DAISY'S ILLNESS.
About an hour after the doctor has gone that morning the garden gate
is rather hastily opened, and there is a ring at the door-bell. The
Mr. Talboys, in the last stage of anxiety, have arrived to inquire
about their little favourite.
"Now, my dear Miss Honor," they both cry, each seizing one of her
hands, "is there _nothing_ we can do--either for the poor child or
for yourselves, you know? I am quite sure there must be something,
if we can only think of it. Calves-foot jelly now, for instance.
Mrs. Edwards makes most delicious calves-foot jelly. She shall make
some this very day--eh, Brother Ben? Yes, we'll call at the
butcher's on our way home and see if they have any calves' feet, and
if not, why, they must kill a calf, that's all."
Then the two old gentlemen explain that they had met Dr. Sinclair in
the village, and he had told them about poor little Daisy--the first
they had heard of it; and so they had come right off to inquire
without delay.
"And now," says Mr. Benjamin, taking the initiative for once, "you
must remember your promise, Miss Honor, my dear, to let my brother
and myself know at once if you can think of anything--no matter
what--that we can do for you. Now Priscilla, for instance. Don't
you think she would be a help if we sent her over to you for a few
hours every day? I don't mean actually for the nursing, but to give
assistance in a general sort of way in the house, you know. She is a
good-natured, warm-hearted girl, is Priscilla, and I am sure would be
glad to turn her hand to anything--eh, Brother Ned?"
"Just so, just so," agrees Mr. Edward, planting his stick firmly on
the floor; "a very excellent idea, Brother Ben; but of course it is
to be exactly as Miss Honor thinks herself. And now we must not
waste her time any more. You will give Daisy the flowers, with our
love, and--oh, yes, I remember--the boy will be round by and by with
a few little things that we thought might be useful. Good-bye,
good-bye!"
And before Honor has a chance of saying a word of thanks off the
brothers trot together, waving their hands smilingly to her as they
look back from the gate.
It is a long, long time, however, before poor little Daisy can touch
any of the tempting and strengthening things which the kind old
gentlemen are constantly sending up to the house, for she soon
becomes so much worse that a little of White-star's milk, with
soda-water, is almost all she lives upon for some time. It is,
indeed, an anxious fortnight for all while Daisy--the pet and darling
of the household--lies so weak and helpless, and, in the intervals
between the attacks of fever, so patiently on her bed of sickness.
Her little frame is so wasted, and her weakness so great, that to
those watching around her it sometimes seems as if each breath drawn
might free the spirit from the little frail body.
Through all this period of sadness and trouble Dr. Sinclair proves
himself a most kind and untiring friend. Indeed, before many days
are over the good-hearted young fellow is on perfectly familiar terms
with the whole family, and besides attending to his patient he looks
after each one individually, from Mrs. Merivale, whom he gets
gradually to like and pity, down to young Bobby, whom he finds on his
arrival one day prostrated with a violent bilious attack, an almost
inevitable consequence of his having taken both dinner and tea with
the Mr. Talboys on the previous day. At length there comes a day
when the doctor looks even graver than usual as he stands by the bed
of his little patient, who has become in those weary days of watching
almost as dear to him as a little sister might have been. And his
affection is warmly returned by Daisy, who looks forward with
feverish excitement to his every visit, lying with her great blue
eyes--now seeming so much larger in the thin, pale, little
face--turning ever towards the door, and gleaming with brightness the
moment the step of her "dear old doctor," as she calls him, is heard
outside. Once in the room his presence has a singularly soothing
influence upon the child; and more than once has the sleepless, weary
little body succumbed to the almost magnetic touch of his large, cool
hand, when, resting it firmly but gently upon her forehead, he has
stood and watched the heavy eyelids droop and droop, until, if only
for a few minutes, his little patient sleeps.
Dr. Sinclair says very little as he makes his examination on this
particular morning. But as Honor follows him downstairs he turns
into the empty sitting-room, and taking up his hat and stick from the
table suddenly faces her.
"Can you bear to hear the truth?" he asks abruptly.
Honor feels her heart tighten at these ominous words, but she meets
the doctor's keen inquiring gaze unflinchingly, and answers bravely:
"I would far rather know the worst than be kept in suspense."
Then the young man gently and pityingly tells her that the next
four-and-twenty hours will decide whether little Daisy will live or
die, and that almost everything will depend on the care and attention
she receives during that time.
"Do not be afraid for me," she says a little brokenly. "I am not one
to give way, you know; and I am quite strong, and perfectly able to
sit up for many more nights yet. When will you send the draught?"
"I shall not send it at all," he answers briefly. "I would far
rather that this exhaustion should end, as I still hope it may, in a
healthy and natural sleep. But sleep the child _must have_ somehow;
so I shall look in about five, and, with your permission, Miss Honor,
I shall remain during the night to help watch my little patient."
"Oh, how good of you!" exclaims the girl. "It will be such a relief
to feel that I am not responsible, as it were; not that I am
afraid--please, don't think that."
Having thus arranged, the young man hurries off to get in all the
work he can before returning to the Rookery. He has not got far on
his road, however, when suddenly turning a corner he runs straight
against the brothers Talboys, who are hurrying from the opposite
direction. Before the doctor can open his mouth to speak, one has
seized the lapel of his coat and the other his arm, and
simultaneously they pant out the same question:
"How is she? How have you left her? My dear Dr. John, we have been
so anxious, and we have been watching for you this hour or more; we
felt we couldn't trouble the family by calling to inquire this
morning." And Mr. Ned, who, it is needless to say, has quickly
out-distanced his brother in speaking, shakes the doctor's arm
roughly in his anxiety.
"I left the poor child in a very critical state, sir," he replies,
trying to conceal his impatience at being detained thus unexpectedly;
"but I am returning there at the end of the afternoon, and should
there be any change, either for better or worse, I will try and send
you up a message."
"Not for the worse, Dr. John?" repeats Mr. Ben, while both the kind
old faces express much emotion. "You don't look for a change for the
worse, do you?"
"No, no, my dear sirs; God forbid that I should look for it. But as
yet I cannot tell, though to-night must decide the case one way or
the other. We will pull her through yet, Mr. Talboys, if it be God's
will; and if not--"
A lump rises in the young man's throat which prevents his finishing
his sentence, and shaking off Mr. Ben's detaining hand as gently as
he can, he tries to make his escape. But Mr. Ned hurries after him,
and once more seizing his hand cries, with tears in his eyes:
"Save her, Dr. John! only save the child, and my Brother Ben and I
shall owe you a debt of gratitude that we can never sufficiently
repay."