved my sweetest Julia.”
“Pray pardon me!” exclaimed the penitent doctor. “I should have
remembered that I was talking to a sensitive young lady, and not to a
brother surgeon. I hope you will forgive me, Miss Godwin.”
“You have no need of my forgiveness,” Julia answered. “I asked you to
tell me the truth, and I am very glad that you have done so. I will
write to papa immediately.”
She had quite recovered herself by this time, and was able to speak
with perfect composure. The surgeon took his leave, after promising
to call again before dusk.
Julia despatched a servant to the station at Hertford, with a message
which was to be telegraphed to Mr. Godwin’s London lodgings.
The telegram was duly delivered; and at five o’clock that afternoon
Rupert Godwin entered his daughter’s morning-room.
“Well, my dearest girl,” he exclaimed, “what is all this melancholy
business? Your artistic protégé seized with brain-fever, and you
as much concerned about the matter as if your pet Skye terrier’s
valuable life was in danger. What is it, my darling?”
He took his daughter in his arms and embraced her tenderly.
Infamous as this man’s life had been--hard, cruel, and remorseless
though his nature was, he was at least sincere in his love for
his beautiful daughter. And yet it was a selfish affection, after
all--such a love as a Sultan might feel for his favourite slave. She
was a part of himself, an element of happiness in his life.
Julia told her father the circumstances of the artist’s departure
from Wilmingdon, and his mysterious return the same evening. She told
him all that had happened that day, and the opinion of the Hertford
surgeon.
“It is such a strange business altogether, papa,” she said. “Mr.
Granger fancies that Mr. Wilton’s mind has been affected by some of
the servants’ stories about the northern wing. He has done nothing
but rave about a murder committed in one of the cellars. Papa,
papa!--what is the matter?”
Julia Godwin had ample cause for this exclamation, for the banker had
started from her as suddenly as if a thunderbolt had fallen between
him. What bolt from heaven could have been more appalling than the
words just uttered by his daughter’s innocent lips?
The father and daughter had been standing together near the open
window. The afternoon twilight shone full on Rupert Godwin’s face.
When Julia looked at him, she saw that great beads of perspiration
had started to his forehead. His face was livid; a convulsive
trembling shook him in every limb.
“Papa!” cried Julia, “for pity’s sake speak to me! What is the
matter?”
For some moments Rupert Godwin struggled to speak; but his tongue
clove to the roof of his mouth.
At last, with a terrible effort he spoke; but even then the words had
a strange, confused sound, like those of a man only just recovering
from a fit.
“It is nothing,” he said, “only a physical affection. It is a kind of
nervous fit that comes upon me suddenly now and then.”
“But, papa, it is very dreadful. You ought to consult a physician.”
“Pshaw, child! I tell you it is nothing!” exclaimed the banker
impatiently. “I will go upstairs and see this ailing protégé of
yours.”
There was an attempt at carelessness in the tone, but the banker’s
face had not lost its livid hue. He hurried from the room, and Julia
stood in the doorway looking after him, inexpressibly shocked and
terrified by his manner.
“Is it really a haunted house?” she thought; “and does some dark
shadow fall upon every one who enters it?”