Chapter XVII: Fever

WHEN Enid reached their "pension" in the Via Sistina, she found that her cousin had risen and was slowly making her toilette. The medicine which Enid brought was sufficient excuse for her reappearance so soon. Maud looked so ill and moved so languidly that Enid thought she would have been better in bed. It was vain to suggest this, however. She went on dressing, though every now and then she had to pause and fortify herself with a draught of cold water.

"Sit down and let me do your hair," said Enid, distressed to see her cousin's tremulous movements.

For a wonder Maud yielded. She was generally very particular about the arrangement of her hair, and preferred to dress it herself; but now she sank wearily into a chair, and seemed thankful to resign herself into Enid's hands.

As she took the brush from her cousin, Enid touched her hand. It was like a hot coal.

"How your hand burns!" she said. "You must be feverish. I am sure you should be careful of yourself."

"Oh, don't begin to preach caution," said Maud. "I have only a cold; but this weather is enough to make anyone feverish. Perhaps I have been foolish to remain so long in Rome. The heat begins to be very trying."

"There is a fresh breeze this morning," said Enid. "And after all this is only May, and many English people stay here till June. I saw some newly-arrived ones driving from the station this morning."

As she spoke, Enid was gathering Maud's heavy golden hair into a coil. She could see her cousin's face in the mirror before which she was seated. Her eyes drooped wearily; her expression was one of suffering. She showed not the least interest in what Enid was saying.

Enid feared the effect of the news she had to tell, yet she felt that it must be told.

She waited till she had placed the last hairpin, and the coil of rich red gold crowned Maud's perfectly-shaped head.

"There—will that do?" she asked, turning her cousin's head with her hand so that she might catch the full effect in the mirror.

"Oh yes; anything will do to-day," said Maud indifferently.

But as she glanced at the reflection in the mirror, she smiled involuntarily to see in what a becoming style Enid had done her work.

"Why, Enid, you are improving as a lady's maid," she said. "You have done my hair quite cunningly, as Miss Amory would say. My hair is my chief beauty. Did I ever tell you what Sidney Althorp said about it when he was here?"

"No, Miss Vanity," said Enid, gaily. "I wonder you have been able to keep it to yourself so long."

"He said that, judging from what he had seen both in the galleries at Florence and in those of Rome, most of the great painters had had the good taste to paint their Madonnas with hair the colour of mine."

"Well done, Mr. Althorp!" exclaimed Enid. "I thought you said he never paid you compliments!"

"Indeed they are most rare from him," replied Maud. "That is why I remember this one."

"Mr. Althorp must be very busy now that your father is away from home," remarked Enid, striving to speak in a matter-of-fact tone.

Instantly Maud's face changed. She rose at once from her chair, saying abruptly, "I do not know about that, I am sure. I suppose, now you mention it, that my father is from home just now; but I really had not thought of it."

"Do you not know where he is?"

"No, indeed," said Maud, in a manner intended to check Enid from saying more on the subject. "I neither know nor do I care."

"Then I can tell you," said Enid, rather nervously. "I saw him here this morning, Maud—saw him driving from the railway station."

"What!" exclaimed Maud, in a startled tone. "You saw him—my father—here in Rome this morning?"

"Yes, indeed I saw him—not an hour ago. I am sure I am not mistaken."

"He was not alone?"

"No; there was a lady with him."

Maud's foot impatiently struck the ground. "To come here!" she exclaimed. "It is too bad! But I will not see her! Nothing shall induce me to see her!"

"Do not say that, Maud."

"But I do say it! Do you think I am not strong enough to keep my resolve?"

At that moment there was a tap at the door, and a servant entered to say that there was a gentleman in the "salotto" who wished to see Miss Marian.

Maud turned so white that Enid thought she was about to faint.

"It is my father, Enid," she said tremulously.

Then hastily calling the servant back, she enquired if the gentleman were alone. The girl replied in the affirmative.

"Then I will go to him," said Maud, hurriedly fastening her gown.

"Are you fit to go?" asked Enid, anxiously. "Had I not better ask him to come to you here?"

"By no means. I am not ill, Enid."

And indeed the colour had now returned to Maud's face. Her eyes were large and bright with excitement; she held herself erect, as if suddenly endowed with fresh energy, and with an air of indomitable pride and determination she went forth to meet her father.

Enid waited anxiously for her return. She was uneasy as to the result of the interview, uneasy too respecting her cousin's health, for she felt sure that she was seriously unwell.

More than half an hour had passed when Maud's step was heard coming along the passage. She entered the room with an excited, agitated air, and stood for a few moments before Enid, apparently without seeing her or anything that was before her eyes.

"Maud," said Enid, starting up, "has your father gone?"

"Yes, he has gone," replied Maud, in a hard, unnatural tone of voice.

"You have not parted in anger?"

"Well, yes; he is angry with me, certainly—angry or grieved. I believe he said he was grieved. Of course, he tried to put me in the wrong. People always do when they have given others occasion to reproach them."

"Oh, Maud, do not speak like that! Remember it is your father of whom you are speaking."

"I am perfectly aware of that, unfortunately," said Maud in a bitter tone. "But if fathers change, daughters can change also."

"But your father has not changed towards you?"

"Indeed, I have had proof to the contrary. He has spoken to me as he never spoke to me before. He says he sees he has done wrong in indulging me so much. He says I am selfish and exacting. I think only of my own pleasure; I have no sense of duty. Oh, you have no idea how unkind he has been!"

"And what did you say?" asked Enid, as Maud paused, her voice choked by passion.

"Oh, I told him of course that I was determined I would never live with Mrs. Marian, that I hoped he would not expect me to receive her, and that I should be obliged to him if he would give me such an allowance as would enable me to maintain an independent life."

"And what did he say?"

"At first, he refused to hear of such a thing. He was very indignant with me. He told me I was ungrateful and without affection. But at last he yielded, and said that he could not have his wife subjected to indignities or rendered unhappy, and therefore it was perhaps better that for the present I should continue to reside abroad."

"Then you have got your own way, Maud?"

"Yes." But the response came faintly from Maud's lips, and as she uttered it she sank wearily on a chair.

Glancing at her, Enid saw that she had become deadly pale. Enid just reached her cousin's side in time to prevent her from falling fainting to the floor.

By night, Maud was in a high fever. The English medical man who was summoned did not immediately pronounce upon the case; but there seemed little doubt that she had contracted the malarial fever which is one of the dangers of Rome, though those who exercise ordinary prudence have little cause to dread it. Maud unhappily had been anything but prudent of late, and she was now to suffer the penalty.

The next morning it was necessary to inform her father of her illness. He came to her at once, and was distressed at the condition in which he found his daughter. Enid had abundant proof that the change that had taken place in his life had wrought no accompanying change in his feelings towards his daughter. However she had grieved and disappointed him, she was still his idolised child. He said little to Maud. She was too ill, indeed, though still conscious, to speak to him or listen to his words. But his manner, and the few words he uttered, spoke the deepest tenderness.

"How will you manage?" he asked Enid. "You cannot nurse her alone."

"Indeed, I can do all that is necessary for the present," said Enid. "I am very strong."

"Are there no English nurses to be had in Rome?" asked Mr. Marian, turning to the doctor.

"Oh yes; we have English nurses," he replied. "But I am not sure I can promise you one just now. There are many cases of illness amongst the English in Rome, and I fear all the nurses are engaged. But I will see what I can do. Would you object to a Sister of Mercy?"

"I don't think Maud would like one," said Enid. "She is very particular. She cannot bear to have strangers about her. Please let me nurse her. I am sure I can do it."

"Yes, yes, of course," said the medical man. "You young people all think that you are made of iron. But I know better; and I do not wish to have two patients on my hands."

But though he tried his best, he did not succeed in finding a nurse. Enid waited on her cousin throughout that day, and at night also. Signora Grassi came to relieve her at an early hour of the morning, and sent her to lie down; but ere the doctor paid his visit, Enid was again on duty in the sick room.

She awaited his appearance in considerable anxiety. It seemed to her that Maud was growing rapidly worse. The fever was higher than ever, and she was now unconscious of all that passed. She did not know her cousin, and did not understand when she spoke to her. She talked incessantly, and her delirium took various distressing phases. At times, it was all Enid could do to soothe and calm her. Enid drew a sigh of relief as she heard the sound of steps approaching the door.

The handle was gently turned and Mr. Marian entered the room. But it was not the doctor who accompanied him. Stepping lightly behind him came a little woman, whose appearance at once inspired Enid with confidence. She was of robust form, but she moved with remarkable ease and grace, and there was a certain youthfulness apparent in her bearing, despite the fact that her hair was grey. Her features were homely, but they were redeemed by a singularly sweet expression, and a pair of honest, kind, grey eyes, which met Enid's with a look of sympathy which went to the girl's heart.

It struck Enid as soon as she saw her that this quiet, motherly little person would be an inestimable comfort in the sick room. She went to the side of the bed and laid her hand lightly on Maud's burning forehead.

"Poor child!" she said tenderly. "She is very ill; but I trust she will soon take a turn for the better." And she looked into Mr. Marian's face with a smile which sought to give courage.

Then turning, she quickly laid aside her cloak and bonnet. She was dressed in grey, of Quaker-like neatness.

"I am going to stay awhile and help you, if I may," she said to Enid. "I have had much experience of sickness, so I think I can be of use."

"Oh, I am sure you will be," said Enid, very gratefully, and feeling as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her mind. For, doctor's daughter though she was, Enid knew little of the duties of a sick nurse. She had been accustomed to wait on her mother when she was prostrated by pain and weakness, and she had learned to move lightly, and perform little services in a deft manner; but that was a very different thing from bearing the responsibility of watching a fever case.

"You will not mind if I make a few little alterations?" the stranger said to Enid.

"Certainly not," replied the girl. "Indeed, I shall be very thankful to you. I have not known quite what I ought to do, and I have been so afraid of doing something wrong."

In a few minutes, the new-comer had effected an improvement both in the appearance of the room and in that of the patient. She spoke cheerfully to Enid in a low voice as she moved about. Enid noticed that she spoke with a decidedly Scotch accent, but it was a peculiarity which she found agreeable rather than otherwise.

Presently the doctor arrived, and then Enid heard Mr. Marian introduce this lady as his wife. Strange to say, it had not before occurred to Enid that this was the stepmother whom Maud was determined to repudiate. Now that she knew who she was, she observed her with some astonishment. There was a certain homeliness in Mrs. Marian's bearing, and her gown was not made in the newest fashion; but where was the vulgarity of which Maud had spoken?

Enid listened critically to her words, expecting to hear her murder the Queen's English; but she was guilty of nothing worse than a few provincialisms, and these were excusable in one who had obviously passed much of her life remote from towns, and who had retained about her that atmosphere of simplicity and unworldliness which is associated with the best description of country life—a type which is becoming rare in the England of to-day. Enid had perception enough to see that Mrs. Marian lacked none of the essentials of a true lady. She was daintily neat and nice in her dress, her manners were gentle, and her countenance proclaimed that she had a kind, unselfish heart, and was a woman to be trusted.

Enid wondered a little at the prejudice which condemns as vulgar everything which does not bear its own particular stamp. There is, perhaps, nothing more vulgar than the eagerness with which some people avoid all that they deem deserving of that epithet, for there are other superstitions and bigotries besides those that are connected with religion.

The doctor eyed Mrs. Marian with approval, and was well pleased to find her established in the sick room; and in the days that followed, her presence there proved of inestimable service. Enid often wondered afterwards what she would have done at this time but for Mrs. Marian. Maud lay in a critical state for many days. Hour after hour Mrs. Marian watched beside her bed. There could not have been a more devoted nurse. It should not be her fault, she had resolved, if the life so inexpressibly dear to her husband succumbed to the fatal power of disease. All the aid that it was possible to give to the patient she gave.

When the crisis of the fever came, and there was danger of the patient sinking away in the utter exhaustion which ensued, it was she who watched her with closest attention, and gave from time to time the sustenance on which her life depended. And her efforts won their reward. The turning-point was passed, and slowly, very slowly, Maud's strength began to return.

"She will do now, if there is no relapse," said the doctor to Enid a few hours later. "She has a fine constitution, and it has conquered in the struggle. But it is Mrs. Marian who has brought her through—it was not I who saved her. She must have died had she had a less efficient nurse. I can only say that, under God, she owes her recovery to Mrs. Marian."

Life is full of surprises, and the irony of fate has passed into a proverb. It was curious to Enid to look back and recall Maud's bitter speeches concerning her stepmother, and her proud determination to have nothing to do with her. And now the one she had so despised, the woman she had determined to shun, had been for many days her devoted nurse, and it was to her that she owed her life! Enid could not but wonder how Maud would feel when she came to know the truth.

But for the present, it had to be kept from her. Every risk of agitating her must be avoided whilst she was still so weak. As consciousness returned to her, Mrs. Marian was obliged to withdraw from the sick room, though she still watched the patient as much as she dared, and was sometimes to be found there, seated out of sight behind a curtain, whilst Maud was unconscious of her presence.