The Water Lane Fever. People called it so, as blinking its real name, but it was not the less true that it was a very pestilence in the lower parts of Wil’sbro’; and was prostrating its victims far and wide among the gentry who had resorted to the town-hall within the last few weeks.

Cases had long been smouldering among the poor and the workmen employed, and several of these were terminating fatally just as the outbreak was becoming decisive.

On Monday morning Julius returned from visits to his brothers to find a piteous note from Mrs. Fuller entreating him to undertake two funerals. Her husband had broken down on Sunday morning and was very ill, and Mr. Driver had merely read the services and then joined his pupils, whom he had sent away to the sea-side. He had never been responsible for pastoral care, and in justice to them could not undertake it now. “Those streets are in a dreadful state,” wrote the poor lady, “several people dying; and there is such a panic in the neighbourhood that we know not where to turn for help. If you could fix an hour we would let the people know. The doctor insists on the funerals being immediate.”

Julius was standing in the porch reading this letter, and thinking what hour he could best spare from nearer claims, when he heard the gate swing and beheld his junior curate with a very subdued and sobered face, asking, “Is it true?”

“That the fever is here? Yes, it is.”

“And very bad?”

“Poor Frank is our worst case as yet. He is constantly delirious. The others are generally sensible, except that Terry is dreadfully haunted with mathematics.”

“Then it is all true about the Hall. Any one else ill?”

“Only the two Willses. They were carousing at the ‘Three Pigeons.’ I hope that Raymond’s prohibition against that place may have been the saving of the Hall servants. See here,” and he gave the note.

“I had better take those two funerals. I can at least do that,” said Herbert. “That Driver must be a regular case of a hireling.”

“He never professed that the sheep were his,” said Julius.

“Then I’ll go to the Vicarage and get a list of the sick, and see after them as far as I can,” said Herbert, in a grave, humble tone, showing better than a thousand words how he felt the deprivation he had brought on himself; and as to shame or self-consciousness, the need had swallowed them all.

“It will be a great act of kindness, Herbert. The point of infection does not seem clear yet, but I am afraid it will be a serious outbreak.”

“I did not believe it could all be true when the report came to Rood House, but of course I came to hear the truth and see what I could do. How is Mrs. Poynsett bearing up?”

“Bravely. Anne contrived our carrying her up-stairs, and it is the greatest comfort to Raymond to lie and look at her, and Susan looks after them both.”

“Then he can’t be so very ill.”

“Not so acutely, but there are symptoms that make Worth anxious. Shall I give you a note for Mrs. Fuller?”

“Do, and put me at your disposal for all you can spare for, or I can do. Have you written to Bindon?”

“I don’t know where, within some hundred miles. But, Herbert, I think we ought to undertake the help that is wanted at Wil’sbro’. Smith of Duddingstone is too weakly, and poor old Mr. Moulden neither could nor would. We are the nearest, and having it here already, do not run the risk of spreading it. As things are, I cannot be very long away from home, but I would come in for an hour or so every day, if you could do the rest.”

“Yes, that was what I meant,” said Herbert.

“Worth says the best protection is never to go among the sick hungry or exhausted. He says he keeps a biscuit in his pocket to eat before going into a sick house. I shall make Rosamond keep you supplied, and you must promise to use them.”

“Oh yes, I promise.”

“And never drink anything there. There is to be a public meeting to-morrow, to see whether the cause of this outbreak is not traceable to the water down there.”

“Mrs. Duncombe’s meddling?”

“Don’t judge without evidence. But it does seem as if the water at the well at Pettitt’s houses had done much of the harm. Terry was drinking it all that hot day, and to-day we hear that Lady Tyrrell and two of the servants are ill, besides poor little Joe Reynolds.”

“It is very terrible,” said Herbert. “Lady Tyrrell, did you say?”

“Yes. She was there constantly, like Raymond’s wife. Happily there is not much fear for your people, Herbert. Your father was at the dinner, but he is not a water drinker, and Jenny only just came to the bazaar, that was all. Edith happily gave up the ball.”

“I know,” said Herbert, colouring. “Jenny persuaded her to give it up because of—me. Oh, how I have served them all!”

“I told Jenny that perhaps her Ember prayers had been met in the true way.”

“Yes,” said Herbert. “I can’t understand now how I could have been such an audacious fool as to present myself so coolly after the year I had spent. God forgive me for it! Rector, thank you for leaving me at Rood House. It was like having one’s eyes opened to a new life. I say, do you know anything about Harry Hornblower? Is he come home?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t prosecute?”

“Happily I couldn’t. The things were gone and could not be identified, and there was nothing about him. So, though they had me over to Backsworth, they could not fall foul of me for refusing to prosecute. Have you seen him?”

“No, I tried, but he had got out of my way. You’ve not been there?” seeing that Herbert had brought back his bag.

“No; I will not till I come back;” and as he took the note he added, “Rector, I do beg your pardon with all my might.” Then, after a strong clasp of the hand, he sped away with a long, manful, energetic stride, which made Julius contrast his volunteer courage with the flight of the man who, if not pledged to pastoral care at Wil’sbro’, still had priestly vows upon him.

Julius had no scruples about risking this favourite home child. If he thought about it at all, it was to rejoice that Mrs. Bowater was safely gone, for he had passed unscathed through scenes at St. Awdry’s that would have made his mother tremble, and he had little fear of contagion, with reasonable care. Of course the doctors had the usual debate whether the fever were infectious or epidemic, but it made little difference. The local ones, as well as an authority from London, had an inspection previous to the meeting, which took place in the school, whose scholars were dispersed in the panic. No ladies were admitted. “We have had enough of them,” quoted Worshipful Mayor Truelove. Mr. Briggs, the ex-mayor, was at the bedside of his son, and there were hardly enough present to make decisions.

The focus of the disease was in Pettitt’s well. The water, though cold, clear, and sparkling, was affected by noxious gases from the drains, and had become little better than poison; the air was not much better, and as several neighbouring houses, some swarming with lodgers, used this water, the evil was accounted for. The ‘Three Pigeons’ had been an attraction to the servants waiting with their ladies’ carriages during the entertainments, and though they had not meddled much with the simple element, spirits had not neutralized the mischief. Thence too had come water for the tea and iced beverages used at the bazaar and ball. Odours there had been in plenty from the untouched drainage of the other houses, and these, no doubt, enhanced the evil; but every one agreed that the bad management of the drains on Mr. Pettitt’s property had been the main agency in the present outbreak.

The poor little perfumer had tears of grief and indignation in his eyes, but he defended his cause and shielded the ladies with chivalry worthy of his French ancestry. He said he had striven to do his duty as a proprietor, and if other gentlemen had done the same, and the channels could have had a free outlet, this misfortune would never have occurred. He found himself backed up by Mr. Julius Charnock, who rose to declare that what Mr. Pettitt had said was just what his brother, Mr. Charnock Poynsett, had desired should be stated as his own opinion, namely, that the responsibility rested, not with those who had done all within their power or knowledge for the welfare of their tenants, but with those whose indifference on the score of health had led them to neglect all sanitary measures.

“He desires me to say,” added Julius, “that being concerned both in the neglect and in the unfortunate consequences, he is desirous to impress his opinion on all concerned.”

Future prevention was no longer in the hands of the Town Council, for a sanitary commission would take that in hand; but in the meantime it was a time of plague and sickness, and measures must be taken for the general relief. Mr. Moy, to whom most of the houses belonged, was inquired for; but it appeared that he had carried off his wife and daughter on Saturday in terror when one of his servants had fallen ill, and even his clerks would not know where to write to him till he should telegraph. The man Gadley was meantime driving an active trade at the ‘Three Pigeons,’ whither the poor, possessed with the notion that spirits kept out the infection, were resorting more than ever, and he set at defiance all the preventives which doctors, overseer, and relieving officer were trying to enforce, with sullen oaths against interference.

Two deaths yesterday, one to-day, three hourly apprehended; doctors incessantly occupied, nurses, however unfit, not to be procured by any exertion of the half-maddened relieving-officer; bread-winners prostrated; food, wine, bedding, everything lacking. Such was the state of things around the new town-hall of Wil’sbro’, and the gentry around were absorbed by cases of the same epidemic in their own families.

To telegraph for nurses from a hospital, to set on foot a subscription, appoint a committee of management, and name a treasurer and dispenser of supplies, were the most urgent steps. Julius suggested applying to a Nursing Sisterhood, but Mr. Truelove, without imputing any motives to the reverend gentleman, was unwilling to insert the thin end of the wedge; so the telegram was sent to a London Hospital, and Mr. Whitlock, the mayor-elect, undertook to be treasurer, and to print and circulate an appeal for supplies of all sorts. Those present resolved themselves into a committee, and consulted about a fever hospital, since people could hardly be expected to recover in the present condition of Water Lane; but nothing was at present ready, and the question was adjourned to the next day. As Julius parted with Mr. Whitlock he met Herbert Bowater returning from the cemetery in search of him, with tidings of some cases where he was especially needed. As they walked on together Mrs. Duncombe overtook them with a basket on her arm. She held out her hand with an imploring gesture.

“Mr. Charnock, it can’t be true, can it?—they only say so out of ignorance—that it was Pettitt’s well, I mean?”

In a few words Julius made it clear what the evil had been and how it arose.

She did not dispute it, she merely grew sallower and said:

“God forgive us! We did it for the best. I planned. I never thought of that. Oh!”

“My brother insists that the mischief came of not following the example you set.”

“And Cecil!”

“Cecil is too much stupefied to know anything about it.”

“You are helping here? Make me all the use you can. Whatever has to be done give it to me.”

“Nay, you have your family to consider.”

“My boys are at their grandmother’s. My husband is gone abroad. Give me work. I have brought some wine. Who needs it most?”

“Wine?” said Herbert. “Here? I was going back for some, but half an hour may make all the difference to the poor lad in here.”

Mrs. Duncombe was within the door in a moment.

“There has been an execution in her house,” said Herbert, as they went home. “That fellow went off on Saturday, and left her alone to face it.”

“I thought she had striven to keep out of debt.”

“What can a woman do when a man chooses to borrow? That horse brought them to more unexpected smash. They say that after the ball, where she appeared in all her glory, as if nothing had happened, she made Bob give her a schedule of his debts, packed his portmanteau, sent him off to find some cheap hole abroad, and stayed to pick up the pieces after the wreck.”

“She is a brave woman,” said Julius.

Therewith they plunged into the abodes of misery, where the only other helper at present was good old Miss Slater, who was going from one to another, trying to show helpless women how to nurse, but able only to contribute infinitesimal grains of aid or comfort at immense cost to herself. Julius insisted on taking home with him his curate, who had been at work from ten o’clock that morning till six, when as Julius resigned the pony’s reins to him, he begged that they might go round and inquire at Sirenwood, to which consent was the more willingly given because poor Frank’s few gleams of consciousness were spent in sending his indefatigable nurse Anne to ask whether his mother had ‘had that letter,’ and in his delirium he was always feeling his watch-chain for that unhappy pebble, and moaning when he missed it. Mrs. Poynsett’s letter had gone on Friday, and still there was no answer, and this was a vexation, adding to the fear that the poor fellow’s rejection had been final. Yet she might have missed the letter by being summoned home. Close to the lodge, they overtook Sir Harry, riding dejectedly homewards, and, glad to be saved going up to the house, they stopped and inquired for Lady Tyrrell.

“Very low and oppressed,” he said. “M’Vie does not give us reason to expect a change just yet. Do they tell you the same? Worth attends you, I think?”

“He seems to think it must run on for at least three weeks,” said Julius.

“You’ve been to the meeting, eh? Was it that well of Pettitt’s? Really that meddling wife of Duncombe’s ought to be prosecuted. I hope she’ll catch the fever and be served out.”

“She tried to prevent it,” said Julius.

“Pshaw! women have no business with such things, they only put their foot in it. Nobody used to trouble themselves about drains, and one never heard of fevers.”

Instead of contesting the point, Julius asked whether Miss Vivian were at home.

“No; that’s the odd thing. I wrote, for M’Vie has no fear of infection, and poor Camilla is always calling for her, and that French maid has thought proper to fall ill, and we don’t know what to do. Upper housemaid cut and run in a panic, cook dead drunk last night, not a servant in the house to be trusted. If it were not for my man Victor I don’t know where I should be. Very odd what that child is about. Lady Susan can’t be keeping it from her. Unjustifiable!”

“She is with Lady Susan Strangeways?”

“Yes. Went with Bee and Conny. I was glad, for we can’t afford to despise a good match, though I was sorry for your brother.”

“Do I understand you that she is engaged to Mr. Strangeways?”

“No, no; not yet. One always hears those things before they are true, and you see they are keeping her from us as if she belonged to them already. I call it unfeeling! I have just been to the post to see if there’s a letter! Can’t be anything wrong in the address,—Revelrig, Cleveland, Yorkshire.”

“Why don’t you telegraph?”

“I shall, if I don’t hear to-morrow morning.”

But the morning’s telegrams were baffling. None came in answer to Sir Harry, though he had bidden his daughter to telegraph back instantly; and two hospitals replied that they had no nurses to spare! This was the first thing Julius heard when he came to the committee-room. The second was that the only parish nurse had been found asleep under the influence of the port-wine intended for her patients, the third that there were five more deaths, one being Mrs. Gadley, of the ‘Three Pigeons,’ from diphtheria, and fourteen more cases of fever were reported. Julius had already been with the schoolmistress, who was not expected to live through the day. He had found that Mrs. Duncombe had been up all night with one of the most miserable families, and only when her unpractised hands had cared for a little corpse, had been forced home by good Miss Slater for a little rest. He had also seen poor Mr. Fuller, who was too weak and wretched to say anything more than ‘God help us, Charnock: you will do what you can;’ and when Julius asked for his sanction to sending for Sisters, he answered, “Anything, anything.”

The few members who had come to the committee were reduced to the same despairing consent, and Julius was allowed to despatch a telegram to St. Faith’s, which had sent Sisters in the emergency at St. Awdry’s. He likewise brought an offer, suggested by Raymond, of a great old tithe barn, his own property, but always rented by Mrs. Poynsett, in a solitary field, where the uninfected children might be placed under good care, and the houses in Water Lane thus relieved. As to a fever hospital, Raymond had sent his advice to use the new town-hall itself. A word from him went a great way just then with the Town Council, and the doctors were delighted with the proposal.

Funds and contributions of bedding, clothing, food and wine were coming in, but hands were the difficulty. The adaptations of the town-hall and the bringing in of beds were done by one strong carpenter and Mrs. Duncombe’s man Alexander, whom she had brought with her, and who proved an excellent orderly; and the few who would consent, or did not resist occupying the beds there, were carried in by Herbert Bowater and a strapping young doctor who had come down for this fever pasture. There Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Slater received them. No other volunteer had come to light willing to plunge into this perilous and disgusting abyss of misery; and among the afflicted families the power of nursing was indeed small.

However, the healthy children were carried away without much resistance, and established in the great barn under a trustworthy widow; and before night, two effective-looking Sisters were in charge at the hospital.

Still, however, no telegram, no letter, came from Eleonora Vivian. Mr. M’Vie had found a nurse for Lady Tyrrell, but old Sir Harry rode in to meet every delivery of the post, and was half distracted at finding nothing from her; and Frank’s murmurs of her name were most piteous to those who feared that, if he were ever clearly conscious again, it would only be to know how heavy had been the meed of his folly.

CHAPTER XXVIII
The Retreat

What dost thou here, frail wanderer from thy task?

—Christian Year

Eleonora Vivian was trying to fix her attention on writing out the meditation she had just heard from Dr. Easterby.

It had been a strange time. All externally was a great hush. There was perfect rest from the tumult of society, and from the harassing state of tacit resistance habitual to her. This was the holy quietude for which she had longed, yet where was the power to feel and profit by it? Did not the peace without only make her hear the storm within all the more?

A storm had truly been raging within ever since Conny Strangeways had triumphantly exhibited the prize she had won from Frank Charnock at the races; and Camilla had taken care that full and undeniable evidence should prove that this was not all that the young man had lost upon the Backsworth race-ground.

Lenore might guess, with her peculiarly painful intuition, who had been the tempter, but that did not lessen her severity towards the victim. In her resolution against a betting man, had she not trusted Frank too implicitly even to warn him of her vow? Nay, had she not felt him drifting from her all through the season, unjustly angered, unworthily distrustful, easily led astray? All the misgivings that had fretted her at intervals and then cleared away seemed to gather into one conviction—Frank had failed her!

Eleonora’s nature was one to resent before grieving. Her spirit was too high to break down under the first shock, and she carried her head proudly to the ball, betraying by no outward sign the stern despair of her heart, as she listened to the gay chatter of her companions, and with unflinching severity she carried out that judicial reply to Frank which she had already prepared, and then guarded herself among numerous partners against remonstrance or explanation. It had been all one whirl of bewilderment; Lady Tyrrell tired, and making the girls’ intended journey on the morrow a plea for early departure; and the Strangeways, though dancing indefatigably, and laughing at fatigue, coming away as soon as they saw she really wished it. All said good night and good-bye together, both to Lady Tyrrell and Sir Harry, and Lenore started at ten o’clock without having seen either. Her sense of heroism lasted till after the glimpse of Frank on the road. Her mood was of bitter disappointment and indignation. Frank was given up, but not less so were her father, her sister, and the world. Sir Harry had made Camilla suffice to him, he did not want her. He had been the means of perverting Frank, and Lenore could not see that she need any longer be bound for his sake to the life she detested. In a few weeks she would be of age, and what would then prevent her from finding a congenial home in the Sisterhood, since such kindred could have no just claim to her allegiance? It was the hasty determination of one who had suffered a tacit persecution for three years, and was now smarting under the cruellest of blows. Her lover perverted, her conditions broken, her pledge gambled away, and all this the work of her father and sister!

Conny and Bee thought her grave and more silent than usual, and when Lady Susan met them in London there was no time for thought. Saturday was spent on a harvest festival at a suburban church, after which the daughters were despatched to their uncle’s by a late train. Sunday was spent in the pursuit of remarkable services; and on Monday Lady Susan and Eleonora had gone to St. Faith’s and the Retreat began.

Here was to be the longed-for rest, for which she had thirsted all the more through those days of hurry and of religious spectacles, as she felt that, be they what they might to their regular attendants, to her, as an outsider, they could be but sights, into whose spirit her sick and wearied soul could not enter.

Here was no outward disturbance, no claim from the world, no importunate chatter, only religious services in their quietest, most unobtrusive form; and Dr. Easterby’s low tender tones, leading his silent listeners to deep heart-searchings, earnest thoughts, and steadfast resolutions.

Ah! so no doubt it was with many; but Lena, with book and pen, was dismayed to find that the one thing she recollected was the question, “Friend, how camest thou in hither?” After that, she had only heard her own thoughts. Her mind had lapsed into one vague apprehension of the effects of having cut off all communication with home, imaginings of Frank’s despair, relentings of pity, all broken by dismay at her own involuntary hypocrisy in bringing such thoughts into the Retreat. Had she any right to be there at all? Was not a thing that should have been for her peace become to her an occasion of falling?

It was Thursday evening, and on the morrow there would be the opportunity of private interviews with Dr. Easterby. She longed for the moment, chiefly to free herself from the sense of deception that had all this time seemed to vitiate her religious exercises, deafen her ears, and blow aside her prayers. There was a touch on her shoulder, and one of the Sisters who had received the ladies said, interrogatively, “Miss Vivian? The Mother would be obliged if you would come to her room.”

The general hush prevented Lenore from manifesting her extreme agitation, and she moved with as quiet a step as she could command, though trembling from head to foot. In the room to which she came stood the Superior and Dr. Easterby, and a yellow telegram-paper lay on the table.

“My father?” she asked.

“No,” said the Superior, kindly, “it is your sister, who is ill. Here is the telegram—”

“Sister Margaret to the Mother Superior, St. Faith’s, Dearport. Lady Tyrrell has the fever. Miss Vivian much needed.

“Wils’bro, Sept. 26th, 5.30.”

“The fever!” She looked up bewildered, and the Superior added—

“You did not know of a fever at Wil’sbro’? Some of our nursing Sisters were telegraphed for, and went down yesterday. I was sorry to send Sister Margaret away just when her mother and you are here; but she was the only available head, and the need seemed great.”

“I have heard nothing since I left home on Friday,” said Eleonora, hoarsely. “It is my own fault. They think I am at Revelrig.”

“Your family do not know you are here?” said the Superior, gravely.

“It was very wrong,” she said. “This is the punishment. I must go. Can I?”

“Surely, as soon as there is a train,” said the Superior, beginning to look for a Bradshaw; while Dr. Easterby gave Lenore a chair, and bade her sit down. She looked up at his kind face, and asked whether he had heard of this fever.

“On Sunday evening, some friends who came out from Backsworth to our evening service spoke of an outbreak of fever at Wil’sbro’, and said that several of the Charnock family were ill. I have had this card since from young Mr. Bowater:—

“T. F. in severe form. J. C. well, but both his brothers are down in it, and Lady K.’s brother, also Lady T. and the Vicar. No one to do anything; we have taken charge of Wil’sbro’. I have no time to do more than thank you for unspeakable kindness. H. B.”

“You knew?” exclaimed Lenore, as she saw her sister’s initial.

“I knew Lady Tyrrell was ill, but I do not know who the ladies are whom I address. I did not guess that you were here,” said Dr. Easterby, gently.

No one living near Backsworth could fail to know Sir Harry Vivian’s reputation, so that the master of Rood House knew far better than the Superior of St. Faith’s how much excuse Lenore’s evasion might have; but whatever could seem like tampering with young people was most distressing to the Sisters, and the Mother was more grave than pitiful.

There was no train till the mail at night, and there would be two hours to wait in London; but Lenore would listen to no entreaties to wait till morning, and as they saw that she had plenty of health and strength, they did not press her, though the Superior would send a nurse with her, who, if not needed at Sirenwood, might work in Water Lane. It was thought best not to distract Lady Susan, and Lenore was relieved not to have her vehement regret and fussy cares about her; but there were still two hours to be spent before starting, and in these Dr. Easterby was the kindest of comforters.

Had she erred in her concealment? He thought she had, though with much excuse. A Retreat was not like a sacrament, a necessity of a Christian’s life; and no merely possible spiritual advantage ought to be weighed against filial obedience. It was a moment of contrition, and of outpouring for the burthened heart, as Lenore was able to speak of her long trial, and all the evil it had caused in hardening and sealing up her better nature. She even told of her unsanctioned but unforbidden engagement, and of its termination; yearning to be told that she had been hasty and hard, and to be bidden to revoke her rejection.

She found that Dr. Easterby would not judge for her, or give her decided direction. He showed her, indeed, that she had given way to pride and temper, and had been unjust in allowing no explanation; but he would not tell her to unsay her decision, nor say that it might not be right, even though the manner had been wrong. While the past was repented, and had its pardon, for the future he would only bid her wait, and pray for guidance and aid through her trial.

“My child,” he said, “chastening is the very token of pardon, and therein may you find peace, and see the right course.”

“And you will pray for me—that however it may be, He may forgive me?”

“Indeed, I will. We all will pray for you as one in sorrow and anxiety. And remember this: There is a promise that a great mountain shall become a plain; and so it does, but to those who bravely try to climb it in strength not their own, not to those who try to go round or burrow through.”

“I see,” was all she answered, in the meek submissive tone of a strong nature, bent but not daring to break down. She could not shed tears, deeply as she felt; she must save all her strength and bear that gnawing misery which Herbert Bowater’s mention of J. C.’s brothers had inflicted upon her—bear it in utter uncertainty through the night’s journey, until the train stopped at Wil’sbro’ at eleven o’clock, and her father, to whom she had telegraphed, met her, holding out his arms, and absolutely crying over her for joy.

“My dear, my dear, I knew you would come; I could trust to my little Lena. It was all some confounded mistake.”

“It was my fault. How is she?”

“Does nothing but ask for you. Very low—nasty fever at night. What’s that woman? M’Vie sent a nurse, who is awfully jealous; can’t have her in to Camilla: but there’s plenty to do; Anaïs is laid up—coachman too, and Joe—half the other servants gone off. I told Victor I would pay anything to him if he would stay.”

“And—at Compton?” faintly asked Lenore.

“Bad enough, they say. Serves ’em right; Mrs. Raymond was as mischievous as Duncombe’s wife, but I’ve not heard for the last two days; there’s been no one to send over, and I’ve had enough to think about of my own.”

“Who have it there?” she managed to say.

“Raymond and his wife, both; and Frank and the young De Lancey, I heard. I met Julius Charnock the other day very anxious about them. He’s got his tithe barn stuffed with children from Water Lane, as if he wanted to spread it. All their meddling! But what kept you so long, little one? Where were you hiding?—or did Lady Susan keep it from you? I began to think you had eloped with her son. You are sure you have not?”