Chapter XVI: Days of Sickness

IT was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. and Mrs. Fowler reached Greystone that autumn night. Without waiting for assistance, the latter sprang out of the carriage and ran into the house, and almost into the arms of Miss Conway, who had come down from the sick-room to meet the travellers.

"What is this I hear about Margaret?" Mrs. Fowler inquired, excitedly clutching the governess by the arm, and scanning her pale countenance with anxiety. "I am told she is ill. It is nothing much, I suppose? What ails her? A cold?"

"She certainly did catch cold," Miss Conway rejoined in a grave tone, looking from Mrs. Fowler to her husband, who had quickly followed her. "She has been poorly for several days, but this morning she was taken much worse, and I sent immediately for Dr. Vawdry from N—. He has been twice during the day, and—and—" this in a faltering voice—"she is very ill with inflammation of the lungs. We are poulticing her; Ross is with her now, and—and—I'm so very glad you've come!" And, overwrought with anxiety, she burst into tears.

"Come into the drawing-room, Miss Conway," Mr. Fowler said kindly. "No, my dear," he continued, laying a restraining hand upon his wife who had turned to rush upstairs, "let us hear all details about Margaret first of all. Besides, you must not allow her to see you looking frightened and distressed."

"She would take no notice," Miss Conway said mournfully. "She recognises nobody, and is quite delirious. Dr. Vawdry says that need not alarm us, though, for it's frequently the case in inflammation of the lungs."

"What has caused her illness?" Mrs. Fowler asked, as she followed the others into the drawing-room.

Miss Conway wiped away her tears, and in a few minutes was sufficiently composed to explain all that had happened. When she had finished her story, Mr. Fowler inquired, "Where is Gerald now?"

"In bed and asleep, I am thankful to say," Miss Conway answered. "Mr. Amyatt had him at the Vicarage until eight o'clock, when he brought him home. He begged me to allow him to sit up to see you, but I insisted on his having his supper and going to bed."

"Quite right." Mr. Fowler's face was very stern, and he would not meet the glance of his wife's appealing eyes. "We see now the result of indulgence," he added emphatically. "Had Gerald been taught obedience and consideration for other people, this trouble would never have come upon us."

Mrs. Fowler quailed beneath the mingled reproach and reproof of her husband's tone; for once she had no excuse to make for her favourite child. She had spent a very pleasant time in London, where she had met many old friends, including Mrs. Lute; but she had not been sorry to return to Greystone, acknowledging to herself that the quiet, healthful life there suited her. With her husband's presence to strengthen her, it had not been so very difficult to refuse stimulants when they had been offered to her. She was fully conscious of her own weakness now, and no longer deceived herself, as she had formerly done, with the fallacious idea that a little wine or spirit was good for her.

When she recalled how, during her husband's brief absence from home a few weeks previously, she had been tempted from the mere fact of having taken one glass of wine to purchase a bottle of brandy, and drink it by stealth, she was obliged to confess that total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors was the only course for her to adopt to prevent the ruin of her happiness, and that of those she loved. At Greystone, she felt she was out of temptation's way. The news of her little daughter's illness, which had been imparted to her and Mr. Fowler at N—, had startled and shocked her immeasurably; and she had begged the coachman to drive home as quickly as possible, which he had accordingly done.

Margaret was lying in a kind of stupor when her parents entered her bedroom, and they were careful not to disturb her. Mr. Fowler saw she was very ill, and his heart ached as he bent over her and listened to her laboured breathing. Glancing at his wife, he was astonished at the expression of her countenance, for, like everyone else, he had never thought she had cared for Margaret overmuch. But all the mother's love was alive in Mrs. Fowler at that moment, shining in her blue eyes, and illuminating her fair face with additional beauty.

Anxious days and nights followed, during which Margaret lay between life and death. Her mother constituted herself head nurse, and showed wonderful ability in that capacity. Naturally a nervous, excitable woman, it was quite wonderful how she put a check upon her feelings, and was calm, and capable, and seemingly untiring. It was nothing to Margaret, at that time, who was attending to her, for she was utterly unconscious, sometimes in a drowsy condition, sometimes murmuring distressfully, going over again all that had happened on the night of the storm, always with the impression in her mind that Gerald had been drowned.

"Who will tell mother?" she demanded again and again in an agony of grief. "She loves him so! He is her favourite."

Meanwhile Gerald had been taken to task by his father for his conduct on the night of the storm. Mr. Fowler took no steps to punish him, but he talked to him so seriously, and pointed out to him that he was responsible for his sister's illness, that Gerald was reduced to tears, and for the first time in his life, on seeking his mother's support and sympathy, he found both lacking.

"The blame is all yours," she told him gravely. "What your father has said to you is perfectly true."

"Oh, mother, don't you think Margaret will get well again?" he asked with quivering lips, for beneath a veneer of selfishness, he owned an affectionate heart, and he was really much attached to his sister.

"Only God knows that," was the solemn reply.

"That's what Salome Petherick says," he remarked tearfully. "She was here inquiring for Margaret at the back door this morning. She comes every day, and she said all I could do was to pray."

"She was right, Gerald; your sister is in God's hands. The doctor can do nothing for her—he has acknowledged that; but oh, my son, pray for her! Pray for her!"

The little boy was greatly impressed by the solemnity of his mother's tone, and impetuously flinging his arms around her neck, he assured her, he would be a better boy for the future, and that he would pray to God to make his sister well. He was having a holiday from lessons, for Miss Conway was assisting Mrs. Fowler and Ross with the nursing, and so he spent most of his time with his father, from whom he had begged and obtained forgiveness for his past misbehaviour.

"Yes, I forgive you, Gerald," Mr. Fowler had said sadly. "But you see, wrongdoing always brings its own punishment," he had added, noting the little boy's troubled countenance, and making a shrewd guess as to the state of his feelings with regard to Margaret.

The servants crept quietly about the house speaking in hushed tones, for the angel of death seemed hovering near; and those who loved Margaret Fowler waited and watched unwearyingly. A second doctor from Plymouth had visited the patient. But he had agreed with Dr. Vawdry that nothing more could be done for her, and that it was merely a question of whether or not her strength would hold out and vanquish the disease.

At last, the crisis came. And then, the glad news that the little sufferer was sleeping quietly and naturally was whispered through the house, and spread to the Vicarage, and from thence to the village, where Salome Petherick heard the good tidings in Silas Moyle's shop, and returned home with a joyful, thankful heart.

The golden, autumn days were passing swiftly now, and there was a sharp feeling in the air in the morning, but a few hardy flowers lingered in Salome's garden; a big bush fuchsia which grew beneath the kitchen window was still in bloom, and the verbena close to the porch had not commenced to shed its leaves, whilst the white chrysanthemums which flourished year by year in the shelter of the wall which protected the garden on the side nearest to the sea were in full flower. The lame girl gathered a posy, and took it up to Greystone, where she left it at the back door with a request that it might be given to Miss Margaret, if she was well enough to receive it. She declined an invitation to rest awhile, saying she must hurry home to get her father's tea.

So it came to pass, that when Margaret awoke from her refreshing sleep, she was conscious of a delightful perfume, and opening her eyes, they rested on a homely nosegay, composed of chrysanthemums, intermingled with sprigs of verbena, and drooping fuchsia sprays. The flowers lay on the counterpane, but when she tried to put out her hand to reach them, she found she could not. Then the bed curtain stirred, and she saw a face bending over her—a beautiful face full of love and a great joy.

"Mother," she said weakly.

"Yes, my dear," was the soft reply. "You have been ill, but you are better, and have had such a nice, long sleep. I want you to drink this milk and then go to sleep again."

Mrs. Fowler slipped her arm beneath the pillow, and gently raised the little girl's head, whilst she held a cup to her lips. Margaret took a few sips of milk, but refused more.

"The flowers," she said, as her mother laid her head down again.

"Salome sent them to you with her love."

Mrs. Fowler placed the nosegay close to Margaret's hand, and her thin fingers fastened around the stems of the flowers, then her tired eyes closed, and she slept once more.

From that hour, Margaret commenced to recover. For days, she was too weak to move hand or foot—too weak almost to think; but by-and-by, with returning strength, she began to notice more what was going on around her. The tormenting thought that Gerald was dead had left her entirely, and she was conscious that it had been her mother who had nursed her so tenderly all along, and not a figure of her imagination as she had at first thought.

She watched Mrs. Fowler with an inquiring expression which that lady failed to interpret, but which made her both anxious and uneasy. It was as though Margaret wondered at her solicitude, and was trying to find a reason for it. And as the little girl grew better, it was quite apparent that she preferred to have Miss Conway or Ross in attendance upon her to Mrs. Fowler. It was always—"Don't trouble, mother, Ross will do it," or "Miss Conway will read to me, I know." Till, deeply hurt, Mrs. Fowler made up her mind that she had for ever destroyed her little daughter's affection. And once Margaret had loved her so dearly, too!

On the first occasion on which the patient was allowed to sit out in a chair by the fire, Mrs. Fowler wrapped her in a dressing-gown made of quilted silk which she had brought home for her from London. Margaret expressed great pleasure in the pretty garment, and called everyone's attention to it. Her father sat with her for a short while, and Gerald, at his earnest request, was permitted ten minutes of her society.

"How white you look!" the latter exclaimed, regarding her with awe. "And your eyes are so big! But you're heaps better, aren't you, Margaret?"

"Oh, yes!" she answered, smiling brightly.

"That's right. I prayed to God to make you well, and so did everyone, I think."

"That was very kind of everyone," Margaret murmured, much touched.

"Josiah Petherick's drunk nearly every night now," Gerald next informed his sister. "I heard Mr. Amyatt tell father so."

"Oh, dear!" cried Margaret in much distress. "Poor Salome!" At that moment, she caught her mother's eyes, and the sensitive colour flooded her face from chin to brow. Noticing the painful blush, Mrs. Fowler turned away, and walking to the window, gazed out unseeingly, her mind a tumult of conflicting thoughts.

Meanwhile, Gerald chattered on, passing from Josiah to other of the villagers, until Mrs. Fowler, suddenly remembering that Margaret must not be allowed to overtire herself, interrupted the conversation, and sent the little boy away, promising he should come and sit with his sister again to-morrow.

"Remember to give my love to Salome the next time you see her," Margaret said. "Tell her, I hope we shall meet again soon."

Then, as the door shut on her brother, she sighed, and her mother guessed aright by the sad expression of her face that her thoughts were troubled ones and anything but conducive to peace of mind.