Molly fled to the window-seat, and plunged into the delights of Roy's epistle. Mrs. Fairbank's face of growing concern failed to draw her attention; and a murmured consultation which took place might have gone on in China, for all the impression that it made upon her. But having three times gone through the contents of her little sheet, and having kissed it tenderly, she at length carried it to Polly.
"Roy has forgotten to sign his name," she said. "And he said he had a cold, and felt sea-sick."
"Roy, I regret to say, is far from well, my dear," replied Mrs. Fairbank solemnly. "He has been taken ill with a most unexpected disorder. It is truly unfortunate. He has the smallpox. Doubtless he took it into his constitution before ever he left England."
Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe.
"But numbers and numbers of people have smallpox," she observed. "And many get over the complaint." This was lame comfort; but what else could Polly say? The reign of that awful scourge of nations was not yet over. Vaccination had indeed been recently discovered, and was making way; but it had not yet become general, even in England. Many people, from ignorance, doubted its worth; many still preferred the more dangerous safeguard of inoculation. Strange to say, the Barons had not yet, as a family, undergone vaccination, though they had talked of doing so. They had been half sceptical, half dilatory.
"Will his face be all marked?" asked Molly sadly, thinking of the innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he be like Mr. Bryce?"
"I hope not, indeed. All who have it are not scarred. Captain Ivor is not, yet he has had it. Think, Molly, is not Captain Ivor kind and brave? He has taken Roy into another house, and he will not let your father or mother go near to Roy, or any one who has not had the disorder. He is nursing Roy himself, and they hope it will not be a severe attack."
Molly was hard to comfort; and no wonder. All her spirit went out of her, and she seemed to care for nothing except clinging to Polly, and being assured again and again that Roy would probably soon be better.
Letters then were not an everyday matter, as now. Posts were slow and expensive, and people thought more than twice before putting pen to paper. Colonel Baron had promised to write again soon, but he waited till he should have something definite to say.
The suspense was almost as hard for Polly as for Molly—harder, perhaps, in some respects. Only, as Ivor had had the disease, and had nursed a friend through it without being the worse, he might be counted safe. But Polly knew that his stay in Paris was likely to be much lengthened. Weeks might pass before Roy would be able to travel. Denham would most likely spend the whole of his leave in attendance upon the boy; and when he returned, he would have no time left to spare for Bath. At present her fears extended no further.