CHAPTER III
It was a very mild and damp autumn that year, and the autumn wassucceeded by an equally mild winter; therefore it is not surprising thatthe truth of the old saying, "A green Christmas makes a fat kirkyard,"became sadly realized in the neighbourhood of Gardener's Lane.
For about the middle of December a dangerous low fever, with someleaning towards typhoid, broke out in the parish, and the men beingmostly hard-drinkers, and the majority of the women idle drabs who didnot use half-a-pound of soap in a month, it flew from house to houseuntil half the population was down with it; ay, and, as nearly alwayshappens, not only the hard-drinkers and the idle drabs were those tosuffer, but the steady, respectable workmen and the good housewives camein for more than their just share of the tribulation also. And, amongothers, the Dicki'son family paid dearly for the sins and shortcomingsof their fellow-creatures, for the first to fall sick was the pretty,complaining mother, of whom not even her detractors could say other thanthat she was cleanliness itself in all her ways. And it was a very badcase. The good parson came down with offers of help, and sent in acouple of nurses, whom he paid out of his own pocket--though, if he hadbut known it, he would have done much more wisely to have spent the sameamount of money on one with more knowledge of her business and lesspower of speech--and the doctor and his partner came and went with graveand anxious faces, which did not say too much for the sick woman'schance of recovery.
Mr. Dicki'son stayed at home from his work for a whole week, and spenthis time about equally between anxiously watching his wife'sfever-flushed face and sitting with his children, trying to keep themquiet--no easy task, let me tell you, in a house where every movementcould be heard in every corner; and, as the schools were promptlyclosed, for fear of spreading the epidemic, the children were on handduring the whole day, and, poor little things, were as sorely tried bythe silence they were compelled to keep as they tried the quiet, dullman whose heart was full almost to bursting.
But he was very patient and good with them, and Ada Elizabeth was hisright hand in everything. For the first time in her life she forgot herplain looks and her mother's trials, and felt that she had been born tosome purpose, and that purpose a good one. And then there came an awfulday, when the mother's illness was at the worst, when the two nursesstood one on each side of the bed and freely discussed her state, inutter indifference to the husband standing miserably by, with Gerty'slittle sharp face peeping from behind him.
"Eh, pore thing, I'm sure!" with a sniff and a sob, "it is 'ard at 'erage to go i' this way--pore thing, it is 'ard. Which ring did you sayGerty was to 'ave, love?" bending down over the sick woman, who was justconscious enough to know that some one was speaking to her--"the keeper?Yes, love; I'll see to it. And which is for Ada Elizabeth?"
"Her breathing's getting much harder," put in the woman on the otherside; "it won't be long now. T' doctor said there was a chance withcare, but I know better. I've seen so many, and if it's the Lord's willto take her, He'll take her. We may do all we can, but it's no use, forI've seen so many."
Mr. Dicki'son gave a smothered groan, and turning sharply round went outof the room and down the narrow creaking stairs, with a great lump inhis throat and a thick mist in front of his eyes. A fretful wail fromlittle Mirry had fallen upon his ear, and he found her sobbingpiteously, while Ada Elizabeth tried in vain to pacify her. She wasmore quiet when she found herself in his arms; and then he noticed, witha sudden and awful fear knocking at his heart, that there was somethingwrong with his right hand, Ada Elizabeth--that she looked fagged andwhite, and that there was a brilliancy in her dull grey eyes such as hehad never seen there before.
"Ada Elizabeth, what ails you?" he asked anxiously.
"Ada Elizabeth, what ails you?" he asked anxiously.]
"Nought, Father; I'm a bit tired, that's all," she answered, pushing herheavy hair away from her forehead. "Mirry was awake all night nearly,and I couldn't keep her quiet hardly."
Mr. Dicki'son looked closely at Mirry; but though the child wasevidently heavy and inclined to be fretful, there was not the sameglitter in her eyes as there was in her sister's.
"Here, Gerty," he said, "nurse Mirry a bit. I want to go upstairs for aminute."
"Can't Ada Elizabeth have her?" asked Gerty, who always wanted to be inthe sick-room, so that she might know the latest news of her mother andbe to the front whoever came--for in those dark days, between the rectorand the doctors and the neighbours who came in and out, there were agood many visitors to the little house. "Our Ada Elizabeth always keepsMirry quiet better than I can, father."
"Do as I bid you," returned Mr. Dicki'son sharply; and thus rebuked,Gerty sat crossly down and bumped little Mirry on to her knee with aburst of temper, which set the child wailing again.
Mr. Dicki'son had already reached the sick-room, where the nurses werestill standing over his half-unconscious wife's bed.
"I want you a minute, missus," he said to the one who had been soanxious concerning the disposal of Mrs. Dicki'son's few bits ofjewellery. "Just come downstairs a minute."
The woman followed him, wondering what he could want. "Just look atthis little lass," he said, taking Ada Elizabeth by the hand and leadingher to the window. "Do you think there is aught amiss with her?"
There is little or no reserve among the poor, they speak their minds,and they tell ill news with a terrible bluntness which is simplyappalling to those of a higher station; and this woman did not hesitateto say what she thought, notwithstanding the fact that she knew that theman was utterly overwrought, and that the child's fever-bright eyes werefixed earnestly upon her.
"Mr. Dicki'son," she cried, "I'll not deceive you, no; some folks wouldtell you as nought ailed, but not me--wi' her pore mother dyingupstairs. I couldn't find it in my 'eart to do it; I couldn't indeed.Pore Ada Elizabeth's took, and you'd better run round to Widow Martin'sand see if t' doctor's been there this morning. He telled me I mightsend there for him up to one o'clock, and it's only ten minutes past.Ada Elizabeth, lie down on t' sofa, honey, and keep yourself quiet.Gerty, can't you keep Mirry at t' window? Ada Elizabeth's took with thefever, and can't bear being tewed about wi' her."
Mr. Dicki'son was off after the doctor like a shot, and less than aquarter of an hour brought him back to see if the nurse's fiat was atrue one. Alas! it proved to be too true, and the kind-hearted doctordrew the grief-stricken man on one side.
"Look here, Dicki'son," he said, "your wife is very ill indeed; it's nouse my deceiving you--her life hangs on a thread, and it will be only bythe greatest care if she is pulled through this. The child hasundoubtedly got the fever upon her, and she cannot have the attentionshe ought to have here. There is not room enough nor quiet enough, andthere's nobody to attend to her. Get her off to the hospital at once."
"The hospital!" repeated Mr. Dicki'son blankly. He had all the horror ofa hospital that so many of his class have.
"It's the child's best chance," answered the doctor. "Of course, it mayturn out only a mild attack. All the better that she should be in thehospital, in any case; in fact, I wish your wife was there this minute."
"Doctor," said Mr. Dicki'son hoarsely, "I don't like my little lassgoing to the hospital. I don't like it."
"But there is no help for it, and she'll be far better off there thanshe would be at home," the doctor answered; "but, all the same, they'dbetter not talk about it before your wife. Even when she is deliriousor half-unconscious she knows a good deal of what's going on about her.I'll step up and have a look at her, and will speak to the womenmyself."
Before a couple of hours were over, Ada Elizabeth was comfortably in bedin the quiet and shady ward of the well-managed hospital, and in thelittle house in Gardener's Lane the struggle between life and death wenton, while Gerty had to devote herself as best she could to the children.Gerty felt that it was desperately hard upon her, for Mirry andsix-year-old Georgie fretted without ceasing for "our Ada Elizabeth,"and would not be comforted; not, all the same, t
hat Gerty's ideas ofcomfort were very soothing ones--a bump and a shake, and diversthreatenings of Bogle-Bo, and a black man who came down chimneys tocarry naughty children away, being about her form; and little Mirry andGeorgie found it but a poor substitute for the tender if dull patienceof "our Ada Elizabeth."
However, in spite of all the very real drawbacks which she had to fightagainst, Mrs. Dicki'son did not die; slowly and painfully she struggledback to her own senses again, with a dim realization of how very nearthe gate of death she had wandered. But, alas! by the time the doctorhad, with a kindly pat upon his shoulder, told Mr. Dicki'son that hiswife would live if no very serious relapse took place, the fever hadfastened on another victim, and little Mirry was tossing to and fro withfever-flushed face, and the same unnatural brilliancy in her bonny blueeyes as had lighted up Ada Elizabeth's dull, grey ones.
They had not taken her to the hospital; it was so full that only urgentcases were admitted now: and since the mother was on the road torecovery, there was time to attend to the child. And so she lay in thenext room to her mother, whose weakened senses gradually awoke to theknowledge of what was going on about her.
"Is that Mirry crying?" she asked, on the morning when the child was atits worst.
"Now don't you fret yourself, love," returned the nurse evasively. "T'bairn's being took care of right enough; they will cry a bit sometimes,you know"; and then she shut the door, and the mother dozed off to sleepagain.
But in the evening the pitiful wail reached her ears again. "I want ourAda 'Liz'bet'," the child's fretful voice cried; "Mirry do want our Ada'Liz'bet' so bad-a-ly--me want our Ada 'Liz'bet'."
Mrs. Dicki'son started nervously and tried to lift herself in her bed."I'm sure Mirry's ill," she gasped. "Mrs. Barker, don't deceive me.Tell me, is she ill?"
"Well, my dear, I won't deceive yer," the nurse answered; "poor littleMirry's been took with the fever--yes, but don't you go and fretyourself. Mrs. Bell's waiting of her, and she wants for nought, and t'doctor says it's only a mild attack; only children runs up and down soquick, and she's a bit more fretful than usual to-night, that's all."
"Mirry do want our Ada 'Liz'bet'," wailed the sick child in the nextroom.
Mrs. Dicki'son turned her head weakly from side to side and trembled inevery limb.
"Why _can't_ Ada Elizabeth go to her?" she burst out at last.
The nurse coughed awkwardly. "Well, my dear," she began, "poor AdaElizabeth isn't 'ere."
"Isn't 'ere!" repeated Mrs. Dicki'son wildly, and just then her husbandwalked into the room and up to the bedside.
She clutched hold of him with frantic eagerness. "Father," she criedhysterically, "is it true our Mirry's took with the fever?"
"Yes, Em'ly; but it's a very mild case," he answered, feeling that itwas best in her excited and nervous condition to tell her the exacttruth at once. "She's fretty to-night, but she's not so ill that youneed worry about her; she's being took every care of."
"But she's crying for our Ada Elizabeth," Mrs. Dicki'son persisted."Hark! There she is again. Why _can't_ Ada Elizabeth be quick and go toher? Where is she? What does Mrs. Barker mean by saying she isn't'ere?"
Mr. Dicki'son cast a wrathful glance at the nurse, but he did notattempt to hide from his wife any longer the fact that Ada Elizabeth wasnot in the house. "You know you was very ill, Em'ly, a bit back," hesaid, with an air and tone of humble apology, "and our Ada Elizabeth wastaken with the fever just the day you was at the worst; and there was noone to wait on her, and the doctor would have her go to the hospital,and--what was I to do, Em'ly? It went against my very heart to let thelittle lass go, but she was willing, and you was taking all our time. Iwas very near beside myself, Em'ly I was, or I'd never have consented."
Mrs. Dicki'son lay for some minutes in silence, exhausted by theviolence of her agitation; then the fretful wail in the adjoining roombroke the stillness again.
"I do _want_ our Ada 'Liz'bet'," the child cried piteously. Mrs.Dicki'son burst out into passionate sobbing. "I lie 'ere and I can'tlift my finger for 'er," she gasped out, "and--and--it was just like AdaElizabeth to go and get the fever when she was most wanted; she alwayswas the contrariest child that I had, always."
Mr. Dicki'son drew his breath sharply, as if some one had struck him inthe face, but with an effort he pulled himself together and answered hergently: "Nay, wife--Emily, don't say that. The little lass held upuntil she couldn't hold up no longer. I'll go and quiet Mirry. She'salways quiet enough with me. Keep yourself still, and I'll stop withthe bairn until she's asleep"; and then he bent and kissed her forehead,and passed softly out of the room, only whispering, "Not one word" tothe nurse as he passed her.
But, dear Heaven! how that man's heart ached as he sat soothing hislittle fever-flushed child into quietness! I said but now that he drewhis breath sharply as if some one had struck him in the face. Alas! itwas worse than that, for the wife of his bosom, the mother of hischildren, had struck him, stabbed him, to the lowest depths of his heartby her querulous complaint against the child who had gone from him onlya few hours before, on whose little white, plain face he had just lookedfor the last time, and on which his scalding tears had fallen, for heknew that, plain, and dull, and unobtrusive as she had always been--thebutt of her sister's sharp tongue, the trial of his wife's wholeexistence--he knew that with the closing of the heavy eyes the brightestlight of his life had gone out.
And little Mirry, wrapped in a blanket, lay upon his breast soothed intoslumber. Did something fall from his eyes upon her face, that shestarted and looked up at him? She must have mistaken the one plain facefor the other, for she put up her little hot hand and stroked his cheek."You tum back, Ada 'Liz'bet'?" she murmured, as she sank off to sleepagain; "Mirry did want you _so_ bad-a-ly." The sick child's tenderwords took away half the bitterness of the sting which his wife hadthrust into his heart, and his whole soul seemed to overflow with agreat gush of love as he swayed her gently to and fro. _She_ had lovedthe unattractive face, and missed it bitterly; _she_ had wearied for therare, patient smile and the slow, gentle voice, and, to Mr. Dicki'son'sdull mind, the child's craving had bound Ada Elizabeth's heavy browswith a crown of pure gold, with the truest proof that "affection neverwas wasted."
"You tum back, Ada 'Liz'bet'?" she murmured.]