“Now methinks I hear Death say of Life, as John Baptist said of
Christ, ‘He that cometh after me is before me.’”
—HENRY MONTAGUE, EARL OF MANCHESTER.
Sir Henry Middleton had bought a yacht. It was really very convenient.
When Dora’s illness became serious and the doctor refused very curtly
Lady Middleton’s tentative suggestion “that the poor child would be
really better at home—should she order the carriage?” the whole party
seemed at loose ends. Lady Cheston remembered that she and the twins
were really due in town for two balls and a dinner-party, and Reggie
that a fellow wanted him to fish somewhere, soon. Arthur Field
discovered that his practice called him immediately, and David that it
was no use hanging about after Daphne.
Lady Middleton said that “It was really most sad and so exceedingly
trying.” She proposed to go for a two weeks’ trip, and when she returned
to Overham, she said “She hoped the dear child would be out of danger.”
What she really meant was that the child should be out of the house, and
the doctor assured her that he thought this likely, “very likely,” he
added gravely.
Mr. and Mrs. Fordington were staying at The Hall, but Daphne and
Katherine nursed the child. The hush and darkness that came over the
house, when the last trunk had been swung into the last dog-cart, and
the vague, light pleasure-seekers had all left, soon gave place to that
sadder atmosphere of forced cheerfulness to be noticed in a house when
the mystery of danger has become an hourly thing, not to be talked
about, but to be dealt with. The Vicar sat a great deal by his child’s
bed-side, and Daphne believed that the rest of the time he was on his
knees. His eyes had that peculiar far-seeing look that holds patience
and pain in one glance, and one felt behind them both, there was a faith
in the spiritual that was almost stern.
It was as if, he were facing one by one the struggles of love, and
doubt, and darkness, and through them all claiming and asserting his
hold on Eternal life. The doctor came in and asked him a question about
his parish. He was a clever young man, and he generally asked questions.
On this occasion his manner was a little nervous, and he seemed to be
weighing many things. The Vicar looked at him appealingly. “What do you
really think of the case, doctor?” he pleaded.
The doctor became professional and non-committal. “Your daughter?” he
asked. “I think you have two very good nurses for her. She has been
delicate for some time, hasn’t she? Easily over-tired—excitable, you
have noticed that?”
The Vicar nodded. “Indeed—yes,” he said.
“Well, then, I should say, in that state of health the severe chill she
took would fully account for her present condition.”
“And her lungs?” the father pleaded. “She coughs so much, doctor.”
“Do you think so?” the doctor answered. “Well, yes, on the whole, I
should say she coughed a good deal, a slight spot at the base of one
lung would be the cause—I will call in again to-night, unless Miss
Linton sends for me before. I leave her in most excellent hands. Pray do
not be over-anxious, Mr. Fordington.” The doctor had another case in the
village. It seemed so extraordinary to the Vicar, though he was a most
charitable man, that it should matter about the case in the village.
Mrs. Fordington came into the room. “Now, doctor!” she said, “what have
you been saying to my husband?”
“That I hope he will not be over-anxious, Mrs. Fordington.”
“That’s just what _I_ tell him,” said his wife. “Really, to hear him
talk, one would think the child was seriously ill.” The doctor said
nothing. “When do you think she might begin to sit up?” she asked. “Of
course I feel that my place, as her mother, is by her bed-side, but the
girls feel that their carelessness has brought this about, and it would
hurt them if I were to send them away. Besides, of course, I have a
great deal on my shoulders already.”
“I think she is in safe hands,” said the doctor. “She cannot sit up at
all at present.”
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Fordington. “Don’t you think, doctor, that all this
lying in bed is very weakening?”
“I think it is essential,” said the doctor, turning towards the door.
“And, Dr. Fern!” Mrs. Fordington called after him, “I really _do_ object
to Dora being given brandy. Our principles are so very distinctly
temperance ones, that it sets a bad example to the parish when we use
stimulants for our own child.”
The doctor returned. “I must insist upon the stimulants, Mrs.
Fordington,” he said.
The Vicar’s wife looked really annoyed. “How very arbitrary these
medical men are!” she remarked to her husband. “I feel quite sure, from
my own experience, which has been a varied one, that he merely says
brandy because he cannot think of anything else to say. Local doctors
are so ignorant. I shall tell Katherine Linton to give her milk alone.”
“It will make no difference,” said her husband suddenly, “_what_ you
tell Katherine.”
“What do you mean, Wilfred?” cried his wife. It will never be known what
the Vicar meant, for at that moment Katherine came into the room.
She looked strangely white and nervous, and passing over to the window,
pulled down a blind. “I think,” she said slowly, “it would be better for
you to come upstairs, sir.”
“May her soul rest in peace—and may perpetual light——” said the
Vicar; then he broke down and covered his face with his hands.
“Wilfred, don’t be Popish!” said his wife. “Katherine, tell me _at once_
what is the matter? Is Dora worse?”
“No, Mrs. Fordington,” said Katherine very gently with the tears running
down her face. “She is _quite, quite_ well.” Then Mrs. Fordington
understood.