HELEN AND HAROLD AT JIM'S BEDSIDE
"Don't you know us, Jim?" asked Harold, going up to the sick boy and bending over him.
Jim only replied by an unmeaning stare, and began to mutter inaudibly.
"See, Jim, we have brought you some strawberries," said Helen, advancing and opening her basket.
A glance of intelligence passed over the lad's face as he looked from Helen to the strawberries, but it faded directly, and the low muttering recommenced.
"Can't we do anything for him?" asked Harold in a whisper.
"I think that we might make him more comfortable," said Helen, beginning with deft fingers to straighten the bed-clothes and raise the pillows. "And see, his poor mouth is parched. We might moisten his lips."
"Well, miss, you are kind, to be sure," said Mrs. Hunt's voice from the doorway; "I can't do for him as I would. There's the children; they must be seen to, and the fowls and the pigs. He was a good lad to me, though he is not my own, and we never had a wrong word, never."
"Won't he get better?" asked Harold.
"I don't believe as he will," returned the woman. "The very night as he was took I says to his father, he's took for death. And I believe my words is coming true."
"Water!" murmured Jim, a look of consciousness stealing into his fever-stricken eyes.
The woman hastened to his side and gave the water, not unkindly.
"Who's that?" he asked, pointing at Harold.
"Why, Jim, don't you know? That's Master Harold come to see you. And the young lady from the Grange, she—" But Jim was already beginning to wander again, and both Harold and Helen were almost due at home, and dared not prolong their stay.
"It is so dreadful for him to be alone," said Helen as they stumbled down-stairs preceded by Mrs. Hunt. "May I come and sit with him this afternoon?"
Mrs. Hunt assented. She did not want the young lady "bothering about," but it would never do to risk falling out with the Grange. So it was arranged that Helen should return, and then she and Harold started off homewards at a rapid pace. It did occur to Helen to ask her father's permission for this second visit, but when she arrived at home she found that he was out and not expected back until late in the afternoon. Mrs. Desmond was still upstairs, and Helen lunched alone, and afterwards, her head still full of poor Jim, took a few restless turns up and down the garden walks, and then set out for the village.
Upon the village a sort of afternoon calm seemed to have fallen. The children were in school, the men at work in the fields, a few of the women were straw-plaiting and gossiping idly at their doors, and these stared and whispered one to another as Helen passed them on her way to the Hunts' cottage. Here all was silent, save that through the open window overhead a sound of Jim's unintelligible muttering could be heard occasionally.
"It's you, miss, is it?" said Mrs. Hunt, appearing at last in answer to Helen's timid knocking; "go up if you like. Nobody can do any good, I'm afeard. But it's kind of you to come."
Helen made no answer, but climbed the narrow staircase and entered the sick boy's room. There was no change since her last visit, although she fancied that Jim's face brightened a little as she went in. Very gently she attended to his comfort, and she even succeeded in making him swallow some milk that stood by his bedside. Then he closed his eyes, and she went and sat down by the window, wondering whether a sense of human companionship was the comfort to Jim that she fancied it would be to herself under similar circumstances. Very slowly the afternoon wore on. Every now and then the sick boy stirred and recommenced his confused talk. Such strange talk it seemed to Helen to come from dying lips. It was his work that troubled him. The fowls that would lay away, the cows that he could not milk, the sheep that would stray. And he was always late, and father would come home and be angry.
"Poor Jim! perhaps his work is all done. Perhaps no one will ever be angry with him any more," thought Helen, tears rising to her eyes. Seen in this light it did occur to her that dying was not such a very sad thing after all. Here was Jim, whose life had been a hard one, who had known no pleasures, who was stupid, every one said, and whom no one had cared for much. That very night, perhaps, he would know more than the wisest man living; he might be seeing more beautiful things than we can even picture, and be making the most wonderful discoveries about that undying love which Cousin Mary had said was always about us from the moment we were born. And on earth no one would speak his name save gently, no one would remember that he was plain and silly, but he would be thought of tenderly, and even those who had not loved him would have a sigh to give to his memory.
"Was dying so very sad after all?" Helen was still asking herself this question, when from below there came a sound of merry laughter, and of trampling childish feet. The children were coming out from school, and simultaneously the whole village seemed to wake up. Boys shouted and played; lowing cows were brought in to be milked; the women began their preparations for the evening meal, and, from their open doorways, called loudly upon their respective children. Life was there; and here was death. Poor Jim! never to mingle with his fellows again; never to feel the warm sun and the soft air; to go away from the cheerful day into the dark unknown. Yes; it was dreadful, dreadful, and Helen buried her face in her hands to shut out the sad picture.
Just then she heard a sound of voices below. Mrs. Hunt was talking volubly, but who was she addressing? Not her husband certainly. Perhaps it was the doctor. Helen felt a little shamefaced at the idea of being caught watching beside the sick boy, and she advanced to the door to see if there was any chance of escape. Then she felt still more perturbed, for she recognized Mr. Bayden's voice speaking in quick nervous tones.
"Of course, Mrs. Hunt," he was saying, "if I could do the poor lad any good, I would see him directly. But you say that he knows nobody."
"Well, I can't say that exactly. He seemed to brighten up like when Master Harold came in this morning. Not that—"
"Master Harold!"
The words were gasped out in quick, agitated accents.
"Yes, sir; why, bless me! I thought you sent him, him and the young lady from the Grange. They come just as we was sittin' at dinner, and I says to Hunt, says I, I do take it kind like—"
"Do you mean that Master Harold was here this morning? That he saw Jim?"
"I do, sir; and the young lady—"
But there was no need for any more of Mrs. Hunt's roundabout statements. Helen had already guessed from Mr. Bayden's agitated tones that something was wrong, and she now appeared upon the scene.
"What are you doing here?" cried the clergyman, catching sight of her.
"I—I only came to see Jim, he seemed so lonely," faltered Helen. "I am very sorry if I did wrong. Please don't blame Harold. It was all my doing that we came."
"Oh! what have you done! what have you done!" cried Mr. Bayden, wringing his hands. "Come home with me directly. I must see your father."
"Well, I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Hunt in some indignation; whilst Helen, still bewildered, prepared to obey.
"My good woman, don't attempt to interfere," said Mr. Bayden testily, trying to control himself. "Anything that I can do for the poor lad, of course, as a clergyman, I am prepared to do. But I cannot risk my children. Here is money. Get anything that is needed for Jim."
"A pretty clergyman!" muttered Mrs. Hunt, looking sullenly at the money that still lay upon the table, as though half inclined to throw it after its donor, who was by this time half-way down the village street, followed by Helen. "Well, it's lucky for him Jim is none o' mine, or I'd have given him a piece of my mind. A pretty clergyman!"
Mr. Bayden meanwhile, who would have been the last person in the world to wound Mrs. Hunt's feelings wilfully, and who was quite unconscious that in his terror and excitement he had omitted to explain to her the cause of his perturbation at Harold's visit, was half-way across the fields leading to the Grange before he had sufficiently recovered himself even to address Helen.
"Am I walking too fast for you?" he said then.
"Oh, no!" answered Helen, who was nearly out of breath with her efforts to keep up with her companion. "I hope you won't be angry with Harold," she added timidly. "I am quite sure my father won't mind my having gone."
"Not mind your having gone!" repeated Mr. Bayden. "It was a most wicked, thoughtless act. And to lead Harold into mischief too! My poor Harold!"
"Oh, Mr. Bayden, is anything the matter with Harold?"
Helen's agonized tones touched the clergyman, preoccupied as he was.
"I don't know," he returned more gently. "He ate no lunch, and he complained of headache this afternoon. It may be nothing."
"But why—why?" began Helen, when, to her joy, she saw her father a little ahead of them.
"There is father!" she cried joyfully, running after him. Her tale was nearly told before Mr. Bayden came up to them.
"What has my little girl been doing?" asked the colonel, smiling. "Interfering with your sick folk? No harm done, I hope."
"I hope not," answered Mr. Bayden tremulously. "But—shall I speak before her?"
"Run on, Helen," said the colonel. "Now," he went on as Helen obeyed, an anxious look gathering on his face, "what is it?"
"Just this. I met the doctor this afternoon, and he fears an epidemic in the village. Jim Hunt is dying, may be dead already. He ought to have been isolated from the first. But our regular doctor is away, and this one has no sense. As for that silly Mrs. Hunt—"
"Has the doctor pronounced the disease infectious?" interrupted the colonel impatiently.
"He doesn't know what to make of it. Two more children in the village are down with it."
"And our children have been exposed to it?"
Mr. Bayden nodded.
"I am sorry, Bayden," resumed the colonel. "Let us hope that no harm will come of it. Helen has been thoughtless. I will speak to her. The less said to anyone else the better. I daresay it would only unnecessarily alarm your wife. Come in now and have some tea."
"Don't ask me," cried the clergyman, his excitement rising again. "Harold was not well when I left home. Nothing but duty would have taken me out. Good-bye, good-bye!"
Mr. Bayden hurried away a good deal annoyed with Colonel Desmond for his apparent unconcern, and resolved to impart the whole affair to his wife as soon as possible.
Helen rejoined her father.
"Oh, Helen!" said the latter gravely, "this is a bad business. What could have induced you to go to the Hunts' cottage, and to take Harold with you? I am really vexed with you."
"Indeed, father," faltered Helen, "I did not think that I was doing anything wrong."
"Didn't you know that Jim has a fever. And now Mr. Bayden says that Harold has taken it."
Helen gave a little cry and buried her face in her hands. She understood it all now, Mr. Bayden's distress and her father's annoyance. And Harold? Then her thoughts stopped, they dared not travel further.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Helen," went on the colonel seriously, still annoyed and a little anxious, although sorry for the child's evident distress. "You are too heedless. That is at the root of all your troubles. There, run in now and get yourself cool. We mustn't have you laid up, and the heat to-day is quite Indian. Cheer up! I daresay Harold will be well to-morrow."
Thus dismissed, Helen went her way. She was very sad and downcast, and her old morbid fancies returned in full force. Two days of terrible suspense followed, during which even Mrs. Desmond remarked upon the girl's altered looks. On the third day a hurried note from Mrs. Bayden informed her sister that Harold was dangerously ill, and alluded to his visit to Jim in Helen's company in terms that there was no mistaking. Mrs. Desmond's annoyance at the reception of this information was not lessened by the fact of its having been hitherto kept from her knowledge. But Helen was too unhappy to suffer greatly from her stepmother's reproaches, too down-hearted to take comfort even from her father's assurances that Harold must have taken the fever before his visit to Jim, as otherwise it would not have declared itself so speedily.
There was, in fact, no comfort for poor Helen, not even the comfort of knowing from hour to hour how the sufferer fared. All communication between the Rectory and the Grange was stopped, and Mrs. Desmond was making hasty preparations for departure. Helen wandered about, a forlorn little figure, generally alone, but occasionally accompanied by her father.
It was upon one of these latter occasions on the very last day of their stay at the Grange, that the father and daughter, walking sadly through the lanes, encountered Mr. Bayden. The clergyman tried to pass on, but the colonel interposed.
"We're not afraid of infection here, Bayden. How is the lad?"
Mr. Bayden shook his head. "He is very, very ill," he answered brokenly.
"Dear me! Such a fine little fellow! He is sure to pull through."
"I dare not hope for it," returned the clergyman; "though I would give my life for him."
As he spoke he passed on, and the colonel and Helen continued their walk in sad silence. Colonel Desmond was half surprised at his little girl's silence. He even thought that she ought to have spoken, and hoped that she was not growing hard-hearted.
He did not look at her face, or its strained unchildlike expression might have alarmed him. Neither could he see her when, finding herself alone in her own room, she sat down and buried her face in her hands, moaning, "I would give my life for him, my life for him," while tearless sobs shook her slight frame.
No one thought of Helen through those sad days, no one pitied her. Even her father was vexed that through her thoughtlessness she had made it possible for people to say that she was answerable for Harold's illness. More and more the poor little head puzzled itself over questions that can find no answer here; but strangest of all it seemed to her to think of the days when Harold was the Rectory grievance, the bitterest drop in his mother's cup, and to contrast them with the present, when love was fighting its bitter battle over him with death.
How miserable Agatha had looked in church last Sunday! Perhaps even Agatha knew that she loved her brother now. How sad that love and tenderness should come too late! Was it always so?