There was an air of uncomfortable constraint over our little family at the breakfast table on the morrow. All thoughts were full of the same thing, but none liked to broach it. Edward Mariot’s manner seemed to say, “I am disposed to forget, if you will be silent.” But I was determined, at any cost to myself, to insist upon Mariot’s doing his duty in relation to the disorderly house upon his premises—or, failing in that, to leave the parish. I felt that my usefulness was at an end if I hesitated to do what Mariot, as well as I, knew was incumbent upon me; for a clergyman who compromises his conscience to keep his parish, is not only an unfaithful servant but an ally to the enemy. Events, however, were so ordered that I retained my friend, and was spared the pain of giving him further reproof. I was informed that Yorkshire John was at the door, and desired to see me.

I rose instantly and went out. Mariot followed, fearing violence—a danger which did not once occur to me; for there are few—very few—so base and cowardly as to make an attack upon a clergyman. The man could not look me in the face. He was abashed and evidently afflicted, and, merely muttering that Bessie was “very bad,” and wanted me, turned and strode hastily away.

Mariot accompanied me down to the little village, and, as we walked, gave me some particulars of the life and character of this singular being, Yorkshire Jack. He had only the one child, and its mother was still living, but had been forced to leave her husband, on account of his cruel treatment. Nobody knew precisely where she lived, or in what manner she supported herself; but she was occasionally seen hovering about the dale, with the intention of seeing or carrying away her daughter. The father detained the child in the hope that the love of a mother would bring her back to him; for, in the years that she had been absent, with a drunkard’s inconsistency, he had earnestly desired her return, and vehemently promised amendment. In these professions, which had reached her through a mutual acquaintance, she put no faith. She had been compelled to fly more than once before; and having, on those occasions returned only to discover the hollowness of his promises, and to receive new abuse, she had resolved to trust him no further. She heard, moreover, through common fame, of all his wild and wicked proceedings; and learning what her child suffered, was the more firmly resolved not only never herself to return, but to take away Bessie if possible. This made John but the more cruel, especially when in drink; and he was at all times mad with suspicion that some one would aid her in the abduction. Hence his rage against his daughter and against me; for as he never conversed even with his own child, he could conceive of no purpose but a sinister one, in my accidental interview with little Bessie. I was tempted to chide Mariot for suffering this state of things without interfering; but judged it discreet to be silent.

John’s house—or rather his room—was the picture of neglect and desolation. He had converted it into a sort of fortification, so that none but a most expert burglar could get in without his permission. Neither could the child get away when once the premises were locked. During the day he had been in the habit, often, of fastening her in, and when she went abroad it was with him. It was shocking to hear that the poor infant had been the forced auditor of her father’s violence on the night before, till, spent with fatigue, she fell on the floor and slept. No wonder, you are ready to exclaim, that she was ill.

But her disease was evidently something more than mere exhaustion. Now feverish and languid, she would anon become chilled. Pains in the head and back, redness of eyes, a husky voice, and sore throat, and a loathing rejection of food, with other symptoms, which I will not expose my medical ignorance by attempting to describe, marked her affection as one of no light character. A hint sent the father for a physician—for remorse often hastens those whom affection cannot influence. Upon his arrival he confirmed my surmises, and pronounced the case one of decided small-pox, and of a very dangerous and malignant type.

The father was frantic, and raved like a madman. He denied stoutly that such could be the case—called us fools and idiots, and ordered all—the physician, Mariot and myself—to leave his house. I looked at my friend, and saw tokens of the indecision and lack of resolution, which was his infirmity. Then turning to the father, I said, “We will not leave this sweet child to perish in your hands; and unless you desist from violence, if Mr. Mariot will not act, I will cause you to be committed as a disturber of the peace!” The man was in a frenzy, and absolutely foamed at the mouth; but the physician and Mariot supported me, and taking advantage of his temporary absence, we turned his own fortifications against him and barred him out, while we should consult what to do in the emergency.

“Mariot,” I said, after he and the physician had proposed and rejected as impracticable several expedients, “there is a pest house ready to your hand. Take that.”

“The tenant will not suffer it,” said he.

“Leave that to us.” And, with the doctor, I went directly to the tavern, and without circumlocution informed the landlord that we were about to bring a small pox patient to his house, and desired a room!

He, too, stormed and threatened, but we insisted. The terror among the residents had now grown intense, for the rumor had spread; and they having collected, with one voice demanded that the house should be taken. It stood apart from the rest, and was in all respects eligible for the purpose.

“If you do bring the child here,” said he, “I will leave.”

“Do so before, if you choose,” I answered, “for in one hour she will be here.” And I further informed him that upon his future quietness and good behavior it would depend whether he should be proceeded against for the sale of spirits to minors and his other misdeeds.

A new cause of alarm was now discovered. The mother of the child lay sick in another house; and investigation into the nature of her illness developed the fact that, in a stolen interview with poor little Bessie, it was she who had communicated to the child the infection. Both mother and daughter were removed to the tavern, a nurse was provided, and all proper steps were taken for their comfort. Yorkshire John, having become subdued by these events, was suffered to be their attendant. The landlord, having received Mariot’s assurance that his reasonable charges should be met, sullenly acquiesced, and did not carry out the threat of removal. The customers, however, fortunately for themselves, avoided the “Pest House,” and his business was reduced completely to that of an infirmary. Thus, what fear of moral contagion could not accomplish, was effected by the dread of physical infection.

——