Lucy lost no time in taking sundry matters into her own hands, and ascertaining what was most wanted in that wretched household. For it was wretched enough. Their only servant, a girl of sixteen, had been taken away by her mother as soon as it became known that Mrs. Crawley was ill with fever. The poor mother, to give her her due, had promised to come down morning and evening herself, to do such work as might be done in an hour or so; but she could not, she said, leave her child to catch the fever. And now, at the period of Lucy’s visit, no step had been taken to procure a nurse, Mr. Crawley having resolved to take upon himself the duties of that position. In his absolute ignorance of all sanatory measures, he had thrown himself on his knees to pray; and if prayers—true prayers—might succour his poor wife, of such succour she might be confident. Lucy, however, thought that other aid also was wanting to her.
“If you can do anything for us,” said Mrs. Crawley, “let it be for the poor children.”
“I will have them all moved from this till you are better,” said Lucy, boldly.
“Moved!” said Mr. Crawley, who even now—even in his present strait—felt a repugnance to the idea that any one should relieve him of any portion of his burden.
“Yes,” said Lucy; “I am sure it will be better that you should lose them for a week or two, till Mrs. Crawley may be able to leave her room.”
“But where are they to go?” said he, very gloomily.
As to this Lucy was not as yet able to say anything. Indeed when she left Framley Parsonage there had been no time for discussion. She would go back and talk it all over with Fanny, and find out in what way the children might be best put out of danger. Why should they not all be harboured at the parsonage, as soon as assurance could be felt that they were not tainted with the poison of the fever? An English lady of the right sort will do all things but one for a sick neighbour; but for no neighbour will she wittingly admit contagious sickness within the precincts of her own nursery.
Lucy unloaded her jellies and her febrifuges, Mr. Crawley frowning at her bitterly the while. It had come to this with him, that food had been brought into his house, as an act of charity, in his very presence, and in his heart of hearts he disliked Lucy Robarts in that she had brought it. He could not cause the jars and the pots to be replaced in the pony-carriage, as he would have done had the position of his wife been different. In her state it would have been barbarous to refuse them, and barbarous also to have created the fracas of a refusal; but each parcel that was introduced was an additional weight laid on the sore withers of his pride, till the total burden became almost intolerable. All this his wife saw and recognized even in her illness, and did make some slight ineffectual efforts to give him ease; but Lucy in her new power was ruthless, and the chicken to make the chicken-broth was taken out of the basket under his very nose.
But Lucy did not remain long. She had made up her mind what it behoved her to do herself, and she was soon ready to return to Framley. “I shall be back again, Mr. Crawley,” she said, “probably this evening, and I shall stay with her till she is better.” “Nurses don’t want rooms,” she went on to say, when Mr. Crawley muttered something as to there being no bed-chamber. “I shall make up some sort of a litter near her; you’ll see that I shall be very snug.” And then she got into the pony-chaise, and drove herself home.