"What is this I hear about Margaret?" Mrs. Fowler inquired, excitedly clutching the governess by the arm, and scanning her pale countenance with anxiety. "I am told she is ill. It is nothing much, I suppose? What ails her? A cold?"
"She certainly did catch cold," Miss Conway rejoined in a grave tone, looking from Mrs. Fowler to her husband, who had quickly followed her. "She has been poorly for several days, but this morning she was taken much worse, and I sent immediately for Dr. Vawdry from N—. He has been twice during the day, and—and—" this in a faltering voice—"she is very ill with inflammation of the lungs. We are poulticing her; Ross is with her now, and—and—I'm so very glad you've come!" And, overwrought with anxiety, she burst into tears.
"Come into the drawing-room, Miss Conway," Mr. Fowler said kindly. "No, my dear," he continued, laying a restraining hand upon his wife who had turned to rush upstairs, "let us hear all details about Margaret first of all. Besides, you must not allow her to see you looking frightened and distressed."
"She would take no notice," Miss Conway said mournfully. "She recognises nobody, and is quite delirious. Dr. Vawdry says that need not alarm us, though, for it's frequently the case in inflammation of the lungs."
"What has caused her illness?" Mrs. Fowler asked, as she followed the others into the drawing-room.
Miss Conway wiped away her tears, and in a few minutes was sufficiently composed to explain all that had happened. When she had finished her story, Mr. Fowler inquired, "Where is Gerald now?"
"In bed and asleep, I am thankful to say," Miss Conway answered. "Mr. Amyatt had him at the Vicarage until eight o'clock, when he brought him home. He begged me to allow him to sit up to see you, but I insisted on his having his supper and going to bed."
"Quite right." Mr. Fowler's face was very stern, and he would not meet the glance of his wife's appealing eyes. "We see now the result of indulgence," he added emphatically. "Had Gerald been taught obedience and consideration for other people, this trouble would never have come upon us."
Mrs. Fowler quailed beneath the mingled reproach and reproof of her husband's tone; for once she had no excuse to make for her favourite child. She had spent a very pleasant time in London, where she had met many old friends, including Mrs. Lute; but she had not been sorry to return to Greystone, acknowledging to herself that the quiet, healthful life there suited her. With her husband's presence to strengthen her, it had not been so very difficult to refuse stimulants when they had been offered to her. She was fully conscious of her own weakness now, and no longer deceived herself, as she had formerly done, with the fallacious idea that a little wine or spirit was good for her.
When she recalled how, during her husband's brief absence from home a few weeks previously, she had been tempted from the mere fact of having taken one glass of wine to purchase a bottle of brandy, and drink it by stealth, she was obliged to confess that total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors was the only course for her to adopt to prevent the ruin of her happiness, and that of those she loved. At Greystone, she felt she was out of temptation's way. The news of her little daughter's illness, which had been imparted to her and Mr. Fowler at N—, had startled and shocked her immeasurably; and she had begged the coachman to drive home as quickly as possible, which he had accordingly done.