Long-continued drought had marked this summer-time, and when in
September no rain fell the papers had been full of acrimonious comments
on the ways of water-companies. The water-company at fault was really no
earthly controller, and the most intelligent body of men can not milk
the clouds. But the British public is not happy without its grievance,
and just now it was certainly enjoying itself immensely.
Wroxton had hitherto suffered less than other towns, but by the
beginning of October the supply began to cause uneasiness. But the
water-company had another spring up its sleeve, and, to quiet
complaints, about the second week in the month it was drawn upon, and
the intelligent public was deprived of its right to grumble.
The weather was hot and unseasonable, with the heat not of an
invigorating sun, but of the closed and vitiated atmosphere of a packed
room. Day after day a blanket of gray cloud covered the earth as with a
lid, yet the rain came not. A windless, suffocating calm environed the
earth; it was rank weather for man and beast. The perennial green of the
great downs faded to an unwholesome yellow, like a carpet that is losing
its colour from the sun, and the nights were dewless. The heavenly
forces that temper the frosts of winter with a benigant sun and the
heats of summer with the cool dews of night seemed to have been struck
dead. Clouds overset the earth, but neither dispersed nor discharged. It
was as if the vitality of the seasons had failed, as if the earth was
abandoned to decay.
Jeannie was immune from the assaults of climate, and Miss Fortescue went
out so seldom that she found no great disagreeableness in the stagnation
of the air. But Colonel Raymond felt it acutely, and said it was like
waiting for the rains in India. Miss Clara Clifford could no more write
poetry than she could play the mandolin, and Miss Phœbe would have as
soon thought of playing the mandolin as of embarking on an epic. But
the Colonel gave up the brisk walks while such dispiriting weather
lasted, and though Mrs. Raymond dwindled and paled, she found her
consolation in seeing the children play hide-and-seek among the
gooseberry bushes.
Ten days after the new spring had been drawn upon certain ill-defined
cases of illness began to appear in the town. For the most part they
were among children, and the doctors for a day or two considered them as
only a natural outcome of this long-continued sultriness and inclement
air. But they were not wholly at their ease about it, and as the cases
increased day by day it was no longer possible to exclude the idea that
this was an epidemic. By this time some of the first cases, which were
now five or six days old, began to look grave, and before the week was
out it was generally known that typhoid had appeared in many houses.
Several of Jeannie’s various classes were ill with the hitherto
unspecified fever, and she had been visiting them daily at their homes.
She was up in the nursery making herself agreeable to the baby one
morning when Miss Fortescue came in, looking grave.
“Jeannie, some of your girls have been ill, have they not?” she asked.
“Yes, four or five of them and several of the boys. I am just going out
to see them.”
“Leave the child,” said Miss Fortescue, “and come.”
Jeannie followed her, and a howl followed Jeannie.
“What is it, Aunt Em?” she asked, when they were outside.
“It is typhoid,” said Miss Fortescue.
Jeannie dropped her eyes for a moment, and then looked up.
“Is it infectious?” she asked; “I mean, can I carry it?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Fortescue. “Jeannie, what is the matter with
you?”
Jeannie had sat down on a chair in the landing, and was looking in front
of her with wide, unseeing eyes.
“I may have given it to the baby,” she said.
“Jeannie, don’t be foolish,” said Miss Fortescue. “Oh, my dear, be
sensible. I have already written to Dr. Maitland saying that you had
been with probable typhoid cases, and asking what precautions one ought
to take. I thought it probable that you would be uneasy about the baby,
so I also asked whether it was possible that you had carried infection.
That was about half an hour ago; I expect the answer every moment.”
“Oh, Aunt Em,” said Jeannie, coming close to her, “you think it is all
right, don’t you? You don’t think I have been stupid or incautious?”
“I think you are being very stupid now,” said Aunt Em. “Ah, here is
Pool.”
The butler came upstairs and handed Miss Fortescue a note; she glanced
at it quickly.
“Such a risk of carrying typhoid as the one you mention is
inconceivable,” she read, “and a baby of a few months old having it at
all is unknown to the medical profession.”
She passed the note to Jeannie, who glanced at it.
“Oh, thank God, thank God!” she cried. “Aunt Em, I am going to see Dr.
Maitland at once.”
“The Avesham nerves,” sighed Miss Fortescue. “Surely the note is clear
enough.”
“Yes, it is not that,” said Jeannie; “but if this increases they will be
short of hands. I heard that all the nurses in the hospital were working
double time. I am going to say that I wish to help in any way that he
will allow me.”
Miss Fortescue looked at her a moment, and neither surprise nor
criticism was in her eye.
“We will go together,” she said; “let us go at once.”
“Why should you come?” asked Jeannie.
“Because I wish to. I know something about nursing, though I have never
nursed typhoid, which is more than you do, Jeannie.”
Jeannie looked surprised.
“I didn’t know--” she began.
“You know very little about me, dear,” said Miss Fortescue, “and that’s
a fact. Go and get on your hat. I suppose I ought to forbid you to visit
or help in any way, even forbid you suggesting it. But there are certain
risks on certain occasions which every one is bound to run. Whether the
risk in your case is too great to be allowed I do not know. That is
what we are going to Dr. Maitland to find out. I remember only that
people who are fortunate enough to be as old as I are practically
immune. I hear there are fifty fresh cases this morning.”
They found that Dr. Maitland was out and up at the hospital, where they
followed him. After they had waited for a few minutes in a bare, dismal
room, of which the principal furniture was a weighing-machine, a
stethoscope, and a bottle labelled “poison,” he came in, looking grave,
florid, and anxious.
“Yes, it is typhoid beyond a doubt,” he said, “and epidemic. Please sit
down. Personally I am disposed to think it may be traced to the
water-supply of the town, which has come since the drought was so bad
from an open spring in the Gresham fields. I am making a bacteriological
examination of it. Till that is settled I should advise you not to drink
it, or even use it for washing, except after boiling.”
“Are you very short of nurses?” asked Miss Fortescue.
“Yes, I am at my wit’s end to know what to do. My wife has volunteered
to help, and, I hear, two other ladies. There are some coming from
London and Shrewsbury to-day, but we have fifty fresh cases reported
this morning, and there will be certainly more I have not yet heard of.”
“Miss Avesham and I have come to offer our help,” said Miss Fortescue.
“I have been six months in a London hospital, and know something about
it, though I have never nursed typhoid.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Dr. Maitland, “and I accept your offer
most gladly. But it is right to tell you that you run some risk. As far
as we can see, the disease is of the most malignant type. Several have
died already, which is rare in the first week. In your case, Miss
Fortescue, the risk is light, but for younger people it must not be
disregarded. There is a risk.”
Miss Fortescue looked at Jeannie.
“I suppose many of the nurses are quite young,” said Jeannie.
“No doubt; but it is their profession.”
“Aunt Em, there is really no choice,” said Jeannie. “I am afraid I may
not be of much use, Dr. Maitland, but please let me do what I can.”
Dr. Maitland was not given to gushing any more than Miss Fortescue.
“I will certainly do so,” he said. “But you must remember that the work
is tiring and demands incessant watchfulness and patience, for typhoid,
above all other diseases depends on nursing. Please remember what I told
you about boiling and filtering water. If you cannot trust your
servants, see it done yourselves. There is no precaution half so
necessary.”
“And the baby?” asked Jeannie. “Is it quite safe that it should remain
here?”
Dr. Maitland had a merry eye.
“Perfectly,” he said. “But you will probably not think so. If you are in
any way likely to worry about it, send it away at once. I can not have
my nurses thinking about any thing but their patients. That is all, I
think. If you will be here again by half past two I will have arranged
about your duties.”
He shook hands with them, and went hurriedly back to his work. Miss
Fortescue and Jeannie came out again into the hot, drowsy atmosphere,
and walked a little way in silence.
“Think it over, Jeannie,” said the other at length. “I quite understand
that you are not frightened for yourself, and I never expected you would
be. But you have to consider your duty toward your brother and other
people who are fond of you. Me, for instance,” she added, with an
unusual burst of emotion.
“There is no choice,” said Jeannie. “I must help if I can, and I am sure
you see that. But what about the baby? Shall we send it away? No doubt
it is stupid of me, but I think I should be happier if it was not here.”
“It shall go this afternoon,” said Miss Fortescue. “We will telegraph to
Jack Collingwood.”
“Don’t alarm him,” said Jeannie, and stopped abruptly.
Miss Fortescue devoted several seconds to the consideration of this
remark, and then smiled on the side of her mouth away from Jeannie.
“How could he be alarmed?” she asked. “I shall say, of course, what Dr.
Maitland said, that typhoid is unknown in babies.”
“Yes, that will be all right,” said Jeannie, rather absently. “But don’t
make the outbreak too serious.”
And her enigmatic aunt smiled again.
Arthur had got in to lunch when they got back. He, too, had heard the
news about the typhoid.
“They told me you had both gone to the hospital,” he said. “What do they
say there? Is it very serious?”
“Yes,” said Miss Fortescue. “The baby goes to Jack Collingwood this
afternoon. Not that there is the least risk, but Jeannie is foolish. She
and I are going to help in nursing.”
He had not expected anything else, for he knew Jeannie. Aveshams were
not demonstrative, and he only looked at her quietly a moment.
“I supposed you would,” he said. “I suppose it is right. Is there much
risk?”
“Ordinary risk,” said Jeannie. “Dr. Maitland allowed it.”
“Yes, one wants to be of some use in such cases,” said Arthur. “I hear
the state of things in the lower part of the town is awful. The brewery
stops working to-day; there are over twenty men down with it. I wonder
if I could help?”
“No, Arthur, you mustn’t,” said Jeannie, quickly. “I wish you would go
away. Go up to Mr. Collingwood’s with the baby for a week or two. Dr.
Maitland said that for younger people the risk was greater.”
“Then we will ask him whether a man of twenty-three is much more liable
to infection than a girl of twenty-four,” he said. “It sounds highly
probable. Let’s come in to lunch. I am famished.”
Miss Fortescue went upstairs to tell nurse to pack and be ready to start
in the afternoon, and write a telegram to Jack Collingwood; and having
written it she paused for a moment, looking out of her window.
“It is a fine breed,” she said, “and it is not in my heart to stop
either of them. They will walk into the wards and feverful houses as if
they were going out to tea.”
Directly after lunch the two women turned out their wardrobes to find
some thin washing stuff suitable for their dresses. Jeannie could only
lay her hands on a pale-blue cotton, and though she was still in deep
mourning she put it on without question. As Miss Fortescue had said,
neither she nor Arthur regarded any possible risk for themselves any
more than they would have reckoned on the danger of a ceiling falling on
them as they sat at dinner. Personal fear was unknown to them, though
they both heartily wished the other would stop securely at home or go
with the baby. The three went up together to the hospital. Dr. Maitland
was there, and came to them at once, looking a little less florid, and a
little graver.
“Twenty more cases,” he said, “and two have died in hospital in the last
three hours, Miss Fortescue. Ah, how do you do, Mr. Avesham? What can I
do for you? I hope you haven’t come to get your temperature taken?”
Arthur laughed.
“No, not yet,” he said; “I only came with my aunt and sister to see if
you could find anything for me to do.”
“Certainly I can, and any one else also who comes. Start with Cowley
Street this afternoon--all that district is the worst--and see that all
the drinking-water in the houses is boiled. It is no use giving them
advice. See the pot on the fire. Don’t frighten them; encourage them,
and tell them they are perfectly safe if they will do what you tell
them. Go first to the dispensary here, and say I sent you, and tell the
man to give you plenty of bicarbonate of mercury, and instruct you how
it is to be used. Distribute it at the houses you visit, and show them
how to use it. Be sure they don’t put it into their drinking-water. By
the way, have you a room to spare?”
“Yes; at your disposal.”
“You see, I take you at your word when you offer to help,” said Dr.
Maitland. “Two friends of mine are coming from Guy’s to assist me, but I
can’t put them both up. May I send one on to you?”
“By all means,” said Arthur.
“Thank you very much,” said he. “There is no time nor need, I think, to
tell you how grateful I feel for your kindness. By the way, Mr. Avesham,
can you use a clinical thermometer? No? That’s bad. When you go to the
dispensary tell them to give you one, and take your own temperature and
the dispensary man’s temperature several times, under the tongue. Get a
thirty-second thermometer, and your temperature is 97·6°. Take it until
it is right. Then you know how to use one. In the houses you visit, if
you see a man, woman, or child ill, insist on taking their temperature.
If the thermometer registers as much as half a degree over 99 take their
names and addresses and tell me when you come back. Also, after taking
each temperature, if there is any fever, dip the thermometer into a
solution of the mercury and wipe it carefully. Good-bye, and many
thanks. The dispensary is the second door on the right.”
As soon as he was gone Dr. Maitland turned to the others.
“A fine absence of nervousness,” he said; “he looked as if he was going
to pay a call. And I don’t see any nervousness here, either. Miss
Fortescue, I think you said you knew something about nursing, so I have
put you with Nurse James in charge of the first ward. In a day or two
she will have put you in the way of your work, and then probably I shall
ask you to look after certain houses, or take charge of patients by
yourself. Miss Avesham also is under her in the same ward. You have
about forty cases, some very serious. Please put yourselves entirely in
her hands: she is admirable. There is no need to tell you that on your
care and watchfulness many lives depend. You will both have day nursing
only. This way, please.”