Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  As he did. In a few hours the pain had so far abated, or yielded to remedies, that poor Lavinia, worn out, dropped into a comfortable sleep. Monsieur Dupuis was round again early in the morning, and found her recovered, though still feeling tired and very weak. He advised her to lie in bed until the afternoon; not to get up then unless she felt inclined; and he charged her to take chiefly milk food all the day — no solids whatever.

  Lavinia slept again all the morning, and awoke very much refreshed. In the afternoon she felt quite equal to getting up, and did so, dressing herself in the grey silk she had worn the previous day, because it was nearest at hand. She then penned a line to Madame Degravier, saying she was unable to travel to Boulogne on the morrow, as had been fixed, but hoped to be there on Wednesday, or, at the latest, Thursday.

  Captain Fennel, who generally took possession of the easiest chair in the salon, and the warmest place, resigned it to Lavinia the instant she appeared downstairs. He shook her by the hand, said how glad he was that she had recovered from her indisposition, and installed her in the chair with a cushion at her back and a rug over her knees. All she had to dread now, he thought, was cold; she must guard against that. Lavinia replied that she could not in the least imagine what had been the matter with her; she had never had a similar attack before, and had never been in such dreadful pain.

  Presently Mary Carimon came in, having heard of the affair from Mariette, whom she had met in the fish-market during the morning. All danger was over, Mariette said, and mademoiselle was then sleeping quietly: so Madame Carimon, not to disturb her, put off calling until the afternoon. Captain Fennel sat talking with her a few minutes, and then went out. For some cause or other he never seemed to be quite at ease in the presence of Madame Carimon.

  “I know what it must have been,” cried Mary Carimon, coming to one of her rapid conclusions after listening to the description of the illness. “Misled by the sunny spring days last week, you went and left off some of your warm underclothing, Lavinia, and so caught cold.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Nancy, who had curled herself up on the sofa like a ball, not having yet recovered from her fatigue and fright. “Leave off one’s warm things the beginning of April! I never heard of such imprudence! How came you to do it, Lavinia?”

  “I did not do it,” said Lavinia quietly. “I have not left off anything. Should I be so silly as to do that with a journey before me?”

  “Then what caused the attack?” debated Madame Carimon. “Something you had eaten?”

  Lavinia shook her head helplessly. “It could hardly have been that, Mary. I took nothing whatever that Nancy and Captain Fennel did not take. I wish I did know — that I might guard, if possible, against a similar attack in future. The pain seized me all in a moment. I thought I was dying.”

  “It sounds odd,” said Madame Carimon. “Monsieur Dupuis does not know either, it seems. That’s why I thought you might have been leaving off your things, and did not like to tell him.”

  “I conclude that it must have been one of those mysterious attacks of sudden illness to which we are all liable, but for which no one can account,” sighed Lavinia. “I hope I shall never have it again. This experience has been enough for a lifetime.”

  Mary Carimon warmly echoed the hope as she rose to take her departure. She advised Lavinia to go to bed early, and promised to come again in the morning.

  While Captain Fennel and Nancy dined, Flore made her mistress some tea, and brought in with it some thin bread-and-butter. Lavinia felt all the better for the refreshment, laughingly remarking that by the morning she was sure she should be as hungry as a hunter. She sat chatting, and sometimes dozing between whiles, until about a quarter to nine o’clock, when she said she would go to bed.

  Nancy went to the kitchen to make her a cup of arrowroot. Lavinia then wished Captain Fennel good-night, and went upstairs. Flore had left as usual, after washing up the dinner-things.

  “Lavinia, shall I —— Oh, she has gone on,” broke off Nancy, who had come in with the breakfast-cup of arrowroot in her hand. “Edwin, do you think I may venture to put a little brandy into this?”

  Captain Fennel sat reading with his face to the fire and the lamp at his elbow. He turned round.

  “Brandy?” said he. “I’m sure I don’t know. If that pain meant inflammation, brandy might do harm. Ask Lavinia; she had better decide for herself. No, no; leave the arrowroot on the table here,” he hastily cried, as Nancy was going out of the room with the cup. “Tell Lavinia to come down, and we’ll discuss the matter with her. Of course a little brandy would do her an immense deal of good, if she might take it with safety.”

  Nancy did as she was told. Leaving the cup and saucer on the table, she went up to her sister. In a minute or two she was back again.

  “Lavinia won’t come down again, Edwin; she is already half-undressed. She thinks she had better be on the safe side, and not have the brandy.”

  “All right,” replied the captain, who was sitting as before, intent on his book. Nancy took the cup upstairs.

  She helped her sister into bed, and then gave her the arrowroot, inquiring whether she had made it well.

  “Quite well, only it was rather sweet,” answered Lavinia.

  “Sweet!” echoed Nancy, in reply. “Why, I hardly put any sugar at all into it; I remembered that you don’t like it.”

  Lavinia finished the cupful. Nancy tucked her up, and gave her a good-night kiss. “Pleasant dreams, Lavinia dear,” she called back, as she was shutting the door.

  “Thank you, Nancy; but I hope I shall sleep to-night without dreaming,” answered Lavinia.

  As Nancy went downstairs she turned into the kitchen for her own arrowroot, which she had left all that time in the saucepan. Being fond of it, she had made enough for herself as well as for Lavinia.

  XII.

  It was between half-past ten and eleven, and Captain and Mrs. Fennel were in their bedroom preparing to retire to rest. She stood before the glass doing her hair, having thrown a thin print cotton cape upon her shoulders as usual, to protect her dress; he had taken off his coat.

  “What was that?” cried she, in startled tones.

  Some sound had penetrated to their room. The captain put his coat on a chair and bent his ear. “I did not hear anything, Nancy,” he answered.

  “There it is again!” exclaimed Nancy. “Oh, it is Lavinia! I do believe it is Lavinia!”

  Flinging the comb from her hand, Nancy dashed out at the room-door, which was near the head of the stairs; Lavinia’s door being nearly at the end of the passage. Unmistakable sounds, now a shriek, now a wail, came from Lavinia’s chamber. Nancy flew into it, her fair hair falling on her shoulders.

  “What is it, Lavinia? Oh, Edwin, Edwin, come here!” called Mrs. Fennel, beside herself with terror. Lavinia was rolling about the bed, as she had the previous day rolled on the salon floor; her face was distorted with pain, her moans and cries were agonizing.

  Captain Fennel stayed to put on his coat, came to Lavinia’s door, and put his head inside it. “Is it the pain again?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is the pain again,” gasped Lavinia, in answer. “I am dying, I am surely dying!”

  That put the finishing-touch to timorous Nancy. “Edwin, run, run for Monsieur Dupuis!” she implored. “Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?”

  Captain Fennel descended the stairs. When Nancy thought he must have been gone out at least a minute or two, he appeared again with a wine-glass of hot brandy-and-water, which he had stayed to mix.

  “Try and get her to take this,” he said. “It can’t do harm; it may do good. And if you could put hot flannels to her, Nancy, it might be well; they eased the pain yesterday. I’ll bring Dupuis here as soon as I can.”

  Lavinia could not take the brandy-and-water, and it was left upon the grey marble top of the chest of drawers. Her paroxysms increased; Nancy had never seen or imagined such pain, for this attack was worse than the other, and she almost lost he
r wits with terror. Could she see Lavinia die before her eyes? — no helping hand near to strive to save her? Just as Nancy had done before, she did again now.

  Flying down the stairs and out of the house, across the yard and through the dark entry, she seized the bell-handle of Madame Veuve Sauvage’s door and pulled it frantically. The household had all retired for the night.

  Presently a window above opened, and Monsieur Gustave — Nancy knew his voice — looked out.

  “Who’s there?” he asked in French. “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Monsieur Gustave, come in for the love of Heaven!” responded poor Nancy, looking up. “She has another attack, worse than the first; she’s dying, and there’s no one in the house but me.”

  “Directly, madame; I am with you on the instant,” he kindly answered. “I but wait to put on my effects.”

  He was at the Petite Maison Rouge almost as soon as she; his brother Emile followed him in, and Mariette, whom they had called, came shortly. Miss Preen lay in dreadful paroxysms; it did appear to them that she must die. Nancy and Mariette busied themselves in the kitchen, heating flannels.

  The doctor did not seem to come very quickly. Captain Fennel at length made his appearance and said Monsieur Dupuis would be there in a minute or two.

  “I am content to hear that,” remarked Monsieur Gustave in reply. “I was just about to despatch my brother for the first doctor he could find.”

  “Never had such trouble in ringing up a doctor before,” returned Captain Fennel. “I suppose the old man sleeps too soundly to be easily aroused; many elderly people do.”

  “I fear she is dying,” whispered Monsieur Gustave.

  “No, no, surely not!” cried Captain Fennel, recoiling a step at the words. “What can it possibly be? What causes the attacks?”

  Whilst Monsieur Gustave was shaking his head at this difficult question, Monsieur Dupuis arrived. Monsieur Emile, anxious to make himself useful, was requested by Mariette to go to Flore’s domicile and ring her up. Flore seemed to have been sleeping with her clothes on, for they came back together.

  Monsieur Dupuis could do nothing for his patient. He strove to administer drops of medicinal remedies; he caused her to be nearly smothered in scalding-hot flannels — all in vain. He despatched Monsieur Emile Sauvage to bring in another doctor, Monsieur Podevin, who lived near. All in vain. Lavinia died. Just at one o’clock in the morning, before the cocks had begun to crow, Lavinia Preen died.

  The shock to those in the house was great. It seemed to stun them, one and all. The brothers Sauvage, leaving a few words of heartfelt sympathy with Captain Fennel, withdrew silently to their own home. Mariette stayed. The two doctors, shut up in the salon, talked with one another, endeavouring to account for the death.

  “Inflammation, no doubt,” observed Monsieur Dupuis; “but even so, the death has been too speedy.”

  “More like poison,” rejoined the younger man, Monsieur Podevin. He was brother to the proprietor of the Hôtel des Princes, and was much respected by his fellow-citizens as a safe and skilful practitioner.

  “The thought of poison naturally occurred to me on Sunday, when I was first called to her,” returned Monsieur Dupuis, “but it could not be borne out. You see, she had partaken of nothing, either in food or drink, but what the other inmates had taken; absolutely nothing. This was assured me by them all, herself included.”

  “She seems to have taken nothing to-day, either, that could in any way harm her,” said Monsieur Podevin.

  “Nothing. She took a cup of tea at five o’clock, which the servant, Flore, prepared and also partook of herself — a cup out of the same teapot. Later, when the poor lady went to bed, her sister made her a basin of arrowroot, and made herself one at the same time.”

  “Well, it appears strange.”

  “It could not have been a chill. The symptoms — —”

  “A chill? — bah!” interrupted Monsieur Podevin. “We shall know more after the post-mortem,” he added, taking up his hat. “Of course there must be one.”

  Wishing his brother practitioner good-night, he left. Monsieur Dupuis went looking about for Captain Fennel, and found him in the kitchen, standing by the hot stove, and drinking a glass of hot brandy-and-water. The rest were upstairs.

  “This event has shaken my nerves, doctor,” apologized the captain, in reference to the glass. “I never was so upset. Shall I mix you one?”

  Monsieur Dupuis shook his head. He never took anything so strong. The most calming thing, in his opinion, was a glass of eau sucrée, with a teaspoonful of orange-flower water in it.

  “Sir,” he went on, “I have been conversing with my esteemed confrère. We cannot, either of us, decide what mademoiselle has died of, being unable to see any adequate cause for it; and we wish to hold a post-mortem examination. I presume you will not object to it?”

  “Certainly not; I think there should be one,” briskly spoke Captain Fennel after a moment’s pause. “For our satisfaction, if for nothing else, doctor.”

  “Very well. Will nine o’clock in the morning suit you, as to time? It should be made early.”

  “I — expect it will,” answered the captain, reflecting. “Do you hold it here?”

  “Undoubtedly. In her own room.”

  “Then wait just one minute, will you, doctor, whilst I speak to my wife. Nine o’clock seems a little early, but I dare say it will suit.”

  Monsieur Dupuis went back into the salon. He had waited there a short interval, when Mrs. Fennel burst in, wild with excitement. Her hair still hung down her back, her eyes were swollen with weeping, her face was one of piteous distress. She advanced to Monsieur Dupuis, and held up her trembling hands.

  The old doctor understood English fairly well when it was quietly spoken; but he did not in the least understand it in a storm. Sobbing, trembling, Mrs. Fennel was beseeching him not to hold a post-mortem on her poor dead sister, for the love of mercy.

  Surprised and distressed, he placed her on the sofa, soothed her into calmness, and then bade her tell him quietly what her petition was. She repeated it — begging, praying, imploring him not to disturb her sister now she was at rest; but to let her be put into her grave in peace. Well, well, said the compassionate old man; if it would pain the relatives so greatly to have it done, he and Monsieur Podevin would, of course, abandon the idea. It would be a satisfaction to them both to be able to decide upon the cause of death, but they did not wish to proceed in it against the feelings of the family.

  Sainteville woke up in the morning to a shock. Half the townspeople still believed that Miss Preen was leaving that day, Tuesday, for Boulogne; and to hear that she would not go on that journey, that she would never go on any earthly journey again, that she was dead, shook them to the centre.

  What had been the matter with her? — what had killed her so quickly in the midst of life and health? Groups asked this; one group meeting another. “Inflammation,” was the answer — for that report had somehow started itself. She caught a chill on the Sunday, probably when leaving the church after morning service; it induced speedy and instant inflammation, and she had died of it.

  With softened steps and mournful faces, hosts of people made their way to the Place Ronde. Only to take a glimpse at the outside of the Maison Rouge brought satisfaction to excited feelings. Monsieur Gustave Sauvage had caused his white shop window-blinds to be drawn half-way down, out of respect to the dead; all the windows above had the green persiennes closed before them. The calamity had so greatly affected old Madame Sauvage that she lay in bed.

  When her sons returned indoors after the death had taken place, their mother called them to her room. Nancy’s violent ringing had disturbed her, and she had lain since then in anxiety, waiting for news.

  “Better not tell the mother to-night,” whispered Emile to his brother outside her door.

  But the mother’s ears were quick; she was sitting up in bed, and the door was ajar. “Yes, you will tell me, my sons,” she said.
“I am fearing the worst.”

  “Well, mother, it is all over,” avowed Gustave. “The attack was more violent than the one last night, and the poor lady is gone.”

  “May the good God have taken her to His rest!” fervently aspirated madame. But she lay down in the bed in her distress and covered her face with the white-frilled pillow and sobbed a little. Gustave and Emile related a few particulars.

  “And what was really the malady? What is it that she has died of?” questioned the mother, wiping her eyes.

  “That is not settled; nobody seems to know,” replied Gustave.

  Madame Veuve Sauvage lay still, thinking. “I — hope — that — man — has — not — done — her — any — injury!” she slowly said.

  “I hope not either; there is no appearance of it,” said Monsieur Gustave. “Any way, mother, she had two skilful doctors with her, honest men and upright. Better not admit such thoughts.”

  “True, true,” murmured madame, appeased. “I fear the poor dear lady must have taken a chill, which struck inwardly. That handsome demoiselle, the cousin of Monsieur le Procureur, died of the same thing, you may remember. Good-night, my sons; you leave me very unhappy.”

  About eight o’clock in the morning, Monsieur Jules Carimon heard of it. In going through the large iron entrance-gates of the college to his day’s work, he found himself accosted by one of two or three young gamins of pupils, who were also entering. It was Dion Pamart. The well-informed reader is of course aware that the French educational colleges are attended by all classes, high and low, indiscriminately.

  “Monsieur, have you heard?” said the lad, with timid deprecation. “Mademoiselle is dead.”