In a day or two it became widely known that Mrs. Wilkinson was dangerously ill—hers was no mere ordinary local fever, but a really grave case. The doctor's closed gharry drove into the corner compound three times a day; kind neighbours came late and early, bringing ice, jelly, and all manner of delicacies, hoping to tempt the appetite of the invalid, and to eke out Colonel Wilkinson's meagre catering. Mrs. Rattray, who had no family cares, took up her post in the sick-room, and relieved a trained nurse, whilst other ladies—and this is ever an action of fatal significance—carried off the children with their toys, ayahs, and sleeping-cots; but Angel ran home every night and lay on the mat outside her mother's door.
"If you move me, or touch me, I shall scream," such was her diabolical threat, and as Angel was known to be a child of her word, she was suffered to remain undisturbed. There she stayed, hour after hour, wide awake, and motionless as a stone. In spite of all efforts on the part of the doctor and nurses, the patient grew worse—the fever, like an internal fire, seemed to consume the slender thread of her existence. The verandah was now utterly deserted, even by the dirzee; the plants were withered and black from want of water; insolent crows promenaded over the matting, and the voices of the servants were hushed. One could almost guess from the exterior of the premises that the mistress of the house lay dying within. Colonel Wilkinson sat alone in his dim little office; he had not the heart to read or write, or even to tot up his accounts. An occasional low conference with Mrs. Rattray or the doctor, and a spare and solitary meal, alone broke the hot, heavy hours.
These whisperings conveyed bad news; his wife's condition was extremely grave, and he could not hold himself blameless. Instead of investing those six thousand rupees in jute and cotton mills, he ought to have sent her and her children to the hills. He was face to face with his own conscience. He confessed to himself that he was too fond of money. Was this a case of saving money and losing life? Remorse is a stern acquaintance, and Colonel Wilkinson blamed himself bitterly. Sad to relate, in spite of all these searchings of heart, such is the force of habit, and so strongly was he held by the grasp of avarice, within half an hour of his self-condemnation Colonel Wilkinson was out in the compound announcing to the milkman "that, now the children were from home, one measure was sufficient;" and he took the same opportunity of informing his cook "that a two anna chicken was ample for broth."
That same evening the bulletin was more favourable; the patient had recovered consciousness; she ceased to ramble about gores and whalebone, dresses and debts; she slept for several hours, and in the morning begged to see the children. Afterwards she talked for some time with Colonel Wilkinson, and gave him two bills to settle—bills which she would never have ventured to show him had she been in her normal state of health.
"Please pay these, Richard," she faltered; "they have been a terrible nightmare on my mind for months." Colonel Wilkinson pooh-poohed the accounts, and thrust them unexamined into his pocket. His spirits rose—he became sanguine. He declared to Mrs. Rattray that "when Lena could think of bills she was on the mend, and he was determined to write for a house at Mussouri by the night's post (even now he grudged a rupee or two for a telegram) and move her at once. She would be all right as soon as she was out of Ramghur. All she wanted was a change." In the midst of their conference, both Colonel Wilkinson and Mrs. Rattray were a good deal taken aback by hearing the sick woman express a desire to speak to Philip Gascoigne.
"Gascoigne, my dear," expostulated her husband; "what an extraordinary idea! Oh, you must not think of seeing him—it would be extremely bad for you."
"It will be worse for me if I do not see him," she answered, with an unexpected force. "I have something to say to him; please do not worry, but send for him at once."
An invalid's whim must necessarily be humoured, and whilst her husband went away to despatch a note, Lena Wilkinson desired her ayah to dress her hair—yes, to get the irons and crimp and curl it, and then array her in a pink satin tea-jacket, fasten a row of pearls round her neck, and bring her her rings and bangles. Mrs. Rattray assisted at this melancholy toilette; she was well aware of the patient's ruling passion—a passion strong in death. There, in the open wardrobe from which the ayah had brought the tea-jacket, hung rows of pretty gowns, and conspicuous among them that copy of Mrs. Dawson's white silk which she and Mrs. Wilkinson had manufactured with such mischievous enjoyment.
As soon as the dressing up of the weak and gasping moribund was concluded, when she was propped up with pillows, her fan and handkerchief placed beside her, she faltered out: