The pangs of hunger which Elsie was feeling pretty sharply were nothing
compared to the pain of mind she was enduring; for although she was the
child of poor people, and had lived all her life in a cottage, with
plain fare and plenty to do, she had been accustomed to perfect
cleanliness, and a good deal of simple comfort.
After a while she undressed herself, and crept into the not too clean
bed with a feeling of disgust. It was so different from the coarse
cotton sheets--bleached white as snow, and smelling sweet of the fresh,
pure air--that covered her own little bed. The room, too, was hot,
close, and stifling.
Still this was nothing to the fear she felt for Duncan, lying so ill and
wretched in this miserable attic, without mother, or granny, or any one
to see after him.
The candle burnt out, and they were left alone in the dark. There was no
chance of sleeping, for Duncan tossed and plunged about, trying to find
some cool resting-place for his fevered limbs. The moments dragged
slowly away--so slowly that poor Elsie thought the dreadful night would
never go.
About the middle of the night Duncan began to mutter rapidly to himself.
He spoke so quickly and incoherently that Elsie could not make out what
he was saying. She jumped out of bed, and felt about for the water,
thinking he was asking for it. He drank some eagerly, and then went on
chattering again.
Suddenly he raised himself up in the bed, and caught hold of Elsie,
clinging to her with a grasp that made her utter a cry of pain. "He's
killing me! he's got a knife! Mother, he's got me!" he shrieked out;
then with a dreadful cry he fell back on the bed, catching his breath in
great spasmodic sobs that shook the bed.
"It's all right, darling!" Elsie cried, her teeth chattering with fear,
so that she could hardly speak. "There's no one but me--Elsie."
Presently he went on talking to himself again.
Elsie put her head close to listen, but could only catch a word here and
there. "So cold--so tired--do let us go home, Elsie--can't walk--hurts
me, it hurts me!" he kept on repeating over and over again, his voice
rising almost to a scream of terror sometimes, then sinking into a moan
of pain.
Suddenly he jumped up again and screamed, "They are lions, Elsie! they
are not sheep. Lions and tigers and wolves! Run, Elsie, run, faster!
Come, come, come!" He caught hold of her, and bounded off the bed,
dragging her with him on to the bare hard boards, where he pulled and
tore at her with such a strength that Elsie could not free herself from
him for many minutes. When she did, he flew across the room, coming with
a terrible crash against the wall, and sinking in a heap on the floor.
Elsie groped her way after him to pick him up, but she could not move
him. He lay there like a weight of lead. She knocked furiously at the
wall.
Presently the door opened, and the girl came in. "I can't think what's
the matter with Duncan," Elsie cried, in an agonised voice. "He's been
going on dreadfully. I think he keeps on having nightmares. He says
there are lions and tigers, and men with knives, and now he's jumped out
of bed and hurt himself. Oh! whatever shall I do with him?"
The girl struck a match and bent over the child; then she went and
fetched a scrap of candle from her own garret. She lifted him up
carefully, and put him back on the bed, then took water, and poured it
on his face. Elsie stood by quite helpless, watching her. After a long
time he began to make a little moaning noise, but his eyes did not open,
and he lay perfectly still.
"Has he hurt himself much?" Elsie asked.
"I don't know, but I think it's more the fever than the hurt," the girl
replied. "Poor little lad! he ought to be with his mother. He wants a
lot o' care and nursing."
"Is he very ill?" Elsie asked.
"I should just say he was. I had the fever when I was a bit bigger than
you, and my head wandered. They said I chattered and screamed, and had
to be held down in the bed. I should have died for certain if I hadn't
been taken to the hospital, for I was awful bad; and so's he. Can't you
see he is?"
Elsie began to cry and to tremble. "They must take him to the hospital,"
she cried. "They shall! I'll make them! If only Duncan was back home
now, I wouldn't mind anything."
"You was a stupid to run away if you'd got a good home," the girl said.
"Catch Meg running away from any one who was good to her! They think her
an idiot, but she's not quite so stupid as _that_."
Elsie was beginning to think very much the same thing. Her trouble had
completely driven from her mind the high hopes of future grandeur with
which she had started. They scarcely even came into her head, and when
they did for a moment pass through her brain, everything seemed so
altered, that there was little comfort or attraction in the thought.
If she had known, she told herself again and again, she never would have
done it. To-night she could not help admitting to herself that she would
give anything to be back in her old home, with Duncan hearty and well,
and all the old grievances about Robbie, and the fetching and carrying,
and what not, into the bargain. How trifling and insignificant they
seemed in comparison with her present troubles!
Suppose he should die for want of attention and comfort! That dreadful
"fairy mother," as she called herself, would do very little for him. She
did not care. She had pretended to be kind, and sweet, and good when any
one was near at hand to see her, but when they had been alone in the
train she had taken no notice of Duncan, except to scold him, and tell
him he was shamming. This new mother was a poor substitute for the old
one, who had nursed any of them day and night when they had been ill,
with gentle, untiring care, although she was strict, and would, have
them do all sorts of things that Elsie did not like when they were
strong and well.
The girl Meg stayed with them for some time longer; but Duncan seemed to
lie so quietly, that after a while she said she would go back, if Elsie
didn't feel so timid now. The little fellow seemed better, and she did
not think he would make any more disturbance that night. The poor
creature was tired out with a hard day's work, and could ill spare her
rest. She was ignorant, too, and did not know that this quiet that had
fallen upon the child was not the healthful peace leading to recovery,
but only the exhaustion after the terrible frenzy the poor little
disordered brain had passed through.
Still it was a merciful peace, for Elsie's fears grew fainter as he lay
there so quietly, and at last she fell asleep, thinking that he too was
sleeping.
She was awakened by Meg's presence. There was a glimmering of light in
the room, but so little of it that she was astonished to find how late
it was--past seven o'clock.
"I don't so very well like the look o' the bairn," she said, surveying
him carefully. "It strikes me you won't find it an easy matter to get
him dressed. Here, Duncan, are you ready for something to eat now?" she
cried, bending over him, and raising her voice.
But the child did not answer. He lay there as motionless as though he
had been carved out of stone, scarcely moving an eyelid at the sound of
Meg's words.
Elsie jumped up, and began dressing herself quickly.
"I'll go myself and tell them how ill he is," she said, "and ask them to
send him to the hospital where they cured you, and I'll go with him."
Meg said nothing, but she knew very well that this last, at any rate,
was quite out of the question.
"You'd better go straight down into the shop if you want to speak to the
master," she said, as she left the room.
Elsie found her way down the long flights of dark stairs as soon as she
was dressed. She pushed open the door leading into the shop, and went in
boldly. The man who had received them the night before was busily
sorting over heaps of papers, but no one else was near. Elsie went up to
him.
"Donald's ill; he's got the fever, and he must go to the hospital," she
said, in a voice of decision.
"Ha!" said the man, not looking up from his work. "I thought he didn't
seem quite the thing. Your mother'll be round by-and-by, and then you
can tell her about it."
It was not said unkindly, but the complete indifference angered Elsie,
who was burning with impatience for something to be done very quickly.
"She's not my mother," Elsie said, sharply, "and she is not kind to
Duncan. We can't wait; we must go to the hospital directly. Meg'll show
me the way, and then I'll tell the people how bad he is."
"What does Meg know about it?" the man asked, looking into Elsie's face
with a searching glance.
Elsie was sharp enough. "He was very bad in the night, thinking there
were bad men and beasts in the room after him, and he jumped out of bed
and hurt himself. When I banged the wall, Meg came, and picked him up
and put him into bed. She said he'd got the fever like she had when she
went to the hospital."
The man called out, "Meg, come you here!"
[Illustration: "'WHAT DID SHE SAY?' THE MAN ASKED SHARPLY."]