“You had best leave her now, sir,” said the maid; “she will only go on in this way, and I can tend her.”
He would have given a great deal to have been sure that he could hold up his head ten minutes longer and to venture to send the woman away. Cecil muttered “Stay,” and he sat on till her sleep seemed deeper, and he felt as if a few moments more might disable him from crossing the room, but his first movement again made her say “Don’t.”
“Mr. Poynsett cannot stay, ma’am,” said Grindstone, in a persuasive tone. “He is very tired, and not well, and you would not wish to keep him.”
“Give me a kiss,” she said, like a tired child. It was not like the shy embrace with which they had sometimes met and parted, but he knew he must not rouse her, and only said very low, “Good night, my poor dear; God bless you, and grant us a happy meeting, whenever it is.”
Tears were flowing down his cheeks when Julius presently came to him again, and only left him when settled for the night.
CHAPTER, XXVII
The Water Lane Fever
The Water Lane Fever. People called it so, as blinking its real name, but it was not the less true that it was a very pestilence in the lower parts of Wil’sbro’; and was prostrating its victims far and wide among the gentry who had resorted to the town-hall within the last few weeks.
Cases had long been smouldering among the poor and the workmen employed, and several of these were terminating fatally just as the outbreak was becoming decisive.
On Monday morning Julius returned from visits to his brothers to find a piteous note from Mrs. Fuller entreating him to undertake two funerals. Her husband had broken down on Sunday morning and was very ill, and Mr. Driver had merely read the services and then joined his pupils, whom he had sent away to the sea-side. He had never been responsible for pastoral care, and in justice to them could not undertake it now. “Those streets are in a dreadful state,” wrote the poor lady, “several people dying; and there is such a panic in the neighbourhood that we know not where to turn for help. If you could fix an hour we would let the people know. The doctor insists on the funerals being immediate.”
Julius was standing in the porch reading this letter, and thinking what hour he could best spare from nearer claims, when he heard the gate swing and beheld his junior curate with a very subdued and sobered face, asking, “Is it true?”