Last evening, Mr. D. and le Docteur, between them, frightened the two maids out of the house. This morning I succeeded in scaring away the old housekeeper, which made a shortage in servants. Old Hagar happened along just then by some chance, and declared herself not at all afraid of contagion; so madame bade her brother employ her. The cook remains, as Monsieur and le Docteur must eat. My meals are served in madame's dressing-room, and shared by that lady.
Courage, my friend, our time is almost here. And I am yours till death,
M——.
This letter was perused by Olive and Clarence with almost breathless eagerness and interest. And then they found themselves once more waiting eagerly for fresh tidings from the "seat of war," as Clarence termed it.
At last came a letter from Madeline that aroused them as the clarion stirs those arrayed for battle. It ran as follows, bearing neither date nor signature:
To Arms, My Friends!
If you were among the village gossips to-day, this is what you would hear, for it is what is fast spreading itself through the town:
The lady up at the mansion has been very ill, but is now better. Her husband took the fever from her, and, being old and his constitution enfeebled by the dissipation of his earlier days, he came near dying. Now they hope that he will live, although the danger is not yet passed. But if he does live he will never be himself again. The fever has affected his brain, and he will be hopelessly mad.
That is what the villagers know.