'I told you all along it was absurd to make such a disturbance about him. You see he was enjoying himself with his common associates,' said Mrs. Palmer crossly. 'Strangely peculiar,' she added after a moment. 'Dolly, did it ever occur to you that the dear boy was a little——?' and she tapped her fair forehead significantly.
'He was only unhappy, mamma, but you see he is getting better now,' said Dolly.
The next time Dolly saw Rhoda she ran up and kissed her, looking so kind that Rhoda was quite surprised and wondered what had happened to make Dolly so nice again.
CHAPTER XLII.
RACHEL.
Shepherd, what's love, I pray thee tell.
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell,
It is perhaps that sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell.
And this is love as I heard tell.
It was not only in the hospitals at Varna that people were anxious and at work at the time when George wrote. While the English ships were embarking their stores and their companies, their horses and their battalions, transporting them through surf and through storm to the shores of the fierce Russian Empire; while Eastern hospitals were organising their wards, nurses preparing to start on their errand; while generals were sitting in council,—an enemy had attacked us at home in the very heart of our own great citadel and store place, and the peaceful warriors sent to combat this deadly foe are fighting their own battles. Cholera was the name of the enemy, and among those who had been expecting the onslaught, haranguing, driving companies of somewhat reluctant officials, good old John Morgan had been one of the most prominent. His own district at Kensington was well armed and prepared, but John Morgan's life at Kensington was coming to an end, and he had accepted a certain small living in the city called St. Mary Outh'gate, of which the rector was leaving after five or six years' hard work. 'It is a case of bricks without straw,' said the poor worn-out rector. Morgan was full of courage and ready to try his hand. Mrs. Morgan, with a sigh given to the old brown house and its comfortable cupboards, had agreed to move goods and chattels shortly into the dark little rectory in the City court, with its iron gates and its one smutty tree. To the curate's widow and mother there was an irresistible charm in the thought of a rectory.
St. Mary Outh'gate was a feeble saint, and unable to protect her votaries from the evil effects of some open sewers and fish-heaps when the cholera broke out—at John's request the move was delayed. The girls remained at Kensington, while Mrs. Morgan travelled backwards and forwards between the homes. Every day the accounts grew more and more serious, and in the month of September the mortality had reached its height.
John's new parish of St. Mary Outh'gate lies on the river side of a great thoroughfare, of which the stream of carts and wheels rolls by from sunrise until the stars set. The rectory-house stood within its iron gates, in a court at the end of a narrow passage. The back of the house looked into a cross lane leading to the river. The thoroughfare itself was squalid, crowded, bare; there was nothing picturesque about it; but in the side streets were great warehouse cranes starting from high windows, and here and there some relic of past glories. Busy to-day had forgotten some old doorway perhaps, or left some garden or terrace-wall, or some old banqueting-room still standing. It had swept the guests into the neighbouring churchyards on its rapid way. To-day was in a fierce and reckless mood: at home and abroad were anxious people watching the times, others were too busy to be anxious. John was hard at work and untiring. He had scarcely had time to unpack his portmanteau and to put up his beloved books and reports. His start had been a dispiriting one. People had been dying by scores in the little lane at the back of the rectory. Mrs. Morgan herself fell ill of anxiety and worry, and had to go home. It must be confessed that the cares of the move and the capabilities of the drawing-room carpet added not a little to the poor lady's distress. Betty remained to take care of her master, and to give him her mind. John bore the old woman's scolding with great sweetness of temper. 'You do your work, Betty, and let me do mine,' said he. He had taken in two professional nurses after his mother left, and his curate, whose landlady had died of the prevailing epidemic. The two men worked with good will. John came, went, preached, fumed, wrote letters to The Times. Frank, who was in town, came to see him one day. He found the curate in good spirits. Things were beginning to look a little less dark, and John was one of those who made the best of chance lights. He received his friend heartily, wheeled his one arm-chair up for him, and lit a pipe in his honour. The two sat talking in the old bare black room leading into the court. John gave a short account of his month's work.