Rosa Nouchette Carey

"The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together."—All's Well that Ends Well.

When Althea had read the brief message, she told Mitchell very quietly that there was no answer required, and that she might give the boy some refreshment and send him away; and then, as the maid left the room, she handed the telegram to Moritz.

It troubled her kind heart to see the pain in his eyes as he read it. He was quite pale, and his lips twitched under his moustache.

"What does it mean?" he asked, in rather a stifled voice. "I thought you said that she was well. If she is ill, why is her sister to be kept away? You see what he says: 'Do not come.'"

"Yes, I see," returned Althea, very gravely. "It must be something sudden; but I hope, for poor dear Waveney's sake, that it is nothing infectious. Let me think for a moment—one cannot grasp it at once. This is Wednesday, and on Sunday Mollie was well—only a little pale and tired; and yes, I remember, she had a slight headache, and so Waveney persuaded her not to go to church."

"A headache and pale and tired! Good heavens, Althea, it is clear as daylight! She was sickening for something." Moritz's tone was so tragical, and he paced the room so restlessly, that, in spite of her very real anxiety, Althea could hardly repress a smile.

"Dear Moritz," she said, gently, "there is no need to take such a gloomy view. Our pretty Mollie is human, and must be ill sometimes like other people. Perhaps it is a bad cold or influenza, or it might even be measles—they are very much about."

For Moritz's "unregenerate woman" had been singularly captious since the New Year, and close muggy days had paved the way for all kinds of ailments to which flesh is heir.

There was a great deal of sickness at Dereham, and Althea had been both wise and careful in refusing to allow Waveney to go as usual amongst her pensioners.

"Of course it may be anything," returned Lord Ralston, impatiently,—for even his easy temper was not proof against the bitterness of his disappointment,—he had so hungered and thirsted, poor fellow, for a sight of Mollie's sweet face. All these weeks he had been doing his duty nobly, and now he had looked for his reward. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he had said to himself that very morning. Would "this bud of love" which he had been nurturing so tenderly, have blossomed into "a beauteous flower" when they met again? Over and over again he had asked himself this question; but Mollie was ill, and all hope of an immediate answer was over.

"It may be anything," he repeated. "But who is to look after her? There is only her father and that half-witted maid-of-all-work. There used to be some friend who nursed them when they were ill, but she is living somewhere in the country with an invalid lady. We must get a nurse. Do you know where their doctor lives?"

But Althea shook her head.

"No; but we can find out. Moritz, I think the best plan will be for me to go over to Cleveland Terrace, and then I can tell Waveney exactly how things are; I will leave a line for Doreen and beg her to say nothing until my return." Then a look of intense relief crossed Moritz's face.

"It is a good idea," he said, eagerly; "and I will go with you." And Althea made no objection to this.

"It is a pity the carriage is out," she said, regretfully; "but George shall get us a cab. Now we will go and have some luncheon, and then I will get ready." But with both of them the meal was a pretence. Apprehension and worry deprived Moritz of all appetite, and Althea was so nervous and fluttered at the idea of encountering Everard in his own home, that she could scarcely eat a morsel.

She rose as soon as possible, and left Moritz to finish his repast; but he preferred pacing the room. In spite of his vivacity and gaietÉ-de-c[oe]ur, his jaunty airs and cheerfulness, he was easily depressed. Any form of illness that attacked those he loved, preyed on his mind. When Gwendoline's little son was born, he was so anxious and despondent that Jack Compton, in spite of his own natural solicitude for his young wife's safety, laughed at him and told him "that he looked as melancholy as a gib cat." "The old chap was in the doldrums and no mistake," he said to Gwen afterwards. "I tell him I played the man twice as well as he. But he is a good old sort, too." And then, with awe and wonder, the young father regarded the small and crumpled and exceedingly red morsel of humanity, lying snugly within Gwen's arm.

As they drove up to Cleveland Terrace they saw an unmistakable doctor's brougham before the door of Number Ten. Lord Ralston's swarthy complexion turned rather livid at the sight, but Althea only remarked, with composure, that they had come just at the right time.

Noel opened the door to them; he had seen them from the window; his face brightened perceptibly. "Father has gone up with Dr. Duncan," he said; "but they will be coming down directly; you had better come up into the studio. There is a fire there." And Noel led the way. Althea glanced quickly round the room as she entered. It was shabby, there could be no doubt of that, but there was an air of comfort about it. And then she subsided wearily into a corner of the big, cosy-looking couch; but Moritz marched off to the inner room and stood with his back to them, gazing at poor Mollie's little writing-table with an aching heart.

"Noel, what is the matter with your sister?" asked Althea, in a low voice; but Noel could not tell her. She had seemed queer and feverish the previous day, he explained, and his father had advised her remaining in bed. She had had a bad night, and her throat was painful, and he had been forbidden to go near her. This was Dr. Duncan's first visit. They had sent for him in the morning, but he had been unable to come until now.

It was evident that Noel could not enlighten them much, so Althea forebore to question him further, and waited silently until they heard footsteps descending the stairs; but as they passed by the studio door Althea heard the doctor say,—

"I will look in later and see what you have done about the nurse."

Noel heard it, too, for he looked rather startled.

"A nurse!" he muttered. "Poor old pater, that will bother him a bit." And then Everard came quickly into the room.

"Noel, I want you!" he said, rather sharply. "Duncan says——" but here he stopped in sudden surprise as Althea's tall figure rose from the couch.

"Mr. Ward," she said, quietly, "Waveney was out, so I opened your telegram, and I have come to see if there is anything I can do for Mollie. My cousin, Lord—I mean Mr. Ingram, has brought me." Then Everard, with rather a sad smile, held out his hand to the young man.

"You are both very kind," he said, simply, "but there is nothing you can do for the dear child. Mollie is very ill, and Dr. Duncan wishes her to have a good nurse at once. I am going to send Noel off to the Institution. He has given me the address—it is diphtheria, and her throat is in a dreadful state, and there is no time to be lost."

"Let me go," returned Moritz, earnestly. "I will take a hansom and be there in no time. Mr. Ward, I shall esteem it as a favour and a mark of true friendship if you will send me instead of Noel." But before Everard could reply to this urgent request, Althea's gentle voice interposed.

"Mr. Ward, please listen to me a moment. I know what this illness means—I have had it myself—Mollie will need two nurses; there would be no one to take care of her by day while the nurse rests, and any neglect would be an awful risk. Please let Moritz go and settle the business. There need only be one to-night, but the day-nurse must relieve her to-morrow morning. Let him have the address, and Noel can go with him; and then you must let me go up and see Mollie." And then Everard, in a dazed fashion, held out a folded piece of paper.

"Two nurses! I shall be in the workhouse," they heard him mutter. But no one took any notice.

"Althea, you are a trump," whispered Moritz, as she followed him into the passage. "Tell me anything she needs, and I will get it. Two nurses!—she shall have a dozen nurses. If the doctor approves, we will have a second opinion; we will have the great throat doctor, Sir Hindley Richmond, down." But what more Moritz would have said in that eager, sibilant whisper, was never known, for Althea gave him an impatient little push.

"Go—go; there is no use in talking. I shall not leave until the nurse arrives." And then she went back into the studio.

She had forgotten her nervousness now, her reluctance to enter Everard's house; her face glowed with kindly, womanly sympathy, as she approached him.

"I am so sorry for you," she said, gently; "and I am sorry for dear Mollie, too, for it is such a painful complaint. But with good nursing I hope she will soon be well. Is Dr. Duncan a clever man?"

"Oh, yes, I believe so," returned Mr. Ward, dejectedly; "but his charges are very high. Miss Harford, I am afraid we must manage with one nurse. I have not the means. I am a poor man." But Althea turned a deaf ear to this. It was far too early in the day to proffer help. He must not be told yet that he had good friends, who were only too thankful to be allowed to bear his burdens. For Mollie's sake, for Waveney's sake, and for poor Moritz's sake, there must be no indulgence of false and misplaced pride. He must be managed adroitly and with finesse and female diplomacy—no masculine blundering must effect this.

"How did Mollie catch it?" she asked, to turn his thoughts from the question of expense. But Everard could not answer this question. Mollie had not seemed well since Sunday, he said; she had been restless and irritable, and complained of feeling ill. She had been so feverish in the night that he thought it must be influenza, and he had sent for Dr. Duncan; but, early as it was, he had already started on his rounds, and had only just come. He would pay another visit later in the evening. Althea listened to this in silence; then she said, rather gravely,—

"Mr. Ward, what are we to do about Waveney? It will break her heart to be kept from Mollie; and yet——" Then he turned upon her almost fiercely, and there was an excited gleam in his eyes.

"I will not have it. Tell Waveney that I forbid her to come near the house. Good heavens! would she add to my troubles? Is it not enough to have one child ill?" Then his eyes filled with tears, and the hand he put on Althea's arm shook a little. "Dear Miss Harford, be my friend in this; keep Waveney safe for me." And something in his tone told Althea that, dearly as Everard loved all his children, this was the one who came closest to his heart.

"Do not fear," she returned, tenderly. "You can trust me, and Waveney loves you far too well to disobey you; but"—here she sighed—"it will certainly break her heart. Mollie is her other and her dearer self."

"Yes, poor darling, I know that; but she must be brave. Tell her, from me, please, that I will write twice a day if that will comfort her. She shall know everything. There shall be nothing hidden from her."

"Yes, I will tell her," returned Althea, sorrowfully. "And when my cousin returns, we will arrange about Noel; he must not stop here." Then there was an unmistakable look of gratitude in Everard's eyes.

"You think of everything," he said, in a broken voice. "I was troubling sadly about the poor lad. Now I am afraid I must leave you, as Mollie has no other nurse." But he was both touched and surprised when Althea rose, too.

"Let me go with you," she said, quickly; "I am not the least afraid. I had the complaint very badly myself before we left Kitlands."

"I fear we are both doing wrong," returned Everard, hesitating. "Your sister will be very angry with you." But Althea shook her head very decidedly at this, and he was too bewildered and miserable to argue the point.

The sick room looked bare and comfortless to Althea's eyes, in spite of the bright fire burning cheerily in the grate. The big iron bedstead, with its old and obviously patched quilt; the dark stained wood furniture, and the narrow window seats, with faded red cushions, were hardly a fit shrine for Mollie's dainty beauty. Mollie lay uncomfortably on her pillows; she looked flushed and ill, and her beautiful eyes had a heavy, distressed look in them. She held out her hands rather eagerly to Althea, but the next moment she drew them back.

"Oh, I forgot," she said, in a thick voice; and it was evidently a great effort to speak. "You must not come near me: Dr. Duncan said so. Tell my darling Wave that she must keep away if she loves me, and ask her not to fret. Oh, I cannot talk;" and here poor Mollie flung herself back on the pillows, and her hot, restless fingers tried to put back the heavy masses of rough tangled hair.

How Althea longed to brush it out and sponge the fevered face and hands! But at her first hint Everard frowned and looked anxious. "Not for worlds," he said, decidedly. "The nurse will be here directly. The Institution is hardly a mile from here, and Ingram will take a hansom." He spoke in a low voice, but Mollie heard him.

"Oh, father, is Mr. Ingram here?" she whispered. "How sorry he will be to hear I am ill!" And then a sudden thought struck her, and she beckoned to Althea rather excitedly. "Miss Harford," she said, in her poor, hoarse voice, "will you do something for me? In that small right-hand drawer behind you, you will see a little parcel; it is directed. Please give it to Mr. Ingram from me."

Althea secretly marvelled at this, but held her peace. When the dainty white parcel was in her hand, she said, gently,—

"Yes, dear Mollie, he shall have it directly he returns. But now your father does not wish me to stay. Good-bye. God bless you, my child." And Althea's tone of faltering tenderness arrested Everard's attention.

"It would not be safe. I dare not let you do anything for her," he said, very softly, as he opened the door. "I will stay with her until the nurse comes. But please, go down and rest." And Althea, who was trembling with some strange emotion, obeyed him without a word.