by Ellen Wood
Late in the evening the two boys happened to be alone in the nursery, the nurse being temporarily absent from it. Edward was now a tall, slender, handsome boy in knickerbockers; Reginald a timid little fellow, several years younger — rendered timid by Edward’s perpetual tyranny, which he might not resent. Edward was quiet enough this evening; he felt ill and shivery, and sat close to the fire. Casting his eyes upwards, he espied Mr. Brook’s powder on the mantelpiece, with the stereotyped direction— “To be taken at bedtime.” It was lying close to the jam-pot, which the head-nurse had put ready. Of course he had the greatest possible horror of medicine, and his busy thoughts began to run upon how he might avoid that detestable powder. The little fellow was sitting on the carpet playing with his bricks. Edward turned his eyes on his brother, and a bright thought occurred to him.
“Regy,” said he, taking down the pot, “come here. Look at this jam: isn’t it nice? It’s raspberry and currant.”
The child left his bricks to bend over the tempting compound.
“I’ll give it you every bit to eat before nurse comes back,” continued the boy, “if you’ll eat this first.”
Reginald cast a look upon the powder his brother exhibited. “What is it?” he lisped; “something good?”
“Delicious. It’s just come in from the sweet-stuff shop. Open your mouth — wide.”
Reginald did as he was bid: opened his mouth to its utmost width, and the boy shot in the powder.
It happened to be a preparation of that nauseous drug familiarly known as “Dover’s powder.” The child found it so, and set up a succession of shrieks, which aroused the house. The nurse rushed in; and Lord and Lady Hartledon, both of whom were dressing for dinner, appeared on the scene. There stood Reginald, coughing, choking, and roaring; and there sat the culprit, equably devouring the jam. With time and difficulty the facts were elicited from the younger child, and the elder scorned to deny them.
“What a wicked, greedy Turk you must be!” ejaculated the nurse, who was often in hot water with the elder boy.
“But Reginald need not have screamed so,” testily interposed Lord Hartledon. “I thought one of them must be on fire. You naughty child, why did you scream?” he continued, giving Reginald a slight tap on the ear.
“Any child would scream at being so taken by surprise,” said Lady Hartledon. “It is Edward who is in fault, not Reginald; and it is he who deserves punishment.”
“And he should have it, if he were my son,” boldly declared the nurse, as she picked up the unhappy Reginald. “A great greedy boy, to swallow down every bit of the jam, and never give his brother a taste, after poisoning him with that nasty powder!”
Edward rose, and gave the nurse a look of scorn. “The powder’s good enough for him: he is nothing but a young brat, and I am Lord Elster.”
Lady Hartledon felt provoked. “What is that you say, Edward?” she asked, laying her hand upon his shoulder in reproval.
“Let me alone, mamma. He’ll never be anything but Regy Elster. I shall be Lord Hartledon, and jam’s proper for me, and it’s fair I should put upon him.”
The nurse flounced off with Reginald, and Lady Hartledon turned to her husband. “Is this to be suffered? Will you allow it to pass without correction?”
“He means nothing,” said Val. “Do you, Edward, my boy?”
“Yes, I do; I mean what I say. I shall stand up for myself and Maude.”
Hartledon made no remonstrance: only drew the boy to him, with a hasty gesture, as though he would shield him from anger and the world.
Anne, hurt almost to tears, quitted the room. But she had scarcely reached her own when she remembered that she had left a diamond brooch in the nursery, which she had just been about to put into her dress when alarmed by the cries. She went back for it, and stood almost confounded by what she saw. Lord Hartledon, sitting down, had clasped his boy in his arms, and was sobbing over him; emotion such as man rarely betrays.
“Papa, Regy and the other two are not going to put me and Maude out of our places, are they? They can’t, you know. We come first.”
“Yes, yes, my boy; no one shall put you out,” was the answer, as he pressed passionate kisses on the boy’s face. “I will stand by you for ever.”
Very judicious indeed! the once sensible man seemed to ignore the evident fact that the boy had been tutored. Lady Hartledon, a fear creeping over her, she knew not of what, left her brooch where it was, and stole back to her dressing-room.
Presently Val came in, all traces of emotion removed from his features. Lady Hartledon had dismissed her maid, and stood leaning against the arm of the sofa, indulging in bitter rumination.
“Silly children!” cried he; “it’s hard work to manage them. And Edward has lost his pow—”
He broke off; stopped by the look of angry reproach from his wife, cast on him for the first time in their married life. He took her hand and bent down to her: fervent love, if ever she read it, in his eyes and tones.
“Forgive me, Anne; you are feeling this.”
“Why do you throw these slights on my children? Why are you not more just?”
“I do not intend to slight our children, Anne, Heaven knows. But I — I cannot punish Edward.”
“Why did you ever make me your wife?” sighed Lady Hartledon, drawing her hand away.
His poor assumption of unconcern was leaving him quickly; his face was changing to one of bitter sorrow.
“When I married you,” she resumed, “I had reason to hope that should children be born to us, you would love them equally with your first; I had a right to hope it. What have I done that—”
“Stay, Anne! I can bear anything better than reproach from you.”
“What have I and my children done to you, I was about to ask, that you take this aversion to them? lavishing all your love on the others and upon them only injustice?”
Val bent down, agitation in his face and voice.
“Hush, Anne! you don’t know. The danger is that I should love your children better, far better than Maude’s. It might be so if I did not guard against it.”
“I cannot understand you,” she exclaimed.
“Unfortunately, I understand myself only too well. I have a heavy burden to bear; do not you — my best and dearest — increase it.”
She looked at him keenly; laid her hands upon him, tears gathering in her eyes. “Tell me what the burden is; tell me, Val! Let me share it.”
But Val drew in again at once, alarmed at the request: and contradicted himself in the most absurd manner.
“There’s nothing to share, Anne; nothing to tell.”
Certainly this change was not propitiatory. Lady Hartledon, chilled and mortified, disdained to pursue the theme. Drawing herself up, she turned to go down to dinner, remarking that he might at least treat the children with more apparent justice.
“I am just; at least, I wish to be just,” he broke forth in impassioned tones. “But I cannot be severe with Edward and Maude.”
Another powder was procured, and, amidst much fighting and resistance, was administered. Lady Hartledon was in the boy’s room the first thing in the morning. One grand quality in her was, that she never visited her vexation on the children; and Edward, in spite of his unamiable behaviour, did at heart love her, whilst he despised his grandmother; one of his sources of amusement being to take off that estimable old lady’s peculiarities behind her back, and send the servants into convulsions.
“You look very hot, Edward,” exclaimed Lady Hartledon, as she kissed him. “How do you feel?”
“My throat’s sore, mamma, and my legs could not find a cold place all night. Feel my hand.”
It was a child’s answer, sufficiently expressive. An anxious look rose to her countenance.
“Are you sure your throat is sore?”
“It’s very sore. I am so thirsty.”
Lady Hartledon gave him some weak tea, and sent for Mr. Brook to come round as soon as possible. At breakfast she met th
e dowager, who had been out the previous evening during the powder episode. Lady Hartledon mentioned to her husband that she had sent a message to the doctor, not much liking Edward’s symptoms.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked the dowager, quickly. “What are his symptoms?”
“Nay, I may be wrong,” said Lady Hartledon, with a smile. “I won’t infect you with my fears, when there may be no reason for them.”
The countess-dowager caught at the one word, and applied it in a manner never anticipated. She was the same foolish old woman she had ever been; indeed, her dread of catching any disorder had only grown with the years. And it happened, unfortunately for her peace, that the disorder which leaves its cruel traces on the most beautiful face was just then prevalent in London. Of all maladies the human frame is subject to, the vain old creature most dreaded that one. She rose up from her seat; her face turned pale, and her teeth began to chatter.
“It’s small-pox! If I have a horror of one thing more than another, it’s that dreadful, disfiguring malady. I wouldn’t stay in a house where it was for a hundred thousand pounds. I might catch it and be marked for life!”
Lady Hartledon begged her to be composed, and Val smothered a laugh. The symptoms were not those of small-pox.
“How should you know?” retorted the dowager, drowning the reassuring words. “How should any one know? Get Pepps here directly. Have you sent for him?”
“No,” said Anne. “I have more confidence in Mr. Brook where children are concerned.”
“Confidence in Brook!” shrieked the dowager, pushing up her flaxen front. “A common, overworked apothecary! Confidence in him, Lady Hartledon! Elster’s life may be in danger; he is my grandchild, and I insist on Pepps being fetched to him.”
Anne sat down at once and wrote a brief note to Sir Alexander. It happened that the message sent to Mr. Brook had found that gentleman away from home, and the greater man arrived first. He looked at the child, asked a few bland questions, and wrote a prescription. He did not say what the illness might be: for he never hazarded a premature opinion. As he was leaving the chamber, a servant accosted him.
“Lady Kirton wishes to see you, sir.”
“Well, Pepps,” cried she, as he advanced, having loaded herself with camphor, “what is it?”
“I do not take upon myself to pronounce an opinion, Lady Kirton,” rejoined the doctor, who had grown to feel irritated lately at the dowager’s want of ceremony towards him. “In the early stage of a disorder it can rarely be done with certainty.”
“Now don’t let’s have any of that professional humbug, Pepps,” rejoined her ladyship. “You doctors know a common disorder as soon as you see it, only you think it looks wise not to say. Is it small-pox?”
“It’s not impossible,” said the doctor, in his wrath.
The dowager gasped.
“But I do not observe any symptoms of that malady developing themselves at present,” added the doctor. “I think I may say it is not small-pox.”
“Good patience, Pepps! you’ll frighten me into it. It is and it isn’t — what do you mean? What is it, if it’s not that?”
“I may be able to tell after a second visit. Good morning, Lady Kirton,” said he, backing out. “Take care you don’t do yourself an injury with too much of that camphor. It is exciting.”
In a short time Mr. Brook arrived. When he had seen the child and was alone with Lady Hartledon, she explained that the countess-dowager had wished Sir Alexander Pepps called in, and showed him the prescription just written. He read it and laid it down.
“Lady Hartledon,” said he, “I must venture to disagree with that prescription. Lord Elster’s symptoms are those of scarlet-fever, and it would be unwise to administer it. Sir Alexander stands of course much higher in the profession than I do, but my practice with children is larger than his.”
“I feared it was scarlet-fever,” answered Lady Hartledon. “What is to be done? I have every confidence in you, Mr. Brook; and were Edward my own child, I should know how to act. Do you think it would be dangerous to give him this prescription? You may speak confidentially.”
“Not dangerous; it is a prescription that will do neither harm nor good. I suspect Sir Alexander could not detect the nature of the illness, and wrote this merely to gain time. It is not an infrequent custom to do so. In my opinion, not an hour should be lost in giving him a more efficacious medicine; early treatment is everything in scarlet-fever.”
Lady Hartledon had been rapidly making up her mind. “Send in what you think right to be taken, immediately,” she said, “and meet Sir Alexander in consultation later on.”
Scarlet-fever it proved to be; not a mild form of it; and in a very few hours Lord Elster was in great danger, the throat being chiefly affected. The house was in commotion; the dowager worse than any one in it. A complication of fears beset her: first, terror for her own safety, and next, the less abject dread that death might remove her grandchild. In this latter fear she partly lost her personal fears, so far at any rate as to remain in the house; for it seemed to her that the child would inevitably die if she left it. Late in the afternoon she rushed into the presence of the doctors, who had just been holding a second consultation.
Sir Alexander Pepps recommended leeches to the throat: Mr. Brook disapproved of them. “It is the one chance for his life,” said Sir Alexander.
“It is removing nearly all chance,” said Mr. Brook.
Sir Alexander prevailed; and when they came forth it was understood that leeches were to be applied. But here Lady Hartledon stepped in.
“I dread leeches to the throat, Sir Alexander, if you will forgive me for saying so. I have twice seen them applied in scarlet-fever; and the patients — one a young lady, the other a child — in both cases died.”
“Madam, I have given my opinion,” curtly returned the physician. “They are necessary in Lord Elster’s case.”
“Do you approve of leeches?” cried Lady Hartledon, turning to Mr. Brook.
“Not altogether,” was the cautious answer.
“Answer me one question, Mr. Brook,” said Lady Hartledon, in her earnestness. “Would you apply these leeches were you treating the case alone?”
“No, madam, I would not.”
Anne appealed to her husband. When the medical men differed, she thought the decision lay with him.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” returned Val, who felt perfectly helpless to advise. “Can’t you decide, Anne? You know more about children and illness than I do.”
“I would do so without hesitating a moment were it my own child,” she replied. “I would not allow them to be put on.”
“No, you would rather see him die,” interrupted the dowager, who overheard the words, and most intemperately and unjustifiably answered them.
Anne coloured with shame for the old woman, but the words silenced her: how was it possible to press her own opinion after that? Sir Alexander had it all his own way, and the leeches were applied on either side the throat, Mr. Brook emphatically asserting in Lady Hartledon’s private ear that he “washed his hands” of the measure. Before they came off the consequences were apparent; the throat was swollen outwardly, on both sides; within, it appeared to be closing.
The dowager, rather beside herself on the whole, had insisted on the leeches. Any one, seeing her conduct now, might have thought the invalid boy was really dear to her. Nothing of the sort. A hazy idea had been looming through her mind for years that Val was not strong; she had been mistaking mental disease for bodily illness; and a project to have full control of her grandchild, should he come into the succession prematurely, had coloured her dreams. This charming prospect would be ignominiously cut short if the boy went first.
Sir Alexander saw his error. There must be something peculiar in Lord Elster’s constitution, he blandly said; it would not have happened in another. Of course, anything that turns out a mistake always is in the constitution — never in the treatment. Whether he lived or died n
ow was just the turn of a straw: the chances were that he would die. All that could be done now was to endeavour to counteract the mischief by external applications.
“I wish you would let me try a remedy,” said Lady Hartledon, wistfully. “A compress of cold water round the throat with oilsilk over it. I have seen it do so much good in cases of inward inflammation.”
Mr. Brook smiled: if anything would do good that might, he said, speaking as if he had little faith in remedies now. Sir Alexander intimated that her ladyship might try it; graciously observing that it would do no harm.
The application was used, and the evening went on. The child had fallen into a sort of stupor, and Mr. Brook came in again before he had been away an hour, and leaned anxiously over the patient. He lay with his eyes half-closed, and breathed with difficulty.
“I think,” he exclaimed softly, “there’s the slightest shade of improvement.”
“In the fever, or the throat?” whispered Lady Hartledon, who had not quitted the boy’s bedside.
“In the throat. If so, it is due to your remedy, Lady Hartledon.”
“Is he in danger?”
“In great danger. Still, I see a gleam of hope.”
After the surgeon’s departure, she went down to her husband, meeting Hedges on the stairs, who was coming to inquire after the patient for his master, for about the fiftieth time. Hartledon was in the library, pacing about incessantly in the darkness, for the room was only lighted by the fire. Anne closed the door and approached him.
“Percival, I do not bring you very good tidings,” she said; “and yet they might be worse. Mr. Brook tells me he is in great danger, but thinks he sees a gleam of hope.”
Lord Hartledon took her hand within his arm and resumed his pacing; his eyes were fixed on the carpet, and he said nothing.
“Don’t grieve as those without hope,” she continued, her eyes filling with tears. “He may yet recover. I have been praying that it may be so.”