Chapter XII: At Hobbes's Cottage

WHEN Dr. Poole arrived, he confirmed Miss Cottrell's verdict. Happily the doctor was an eminently practical man, and, being an old friend of aunt's, he was disposed to regard the matter as much from her point of view as from that of Josiah Dicks. So he decided that the best thing possible in the circumstances was to remove the patient to a house in the village. He assured her father that the removal could be accomplished without risk of harm to her; but he had considerable difficulty with Mr. Dicks before he could persuade him to consent to this arrangement.

Aunt Patty and I have often said since that we do not know what we should have done without Miss Cottrell at this juncture. She rose to the occasion in the most wonderful way, and showed herself so thoughtful and expeditious that we could quite understand how the Lady Mowbray, of whom we had heard so much, had found her invaluable. She it was who suggested the house to which Paulina was conveyed, a modern "villa" belonging to a widow who was glad to let her best apartments, and was willing to receive an infectious case on the handsome terms offered by Mr. Dicks.

Miss Cottrell won his consent to the plan by proposing to accompany Paulina to this house, and remain with her there till she was convalescent. He gladly closed with the offer, and she earned his lasting gratitude. I must, however, in justice to Miss Cottrell, admit that, in spite of the esteem for wealth and position which she so openly displayed, I do not think that her action on this occasion was prompted by the fact that the patient was a rich man's daughter. I believe that she would have done as much for any one of us, for she dearly loved managing people, and, although she had not received a hospital training, she was in her element in a sickroom. She wore a happy face whenever she entered the room where I remained an unwilling prisoner. Hurriedly she would tell me how things were proceeding, and then disappear.

Everything was done with the greatest possible celerity. Colonel Hyde had been induced to take Agneta for a long drive almost immediately after breakfast. The widow's rooms were in excellent order, so it did not take long to prepare them for the reception of the patient and her guardian. The doctor sent out an ambulance and a trained nurse from Chelmsford, and by mid-day Paulina's removal was effected. Then the business of disinfection was begun, and presently aunt came to me.

"Well, Nan," she said with a smile as she opened the door, "is your patience pretty well exhausted?"

"I am afraid it has come to an end, auntie," I replied, marvelling to see her so calm, though her face looked pale and tired.

"Poor child! It is no wonder," she said. "Now come into the garden with me. We will talk in the fresh air."

I was glad enough to get outside. As we walked up and down the lawn aunt told me that Dr. Poole had decided that it would be wise to separate me from the others for a while.

"You must not let it frighten you," Aunt Patty said. "The doctor quite hopes that you have escaped infection, but for the sake of my guests it is right to guard against the possibility of a second case in the house. I cannot bear to send you away, but Mrs. Hobbes has a nice little room which she lets sometimes, and if you would not mind sleeping there just for a week till we see how things turn out."

"Of course I shall not mind," I replied. "Fancy staying at Hobbes's cottage—that will be truly rural."

And I smiled at the idea of sojourning for a week in the pretty thatched cottage which was our gardener's home. It stood in a lane running off the common, and was so picturesque that artists often painted it.

"Of course we can come to see you," said my aunt, "and you need not avoid us as long as you keep well. It is chiefly for Agneta's sake that I take this precaution. I do not think the gentlemen are in any danger, but I want to assure Mrs. Redmayne that I am taking all possible care of her child."

"And if I should develop the fever, I suppose you will commit me to Miss Cottrell's care at 'Ivy House,'" I said.

"Oh, there is little fear of that," said my aunt hastily. "I am glad that Paulina likes Miss Cottrell better than you do."

"Ah, but she has gone up immensely in my estimation during the last few hours!" was my reply.

"There is no doubt she has excellent qualities," said my aunt warmly, "if only she were content to be her simple, honest self, and not attempt to seem something different, which is such a fatal mistake."

Presently I took my way to the gardener's cottage. It was the kind of abode which would be called "idyllic" nowadays. Mrs. Hobbes, a dear old woman, who had been cook at Squire Canfield's before her marriage, was delighted to welcome me. She was very proud of the small garden in which her husband managed to grow specimens of almost every variety of flower. She showed me, too, her bees, and boasted of the amount of honey they produced. I thought it no wonder when I saw the wealth of flowers from which they could cull nectar, to say nothing of the glorious common, golden with gorse, lying beyond.

I listened with pleasure to Mrs. Hobbes as she talked of her bees, but found her conversation less interesting when she began to describe all the cases of scarlet fever which had come within her knowledge. Her memory had treasured up every harrowing detail of the cases which had proved fatal, and she spared me none of them.

"Ah, it's a terrible complaint!" she was saying. "If it hasn't killed them outright, I've known it make people deaf or lame for the rest of their lives. I do hope you may not have taken it, miss, for there's no saying what it will leave behind—" when to my relief I saw John coming down the lane with the small trunk aunt had promised to pack for me.

His arrival created a welcome diversion. I hastened to arrange my belongings. My bedroom was scrupulously clean, but so small and low that it became a puzzle how to make my toilette to the best advantage. But its lattice windows were open to the fresh sweet air and framed a lovely view of the common and the woods beyond. I tried to persuade, myself that this unexpected change of place was rather a happy thing for me, but with Mrs. Hobbes's dismal forebodings lingering in my mind, I could not quite succeed.

That was surely the longest day I had ever known in my life. I was not more than half-a-mile from "Gay Bowers," yet I seemed quite cut off from all the pleasant life there. No one came to see how I was settling in. Aunt Patty, I knew, had far too much depending on her. Mr. Faulkner had gone up to town in the morning, and I could not be sure that he had heard of the calamity which had befallen us. Colonel Hyde was doubtless still entertaining Agneta. Jack, whose examination was now close at hand, was working with desperate energy. I had no right to feel myself neglected, yet a sore, forlorn sense of being forsaken crept over me.

I can smile at my folly now, but as I sat on the windowsill of my room and watched the sun sink out of sight behind the fir-wood, a feeling of deep melancholy took possession of me. I believed it to be a presentiment of early death. By this time I was utterly tired out and my head ached. I forgot that I had had but two hours' sound sleep on the past night and took these symptoms to be the precursors of the fever. Then on my heart, too, fell the chill of fear. I felt anxiously for my faith, and asked myself if it had been indeed true comfort I had tried to give Paulina. God be thanked that I found it was! Even while one part of my nature shrank with dread from the thought of sickness and suffering, a voice within my soul cried confidently, "I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."

Suddenly I was roused from my serious meditations by the sound of a familiar voice below speaking to Mrs. Hobbes. I sprang up, my headache forgotten, hastily straightened my blouse and gave a touch to my hair, ere I ran downstairs. But I was too late to see my friend, except that presently I caught a distant glimpse of a bicycle and rider speeding across the common. On the round table in Mrs. Hobbes's "best parlour" lay a pile of papers and magazines. They were the latest issues and represented the spoil Alan Faulkner had brought from town. He knew how I should enjoy seeing them, and he had hastened to bring them to me as soon as he heard of my temporary exile. I did not need Mrs. Hobbes's assurance that the gentleman had said he could not stay a minute. It was already the dinner-hour at "Gay Bowers," and Mr. Faulkner as a rule practised the minor virtue of punctuality.

That kindly act of his made a vast difference to my solitary evening. I was able to enjoy the simple supper Mrs. Hobbes set before me. I did not read a great deal, but I turned over the leaves with delight and sampled the contents by skimming a few lines here and there while an agreeable undercurrent of thought, wholly untinged by melancholy, ran through my mind. At nine o'clock I went to bed and slept soundly till the sun awoke me shining warm and bright into my room. I rose and dressed, feeling as well as possible.

Mrs. Hobbes had set my breakfast on a little table in the garden beneath the old pear-tree which grew beside the cottage. There was a beautifully baked loaf of her home-made bread and some of the golden honey from her hives, with one of the brown eggs that I always think taste so much better than white ones. No one would have judged my health precarious who saw how I enjoyed that meal. I felt so cheerful that I was ashamed of myself and tried to subdue my spirits by thinking pitifully of poor Paulina and of her father's suspense and anxiety.

I had hardly finished breakfast when I saw Mr. Faulkner spinning down the lane on his bicycle. I went to the gate to meet him and could have laughed at the seriousness with which he inquired how I was. My colour rose beneath his earnest gaze.

"You need not be afraid; there is no rash yet," I said.

"Afraid!" he repeated. "Of what should I be afraid? But I hope you will not stay here long. We missed you so much last evening. It seemed so strange to see nothing of you all day."

"I had a pleasant proof that I was not forgotten," I said. "Thank you so much for bringing me those papers. I will get them for you."

"Pray do not trouble unless you wish to be rid of them," he said. "I do not want them, and you can hardly have read them all yet."

"Indeed, I read very little last night; I felt too tired and unsettled," I said. "But I liked having them."

His steady eyes met mine with that look which seemed to read my very soul. I had a strange feeling that he knew all the nervous, foolish ideas that had passed through my mind.

"Do you know how Paulina is this morning?" I asked hurriedly. "Has aunt heard?"

"Yes, Mr. Dicks went down to 'Ivy House' at a very early hour and brought back word that his daughter had passed a restless night," he replied. "Still, I do not think there is any cause for anxiety; the fever must take its course."

"Poor Paulina!" I said. "It is hard to imagine her anything but restless under the circumstances."

"She is not exactly reposeful at any time, is she?" he responded with a smile. "I feel very much for her father. He seems terribly upset by this wholly unlooked-for development of affairs."

"He is not allowed to see her, is he?" I asked.

"No, I believe he does not even enter the house. Miss Cottrell gives her report from a window. This is her opportunity."

I could not help laughing, though I felt it was mean when the spinster was acting so bravely.

"Whatever will he do without Paulina?" I said.

"Well, you know, he has not always had a great deal of her company," Mr. Faulkner replied; "but Mrs. Lucas is puzzled to think how she can best divert his thoughts. By the by, I was to say that he is coming to take you for a drive presently. He has forestalled me, for I was going to ask you to cycle with me this afternoon."

"I shall be delighted to do so another day," I replied, pleased to think that my isolation was to be thus alleviated. Then my eyes fell on his buttonhole, which was adorned by a fine striped carnation. "So," I exclaimed, "Miss Cottrell has given you another of her carnations."

"How could she?" he asked with a smile. "Miss Cottrell is not at 'Gay Bowers.' This is the one you gave me."

"What do you mean?" I said. "I never gave you a carnation."

"Did you not?" he asked. "At least you gave me back one after you had worn it a few seconds, thus giving it a new and rare value."

Who would have thought that a learned man like Professor Faulkner could have said a thing like that? It was the sort of compliment Jack Upsher might have paid me, and I should have thought it silly from his lips; but somehow I was not impressed with its silliness at this moment. I should have been annoyed with Jack for saying it, but I was not annoyed with Alan Faulkner. I recalled the words many times in the course of that day and ever with a joyous thrill of the heart. What little things make up the sum of life! To this day I can never see what is called a "strawberry and cream" carnation without recalling that hour and the sweetness of the strange new hope that then awoke to life.

But at the moment Alan Faulkner's words struck me dumb. My eyes fell beneath his gaze, and to my vexation I felt the colour mounting to my forehead. The awkward pause which ensued seemed long to my consciousness, but it could have been but a second or two ere I lifted my head and said stiffly:

"Oh, that was a mere exchange."

Ere Alan Faulkner could make any rejoinder, there was the sound of another bicycle rushing down the lane and Jack Upsher came in sight. He had turned aside on his way to Chelmsford in order to assure himself that I had not yet developed scarlet fever.