No, they had never come to any harm in those rambling desolate stables, brewhouses, and wood-houses, till about three days after Roderick Layburne"s departure, when, in a grand game of hide-and-seek, which had lasted over an hour, Linda, flushed and breathless with exercise and excitement, crept into the room which the sick man had occupied, and seated herself to rest upon the bed he had lain upon for fourteen weary days and fourteen restless nights.
She wondered a little at the tokens of recent occupation, such as she had never seen in any of these rooms before: ashes in the grate, a pipkin on one hob and a saucepan on the other, empty cups and jugs on a little table, and blankets on the bed where she was sitting.
She was too young to reason upon these evidences.
"Some one lives here," she told herself simply, but had no fear of the unknown personage. She waited so long for Rena to discover her hiding-place that she fell asleep at last, nestling down among those fever-tainted blankets. Rena found her there slumbering soundly, half an hour later, after having examined every hole and corner in her search, and crying with vexation at the difficulty of the quest.
It was not till ten days later that the evil result began to show itself. First Linda began to droop, and then Rena, each falling ill with exactly the same symptoms. The old doctor shook his head solemnly, "Scarlet fever, with the rash suppressed," he p.r.o.nounced like an oracle; and immediately began to starve and to physic them, almost as if he were voluntarily working in unison with that deadly fever which was burning up their young blood.
The Squire was in an agony when he heard of his daughter"s danger. He had seemed a careless and an indifferent father, and had seen very little of his child in those infantile years. He had no sympathy with childhood, could not understand its ways and ideas, knew not what to say to his little daughter or how to amuse her. It had been sufficient for him to know that she was near at hand, and that she was thriving.
But at the idea of peril he was like a madman. Barbara Layburne was surprised at the violence of his feelings. She looked at him with a curious air of suppressed cynicism.
"I had no idea you were so wrapped up in that baby," she said.
"Then you might have known as much. What else have I in this world to care for--to toil for--"
"Pray be reasonable, Mr. Bosworth. We all know that you love money for its own sake--not for those who are to come after you."
"Yes, but to know that when I am gone my wealth must be scattered to the four winds--that no grandchildren of mine will inherit all that I have slaved for; that no grandson of mine will a.s.sume my name, and hand it down to his son with the wealth. I have ama.s.sed, and which he should increase! Money fructifies of itself when there is but common prudence in the possessor. It is to my daughter"s children I look for the reward of all my toils, the perpetuation of my name: and if she dies, the cord snaps, and all is over. I shall have to leave my money to a hospital or an almshouse. Horrid thought!"
"Horrid thought, indeed, for Squire Bosworth to contemplate his fortune as a means of blessing to the helpless!"
"You have a scathing tongue, Mrs. Barbara, and I sometimes think you have a malignant mind to set the tongue wagging. I never met but one woman who was true and pure and n.o.ble to the heart"s core, and that was the sweet saint whom Fate s.n.a.t.c.hed away from me."
"And who never loved you," sneered Barbara. "That is to the credit of her wisdom."
"Ay; but she was better to me than the women who have pretended to love me--women whose love has been a curse. Do not speak of her. Your lips befoul her."
And then he went to the chamber where the children were lying in their two little beds side by side. It had been impossible to part them; they would have fretted themselves to death in severance. And as they were both sick of the same fever, there seemed no need for keeping them in separate rooms.
The windows were curtained, the room kept in semi-darkness, as was the fashion in those days. Invalids were supposed to thrive best in the gloom. Every breath of air was excluded, and a large fire burned merrily in the grate, where divers messes and potions were stewing. An odour of drugs pervaded the room. The Squire could hardly draw his breath in that stifling atmosphere. But fresh air in a fever! Heaven forbid!
Bosworth sat by his child"s bedside for a few minutes, holding the little burning hand in his, suffering an agony of helplessness and apprehension. What could his h.o.a.rds do for her? Croesus himself could not have bought an hour"s respite for the little life that seemed ebbing away. How thick and laboured was her breathing!
"Surely she would do better with more air," said her father; but the nurses a.s.sured him that a puff of cold wind would be deadly. They dared not open a window. The nurses were Bridget and a woman from the village, who had a reputation for skill in all diseases. But the chief nurse was Barbara Layburne, who had taken up her abode in a room adjoining the sick-chamber, and who scarcely ceased from her watching by day or night.
She had heard the history of that fatal game at hide-and-seek, and how Rena had discovered Linda fast asleep on a bed in one of the rooms in the deserted stable. She knew too well what the fever meant, with its suppressed eruption--knew that she was to blame for the evil, by her carelessness after the sick man"s departure. She had kept so close in her own den, had taken so little notice of the children, that she had never known of their occasional inroads upon the disused stables. Had she known more of children"s ways, she would have known that it is just in such deserted regions that they love to play. Imagination is free amidst emptiness and solitude; and a child"s fancy will convert a barn or a wood-shed into an enchanted palace.
"I will post to London and get the cleverest doctor in the town,"
exclaimed Bosworth.
It was the one only thing his money could do for that perishing child.
He bent down and kissed the dry lips, inhaling the putrid breath, almost wishing that it might poison him if _she_ were not to recover, and that they two might be laid in the same grave with the young mother. And then he left the sick-room, ordered a horse for himself, and another for his groom. The groom was to gallop on ahead to the market-town, and order a post-chaise to be in readiness for his master. The Squire was in London soon after nightfall, and at his club, inquiring for the doctor who was cleverest in fever cases. He was told of Dr. Denbigh in Covent Garden, a youngish man, but a great authority on fevers; and to Covent Garden he went between eleven o"clock and midnight.
Dr. Denbigh was a student, and given to working late. He answered the door himself, in dressing-gown and slippers, and on the Squire"s urgent entreaty consented to start at once, or as soon as post-horses could be got ready. He could return in the morning early enough to see his gratis patients, who came to him in flocks. He was known in all the vilest slums and alleys of London, and was the beloved of the London poor.
It was a three hours" journey, with good horses and short stages, to Fairmile Court; and it was the dead of the night when Bosworth and the physician stole softly into the children"s sick-chamber, where nurse Bridget was dozing in her armchair, while Mrs. Layburne sat bolt upright beside Rena"s bed, watching the child"s troubled slumbers.
"What an atmosphere!" cried Dr. Denbigh. "Draw back those curtains, madam, if you please; open yonder window."
"The doctor forbade us to open door or window."
"That is a fine old-fashioned style of treatment, madam, which has helped to people our churchyards. You needn"t be afraid of the night air. It is a fine dry night, and as wholesome as the day. Pray let those poor children have some fresh air."
Barbara Layburne obeyed, deeming herself the unwilling accessory to a murder. Bridget had rubbed her eyes, and was staring wonderingly at the strange doctor. The village nurse was snoring rhythmically in an adjoining room.
Dr. Denbigh seated himself between the two little beds, and examined the sufferers, each in turn, with ineffable gentleness, with thoughtful patient care.
"The symptoms are exactly the same," he said gravely, "but they are severest here."
It was on Rena that his hand rested. The Squire groaned aloud.
"Shall I lose her?" he asked. "She is my all."
"The child is very ill. What does your doctor call the malady?"
"Scarlet fever."
"Scarlet fever! Why, there is no rash!"
"He tells me that in some cases the rash does not appear--in some of the worst cases."
"This is no scarlet fever, sir. It is typhus--commonly called gaol fever--distinctly marked. It is a low form of putrid fever. Your child and her companion must have been visiting some of the poor folks"
cottages, where the disease is often found."
"They have not been beyond the park-gates. You have not taken them among the cottagers, have you, Bridget? You have not disobeyed my strict orders?"
"Never, sir. The little dears will tell you themselves, when they have got their senses back, that I never took them nowheres."
"Have you had any fever case lately among your servants, indoors or out?"
"Mrs. Layburne, yonder, can answer that question better than I."
"No, there has been no such illness," said Barbara.
"Strange," said the doctor; "the fever is gaol fever, and no other."
He wrote a prescription, ordered an entire change of treatment: wine, brandy, the strongest soup that could be made--a chicken boiled down to a breakfast-cupful of broth--and, above all, cleanliness and fresh air.
He gave many directions for the comfort of the children, and left within the hour of his arrival, promising to come again in three days, when he would confer with the local doctor. He would write fully to that gentleman next morning, to explain his change of treatment.
"I have no doubt I shall induce him to concur with me," he said.
Mr. Bosworth followed him to the chaise.
"Tell me the truth, for G.o.d"s sake," he said. "Is there any hope for my child?"
The physician shook his head with a sorrowful air.