Chapter Forty.

Chapter Forty.“I Want Teacher.”One low, weary, incessant cry in the shabby, sloping-roofed, whitewashed room.The place was scrupulously clean; there was not so much as a speck upon the windows; but the chamber was miserably bare. One well-worn, damaged rush-chair was beside the worm-eaten, stump bedstead, a box supported a chipped white jug and basin, and an old sack unsewn and opened out formed the carpet. The only other article of furniture was a thin, very old, white scrap of dimity curtain half drawn across the lead lattice-paned window upon a piece of tape.And from the bed arose that one weary, constant cry from between the fevered, cracked lips, night and day—“I want teacher to come!”For there was no mischief dancing in her unnaturally bright eyes; the restless hands were not raised to play some trick; the face was not drawn up in some mocking grimace: all was pitiful, and pinched, and sad; for poor Feelier Potts lay sick unto death, and it seemed as if at any moment the dark shadow would float forth from the open window, bearing one more sleeping spirit away.“I want teacher!—I want teacher!”—night and day that weary, weary burden, ever in the same unreasoning strain; and it was in vain that the poor rough mother, softened now in face of this terrible trouble, sought to give comfort.“But she can’t come now, my bairn—she can’t come. Oh, do be quiet—do!”“I want teacher—I want teacher to come.”Unreasoning ever—for poor Feelier was almost beyond reasoning—there was one great want in her shadowed mind, and it found vent between her lips for the first days loudly, then painfully low, and at last in a hoarse murmur, but always the same—“I want teacher to come.”“I won’t come anigh you to speak, miss, for it wouldn’t be right,” sobbed poor, broken-down Mrs Potts, weak now and worn out, as she stood at the cottage gate, after making signs for Hazel to come to the door. For nights past she had been watching by her child’s couch, while her husband had kept watch at the public-house till it was shut, and then he had slept in a barn. For he had only one body, and he was terribly afraid lest it should be stricken by the sore disease.“I am not afraid of the infection, Mrs Potts,” said Hazel kindly. “You look worn out; let me give you a cup of tea.”“My dear Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne from the kitchen, where she was seated at the evening meal, “what are you going to do?”“Good, if I can, mother,” said Hazel simply, and she filled a cup and took it out to the half-fainting woman, who looked her thanks, for she could not speak for some minutes.“There, miss, and God bless you for it,” she said, handing back the cup. “I felt I must come and tell you, miss, for—for it seems as if she couldn’t die till you had been.”“Does she ask for me so?” said Hazel.“She asks for nothing else, miss. It’s always ‘I want teacher,’ and—and I thought miss—if you’d come to the house—if it was only to stand on the other side of the road—the window’s open, miss, and she could hear you, and if you was just to say, ‘I’m here, Feelier!’ or, ‘go to sleep, there’s a good girl!’ it would quiet her like, and then she’d be able to die.”“Oh, pray don’t speak like that!” cried Hazel. “Let us hope that she will live.”“I don’t know what for, miss,” said the wretched woman despondently. “Only to live to have a master who’d beat and ill-use her, and make her slave to keep his bairns. I did think I’d like her to live, but the Lord knows best and He’s going to take her away.”“I’ll come on and see her,” said Hazel quietly. “Poor child! I was in hopes that she was going to amend. Wait for me here till I get my hat, and I will come.”“What are you going to do, my dear?” exclaimed Mrs Thorne as Hazel passed through the room.“I am going to see one of my children, mother,” she replied quietly.“Not that dreadful Feelier Potts, Hazel?”“Hush, dear! The child is dangerously ill, and her mother can hear your words.”“But it would be madness to go. It is an infectious disease.”“I feel, dear, as if it is my duty to go,” replied Hazel, with a curious, far-off look in her eyes; and without another word she followed to the little low cottage by the side of the road.“There, miss, if you’d stand there I think you could hear her. You see the window’s open. I’ll go upstairs and stir her up like, and then you speak, and—”“I want teacher! When will she come?”The words came in a low, harsh tone plainly to Hazel’s ears, and with a sigh she walked straight up to the door. “But you hadn’t better go anigh her. The doctor said—”“It will not hurt me,” said Hazel quietly.“Well, miss, if you wouldn’t mind, it would do her a power of good, I’m sure. This way, miss,” and she led her visitor through the room where she had been washing, to the awkward, well-worn staircase, and up this to poor Feelier’s blank-looking room.“I want teacher!—I want teacher!” came the weary burden as Hazel walked up to the bedside, shocked at the way in which the poor girl had changed.“I want teacher! When will she come?” came again from the cracked lips as Hazel sank upon her knees by the bedside.“I am here, my child,” she said softly, as the burning head was tossed wearily from side to side.The effect was electrical. The thin arms that had been lying upon the coverlet were raised, and with one ejaculation they were flung round the visitor’s neck, the poor child nestling to her with a cry of joy.“My poor child!” cried Hazel tenderly. And the weary iteration was heard no more.“She never made that ado over me,” said the mother discontentedly; but no one seemed to heed her, and she stole downstairs to her work, but came up from time to time to find poor Feelier sleeping softly in Hazel’s arms, her head upon her breast. And when Mrs Potts attempted to unloose the clinging hands that were about “teacher’s neck,” the girl uttered a passionate, impatient cry, and clung the tighter to one who seemed to have come to bring her hope of life.“It was very imprudent of you to come, Miss Thorne,” said the doctor. “I heard you were here from Mr William Forth Burge. He is waiting below. Suppose you try to lay her down; she seems to be asleep.”Asleep or awake, poor Feelier would not be separated from her friend, and the doctor unwillingly owned at last that it would be undoing a great deal of good to force her away.“You have given her a calm sense of rest, for which in her delirium she has been so long striving. I must confess that you have done her more good than I.”“She will go to sleep soon, perhaps,” said Hazel, “and then leave me of her own accord.”“And then?” said the doctor.“I can return home, and come again when she asks for me.”“I’m afraid, Miss Thorne, that you have not thought of the probable consequences of returning home,” said the doctor. “You have young sisters there, and your mother. My dear young lady, it would be exceedingly imprudent to go.”For the first time the consequences of her step occurred to Hazel, and she looked aghast at the speaker.“Then there is the school, Miss Thorne. I think, as a medical man, it is my duty to forbid your going there again for some time to come. Yes, I see you look at me, but I am only a hardened medical man. I go everywhere, and somehow one escapes a great portion of the ills one goes to cure.”There was no help for it, and after coming as an act of kindness to see the poor girl who had cried for her so incessantly, Hazel found herself literally a prisoner, and duly installed in the bedroom as her sick scholar’s nurse.

One low, weary, incessant cry in the shabby, sloping-roofed, whitewashed room.

The place was scrupulously clean; there was not so much as a speck upon the windows; but the chamber was miserably bare. One well-worn, damaged rush-chair was beside the worm-eaten, stump bedstead, a box supported a chipped white jug and basin, and an old sack unsewn and opened out formed the carpet. The only other article of furniture was a thin, very old, white scrap of dimity curtain half drawn across the lead lattice-paned window upon a piece of tape.

And from the bed arose that one weary, constant cry from between the fevered, cracked lips, night and day—

“I want teacher to come!”

For there was no mischief dancing in her unnaturally bright eyes; the restless hands were not raised to play some trick; the face was not drawn up in some mocking grimace: all was pitiful, and pinched, and sad; for poor Feelier Potts lay sick unto death, and it seemed as if at any moment the dark shadow would float forth from the open window, bearing one more sleeping spirit away.

“I want teacher!—I want teacher!”—night and day that weary, weary burden, ever in the same unreasoning strain; and it was in vain that the poor rough mother, softened now in face of this terrible trouble, sought to give comfort.

“But she can’t come now, my bairn—she can’t come. Oh, do be quiet—do!”

“I want teacher—I want teacher to come.”

Unreasoning ever—for poor Feelier was almost beyond reasoning—there was one great want in her shadowed mind, and it found vent between her lips for the first days loudly, then painfully low, and at last in a hoarse murmur, but always the same—

“I want teacher to come.”

“I won’t come anigh you to speak, miss, for it wouldn’t be right,” sobbed poor, broken-down Mrs Potts, weak now and worn out, as she stood at the cottage gate, after making signs for Hazel to come to the door. For nights past she had been watching by her child’s couch, while her husband had kept watch at the public-house till it was shut, and then he had slept in a barn. For he had only one body, and he was terribly afraid lest it should be stricken by the sore disease.

“I am not afraid of the infection, Mrs Potts,” said Hazel kindly. “You look worn out; let me give you a cup of tea.”

“My dear Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne from the kitchen, where she was seated at the evening meal, “what are you going to do?”

“Good, if I can, mother,” said Hazel simply, and she filled a cup and took it out to the half-fainting woman, who looked her thanks, for she could not speak for some minutes.

“There, miss, and God bless you for it,” she said, handing back the cup. “I felt I must come and tell you, miss, for—for it seems as if she couldn’t die till you had been.”

“Does she ask for me so?” said Hazel.

“She asks for nothing else, miss. It’s always ‘I want teacher,’ and—and I thought miss—if you’d come to the house—if it was only to stand on the other side of the road—the window’s open, miss, and she could hear you, and if you was just to say, ‘I’m here, Feelier!’ or, ‘go to sleep, there’s a good girl!’ it would quiet her like, and then she’d be able to die.”

“Oh, pray don’t speak like that!” cried Hazel. “Let us hope that she will live.”

“I don’t know what for, miss,” said the wretched woman despondently. “Only to live to have a master who’d beat and ill-use her, and make her slave to keep his bairns. I did think I’d like her to live, but the Lord knows best and He’s going to take her away.”

“I’ll come on and see her,” said Hazel quietly. “Poor child! I was in hopes that she was going to amend. Wait for me here till I get my hat, and I will come.”

“What are you going to do, my dear?” exclaimed Mrs Thorne as Hazel passed through the room.

“I am going to see one of my children, mother,” she replied quietly.

“Not that dreadful Feelier Potts, Hazel?”

“Hush, dear! The child is dangerously ill, and her mother can hear your words.”

“But it would be madness to go. It is an infectious disease.”

“I feel, dear, as if it is my duty to go,” replied Hazel, with a curious, far-off look in her eyes; and without another word she followed to the little low cottage by the side of the road.

“There, miss, if you’d stand there I think you could hear her. You see the window’s open. I’ll go upstairs and stir her up like, and then you speak, and—”

“I want teacher! When will she come?”

The words came in a low, harsh tone plainly to Hazel’s ears, and with a sigh she walked straight up to the door. “But you hadn’t better go anigh her. The doctor said—”

“It will not hurt me,” said Hazel quietly.

“Well, miss, if you wouldn’t mind, it would do her a power of good, I’m sure. This way, miss,” and she led her visitor through the room where she had been washing, to the awkward, well-worn staircase, and up this to poor Feelier’s blank-looking room.

“I want teacher!—I want teacher!” came the weary burden as Hazel walked up to the bedside, shocked at the way in which the poor girl had changed.

“I want teacher! When will she come?” came again from the cracked lips as Hazel sank upon her knees by the bedside.

“I am here, my child,” she said softly, as the burning head was tossed wearily from side to side.

The effect was electrical. The thin arms that had been lying upon the coverlet were raised, and with one ejaculation they were flung round the visitor’s neck, the poor child nestling to her with a cry of joy.

“My poor child!” cried Hazel tenderly. And the weary iteration was heard no more.

“She never made that ado over me,” said the mother discontentedly; but no one seemed to heed her, and she stole downstairs to her work, but came up from time to time to find poor Feelier sleeping softly in Hazel’s arms, her head upon her breast. And when Mrs Potts attempted to unloose the clinging hands that were about “teacher’s neck,” the girl uttered a passionate, impatient cry, and clung the tighter to one who seemed to have come to bring her hope of life.

“It was very imprudent of you to come, Miss Thorne,” said the doctor. “I heard you were here from Mr William Forth Burge. He is waiting below. Suppose you try to lay her down; she seems to be asleep.”

Asleep or awake, poor Feelier would not be separated from her friend, and the doctor unwillingly owned at last that it would be undoing a great deal of good to force her away.

“You have given her a calm sense of rest, for which in her delirium she has been so long striving. I must confess that you have done her more good than I.”

“She will go to sleep soon, perhaps,” said Hazel, “and then leave me of her own accord.”

“And then?” said the doctor.

“I can return home, and come again when she asks for me.”

“I’m afraid, Miss Thorne, that you have not thought of the probable consequences of returning home,” said the doctor. “You have young sisters there, and your mother. My dear young lady, it would be exceedingly imprudent to go.”

For the first time the consequences of her step occurred to Hazel, and she looked aghast at the speaker.

“Then there is the school, Miss Thorne. I think, as a medical man, it is my duty to forbid your going there again for some time to come. Yes, I see you look at me, but I am only a hardened medical man. I go everywhere, and somehow one escapes a great portion of the ills one goes to cure.”

There was no help for it, and after coming as an act of kindness to see the poor girl who had cried for her so incessantly, Hazel found herself literally a prisoner, and duly installed in the bedroom as her sick scholar’s nurse.

Chapter Forty One.Brother and Sisters—Refined.There was a good deal of conversation about it at the Vicarage, where it became known through a visit paid by Rebecca and Beatrice to the school, and their coming back scandalised at finding it in charge only of the pupil-teachers, who explained the reason of Hazel’s absence, and that she had sent a message to Mr Chute, asking him if he would raise one of the shutters, and give an eye occasionally to the girls’ school, which was, however, in so high a state of discipline now that the pupil-teachers were able to carry it on passably well.“And of course Mr Chute has done so?” said Miss Lambent.“No, please ’m; he said he had plenty to do with his own school,” replied one pupil-teacher.“And he wouldn’t do anything of the sort,” said the other.“What a disgraceful state of affairs, Beatrice!” exclaimed Miss Lambent; and the sisters hurried away to acquaint their brother with the last piece of news.“I suppose, with a person of her class, one can only expect the same conduct that one would receive from a servant,” said Beatrice acidly.“I do not understand you, Beatrice,” said her brother.“I mean, Henry, that now she has resigned or received her dismissal, we shall only get the same amount of inattention that one would from a discharged servant.”“For my part,” said the vicar, “I think that Miss Thorne is being hardly dealt with.”“Absurd, Henry!” said Miss Lambent. “We cannot say a word to you but you take Miss Thorne’s part.”“Why not, when I see her treated with injustice!”“Injustice, Henry!” cried Beatrice. “Is it injustice to speak against a young person who behaves like an unjust steward?”The vicar was silent.“For my part,” said Rebecca, “I think she should have been dismissed at once; and she would have been, but for the opposition offered by you, Henry, and Mr Burge.”“For my part,” continued the vicar, ignoring the past speeches, “I can see nothing more touching, more beautiful, and Christian-like than Miss Thorne’s behaviour to this child—one of the sick lambs of her fold.”“We are sorry, of course, for Ophelia Potts,” said Rebecca; “but she is a dreadful child.”“A fact, I grant,” said the vicar; “and one that makes Miss Thorne’s conduct shine out the more.”“Henry!” exclaimed his sisters in a breath.“We are not doing wrong in staying here, Rebecca,” said Beatrice haughtily. “I do not believe in witchcraft or such follies, but it is as though this woman had bewitched our brother, and as if he were shaping himself in accordance with her plans.”“I do not understand you, Beatrice,” said the vicar sternly.“I will be plainer, then, Henry. It seems to me that you are offering yourself a willing victim to the wiles of an artful woman; and the next thing will be, I suppose, that you intend bringing her here as mistress of the Vicarage.”“I quite agree with Beatrice,” cried Rebecca. “It is time we left you, Henry, to the devices and desires of your own heart.”The vicar was stern of aspect now, as he paced the library, and hot words of anger were upon his lips, but he stayed them there, and looked from face to face as if seeking sympathy where there was none.He knew that his sisters were right, and that in following out the dictates of his own heart he would gladly ask Hazel Thorne to be his wife; but he was weak, and the more so that she had given him no hope. His was not the nature that would have made him a martyr to his faith; neither could he be one for his unrequited love. He loved Hazel Thorne; but she did not care for him—he could see it plainly enough; and even had she loved him in return, he was not one who could have braved public opinion for her sake. For the trouble connected with that money was always in his mind. Then there was the society to which he belonged. What would they say if he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, Master of Arts, and on visiting terms with the highest county families, were to enter into a matrimonial alliance with the daughter of a bankrupt stockbroker—one who was only the new mistress!Then there were his sisters. If he married Hazel, always supposing she would accept him, he should have to break with them; and this he was too weak to do. In imagination he had been the stern ruler of Plumton All Saints’ Vicarage for many years, and head of the parish. But it was a mistake: the real captain had been Beatrice, his younger sister; and Rebecca, though the elder, had been first lieutenant. The vicar had only been a private in the ranks.“Now we are upon this theme,” Beatrice went on, “it would be better, Henry, that the unpleasant feeling that has existed should come to an end.”“Surely there has been no unpleasant feeling between us,” said the vicar.“I quite agree with Beatrice—unpleasant feeling,” said Rebecca.“We are sisters and brother,” continued Beatrice, “and we must remain so.”“Most assuredly,” said the vicar, smiling.“I am speaking for Rebecca as well as for myself, then, Henry, when I tell you that we have concluded that the only way in which our old happy relations can be continued will be by separating.”“Parting?” said the vicar, in dismay.“Yes, Henry; by parting. Rebecca and I have a sufficiency, by clubbing together our slender resources, to enable us to live a life of content. A life of usefulness, we fear, will no longer be within our reach, for we shall have to leave our poor behind. But that we must be resigned to lose, for it is time, Henry, that we left you free and were—”“No longer a tax upon you and an obstacle in the path of your inclinations,” said Rebecca.“But surely—you do not mean—you would not leave the Vicarage?”“We have carefully weighed the matter over, Henry,” said Rebecca, “and I do not see how, under the circumstances, you could wish us to do otherwise.”“No, no, it is impossible!” cried the vicar, who seemed deeply moved. “Beatrice—Rebecca, of what are you thinking?”“Of our duty and your happiness,” said Beatrice firmly.“At the expense of your own,” exclaimed the vicar.“We must do our duty,” said Rebecca with a sigh, and the sisters rose and left the room, like clever diplomatists, content with the impression they had made, and feeling that by a bold stroke they had completely riveted their old mastery.

There was a good deal of conversation about it at the Vicarage, where it became known through a visit paid by Rebecca and Beatrice to the school, and their coming back scandalised at finding it in charge only of the pupil-teachers, who explained the reason of Hazel’s absence, and that she had sent a message to Mr Chute, asking him if he would raise one of the shutters, and give an eye occasionally to the girls’ school, which was, however, in so high a state of discipline now that the pupil-teachers were able to carry it on passably well.

“And of course Mr Chute has done so?” said Miss Lambent.

“No, please ’m; he said he had plenty to do with his own school,” replied one pupil-teacher.

“And he wouldn’t do anything of the sort,” said the other.

“What a disgraceful state of affairs, Beatrice!” exclaimed Miss Lambent; and the sisters hurried away to acquaint their brother with the last piece of news.

“I suppose, with a person of her class, one can only expect the same conduct that one would receive from a servant,” said Beatrice acidly.

“I do not understand you, Beatrice,” said her brother.

“I mean, Henry, that now she has resigned or received her dismissal, we shall only get the same amount of inattention that one would from a discharged servant.”

“For my part,” said the vicar, “I think that Miss Thorne is being hardly dealt with.”

“Absurd, Henry!” said Miss Lambent. “We cannot say a word to you but you take Miss Thorne’s part.”

“Why not, when I see her treated with injustice!”

“Injustice, Henry!” cried Beatrice. “Is it injustice to speak against a young person who behaves like an unjust steward?”

The vicar was silent.

“For my part,” said Rebecca, “I think she should have been dismissed at once; and she would have been, but for the opposition offered by you, Henry, and Mr Burge.”

“For my part,” continued the vicar, ignoring the past speeches, “I can see nothing more touching, more beautiful, and Christian-like than Miss Thorne’s behaviour to this child—one of the sick lambs of her fold.”

“We are sorry, of course, for Ophelia Potts,” said Rebecca; “but she is a dreadful child.”

“A fact, I grant,” said the vicar; “and one that makes Miss Thorne’s conduct shine out the more.”

“Henry!” exclaimed his sisters in a breath.

“We are not doing wrong in staying here, Rebecca,” said Beatrice haughtily. “I do not believe in witchcraft or such follies, but it is as though this woman had bewitched our brother, and as if he were shaping himself in accordance with her plans.”

“I do not understand you, Beatrice,” said the vicar sternly.

“I will be plainer, then, Henry. It seems to me that you are offering yourself a willing victim to the wiles of an artful woman; and the next thing will be, I suppose, that you intend bringing her here as mistress of the Vicarage.”

“I quite agree with Beatrice,” cried Rebecca. “It is time we left you, Henry, to the devices and desires of your own heart.”

The vicar was stern of aspect now, as he paced the library, and hot words of anger were upon his lips, but he stayed them there, and looked from face to face as if seeking sympathy where there was none.

He knew that his sisters were right, and that in following out the dictates of his own heart he would gladly ask Hazel Thorne to be his wife; but he was weak, and the more so that she had given him no hope. His was not the nature that would have made him a martyr to his faith; neither could he be one for his unrequited love. He loved Hazel Thorne; but she did not care for him—he could see it plainly enough; and even had she loved him in return, he was not one who could have braved public opinion for her sake. For the trouble connected with that money was always in his mind. Then there was the society to which he belonged. What would they say if he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, Master of Arts, and on visiting terms with the highest county families, were to enter into a matrimonial alliance with the daughter of a bankrupt stockbroker—one who was only the new mistress!

Then there were his sisters. If he married Hazel, always supposing she would accept him, he should have to break with them; and this he was too weak to do. In imagination he had been the stern ruler of Plumton All Saints’ Vicarage for many years, and head of the parish. But it was a mistake: the real captain had been Beatrice, his younger sister; and Rebecca, though the elder, had been first lieutenant. The vicar had only been a private in the ranks.

“Now we are upon this theme,” Beatrice went on, “it would be better, Henry, that the unpleasant feeling that has existed should come to an end.”

“Surely there has been no unpleasant feeling between us,” said the vicar.

“I quite agree with Beatrice—unpleasant feeling,” said Rebecca.

“We are sisters and brother,” continued Beatrice, “and we must remain so.”

“Most assuredly,” said the vicar, smiling.

“I am speaking for Rebecca as well as for myself, then, Henry, when I tell you that we have concluded that the only way in which our old happy relations can be continued will be by separating.”

“Parting?” said the vicar, in dismay.

“Yes, Henry; by parting. Rebecca and I have a sufficiency, by clubbing together our slender resources, to enable us to live a life of content. A life of usefulness, we fear, will no longer be within our reach, for we shall have to leave our poor behind. But that we must be resigned to lose, for it is time, Henry, that we left you free and were—”

“No longer a tax upon you and an obstacle in the path of your inclinations,” said Rebecca.

“But surely—you do not mean—you would not leave the Vicarage?”

“We have carefully weighed the matter over, Henry,” said Rebecca, “and I do not see how, under the circumstances, you could wish us to do otherwise.”

“No, no, it is impossible!” cried the vicar, who seemed deeply moved. “Beatrice—Rebecca, of what are you thinking?”

“Of our duty and your happiness,” said Beatrice firmly.

“At the expense of your own,” exclaimed the vicar.

“We must do our duty,” said Rebecca with a sigh, and the sisters rose and left the room, like clever diplomatists, content with the impression they had made, and feeling that by a bold stroke they had completely riveted their old mastery.

Chapter Forty Two.Bad News.The news of Hazel Thorne’s imprisonment, for it could be called little else, was not long in reaching Ardley, and Mrs Canninge watched her son’s countenance to see what effect it had. There had been an increasing coolness between mother and son, and it seemed as if it were rapidly approaching estrangement. Their old affectionate intercourse had given place to a chilling politeness, and though, time after time, in the bitter annoyance she felt, Mrs Canninge had felt disposed to ask her son how soon it would be necessary for her to vacate her position of mistress of the old hall, she had never been guilty of the meanness, but waited her time.“He shall never marry her,” she said over and over again; and in spite of her better self, the news of the money trouble had been like balm to her wounded spirit. Now, then, the tidings of Hazel’s visit to the sick child had come, and again, in spite of herself, she felt a sensation akin to satisfaction, for this seemed as if it might act as a safeguard to her son.It was a flimsy one, she knew—a broken reed upon which to lean; but it was something, and every trifle that appeared likely to keep George Canninge and Hazel apart, if it were only for a few days longer, was like a reprieve, and might result in something better to her mind.The matter was not discussed, but Mrs Canninge noted that her son rode over to the town every morning, and found afterwards that he called at the Burges’ day after day, where he incidentally learned that Hazel was still nursing the fever-stricken child.It was pleasant to him at this juncture to talk to little Miss Burge, and to listen to her simple prattle about Hazel, and what trouble she and her brother took in sending down everything that was necessary for the invalid and her nurse, so that Hazel might be comfortable.“It is very kind of you and Mr Burge,” said Canninge one day.“Oh, I don’t know, Mr Canninge,” she replied; “we want to do all the good we can, and one can’t help loving Miss Thorne.”“No,” said George Canninge quietly; and as he rode home he repeated little Miss Burge’s words to himself over and over again—“One can’t help loving Miss Thorne.”But he made no further advances—he did not go to the schoolhouse to make inquiries, nor yet ask at the cottage where Hazel was a prisoner; he contented himself with visiting the Burges day by day, to start back almost in alarm one morning as he saw a look of trouble in little Miss Burge’s face, and before he could ask what was wrong the little woman burst out with—“Oh, Mr Canninge, that poor, dear girl!”“What?” he said excitedly. “She has not—”“Yes, sir, and badly. My brother has been down there this morning, and she is delirious. And oh, poor girl! poor girl! I cannot let her lie there alone. I’m dreadfully afraid of the fever, Mr Canninge; but I shall have to go.”“You? What! to nurse her?” said George Canninge, with a face now ghastly.“Yes, sir; I must go. My brother has been down every day, and I’ve never been once!” she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing. “It’s dreadful cowardly, I know; but I could not help it then.”“And she may die!” said George Canninge as he rode slowly home; “and I have never told her I loved her. Dare I go to see her now?”He asked himself that question many times, and again many times on the succeeding days; but he did not go near the place where Hazel Thorne lay now, in the shabby room, upon the bed roughly made up for her by Mrs Potts; while Feelier, the very shadow of herself, lay watching “teacher,” and the tears stole down her wasted cheeks as she listened to Hazel Thorne’s excited talking, for the most part incoherent; but here and there a word came to Feelier’s ears, and she wept again, because she was too weak to get up and wait upon “teacher,” whose attack was rapidly assuming a serious form.By special arrangement with the doctor, the news as to Hazel’s state was sent to the Burges’ after every visit. Not that this was held to suffice, for little Miss Burge was constantly calling at the doctor’s house, and asking for fresh information when there was none to give.“I can’t bear this no longer, Bill dear,” said Miss Burge one morning. “There’s that poor girl lying there in that wretched place, and no one but strangers to tend her; and it seems as if all her friends had left her now she is in distress.”“Not all,” said Burge, raising his drooping head. “I’m down there every day; only I can’t be admitted to her room, poor dear! I wish I might be.”“And I’ve been holding back,” sobbed little Miss Burge, “because I felt afraid of catching the complaint, and the doctor said it would be madness for me to go; but I’m going down this morning, Bill dear, and if I die for it I won’t mind—at least not very much—for I’m sure I shouldn’t be any good to live if I couldn’t help at a time like this. Hasn’t her poor ma been to her yet?”“No; she isn’t fit to go,” said Burge. “She is ill, and weak, and foolish, and the doctor told her that if she went she would only take the disease home to the little girls. She would only have worried her poor child and been in the way.”“I’m glad I’ve never been a mother, Bill, to turn out no more use than that in trouble,” sobbed the little woman. “Now, do drink your tea, dear; it will do you good.”“Nothing won’t do me no good, Betsey,” said the poor fellow dejectedly.“But it looks so bad, dear, to see you like this. I declare you haven’t washed and shaved this mornings and your hair ain’t been brushed.”“No,” he said drearily; “I forgot Betsey—I forgot.”“Why, Bill!” she exclaimed, looking at him scrutinisingly.“Yes, dear.”“Why, you haven’t been to bed all night!”“No, dear.”“Why, if you haven’t been watching down there by that cottage!” she cried.“Yes, dear,” he said quietly. “It seemed to do me good like.”“Oh, Bill!”“And then I went to the post-office, and I’ve telegraphed for Sir Henry Venner to come down by special train.”“You have, Bill dear! Why, that’s the Queen’s doctor, ain’t it.”“Yes, dear.”“But won’t it cost a heap of money?”“I’d give every penny I’ve got and sell myself too,” he said, with a ring of simple pathos in his voice, “if it would bring that poor darling back to herself.”He laid his arms upon the table, and his forehead went down upon them, as he said softly, as if to himself—“I don’t want any return—I’m not selfish—and I’d ask nothing back. I could go on loving her always, and be glad to see her happy, only please God to let her live—please God let her live!”Little Miss Burge, with the tears streaming down her honest round face, rose from her seat at the breakfast-table, and went down upon her knees beside her brother, to lay her cheek against one of his hands.“I’m going down to her now, Bill dear,” she said softly; “and I’ll watch by her night and day; for I think I love her, poor dear! as much as you.”“God bless you, Betsey dear!” he said, drawing her to his breast, and speaking now with energy. “I couldn’t ask you to go, for it seemed like sending you where I daren’t go myself; but if you could go, dear, I should be a happier man!”“And go I will, Bill; and I will do my best.”“And look here, dear!” he cried, quite excitedly now, “you don’t know how you’re helping me, for now I can do what I want.”“What’s that, dear?”“Why, I thought, dear, if the big doctor would give leave, we might bring the poor girl on here; but I daren’t even think of it before, on account of you. You, see, dear, I could send away the servants, and get a nurse to come.”“Oh yes; do, Bill dear!” cried the little body eagerly. “We’d put her in the west room, which would be so bright and cheerful, and—There, I’m standing talking when I ought to go.”In fact, within five minutes little Miss Burge was ready, with her luggage on her arm; the said luggage consisting of a clean night-dress, “ditto” cap, a cake of soap, and a brush and comb; with which easily portable impedimenta she was soon after settled in Mrs Potts’s dreary low-roofed room.“No, miss,” whispered the rough woman, “never slep’ a wink all night; but kep’ on talk, talk, talk, talking about her mother and father, and Squire Canninge, and the school pence, and that she was in disgrace.”“And teacher kep’ saying Mr William Forth Burge was her dearest friend,” put in Feelier, in a shrill, weak voice.“Hush!” whispered little Miss Burge, for their voices had disturbed Hazel, who, till then, had been lying in a kind of stupor.She opened her eyes widely, and stared straight before her.“Are you there, Mr Burge?—are you there?” she said in a quick, excited whisper.“No, my dear; it’s me, Betsey Burge. I’ve come to stop with you.”“I didn’t know how good and kind you were then—when I spoke as I did. I was very blind then—I was very blind then,” sighed Hazel wearily.“And you’ll soon be better now,” said little Miss Burge in a soft, cheery way. “There—let me turn your pillow; it’s all so hot, and—Mrs Potts, send up for two pillows out of our best room directly.”“Yes, mum; I’ll go myself;” and Mrs Potts hurried away.“There, my dear, you’ll be nicer and cooler now, and—Oh, dear me, what a lot of things I do want! Mrs Potts, call at the druggist’s for some eau-de-cologne—a big bottle mind.”“Yes, mum,” came from below.“Her poor head’s like fire. There, dear—there, my poor dear, let me lay your hair away from you; it will cool your head.”“Please, Miss Burge, don’t let them cut off all teacher’s hair,” whispered Feelier from the other bed.“No, my dear; not if I can help it.”“I want to tell you I was so ungrateful when you spoke to me as you did, Mr Burge,” said Hazel in her low excited whisper.“No, no, my darling, not ungrateful,” said little Miss Burge, in the soothing voice any one would adopt to a child.—“Poor dear, she don’t know what she’s saying.”“I have lain here and thought of what you have done,” continued Hazel, “and how self-denying you have always been to me; and I was ungrateful for it all. I know now I was ungrateful.”“She is wandering, poor girl!” said little Miss Burge, with a sob, as she busied herself in making the room more comfortable, after she had smoothed Hazel’s pillow and opened the window wide to give her more air. After this she turned her attention to poor Feelier, rearranging her pillow, and ending by bathing her face and hands, the poor girl uttering a sigh of relief and pleasure, sinking back afterwards upon her cool pillow, too weak almost to raise her arm.“There, now you feel more comfortable, don’t you, my dear?” whispered the busy little woman.“Oh, yes, and—and—and—please—please I’ll never do so no more.”Poor Feelier burst into a passionate fit of tearful remorse, sobbing wildly in spite of little Miss Burge’s efforts to calm her.“Oh! hush, hush, my dear; pray be still.”“I—I—I used to make faces at you in school,” sobbed Feelier.“Yes, yes, yes; but hush my dear. You only did it in fun.”“N-no, I didn’t,” sobbed Feelier; “I did it to make—make the other girls laugh.”“But hush, pray hush, or you’ll hurt poor Miss Thorne.”Feelier’s sobs ended in one large gulp, as if by magic, and she lay perfectly still, staring at the other bed.“Please, Miss Burge,” she whispered, “will you bring some of your roses and put in water by teacher’s pillow?”“Yes, my dear, that I will,” said the little lady, patting Feelier’s hand. “And now lie still, and don’t talk; let’s keep the room quiet, and try to make her better.”“Yes, Miss Burge; but please will teacher get well?”“Why, surely, my dear; and very soon.”“Because mother said I was a little wretch and gave teacher the fever, and I wish I may die instead.”“But you shall both get well, my dear, very soon; and then you shall both go down to the sea, and you shall be Miss Thorne’s little maid.”“Shall I?” cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling and a flush coming into her thin, sunken cheeks.“Yes, that you shall, my dear; only lie very still, and don’t talk.”“Please, Miss Burge,” whispered Feelier, “let me tell you this.”“Well, only this one thing, and then you must be very quiet, my dear.”“Yes, I will,” whispered Feelier, in a quiet, old-fashioned way; “but that’s how teacher keeps on all night and all day; she keeps on wanting Mr William Forth Burge to come to her, and mother says I kep’ on just the same, asking for teacher to come, and I was quiet when she did, and then”—sob—“she caught the fever too.”“Yes, yes, my dear; but you’ll soon do better now.”“But you’d better let old Billy Burge—”Feelier stopped short, conscious of the slip of her guilty tongue, and looked up at her gentle attendant as if she expected a blow.“I won’t call him that name agen,” she said demurely, “but if he come he’d do teacher good; only if he did come, he’d ketch the fever too, and I don’t know what’s best, only we mustn’t let teacher die.”“No, no, my dear; of course not,” whispered little Miss Burge hastily.“But if she did die I know what I should do,” said Feelier dreamily, and with a drowsy look in her eyes, the effect of being washed and the cooler atmosphere of the room inducing sleep.“What should you do, my dear?” said Miss Burge, pressing down the pillow to let the cool air blow upon her cheek.“I should set violets and primroses all over her grave; and if any of the other girls was to pick any of ’em, oh, I would give ’em such a banging! And then—then—then—”And then poor, weak Ophelia Potts sank into a profound sleep, and little Miss Burge wiped her eyes and sat and watched Hazel’s weary, restless head; listening to her broken sentences and the incoherent mutterings, all of which were to the same tune—that she had been weak and cruel and ungrateful to one who had been all devotion to her, and that she would never rest till she had tried to make him some amends.“Poor Bill, if he could only hear her now, how glad he’d be!” sighed the watcher; “but this will all pass away, and when she gets well she’ll never know she said a word. Poor Bill; it won’t never—it couldn’t ever be!”“I want Mr Burge,” cried Hazel suddenly, and her voice sounded hard and strange. “Tell him to come to me—tell him to come.”“Yes, yes, yes, my darling; he shall come soon.”“He would catch the fever, do you say? No no; I could not give it to him; he is so kind and good. Tell Mr Geringer, mother, it is impossible; I could not be his wife.”“Oh, my poor dear!” whispered Miss Burge, bathing Hazel’s burning forehead with the eau-de-cologne that Mrs Potts had now brought; “that poor, poor, burning, wandering brain. Why don’t the doctor come?”

The news of Hazel Thorne’s imprisonment, for it could be called little else, was not long in reaching Ardley, and Mrs Canninge watched her son’s countenance to see what effect it had. There had been an increasing coolness between mother and son, and it seemed as if it were rapidly approaching estrangement. Their old affectionate intercourse had given place to a chilling politeness, and though, time after time, in the bitter annoyance she felt, Mrs Canninge had felt disposed to ask her son how soon it would be necessary for her to vacate her position of mistress of the old hall, she had never been guilty of the meanness, but waited her time.

“He shall never marry her,” she said over and over again; and in spite of her better self, the news of the money trouble had been like balm to her wounded spirit. Now, then, the tidings of Hazel’s visit to the sick child had come, and again, in spite of herself, she felt a sensation akin to satisfaction, for this seemed as if it might act as a safeguard to her son.

It was a flimsy one, she knew—a broken reed upon which to lean; but it was something, and every trifle that appeared likely to keep George Canninge and Hazel apart, if it were only for a few days longer, was like a reprieve, and might result in something better to her mind.

The matter was not discussed, but Mrs Canninge noted that her son rode over to the town every morning, and found afterwards that he called at the Burges’ day after day, where he incidentally learned that Hazel was still nursing the fever-stricken child.

It was pleasant to him at this juncture to talk to little Miss Burge, and to listen to her simple prattle about Hazel, and what trouble she and her brother took in sending down everything that was necessary for the invalid and her nurse, so that Hazel might be comfortable.

“It is very kind of you and Mr Burge,” said Canninge one day.

“Oh, I don’t know, Mr Canninge,” she replied; “we want to do all the good we can, and one can’t help loving Miss Thorne.”

“No,” said George Canninge quietly; and as he rode home he repeated little Miss Burge’s words to himself over and over again—“One can’t help loving Miss Thorne.”

But he made no further advances—he did not go to the schoolhouse to make inquiries, nor yet ask at the cottage where Hazel was a prisoner; he contented himself with visiting the Burges day by day, to start back almost in alarm one morning as he saw a look of trouble in little Miss Burge’s face, and before he could ask what was wrong the little woman burst out with—

“Oh, Mr Canninge, that poor, dear girl!”

“What?” he said excitedly. “She has not—”

“Yes, sir, and badly. My brother has been down there this morning, and she is delirious. And oh, poor girl! poor girl! I cannot let her lie there alone. I’m dreadfully afraid of the fever, Mr Canninge; but I shall have to go.”

“You? What! to nurse her?” said George Canninge, with a face now ghastly.

“Yes, sir; I must go. My brother has been down every day, and I’ve never been once!” she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing. “It’s dreadful cowardly, I know; but I could not help it then.”

“And she may die!” said George Canninge as he rode slowly home; “and I have never told her I loved her. Dare I go to see her now?”

He asked himself that question many times, and again many times on the succeeding days; but he did not go near the place where Hazel Thorne lay now, in the shabby room, upon the bed roughly made up for her by Mrs Potts; while Feelier, the very shadow of herself, lay watching “teacher,” and the tears stole down her wasted cheeks as she listened to Hazel Thorne’s excited talking, for the most part incoherent; but here and there a word came to Feelier’s ears, and she wept again, because she was too weak to get up and wait upon “teacher,” whose attack was rapidly assuming a serious form.

By special arrangement with the doctor, the news as to Hazel’s state was sent to the Burges’ after every visit. Not that this was held to suffice, for little Miss Burge was constantly calling at the doctor’s house, and asking for fresh information when there was none to give.

“I can’t bear this no longer, Bill dear,” said Miss Burge one morning. “There’s that poor girl lying there in that wretched place, and no one but strangers to tend her; and it seems as if all her friends had left her now she is in distress.”

“Not all,” said Burge, raising his drooping head. “I’m down there every day; only I can’t be admitted to her room, poor dear! I wish I might be.”

“And I’ve been holding back,” sobbed little Miss Burge, “because I felt afraid of catching the complaint, and the doctor said it would be madness for me to go; but I’m going down this morning, Bill dear, and if I die for it I won’t mind—at least not very much—for I’m sure I shouldn’t be any good to live if I couldn’t help at a time like this. Hasn’t her poor ma been to her yet?”

“No; she isn’t fit to go,” said Burge. “She is ill, and weak, and foolish, and the doctor told her that if she went she would only take the disease home to the little girls. She would only have worried her poor child and been in the way.”

“I’m glad I’ve never been a mother, Bill, to turn out no more use than that in trouble,” sobbed the little woman. “Now, do drink your tea, dear; it will do you good.”

“Nothing won’t do me no good, Betsey,” said the poor fellow dejectedly.

“But it looks so bad, dear, to see you like this. I declare you haven’t washed and shaved this mornings and your hair ain’t been brushed.”

“No,” he said drearily; “I forgot Betsey—I forgot.”

“Why, Bill!” she exclaimed, looking at him scrutinisingly.

“Yes, dear.”

“Why, you haven’t been to bed all night!”

“No, dear.”

“Why, if you haven’t been watching down there by that cottage!” she cried.

“Yes, dear,” he said quietly. “It seemed to do me good like.”

“Oh, Bill!”

“And then I went to the post-office, and I’ve telegraphed for Sir Henry Venner to come down by special train.”

“You have, Bill dear! Why, that’s the Queen’s doctor, ain’t it.”

“Yes, dear.”

“But won’t it cost a heap of money?”

“I’d give every penny I’ve got and sell myself too,” he said, with a ring of simple pathos in his voice, “if it would bring that poor darling back to herself.”

He laid his arms upon the table, and his forehead went down upon them, as he said softly, as if to himself—

“I don’t want any return—I’m not selfish—and I’d ask nothing back. I could go on loving her always, and be glad to see her happy, only please God to let her live—please God let her live!”

Little Miss Burge, with the tears streaming down her honest round face, rose from her seat at the breakfast-table, and went down upon her knees beside her brother, to lay her cheek against one of his hands.

“I’m going down to her now, Bill dear,” she said softly; “and I’ll watch by her night and day; for I think I love her, poor dear! as much as you.”

“God bless you, Betsey dear!” he said, drawing her to his breast, and speaking now with energy. “I couldn’t ask you to go, for it seemed like sending you where I daren’t go myself; but if you could go, dear, I should be a happier man!”

“And go I will, Bill; and I will do my best.”

“And look here, dear!” he cried, quite excitedly now, “you don’t know how you’re helping me, for now I can do what I want.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“Why, I thought, dear, if the big doctor would give leave, we might bring the poor girl on here; but I daren’t even think of it before, on account of you. You, see, dear, I could send away the servants, and get a nurse to come.”

“Oh yes; do, Bill dear!” cried the little body eagerly. “We’d put her in the west room, which would be so bright and cheerful, and—There, I’m standing talking when I ought to go.”

In fact, within five minutes little Miss Burge was ready, with her luggage on her arm; the said luggage consisting of a clean night-dress, “ditto” cap, a cake of soap, and a brush and comb; with which easily portable impedimenta she was soon after settled in Mrs Potts’s dreary low-roofed room.

“No, miss,” whispered the rough woman, “never slep’ a wink all night; but kep’ on talk, talk, talk, talking about her mother and father, and Squire Canninge, and the school pence, and that she was in disgrace.”

“And teacher kep’ saying Mr William Forth Burge was her dearest friend,” put in Feelier, in a shrill, weak voice.

“Hush!” whispered little Miss Burge, for their voices had disturbed Hazel, who, till then, had been lying in a kind of stupor.

She opened her eyes widely, and stared straight before her.

“Are you there, Mr Burge?—are you there?” she said in a quick, excited whisper.

“No, my dear; it’s me, Betsey Burge. I’ve come to stop with you.”

“I didn’t know how good and kind you were then—when I spoke as I did. I was very blind then—I was very blind then,” sighed Hazel wearily.

“And you’ll soon be better now,” said little Miss Burge in a soft, cheery way. “There—let me turn your pillow; it’s all so hot, and—Mrs Potts, send up for two pillows out of our best room directly.”

“Yes, mum; I’ll go myself;” and Mrs Potts hurried away.

“There, my dear, you’ll be nicer and cooler now, and—Oh, dear me, what a lot of things I do want! Mrs Potts, call at the druggist’s for some eau-de-cologne—a big bottle mind.”

“Yes, mum,” came from below.

“Her poor head’s like fire. There, dear—there, my poor dear, let me lay your hair away from you; it will cool your head.”

“Please, Miss Burge, don’t let them cut off all teacher’s hair,” whispered Feelier from the other bed.

“No, my dear; not if I can help it.”

“I want to tell you I was so ungrateful when you spoke to me as you did, Mr Burge,” said Hazel in her low excited whisper.

“No, no, my darling, not ungrateful,” said little Miss Burge, in the soothing voice any one would adopt to a child.—“Poor dear, she don’t know what she’s saying.”

“I have lain here and thought of what you have done,” continued Hazel, “and how self-denying you have always been to me; and I was ungrateful for it all. I know now I was ungrateful.”

“She is wandering, poor girl!” said little Miss Burge, with a sob, as she busied herself in making the room more comfortable, after she had smoothed Hazel’s pillow and opened the window wide to give her more air. After this she turned her attention to poor Feelier, rearranging her pillow, and ending by bathing her face and hands, the poor girl uttering a sigh of relief and pleasure, sinking back afterwards upon her cool pillow, too weak almost to raise her arm.

“There, now you feel more comfortable, don’t you, my dear?” whispered the busy little woman.

“Oh, yes, and—and—and—please—please I’ll never do so no more.”

Poor Feelier burst into a passionate fit of tearful remorse, sobbing wildly in spite of little Miss Burge’s efforts to calm her.

“Oh! hush, hush, my dear; pray be still.”

“I—I—I used to make faces at you in school,” sobbed Feelier.

“Yes, yes, yes; but hush my dear. You only did it in fun.”

“N-no, I didn’t,” sobbed Feelier; “I did it to make—make the other girls laugh.”

“But hush, pray hush, or you’ll hurt poor Miss Thorne.”

Feelier’s sobs ended in one large gulp, as if by magic, and she lay perfectly still, staring at the other bed.

“Please, Miss Burge,” she whispered, “will you bring some of your roses and put in water by teacher’s pillow?”

“Yes, my dear, that I will,” said the little lady, patting Feelier’s hand. “And now lie still, and don’t talk; let’s keep the room quiet, and try to make her better.”

“Yes, Miss Burge; but please will teacher get well?”

“Why, surely, my dear; and very soon.”

“Because mother said I was a little wretch and gave teacher the fever, and I wish I may die instead.”

“But you shall both get well, my dear, very soon; and then you shall both go down to the sea, and you shall be Miss Thorne’s little maid.”

“Shall I?” cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling and a flush coming into her thin, sunken cheeks.

“Yes, that you shall, my dear; only lie very still, and don’t talk.”

“Please, Miss Burge,” whispered Feelier, “let me tell you this.”

“Well, only this one thing, and then you must be very quiet, my dear.”

“Yes, I will,” whispered Feelier, in a quiet, old-fashioned way; “but that’s how teacher keeps on all night and all day; she keeps on wanting Mr William Forth Burge to come to her, and mother says I kep’ on just the same, asking for teacher to come, and I was quiet when she did, and then”—sob—“she caught the fever too.”

“Yes, yes, my dear; but you’ll soon do better now.”

“But you’d better let old Billy Burge—”

Feelier stopped short, conscious of the slip of her guilty tongue, and looked up at her gentle attendant as if she expected a blow.

“I won’t call him that name agen,” she said demurely, “but if he come he’d do teacher good; only if he did come, he’d ketch the fever too, and I don’t know what’s best, only we mustn’t let teacher die.”

“No, no, my dear; of course not,” whispered little Miss Burge hastily.

“But if she did die I know what I should do,” said Feelier dreamily, and with a drowsy look in her eyes, the effect of being washed and the cooler atmosphere of the room inducing sleep.

“What should you do, my dear?” said Miss Burge, pressing down the pillow to let the cool air blow upon her cheek.

“I should set violets and primroses all over her grave; and if any of the other girls was to pick any of ’em, oh, I would give ’em such a banging! And then—then—then—”

And then poor, weak Ophelia Potts sank into a profound sleep, and little Miss Burge wiped her eyes and sat and watched Hazel’s weary, restless head; listening to her broken sentences and the incoherent mutterings, all of which were to the same tune—that she had been weak and cruel and ungrateful to one who had been all devotion to her, and that she would never rest till she had tried to make him some amends.

“Poor Bill, if he could only hear her now, how glad he’d be!” sighed the watcher; “but this will all pass away, and when she gets well she’ll never know she said a word. Poor Bill; it won’t never—it couldn’t ever be!”

“I want Mr Burge,” cried Hazel suddenly, and her voice sounded hard and strange. “Tell him to come to me—tell him to come.”

“Yes, yes, yes, my darling; he shall come soon.”

“He would catch the fever, do you say? No no; I could not give it to him; he is so kind and good. Tell Mr Geringer, mother, it is impossible; I could not be his wife.”

“Oh, my poor dear!” whispered Miss Burge, bathing Hazel’s burning forehead with the eau-de-cologne that Mrs Potts had now brought; “that poor, poor, burning, wandering brain. Why don’t the doctor come?”

Chapter Forty Three.The Queen’s Physician.It was many hours yet before the doctor came, for the life of one patient is no more to a medical man than that of another, and the great physician had several urgent cases to see before he could use the special train placed at his disposal by Hazel’s elderly lover, who had never left the station all the morning, and had given instructions that the starting of the train should be telegraphed to him from the terminus in town.In addition, he had a messenger, in the shape of Feelier’s brother, who came to and fro every hour to where Mr William Forth Burge was walking up and down the platform, to deliver a report from Miss Burge on the patient’s state.One of these messages was to the effect that the local doctor had been, and said that there was no change; and that he was stopping at home on purpose to meet the great physician when he came.So was Mr William Forth Burge’s carriage, and so was a group of the tradespeople and others, for in the easy-going life of a little country town the loss of a day was as nothing compared to the chance of seeing the Queen’s own physician when he came down.At last, but not till far in the afternoon, came the lightning message speeding along the wires, “Special left King’s Cross 3:30;” and then how slow seemed the rapid special, and by comparison how it lagged upon its way, for it would be quite an hour and a half, the station-master said, perhaps two hours, even at express speed.And all this time William Forth Burge waited, and would have taken nothing but for the thoughtfulness of the station-master’s wife, who brought him some tea.“No, six, not yet; that’s the fast down.” Or, “No sir, not yet; that’s only the afternoon goods.” Or again, “No sir; that’s only the slow local. They’ll wire me from Marshton when she passes.”This from the chief official; and at last the wired message came, and after what seemed to be an interminable time, a fast engine, tender, one saloon carriage, and brake steamed into the station, and a little, quiet dark man stepped out as the door was held open by the station-master, waiting ready to do honour to the man greater in his power than the magician kings of old, but very weak even then.“Mr William Forth Burge? Thanks. Carriage waiting. Thanks. Now tell me a little of the case.”This was mastered principally by questions as they drove to the cottage.“Yes,” said the great man. “I see. The old thing, my dear sir. What can you expect with sanitary arrangements such as these?”He pointed right and left as they drove along, Mr William Forth Burge suddenly checking the driver, as they were about halfway, to pick up Doctor Bartlett, the resident medical man.Next followed a consultation in the wretched keeping-room of the cottage, the great doctor treating his humble brother with the most profound respect, and then they went up to the bedroom, and little Miss Burge came down to her brother with her handkerchief to her eyes.A dreary half-hour followed before the doctors came down, the two occupants of the room gazing up at them with appeal in their eyes as they vacated their chairs in the great man’s favour.“I can only say, Mr William Forth Burge, that we must hope,” said the great baronet. “It is the most ordinary form of typhoid fever, and must have its course. I may add that I almost regret that you should have called me down, unless my opinion is any comfort to you; for I can neither add to nor detract from the skilful treatment adopted by myconfrère, Doctor Bartlett, who is carefully watching the case. What we want is the best of nursing; and, at any cost, let the poor girl be taken to some light, wholesome, airy room.”“Might we risk moving her?” panted Mr Burge.“It is a grave risk; but it must be ventured, with the greatest care, under Doctor Bartlett’s instructions; for I have no hesitation in saying that if our patient stays here she will die.”“God bless you, Sir Henry; I’d have given all I possess for that!” gasped Burge, as he placed a slip of paper in the doctor’s hands.There was the drive back to the station, the little train steamed out, and that evening, while poor Feelier Potts slept, Hazel Thorne was carried down to the Burges’ carriage, and lay that night in the west room, to keep on talking incessantly of her cruelty to one who had been so noble, so true, and good, and to make appeals to him for his forgiveness, as she now knew how to value his honest love.

It was many hours yet before the doctor came, for the life of one patient is no more to a medical man than that of another, and the great physician had several urgent cases to see before he could use the special train placed at his disposal by Hazel’s elderly lover, who had never left the station all the morning, and had given instructions that the starting of the train should be telegraphed to him from the terminus in town.

In addition, he had a messenger, in the shape of Feelier’s brother, who came to and fro every hour to where Mr William Forth Burge was walking up and down the platform, to deliver a report from Miss Burge on the patient’s state.

One of these messages was to the effect that the local doctor had been, and said that there was no change; and that he was stopping at home on purpose to meet the great physician when he came.

So was Mr William Forth Burge’s carriage, and so was a group of the tradespeople and others, for in the easy-going life of a little country town the loss of a day was as nothing compared to the chance of seeing the Queen’s own physician when he came down.

At last, but not till far in the afternoon, came the lightning message speeding along the wires, “Special left King’s Cross 3:30;” and then how slow seemed the rapid special, and by comparison how it lagged upon its way, for it would be quite an hour and a half, the station-master said, perhaps two hours, even at express speed.

And all this time William Forth Burge waited, and would have taken nothing but for the thoughtfulness of the station-master’s wife, who brought him some tea.

“No, six, not yet; that’s the fast down.” Or, “No sir, not yet; that’s only the afternoon goods.” Or again, “No sir; that’s only the slow local. They’ll wire me from Marshton when she passes.”

This from the chief official; and at last the wired message came, and after what seemed to be an interminable time, a fast engine, tender, one saloon carriage, and brake steamed into the station, and a little, quiet dark man stepped out as the door was held open by the station-master, waiting ready to do honour to the man greater in his power than the magician kings of old, but very weak even then.

“Mr William Forth Burge? Thanks. Carriage waiting. Thanks. Now tell me a little of the case.”

This was mastered principally by questions as they drove to the cottage.

“Yes,” said the great man. “I see. The old thing, my dear sir. What can you expect with sanitary arrangements such as these?”

He pointed right and left as they drove along, Mr William Forth Burge suddenly checking the driver, as they were about halfway, to pick up Doctor Bartlett, the resident medical man.

Next followed a consultation in the wretched keeping-room of the cottage, the great doctor treating his humble brother with the most profound respect, and then they went up to the bedroom, and little Miss Burge came down to her brother with her handkerchief to her eyes.

A dreary half-hour followed before the doctors came down, the two occupants of the room gazing up at them with appeal in their eyes as they vacated their chairs in the great man’s favour.

“I can only say, Mr William Forth Burge, that we must hope,” said the great baronet. “It is the most ordinary form of typhoid fever, and must have its course. I may add that I almost regret that you should have called me down, unless my opinion is any comfort to you; for I can neither add to nor detract from the skilful treatment adopted by myconfrère, Doctor Bartlett, who is carefully watching the case. What we want is the best of nursing; and, at any cost, let the poor girl be taken to some light, wholesome, airy room.”

“Might we risk moving her?” panted Mr Burge.

“It is a grave risk; but it must be ventured, with the greatest care, under Doctor Bartlett’s instructions; for I have no hesitation in saying that if our patient stays here she will die.”

“God bless you, Sir Henry; I’d have given all I possess for that!” gasped Burge, as he placed a slip of paper in the doctor’s hands.

There was the drive back to the station, the little train steamed out, and that evening, while poor Feelier Potts slept, Hazel Thorne was carried down to the Burges’ carriage, and lay that night in the west room, to keep on talking incessantly of her cruelty to one who had been so noble, so true, and good, and to make appeals to him for his forgiveness, as she now knew how to value his honest love.

Chapter Forty Four.Mrs Thorne Receives.Hazel Thorne’s illness came like a shock to Plumton All Saints, and the opposing members of the committee, who had been instrumental in gaining her dismissal, looked angrily one at the other, as if that other one was specially to blame. The Reverend Henry Lambent sent down messengers to know how Miss Thorne was progressing, and later on sent the same messengers to the Burges’ for news.“Will you not go down and see Mrs Thorne, Rebecca—Beatrice?” he said, one day, appealingly. “This is a troublous time.”“We had already felt it to be a duty, Henry, and we will run all risks in such a cause.”There was not the slightest risk in going to the schoolmistress’s cottage, and the sisters went down, to find Mrs Thorne weak and almost prostrate with illness and anxiety, but ready to draw herself up stiffly to receive her visitors.“Cissy, Mabel, place chairs for these ladies,” she said. “Miss Lambent will perhaps excuse my rising. I am an invalid.”Rebecca bowed and glanced at her sister, who made her a sign to proceed.“We have called, Mrs Thorne, knowing you to be in so sad a state of affliction—”“To offer a few words of condolence,” said Mrs Thorne, interrupting her. “It is very neighbourly and kind, I am sure I am sorry poor Hazel is too unwell to be here to receive you as well.”“What insolence!” muttered Beatrice.“Condolence is hardly the word,” said Rebecca stiffly. “We are very much grieved about Miss Thorne, especially as her illness has come almost like a chastisement for her weakness in her discharge of her scholastic trust.”“Oh! You are alluding to the school trifle she did not pay over to the collector at the time,” said Mrs Thorne haughtily. “It is a pity that so much should have been made of so trivial a matter.”“Trivial, Mrs Thorne! Your daughter’s conduct—”“Has always been that of a lady, Miss Lambent. Ah! you single ladies don’t know, and of course never will know, the necessities of housekeeping.”Beatrice winced.“I used that money as I would small change, and I must say I am surprised at Mr Lambent or his sisters, or the school committee, or whoever it is, being so absurdly particular.”“Particular, Mrs Thorne!” cried Rebecca, aghast.“Yes; it is very absurd. By-the-way, I may as well observe that I have this morning received a letter from my late husband’s solicitor, telling me that fifteen hundred pounds, the result of some business arrangement of his, are now lying at my disposal at the bank; and if you will send the properly authorised person down I will give him a cheque.”“Mrs Thorne!” exclaimed Rebecca, whom this assumption of perfect equality—at times even of superiority—galled terribly, “we came down here to give you a little good advice—to say a few words of sympathy, and to bring you two or three books to read, and ponder over their contents. I am surprised and grieved that you should have taken such a tone.”“I beg your pardon, Miss Lambent,” retorted Mrs Thorne, who was very pale and much excited; “allow me to tell you that you are making a mistake. I am not in the habit of receiving parochial visits. They may be very acceptable to the poor of your district, but, as a lady, when another lady calls upon me, I look upon it as a visit of ceremony. You will excuse me, but I am not well. My daughter’s illness—my own—rather tells upon me. You will excuse my rising. I beg your pardon, you are forgetting your little books.”She picked them up from the table, and held them out; the top one was “The Dairyman’s Daughter,” in paper cover.The Lambent sisters had risen, and were darting indignant looks at Hazel’s mother before she drew their attention to the books they were leaving upon the table; now their anger was hot indeed.“We brought them for you to read,” cried Rebecca indignantly. “They were for your good. Mrs Thorne, your conduct is insolent in the extreme.”“Insolent in the extreme,” assented Beatrice.“I am too unwell to argue with you, ladies,” said Mrs Thorne loftily. “Cissy, my child, take those into the kitchen, and give them to one of the school children as they come by. Mabel, my dear, bring mamma a glass of water.”She took not the slightest further notice of her visitors, who looked at one another for a few moments, and then left the house, marching by the window with stately stride, while Mrs Thorne leant back in her chair, saying to herself—“Next time they call I hope they will remember that I am a lady.”That same evening, as she sat alone, she drew the letter of which she had spoken from her pocket, and read it through again, the second perusal giving her fresh strength and increasing dignity.“I shall certainly insist now,” she said musingly, as she refolded the letter and tapped her left forefinger with the edge, “upon Hazel entering into a matrimonial alliance with Edward Geringer. He is older, certainly; but what of that? He is rich and loves her, and will make her an admirable husband; and when, by-and-by he leaves her, she will still be young and handsome, and, what is better, rich, and not left, as I have been, at the mercy of the world—Lambents and people of that class. Yes, I am in a position now to insist, and I shall write to Edward Geringer at once. Perhaps his coming would have a favourable effect upon Hazel’s illness—a foolish, weak girl, to persist in going to that house when I so strongly advised her not.”Mrs Thorne sat musing and building herchâteaux en Espagne, while the children amused themselves in the garden.“Yes,” she continued, “I am once more, I am thankful to say, no longer dependent upon charity, nor yet upon poor Hazel—weak, foolish child! It is a pity she should have grown so conceited and arbitrary on finding herself at the head of affairs. Ah, these young people—these young people! But I will not blame her, for a great deal was due to the teachings of that training institution. I noticed the change in her directly. It did so put me in mind of young Penton, when he received his commission of ensign in the 200th Foot. He had just the same short, sharp, haughty way that my Hazel assumed, poor child! Ah, well! we have nearly got to the end of the school teaching, and it will be a lesson for us all. It was against my wishes that she took it up—that I will say; and it has been very hard upon me to bring me down to the companionship of such a woman as Mrs Chute. I wish I had never seen her, for I should never have thought of using those school pence if it had not been for her.”Mrs Thorne smoothed down her black silk apron, and sat thinking for some time before exclaiming—“Yes, I will write a cheque for the amount and send it in a note, with my compliments, to Mr Lambent. It will be the most ladylike way of proceeding. The children shall put on their best hats and take it up. It will be better than trusting the money to the school children or the post. I will do it at once.”The poor, weak woman smiled with satisfaction as she took out the thin oblong book that had been sent to her that morning, and wrote out a cheque for the amount due for the children’s school pence, carefully blotting and folding it, and placing it in a sheet of note-paper inscribed, “With Mrs Thorne’s compliments.”“Of course it ought to go to Mr Piper; but I shall send it to the vicar, and he must pay it himself. Good gracious!”She had just directed the envelope to the Reverend Henry Lambent, when she saw him pass the window; and as she sat listening, her heart beating heavily the while, there was a gentle tap at the door, which was standing open, and the vicar’s voice said softly—“May I come in?”“Yes; I—that is—Yes, pray come—in, Mr Lambent; but if you have called on account of your sisters’ visit to me this morning, I—”“My visit was to you alone, Mrs Thorne,” said the vicar gravely.“But I must protest against any such visits as your sisters’!”“My dear Mrs Thorne,” said the vicar sadly, “I have come to you, a lady who has known great trouble, as a friend. My dear madam, I have a very painful communication to make. Your daughter—”“Not worse, Mr Lambent?” cried Mrs Thorne piteously. “Don’t say she’s worse!”There was a painful silence, and then the vicar sighed heavily as he said—“Her state is very dangerous indeed.”

Hazel Thorne’s illness came like a shock to Plumton All Saints, and the opposing members of the committee, who had been instrumental in gaining her dismissal, looked angrily one at the other, as if that other one was specially to blame. The Reverend Henry Lambent sent down messengers to know how Miss Thorne was progressing, and later on sent the same messengers to the Burges’ for news.

“Will you not go down and see Mrs Thorne, Rebecca—Beatrice?” he said, one day, appealingly. “This is a troublous time.”

“We had already felt it to be a duty, Henry, and we will run all risks in such a cause.”

There was not the slightest risk in going to the schoolmistress’s cottage, and the sisters went down, to find Mrs Thorne weak and almost prostrate with illness and anxiety, but ready to draw herself up stiffly to receive her visitors.

“Cissy, Mabel, place chairs for these ladies,” she said. “Miss Lambent will perhaps excuse my rising. I am an invalid.”

Rebecca bowed and glanced at her sister, who made her a sign to proceed.

“We have called, Mrs Thorne, knowing you to be in so sad a state of affliction—”

“To offer a few words of condolence,” said Mrs Thorne, interrupting her. “It is very neighbourly and kind, I am sure I am sorry poor Hazel is too unwell to be here to receive you as well.”

“What insolence!” muttered Beatrice.

“Condolence is hardly the word,” said Rebecca stiffly. “We are very much grieved about Miss Thorne, especially as her illness has come almost like a chastisement for her weakness in her discharge of her scholastic trust.”

“Oh! You are alluding to the school trifle she did not pay over to the collector at the time,” said Mrs Thorne haughtily. “It is a pity that so much should have been made of so trivial a matter.”

“Trivial, Mrs Thorne! Your daughter’s conduct—”

“Has always been that of a lady, Miss Lambent. Ah! you single ladies don’t know, and of course never will know, the necessities of housekeeping.”

Beatrice winced.

“I used that money as I would small change, and I must say I am surprised at Mr Lambent or his sisters, or the school committee, or whoever it is, being so absurdly particular.”

“Particular, Mrs Thorne!” cried Rebecca, aghast.

“Yes; it is very absurd. By-the-way, I may as well observe that I have this morning received a letter from my late husband’s solicitor, telling me that fifteen hundred pounds, the result of some business arrangement of his, are now lying at my disposal at the bank; and if you will send the properly authorised person down I will give him a cheque.”

“Mrs Thorne!” exclaimed Rebecca, whom this assumption of perfect equality—at times even of superiority—galled terribly, “we came down here to give you a little good advice—to say a few words of sympathy, and to bring you two or three books to read, and ponder over their contents. I am surprised and grieved that you should have taken such a tone.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Lambent,” retorted Mrs Thorne, who was very pale and much excited; “allow me to tell you that you are making a mistake. I am not in the habit of receiving parochial visits. They may be very acceptable to the poor of your district, but, as a lady, when another lady calls upon me, I look upon it as a visit of ceremony. You will excuse me, but I am not well. My daughter’s illness—my own—rather tells upon me. You will excuse my rising. I beg your pardon, you are forgetting your little books.”

She picked them up from the table, and held them out; the top one was “The Dairyman’s Daughter,” in paper cover.

The Lambent sisters had risen, and were darting indignant looks at Hazel’s mother before she drew their attention to the books they were leaving upon the table; now their anger was hot indeed.

“We brought them for you to read,” cried Rebecca indignantly. “They were for your good. Mrs Thorne, your conduct is insolent in the extreme.”

“Insolent in the extreme,” assented Beatrice.

“I am too unwell to argue with you, ladies,” said Mrs Thorne loftily. “Cissy, my child, take those into the kitchen, and give them to one of the school children as they come by. Mabel, my dear, bring mamma a glass of water.”

She took not the slightest further notice of her visitors, who looked at one another for a few moments, and then left the house, marching by the window with stately stride, while Mrs Thorne leant back in her chair, saying to herself—

“Next time they call I hope they will remember that I am a lady.”

That same evening, as she sat alone, she drew the letter of which she had spoken from her pocket, and read it through again, the second perusal giving her fresh strength and increasing dignity.

“I shall certainly insist now,” she said musingly, as she refolded the letter and tapped her left forefinger with the edge, “upon Hazel entering into a matrimonial alliance with Edward Geringer. He is older, certainly; but what of that? He is rich and loves her, and will make her an admirable husband; and when, by-and-by he leaves her, she will still be young and handsome, and, what is better, rich, and not left, as I have been, at the mercy of the world—Lambents and people of that class. Yes, I am in a position now to insist, and I shall write to Edward Geringer at once. Perhaps his coming would have a favourable effect upon Hazel’s illness—a foolish, weak girl, to persist in going to that house when I so strongly advised her not.”

Mrs Thorne sat musing and building herchâteaux en Espagne, while the children amused themselves in the garden.

“Yes,” she continued, “I am once more, I am thankful to say, no longer dependent upon charity, nor yet upon poor Hazel—weak, foolish child! It is a pity she should have grown so conceited and arbitrary on finding herself at the head of affairs. Ah, these young people—these young people! But I will not blame her, for a great deal was due to the teachings of that training institution. I noticed the change in her directly. It did so put me in mind of young Penton, when he received his commission of ensign in the 200th Foot. He had just the same short, sharp, haughty way that my Hazel assumed, poor child! Ah, well! we have nearly got to the end of the school teaching, and it will be a lesson for us all. It was against my wishes that she took it up—that I will say; and it has been very hard upon me to bring me down to the companionship of such a woman as Mrs Chute. I wish I had never seen her, for I should never have thought of using those school pence if it had not been for her.”

Mrs Thorne smoothed down her black silk apron, and sat thinking for some time before exclaiming—

“Yes, I will write a cheque for the amount and send it in a note, with my compliments, to Mr Lambent. It will be the most ladylike way of proceeding. The children shall put on their best hats and take it up. It will be better than trusting the money to the school children or the post. I will do it at once.”

The poor, weak woman smiled with satisfaction as she took out the thin oblong book that had been sent to her that morning, and wrote out a cheque for the amount due for the children’s school pence, carefully blotting and folding it, and placing it in a sheet of note-paper inscribed, “With Mrs Thorne’s compliments.”

“Of course it ought to go to Mr Piper; but I shall send it to the vicar, and he must pay it himself. Good gracious!”

She had just directed the envelope to the Reverend Henry Lambent, when she saw him pass the window; and as she sat listening, her heart beating heavily the while, there was a gentle tap at the door, which was standing open, and the vicar’s voice said softly—“May I come in?”

“Yes; I—that is—Yes, pray come—in, Mr Lambent; but if you have called on account of your sisters’ visit to me this morning, I—”

“My visit was to you alone, Mrs Thorne,” said the vicar gravely.

“But I must protest against any such visits as your sisters’!”

“My dear Mrs Thorne,” said the vicar sadly, “I have come to you, a lady who has known great trouble, as a friend. My dear madam, I have a very painful communication to make. Your daughter—”

“Not worse, Mr Lambent?” cried Mrs Thorne piteously. “Don’t say she’s worse!”

There was a painful silence, and then the vicar sighed heavily as he said—

“Her state is very dangerous indeed.”

Chapter Forty Five.A Breach of Promise of Marriage.Hazel seemed to have borne the moving well, and the doctor smiled his satisfaction at seeing his patient in such light and cheerful quarters; but the days had gone on without change. Night and day there had been the same weary, restless wandering of the fevered brain—the same constant talking of the troubles of the past; and little Miss Burge sobbed aloud sometimes as she listened to some of the revelations of Hazel’s breast.“Poor dear!” she said, and she strove to give the sufferer the rest and ease that would not come, as hour by hour she watched the terrible inroads the fever made in her care-worn face.“She’s getting that thin, doctor, it’s quite pitiful,” she said; but only to receive the same answer.“Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear madam, and we will soon build up fresh tissue, and you shall see her gain strength every hour.”But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of every care Hazel’s state grew critical indeed.“If I might only see her, dear,” said Mr William Forth Burge; “if I might only speak to her once. I wouldn’t want to come in.”“No, Bill dear,” said the little woman firmly; “not yet. The doctor says it is best not, and you must wait.”“Does—does she ever in her wanderings—a—a—does she ever speak about me, Betsey?”“Yes; sometimes she says you have been very kind.”“She has said that?”“Yes, dear; but she is not herself, Bill dear. She’s quite off her head. I wouldn’t build up any hopes upon that.”“No, I won’t,” he said hastily. “I don’t expect anything—I don’t want anything, only to see her well again. But it does me good to think she can think of me ever so little while she is ill.”“You see, dear, it’s her wandering,” said his sister; “that’s all.”“But tell me, Betsey, tell me again, do you think she will get over it?” he said imploringly.She looked at him with the tears trickling down her face, but she did not answer.“He comes, you see, and smiles and rubs his hands, and says, ‘She’s no worse—she’s no worse, Mr William Forth Burge, sir;’ but I can’t trust him, Betsey, like I can you. There,” he cried, “see: I’m quite calm, and I’ll bear it like a man. Tell me, do you think she’ll get over it?”“Bill dear, I can’t tell you a lie, but I don’t think there’s any present danger. I do think, though, you ought to send for the poor girl’s brother, and let him be down.”William Forth Burge uttered a low groan, for he read the worst in his sister’s eyes.“I’ll send for him directly, dear,” he said; and he rose and staggered from the room.It was in the morning, and the message for Percy to come down at once was sent; after which, in a dull, heavy way, Burge stood staring before him, trying to get his brain to act clearly, as he asked himself what he ought to do next.“I think I ought to go down to her mother,” he said softly; “and I will.”In this intent he went softly out into the hall, when little Miss Burge came hastily down the stairs, and her brother gasped as he placed one hand upon his side.“Bill—Bill,” she whispered excitedly, “she is talking sensibly, and she wants to see you.”“Wants to see me?” he panted. “No, no; she is wandering, poor girl!”“No, no, dear,” cried little Miss Burge, clinging to his arm; “she has asked for you hundreds of times when she was wandering, and I wouldn’t tell you—I thought it wouldn’t be right. But now she’s quite herself, and she’s asking for you to come.”“But ought I,” he said, “in my own house?”“Yes—now,” whispered back his sister. “But Bill dear, she’s wasted away to a shadow, she’s weak as weak, and you must not say a word more to her than if she was a friend or you were her brother.”“No, no,” he said hoarsely.“Come, then. She wants to speak to you, and it may do her good.”Trembling with excitement, William Forth Burge softly followed his sister up the stairs, trying to smile and look composed, so as to present an encouraging aspect to the invalid, telling himself, heartsore though he was, that it was his duty, and that it would have a good effect; but as he entered the room and saw the change that had taken place, he uttered a low groan, and stood as if nailed to the floor.For Hazel was changed indeed. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes looked unnaturally large, but the restless, pained expression had passed away, and the light of recognition was in her eyes, as she tried to raise one hand, which fell back upon the coverlet.He saw her lips part, and she smiled at him as he stood there by the door. This brought him back to himself, and he went hurriedly towards the bedside.“It was selfish of me to ask you to come,” she said softly; “but you have both shown that you do not fear the fever.”“Fear it, my dear? No!” he said, taking her thin white hand, kissing it, and making as if to lay it reverently back upon the coverlet; but the fingers closed round his, and a thrill of joy shot through his breast, as it seemed for the moment that she was clinging to him.“How am I ever to thank you enough?” she said, in a faint whisper. “Why have you brought me here? It troubles me. I feel as if I should make you suffer.”“But you mustn’t talk now, my darling,” whispered little Miss Burge. “Wait till the doctor has been, and only lie still now and rest your poor self.”“Yes—rest,” she said feebly—“rest. I feel so easy now. All that dreadful pain has gone.”“Thank God!”She turned her eyes upon the speaker with a grateful look and smiled faintly, motioning to him to take the chair by the bedside.“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Yes; keep hold of my hand. You have been so kind, and I seem to see it all now so plainly.”“But my darling, you must not talk. There, just say a word or two to him, and then he must go. I’m going to ask the doctor to come and see you now.”“No: let him wait. I must talk now. Perhaps to-night my senses will go again, and I shall be wandering on and on amongst the troubles once more.”“Then you will be very still, dear.”“Yes; I only want to lie and rest. Don’t leave me, Mr Burge. Hold my hand.”There was a sweet, calm look upon her face as she lay there, holding feebly by the hand that tenderly grasped hers, and her eyes half-closed as if in sleep.From time to time William Forth Burge exchanged glances with his sister, but the looks he received in return were always encouraging, and he sat there, care-worn and anxious, but at the same time feeling supremely happy.An hour had passed before Hazel spoke again, and then it was in a dreamy, thoughtful whisper.“I’ve been thinking about the past,” she said, “and recalling all that has been done for me. I cannot talk much; but, Mr Burge, I can feel it all. Don’t—don’t think me ungrateful.”“No, no,” he whispered, as he bent down and kissed her hand; “I never could.”“I was thinking about—about when you asked me—to be your wife.”“Yes, yes, my dear!” he said eagerly; “but I was mad then. It was only an old fellow’s fancy. I could not help it. It was foolish, and I ought to have known better. But we know one another now, and all you’ve got to do, my dear, is to grow well and strong, and find out that William Burge is man enough to do what’s right.”She lay thinking for some little time, and then he felt that a feeble effort was being made to draw his hand closer to her face, and yielding it, once more a wild throb ran through his nerves, for she feebly drew his hand to her cheek and held it there.“I was very blind then,” she said in a whisper; “but I am not blind now.”She spoke with her eyes closed, the restful look intensifying as the time glided on.After a while the woman who had acted as nurse announced the coming of the doctor, who brightened and looked pleased as he saw the change.“Yes,” he said; “the fever has left her. Now we must build her up again.”And after satisfying himself about his patient’s state, he beckoned Miss Burge from the room, and gave the fullest instructions as to the course to be pursued, promised to come in again that evening, and went away.The day glided on, and William Forth Burge kept his place by the bedside, feeling that it was his by right; and then, at times, suffering from a terrible depression, as he told himself that he ought to go, and not presume upon the weakness of one who was in his charge. Hazel lay with her eyes half-closed, apparently in a restful, dreamy state, rousing herself a little when her tender nurse administered to her food or medicine, and then turning her eyes for a few moments to the occupant of the chair by the bedside, smiling at him sadly, afterwards, with a restful sigh, letting her cheek lie against his hand.“I should like to have seen my little sisters,” she said once softly, “and my poor mother; but it would be cruel to bring them here. I should like to kiss poor Ophelia too.” She laughed faintly here, as if amused. “Poor child!—so good at heart. Poor child!”There was another long interval of genuine sleep now, which lasted until evening, when Hazel awoke with a frightened start crying out painfully.“What is it, my pet?” whispered little Miss Burge, bending over the bed, and parting the hair from Hazel’s hot wet brow. “There—there; you’re better now.”The light of recognition came, and she darted a swift, clear look at the speaker, then turned excitedly to the bedside where William Forth Burge still sat holding her hand.The peaceful smile came back as she saw him there, and she began speaking in a quick, excited way:—“I have been dreaming—I thought I had told him it was impossible again—that I could not; for I loved some one else. But I do not. It was a weak girl’s fancy. Miss Burge, I should like to kiss you, dear; but it would be unkind. Touch my face—my lips with your fingers.”“My darling, I have no fear,” sobbed the little woman; and she bent down and kissed the poor girl passionately, but only to rise in alarm, and make a sign to her brother, which he interpreted aright, and was about to rise and seek for help; but Hazel clung to his hand in alarm.“No, no! don’t go!” she said hoarsely. “I could not bear it now.”“I’ll run, Bill!” panted Miss Burge; but a word from Hazel stayed her.“No; stop!” she whispered. “God knows best, Miss Burge. Lift me a little more. Let my head rest on your shoulder—so!”William Forth Burge raised the thin, slight form tenderly and reverently, till Hazel’s head rested upon his broad shoulder, and he held her there; but she was not satisfied till he had placed her arm so that it half embraced his neck, and there she lay, gazing with her unnaturally bright, wistful eyes in his, while the great tears slowly welled over their bounds and trickled down his heavy face.“Miss Burge,” she said again, and there was something very strange and wild in her voice, “I was weak and foolish once; but now it is too late, I have grown wiser—just at last. This is going to be my husband. In his dear memory I shall be his wife, for I love him now—with all my heart!”She closed her eyes for a few moments, and without a sound little Miss Burge stretched out one hand to the bell, making a sign to the nurse who answered, and then glided away.There was a long, deep silence then, broken only by a sob from Miss Burge, who now sank upon her knees by the bedside.Hazel’s eyes opened again, and she gazed about her wildly, and as if in fear; but the restful smile came back, and she sighed as if relieved; and again there was a long silence, during which the watchers waited impatiently for the doctor’s step.And so the minutes glided by, and the night came on apace—a night they felt would be black and deep, for all hope was gone.Then Hazel spoke again, and her voice sounded clearer and more distinct—“I shall not hurt you now,” she said softly, and her thin, wasted hand rose from the counterpane, seemed to tremble in the air for a moment, and then nestled in William Forth Burge’s breast. “Kiss me,” she said softly; “think that—at last—I loved you. So tired—let me sleep!”Is there truth in the old superstitious stories that we hear? True in their spiritual sense or no, just then a black pigeon that had hovered about the house for days alighted upon the window-sill, and the rustle of its wings sounded loud and painful in the oppressive stillness of that evening.From the fields the soft lowing of the kine came mellowed and sweet, and from the wood behind the house a thrush sang its evening hymn to the passing day, while, as the west grew less ruddy, the soft dawn-like light intensified in the north.It needed but one sound to add to the solemnity of the time, and that was the heavy knoll of the church bell, which rang out the curfew, as it had announced the hour from the far-back days when it was cast and blessed, and holy hands first hung it there.Just then little Miss Burge uttered a faint ejaculation of relief, for there was a quick step upon the gravel; but ere it reached the door there was a deep sigh in the shadowed room, Hazel’s large, soft eyes grew dilate, and their light was for ever gone; another bridegroom had snatched her from her simple-hearted lover’s arms—and that bridegroom was Death!The End.

Hazel seemed to have borne the moving well, and the doctor smiled his satisfaction at seeing his patient in such light and cheerful quarters; but the days had gone on without change. Night and day there had been the same weary, restless wandering of the fevered brain—the same constant talking of the troubles of the past; and little Miss Burge sobbed aloud sometimes as she listened to some of the revelations of Hazel’s breast.

“Poor dear!” she said, and she strove to give the sufferer the rest and ease that would not come, as hour by hour she watched the terrible inroads the fever made in her care-worn face.

“She’s getting that thin, doctor, it’s quite pitiful,” she said; but only to receive the same answer.

“Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear madam, and we will soon build up fresh tissue, and you shall see her gain strength every hour.”

But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of every care Hazel’s state grew critical indeed.

“If I might only see her, dear,” said Mr William Forth Burge; “if I might only speak to her once. I wouldn’t want to come in.”

“No, Bill dear,” said the little woman firmly; “not yet. The doctor says it is best not, and you must wait.”

“Does—does she ever in her wanderings—a—a—does she ever speak about me, Betsey?”

“Yes; sometimes she says you have been very kind.”

“She has said that?”

“Yes, dear; but she is not herself, Bill dear. She’s quite off her head. I wouldn’t build up any hopes upon that.”

“No, I won’t,” he said hastily. “I don’t expect anything—I don’t want anything, only to see her well again. But it does me good to think she can think of me ever so little while she is ill.”

“You see, dear, it’s her wandering,” said his sister; “that’s all.”

“But tell me, Betsey, tell me again, do you think she will get over it?” he said imploringly.

She looked at him with the tears trickling down her face, but she did not answer.

“He comes, you see, and smiles and rubs his hands, and says, ‘She’s no worse—she’s no worse, Mr William Forth Burge, sir;’ but I can’t trust him, Betsey, like I can you. There,” he cried, “see: I’m quite calm, and I’ll bear it like a man. Tell me, do you think she’ll get over it?”

“Bill dear, I can’t tell you a lie, but I don’t think there’s any present danger. I do think, though, you ought to send for the poor girl’s brother, and let him be down.”

William Forth Burge uttered a low groan, for he read the worst in his sister’s eyes.

“I’ll send for him directly, dear,” he said; and he rose and staggered from the room.

It was in the morning, and the message for Percy to come down at once was sent; after which, in a dull, heavy way, Burge stood staring before him, trying to get his brain to act clearly, as he asked himself what he ought to do next.

“I think I ought to go down to her mother,” he said softly; “and I will.”

In this intent he went softly out into the hall, when little Miss Burge came hastily down the stairs, and her brother gasped as he placed one hand upon his side.

“Bill—Bill,” she whispered excitedly, “she is talking sensibly, and she wants to see you.”

“Wants to see me?” he panted. “No, no; she is wandering, poor girl!”

“No, no, dear,” cried little Miss Burge, clinging to his arm; “she has asked for you hundreds of times when she was wandering, and I wouldn’t tell you—I thought it wouldn’t be right. But now she’s quite herself, and she’s asking for you to come.”

“But ought I,” he said, “in my own house?”

“Yes—now,” whispered back his sister. “But Bill dear, she’s wasted away to a shadow, she’s weak as weak, and you must not say a word more to her than if she was a friend or you were her brother.”

“No, no,” he said hoarsely.

“Come, then. She wants to speak to you, and it may do her good.”

Trembling with excitement, William Forth Burge softly followed his sister up the stairs, trying to smile and look composed, so as to present an encouraging aspect to the invalid, telling himself, heartsore though he was, that it was his duty, and that it would have a good effect; but as he entered the room and saw the change that had taken place, he uttered a low groan, and stood as if nailed to the floor.

For Hazel was changed indeed. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes looked unnaturally large, but the restless, pained expression had passed away, and the light of recognition was in her eyes, as she tried to raise one hand, which fell back upon the coverlet.

He saw her lips part, and she smiled at him as he stood there by the door. This brought him back to himself, and he went hurriedly towards the bedside.

“It was selfish of me to ask you to come,” she said softly; “but you have both shown that you do not fear the fever.”

“Fear it, my dear? No!” he said, taking her thin white hand, kissing it, and making as if to lay it reverently back upon the coverlet; but the fingers closed round his, and a thrill of joy shot through his breast, as it seemed for the moment that she was clinging to him.

“How am I ever to thank you enough?” she said, in a faint whisper. “Why have you brought me here? It troubles me. I feel as if I should make you suffer.”

“But you mustn’t talk now, my darling,” whispered little Miss Burge. “Wait till the doctor has been, and only lie still now and rest your poor self.”

“Yes—rest,” she said feebly—“rest. I feel so easy now. All that dreadful pain has gone.”

“Thank God!”

She turned her eyes upon the speaker with a grateful look and smiled faintly, motioning to him to take the chair by the bedside.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Yes; keep hold of my hand. You have been so kind, and I seem to see it all now so plainly.”

“But my darling, you must not talk. There, just say a word or two to him, and then he must go. I’m going to ask the doctor to come and see you now.”

“No: let him wait. I must talk now. Perhaps to-night my senses will go again, and I shall be wandering on and on amongst the troubles once more.”

“Then you will be very still, dear.”

“Yes; I only want to lie and rest. Don’t leave me, Mr Burge. Hold my hand.”

There was a sweet, calm look upon her face as she lay there, holding feebly by the hand that tenderly grasped hers, and her eyes half-closed as if in sleep.

From time to time William Forth Burge exchanged glances with his sister, but the looks he received in return were always encouraging, and he sat there, care-worn and anxious, but at the same time feeling supremely happy.

An hour had passed before Hazel spoke again, and then it was in a dreamy, thoughtful whisper.

“I’ve been thinking about the past,” she said, “and recalling all that has been done for me. I cannot talk much; but, Mr Burge, I can feel it all. Don’t—don’t think me ungrateful.”

“No, no,” he whispered, as he bent down and kissed her hand; “I never could.”

“I was thinking about—about when you asked me—to be your wife.”

“Yes, yes, my dear!” he said eagerly; “but I was mad then. It was only an old fellow’s fancy. I could not help it. It was foolish, and I ought to have known better. But we know one another now, and all you’ve got to do, my dear, is to grow well and strong, and find out that William Burge is man enough to do what’s right.”

She lay thinking for some little time, and then he felt that a feeble effort was being made to draw his hand closer to her face, and yielding it, once more a wild throb ran through his nerves, for she feebly drew his hand to her cheek and held it there.

“I was very blind then,” she said in a whisper; “but I am not blind now.”

She spoke with her eyes closed, the restful look intensifying as the time glided on.

After a while the woman who had acted as nurse announced the coming of the doctor, who brightened and looked pleased as he saw the change.

“Yes,” he said; “the fever has left her. Now we must build her up again.”

And after satisfying himself about his patient’s state, he beckoned Miss Burge from the room, and gave the fullest instructions as to the course to be pursued, promised to come in again that evening, and went away.

The day glided on, and William Forth Burge kept his place by the bedside, feeling that it was his by right; and then, at times, suffering from a terrible depression, as he told himself that he ought to go, and not presume upon the weakness of one who was in his charge. Hazel lay with her eyes half-closed, apparently in a restful, dreamy state, rousing herself a little when her tender nurse administered to her food or medicine, and then turning her eyes for a few moments to the occupant of the chair by the bedside, smiling at him sadly, afterwards, with a restful sigh, letting her cheek lie against his hand.

“I should like to have seen my little sisters,” she said once softly, “and my poor mother; but it would be cruel to bring them here. I should like to kiss poor Ophelia too.” She laughed faintly here, as if amused. “Poor child!—so good at heart. Poor child!”

There was another long interval of genuine sleep now, which lasted until evening, when Hazel awoke with a frightened start crying out painfully.

“What is it, my pet?” whispered little Miss Burge, bending over the bed, and parting the hair from Hazel’s hot wet brow. “There—there; you’re better now.”

The light of recognition came, and she darted a swift, clear look at the speaker, then turned excitedly to the bedside where William Forth Burge still sat holding her hand.

The peaceful smile came back as she saw him there, and she began speaking in a quick, excited way:—

“I have been dreaming—I thought I had told him it was impossible again—that I could not; for I loved some one else. But I do not. It was a weak girl’s fancy. Miss Burge, I should like to kiss you, dear; but it would be unkind. Touch my face—my lips with your fingers.”

“My darling, I have no fear,” sobbed the little woman; and she bent down and kissed the poor girl passionately, but only to rise in alarm, and make a sign to her brother, which he interpreted aright, and was about to rise and seek for help; but Hazel clung to his hand in alarm.

“No, no! don’t go!” she said hoarsely. “I could not bear it now.”

“I’ll run, Bill!” panted Miss Burge; but a word from Hazel stayed her.

“No; stop!” she whispered. “God knows best, Miss Burge. Lift me a little more. Let my head rest on your shoulder—so!”

William Forth Burge raised the thin, slight form tenderly and reverently, till Hazel’s head rested upon his broad shoulder, and he held her there; but she was not satisfied till he had placed her arm so that it half embraced his neck, and there she lay, gazing with her unnaturally bright, wistful eyes in his, while the great tears slowly welled over their bounds and trickled down his heavy face.

“Miss Burge,” she said again, and there was something very strange and wild in her voice, “I was weak and foolish once; but now it is too late, I have grown wiser—just at last. This is going to be my husband. In his dear memory I shall be his wife, for I love him now—with all my heart!”

She closed her eyes for a few moments, and without a sound little Miss Burge stretched out one hand to the bell, making a sign to the nurse who answered, and then glided away.

There was a long, deep silence then, broken only by a sob from Miss Burge, who now sank upon her knees by the bedside.

Hazel’s eyes opened again, and she gazed about her wildly, and as if in fear; but the restful smile came back, and she sighed as if relieved; and again there was a long silence, during which the watchers waited impatiently for the doctor’s step.

And so the minutes glided by, and the night came on apace—a night they felt would be black and deep, for all hope was gone.

Then Hazel spoke again, and her voice sounded clearer and more distinct—

“I shall not hurt you now,” she said softly, and her thin, wasted hand rose from the counterpane, seemed to tremble in the air for a moment, and then nestled in William Forth Burge’s breast. “Kiss me,” she said softly; “think that—at last—I loved you. So tired—let me sleep!”

Is there truth in the old superstitious stories that we hear? True in their spiritual sense or no, just then a black pigeon that had hovered about the house for days alighted upon the window-sill, and the rustle of its wings sounded loud and painful in the oppressive stillness of that evening.

From the fields the soft lowing of the kine came mellowed and sweet, and from the wood behind the house a thrush sang its evening hymn to the passing day, while, as the west grew less ruddy, the soft dawn-like light intensified in the north.

It needed but one sound to add to the solemnity of the time, and that was the heavy knoll of the church bell, which rang out the curfew, as it had announced the hour from the far-back days when it was cast and blessed, and holy hands first hung it there.

Just then little Miss Burge uttered a faint ejaculation of relief, for there was a quick step upon the gravel; but ere it reached the door there was a deep sigh in the shadowed room, Hazel’s large, soft eyes grew dilate, and their light was for ever gone; another bridegroom had snatched her from her simple-hearted lover’s arms—and that bridegroom was Death!

The End.

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