The Water Lane Fever.  People called it so, as blinking its real name, but it was not the less true that it was a very pestilence in the lower parts of Wil’sbro’; and was prostrating its victims far and wide among the gentry who had resorted to the town-hall within the last few weeks.

Cases had long been smouldering among the poor and the workmen employed, and several of these were terminating fatally just as the outbreak was becoming decisive.

On Monday morning Julius returned from visits to his brothers to find a piteous note from Mrs. Fuller entreating him to undertake two funerals.  Her husband had broken down on Sunday morning and was very ill, and Mr. Driver had merely read the services and then joined his pupils, whom he had sent away to the sea-side.  He had never been responsible for pastoral care, and in justice to them could not undertake it now.  “Those streets are in a dreadful state,” wrote the poor lady, “several people dying; and there is such a panic in the neighbourhood that we know not where to turn for help.  If you could fix an hour we would let the people know.  The doctor insists on the funerals being immediate.”

Julius was standing in the porch reading this letter, and thinking what hour he could best spare from nearer claims, when he heard the gate swing and beheld his junior curate with a very subdued and sobered face, asking, “Is it true?”

“That the fever is here?  Yes, it is.”

“And very bad?”

“Poor Frank is our worst case as yet.  He is constantly delirious.  The others are generally sensible, except that Terry is dreadfully haunted with mathematics.”

“Then it is all true about the Hall.  Any one else ill?”

“Only the two Willses.  They were carousing at the ‘Three Pigeons.’  I hope that Raymond’s prohibition against that place may have been the saving of the Hall servants.  See here,” and he gave the note.

“I had better take those two funerals.  I can at least do that,” said Herbert.  “That Driver must be a regular case of a hireling.”

“He never professed that the sheep were his,” said Julius.

“Then I’ll go to the Vicarage and get a list of the sick, and see after them as far as I can,” said Herbert, in a grave, humble tone, showing better than a thousand words how he felt the deprivation he had brought on himself; and as to shame or self-consciousness, the need had swallowed them all.

“It will be a great act of kindness, Herbert.  The point of infection does not seem clear yet, but I am afraid it will be a serious outbreak.”

“I did not believe it could all be true when the report came to Rood House, but of course I came to hear the truth and see what I could do.  How is Mrs. Poynsett bearing up?”

“Bravely.  Anne contrived our carrying her up-stairs, and it is the greatest comfort to Raymond to lie and look at her, and Susan looks after them both.”

“Then he can’t be so very ill.”

“Not so acutely, but there are symptoms that make Worth anxious.  Shall I give you a note for Mrs. Fuller?”

“Do, and put me at your disposal for all you can spare for, or I can do.  Have you written to Bindon?”

“I don’t know where, within some hundred miles.  But, Herbert, I think we ought to undertake the help that is wanted at Wil’sbro’.  Smith of Duddingstone is too weakly, and poor old Mr. Moulden neither could nor would.  We are the nearest, and having it here already, do not run the risk of spreading it.  As things are, I cannot be very long away from home, but I would come in for an hour or so every day, if you could do the rest.”

“Yes, that was what I meant,” said Herbert.

“Worth says the best protection is never to go among the sick hungry or exhausted.  He says he keeps a biscuit in his pocket to eat before going into a sick house.  I shall make Rosamond keep you supplied, and you must promise to use them.”

“Oh yes, I promise.”

“And never drink anything there.  There is to be a public meeting to-morrow, to see whether the cause of this outbreak is not traceable to the water down there.”

“Mrs. Duncombe’s meddling?”

“Don’t judge without evidence.  But it does seem as if the water at the well at Pettitt’s houses had done much of the harm.  Terry was drinking it all that hot day, and to-day we hear that Lady Tyrrell and two of the servants are ill, besides poor little Joe Reynolds.”

“It is very terrible,” said Herbert.  “Lady Tyrrell, did you say?”

“Yes.  She was there constantly, like Raymond’s wife.  Happily there is not much fear for your people, Herbert.  Your father was at the dinner, but he is not a water drinker, and Jenny only just came to the bazaar, that was all.  Edith happily gave up the ball.”

“I know,” said Herbert, colouring.  “Jenny persuaded her to give it up because of ­me.  Oh, how I have served them all!”

“I told Jenny that perhaps her Ember prayers had been met in the true way.”

“Yes,” said Herbert.  “I can’t understand now how I could have been such an audacious fool as to present myself so coolly after the year I had spent.  God forgive me for it!  Rector, thank you for leaving me at Rood House.  It was like having one’s eyes opened to a new life.  I say, do you know anything about Harry Hornblower?  Is he come home?”

“Yes.  You wouldn’t prosecute?”

“Happily I couldn’t.  The things were gone and could not be identified, and there was nothing about him.  So, though they had me over to Backsworth, they could not fall foul of me for refusing to prosecute.  Have you seen him?”

“No, I tried, but he had got out of my way.  You’ve not been there?” seeing that Herbert had brought back his bag.

“No; I will not till I come back;” and as he took the note he added, “Rector, I do beg your pardon with all my might.”  Then, after a strong clasp of the hand, he sped away with a long, manful, energetic stride, which made Julius contrast his volunteer courage with the flight of the man who, if not pledged to pastoral care at Wil’sbro’, still had priestly vows upon him.

Julius had no scruples about risking this favourite home child.  If he thought about it at all, it was to rejoice that Mrs. Bowater was safely gone, for he had passed unscathed through scenes at St. Awdry’s that would have made his mother tremble, and he had little fear of contagion, with reasonable care.  Of course the doctors had the usual debate whether the fever were infectious or epidemic, but it made little difference.  The local ones, as well as an authority from London, had an inspection previous to the meeting, which took place in the school, whose scholars were dispersed in the panic.  No ladies were admitted.  “We have had enough of them,” quoted Worshipful Mayor Truelove.  Mr. Briggs, the ex-mayor, was at the bedside of his son, and there were hardly enough present to make decisions.

The focus of the disease was in Pettitt’s well.  The water, though cold, clear, and sparkling, was affected by noxious gases from the drains, and had become little better than poison; the air was not much better, and as several neighbouring houses, some swarming with lodgers, used this water, the evil was accounted for.  The ’Three Pigeons’ had been an attraction to the servants waiting with their ladies’ carriages during the entertainments, and though they had not meddled much with the simple element, spirits had not neutralized the mischief.  Thence too had come water for the tea and iced beverages used at the bazaar and ball.  Odours there had been in plenty from the untouched drainage of the other houses, and these, no doubt, enhanced the evil; but every one agreed that the bad management of the drains on Mr. Pettitt’s property had been the main agency in the present outbreak.

The poor little perfumer had tears of grief and indignation in his eyes, but he defended his cause and shielded the ladies with chivalry worthy of his French ancestry.  He said he had striven to do his duty as a proprietor, and if other gentlemen had done the same, and the channels could have had a free outlet, this misfortune would never have occurred.  He found himself backed up by Mr. Julius Charnock, who rose to declare that what Mr. Pettitt had said was just what his brother, Mr. Charnock Poynsett, had desired should be stated as his own opinion, namely, that the responsibility rested, not with those who had done all within their power or knowledge for the welfare of their tenants, but with those whose indifference on the score of health had led them to neglect all sanitary measures.

“He desires me to say,” added Julius, “that being concerned both in the neglect and in the unfortunate consequences, he is desirous to impress his opinion on all concerned.”

Future prevention was no longer in the hands of the Town Council, for a sanitary commission would take that in hand; but in the meantime it was a time of plague and sickness, and measures must be taken for the general relief.  Mr. Moy, to whom most of the houses belonged, was inquired for; but it appeared that he had carried off his wife and daughter on Saturday in terror when one of his servants had fallen ill, and even his clerks would not know where to write to him till he should telegraph.  The man Gadley was meantime driving an active trade at the ‘Three Pigeons,’ whither the poor, possessed with the notion that spirits kept out the infection, were resorting more than ever, and he set at defiance all the preventives which doctors, overseer, and relieving officer were trying to enforce, with sullen oaths against interference.

Two deaths yesterday, one to-day, three hourly apprehended; doctors incessantly occupied, nurses, however unfit, not to be procured by any exertion of the half-maddened relieving-officer; bread-winners prostrated; food, wine, bedding, everything lacking.  Such was the state of things around the new town-hall of Wil’sbro’, and the gentry around were absorbed by cases of the same epidemic in their own families.

To telegraph for nurses from a hospital, to set on foot a subscription, appoint a committee of management, and name a treasurer and dispenser of supplies, were the most urgent steps.  Julius suggested applying to a Nursing Sisterhood, but Mr. Truelove, without imputing any motives to the reverend gentleman, was unwilling to insert the thin end of the wedge; so the telegram was sent to a London Hospital, and Mr. Whitlock, the mayor-elect, undertook to be treasurer, and to print and circulate an appeal for supplies of all sorts.  Those present resolved themselves into a committee, and consulted about a fever hospital, since people could hardly be expected to recover in the present condition of Water Lane; but nothing was at present ready, and the question was adjourned to the next day.  As Julius parted with Mr. Whitlock he met Herbert Bowater returning from the cemetery in search of him, with tidings of some cases where he was especially needed.  As they walked on together Mrs. Duncombe overtook them with a basket on her arm.  She held out her hand with an imploring gesture.

“Mr. Charnock, it can’t be true, can it? ­they only say so out of ignorance ­that it was Pettitt’s well, I mean?”

In a few words Julius made it clear what the evil had been and how it arose.

She did not dispute it, she merely grew sallower and said: 

“God forgive us!  We did it for the best.  I planned.  I never thought of that.  Oh!”

“My brother insists that the mischief came of not following the example you set.”

“And Cecil!”

“Cecil is too much stupefied to know anything about it.”

“You are helping here?  Make me all the use you can.  Whatever has to be done give it to me.”

“Nay, you have your family to consider.”

“My boys are at their grandmother’s.  My husband is gone abroad.  Give me work.  I have brought some wine.  Who needs it most?”

“Wine?” said Herbert.  “Here?  I was going back for some, but half an hour may make all the difference to the poor lad in here.”

Mrs. Duncombe was within the door in a moment.

“There has been an execution in her house,” said Herbert, as they went home.  “That fellow went off on Saturday, and left her alone to face it.”

“I thought she had striven to keep out of debt.”

“What can a woman do when a man chooses to borrow?  That horse brought them to more unexpected smash.  They say that after the ball, where she appeared in all her glory, as if nothing had happened, she made Bob give her a schedule of his debts, packed his portmanteau, sent him off to find some cheap hole abroad, and stayed to pick up the pieces after the wreck.”

“She is a brave woman,” said Julius.

Therewith they plunged into the abodes of misery, where the only other helper at present was good old Miss Slater, who was going from one to another, trying to show helpless women how to nurse, but able only to contribute infinitesimal grains of aid or comfort at immense cost to herself.  Julius insisted on taking home with him his curate, who had been at work from ten o’clock that morning till six, when as Julius resigned the pony’s reins to him, he begged that they might go round and inquire at Sirenwood, to which consent was the more willingly given because poor Frank’s few gleams of consciousness were spent in sending his indefatigable nurse Anne to ask whether his mother had ‘had that letter,’ and in his delirium he was always feeling his watch-chain for that unhappy pebble, and moaning when he missed it.  Mrs. Poynsett’s letter had gone on Friday, and still there was no answer, and this was a vexation, adding to the fear that the poor fellow’s rejection had been final.  Yet she might have missed the letter by being summoned home.  Close to the lodge, they overtook Sir Harry, riding dejectedly homewards, and, glad to be saved going up to the house, they stopped and inquired for Lady Tyrrell.

“Very low and oppressed,” he said.  “M’Vie does not give us reason to expect a change just yet.  Do they tell you the same?  Worth attends you, I think?”

“He seems to think it must run on for at least three weeks,” said Julius.

“You’ve been to the meeting, eh?  Was it that well of Pettitt’s?  Really that meddling wife of Duncombe’s ought to be prosecuted.  I hope she’ll catch the fever and be served out.”

“She tried to prevent it,” said Julius.

“Pshaw! women have no business with such things, they only put their foot in it.  Nobody used to trouble themselves about drains, and one never heard of fevers.”

Instead of contesting the point, Julius asked whether Miss Vivian were at home.

“No; that’s the odd thing.  I wrote, for M’Vie has no fear of infection, and poor Camilla is always calling for her, and that French maid has thought proper to fall ill, and we don’t know what to do.  Upper housemaid cut and run in a panic, cook dead drunk last night, not a servant in the house to be trusted.  If it were not for my man Victor I don’t know where I should be.  Very odd what that child is about.  Lady Susan can’t be keeping it from her.  Unjustifiable!”

“She is with Lady Susan Strangeways?”

“Yes.  Went with Bee and Conny.  I was glad, for we can’t afford to despise a good match, though I was sorry for your brother.”

“Do I understand you that she is engaged to Mr. Strangeways?”

“No, no; not yet.  One always hears those things before they are true, and you see they are keeping her from us as if she belonged to them already.  I call it unfeeling!  I have just been to the post to see if there’s a letter!  Can’t be anything wrong in the address, ­ Revelrig, Cleveland, Yorkshire.”

“Why don’t you telegraph?”

“I shall, if I don’t hear to-morrow morning.”

But the morning’s telegrams were baffling.  None came in answer to Sir Harry, though he had bidden his daughter to telegraph back instantly; and two hospitals replied that they had no nurses to spare!  This was the first thing Julius heard when he came to the committee-room.  The second was that the only parish nurse had been found asleep under the influence of the port-wine intended for her patients, the third that there were five more deaths, one being Mrs. Gadley, of the ‘Three Pigeons,’ from diphtheria, and fourteen more cases of fever were reported.  Julius had already been with the schoolmistress, who was not expected to live through the day.  He had found that Mrs. Duncombe had been up all night with one of the most miserable families, and only when her unpractised hands had cared for a little corpse, had been forced home by good Miss Slater for a little rest.  He had also seen poor Mr. Fuller, who was too weak and wretched to say anything more than ’God help us, Charnock:  you will do what you can;’ and when Julius asked for his sanction to sending for Sisters, he answered, “Anything, anything.”

The few members who had come to the committee were reduced to the same despairing consent, and Julius was allowed to despatch a telegram to St. Faith’s, which had sent Sisters in the emergency at St. Awdry’s.  He likewise brought an offer, suggested by Raymond, of a great old tithe barn, his own property, but always rented by Mrs. Poynsett, in a solitary field, where the uninfected children might be placed under good care, and the houses in Water Lane thus relieved.  As to a fever hospital, Raymond had sent his advice to use the new town-hall itself.  A word from him went a great way just then with the Town Council, and the doctors were delighted with the proposal.

Funds and contributions of bedding, clothing, food and wine were coming in, but hands were the difficulty.  The adaptations of the town-hall and the bringing in of beds were done by one strong carpenter and Mrs. Duncombe’s man Alexander, whom she had brought with her, and who proved an excellent orderly; and the few who would consent, or did not resist occupying the beds there, were carried in by Herbert Bowater and a strapping young doctor who had come down for this fever pasture.  There Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Slater received them.  No other volunteer had come to light willing to plunge into this perilous and disgusting abyss of misery; and among the afflicted families the power of nursing was indeed small.

However, the healthy children were carried away without much resistance, and established in the great barn under a trustworthy widow; and before night, two effective-looking Sisters were in charge at the hospital.

Still, however, no telegram, no letter, came from Eleonora Vivian.  Mr. M’Vie had found a nurse for Lady Tyrrell, but old Sir Harry rode in to meet every delivery of the post, and was half distracted at finding nothing from her; and Frank’s murmurs of her name were most piteous to those who feared that, if he were ever clearly conscious again, it would only be to know how heavy had been the meed of his folly.