CHAPTER XXXV
“MRS. GERARD”
Ever since Otto’s sudden death the Freule Louisa had felt stirred to practical philanthropy. Something about “redeeming the time” had got wedged in one of her ears. With her own fair hand she had concocted during Ursula’s long illness uneatable messes for the invalid, and, mindful of the poor thing’s former overtures to herself, she had very nearly brought on a recurrence of delirium by insisting on reading Carlyle’s French Revolution at the bedside. Routed by the doctor, she had extended her uncertain assistance to the village; but her efforts were much hampered by the steadfast resolution that neither personally, nor through the medium of her maid, would she incur any risk of infection. When the turnpike-woman’s little boy went up to the Manor-house for a promised bottle of wine the Freule rolled it across to him, her smelling-bottle held tight to her nostrils, over the broad slab before the open door. And somehow the little boy was awkward or frightened, and the bottle rolled away down the steps in crimson splashes and a puddle. All the village heard the story with a burst of derisive reproach. “Which seeing it was after confinement,” said the bottle-nosed turnpike-man, “a thing about which the Freule couldn’t be expected to know.”
“You can never be quite sure with these people, Hephzibah,” explained Freule Louisa, anxiously. “There is always a possibility of your catching something they haven’t got.”
“What you catch soonest is what you can’t catch afterwards,” replied Hephzibah, who meant fleas. Personally, the handmaid had a weakness for domiciliary visits, which afforded her an agreeable opportunity of telling the people of her own class—her inferiors, as she called them—how entirely they themselves were to blame for any misfortunes they might happen to have had.
On the gusty day which brought Gerard’s letter the Freule, accompanied by her faithful attendant, had departed to the Parsonage. Every Wednesday afternoon through the silent winter months the “ladies” of the village met in Josine’s drawing-room, and sewed innumerable nondescript garments for tropical converts from nudity to the inspiring strains of long-drawn letters monotonous with sickness and privation. Of this little Horstwyk Society the Freule from the Manor-house was Honorary President. It had taken to itself the appellation “Tryphena, Rom. xvi. 12,” and had gloriously fought and conquered the opposition “Tryphosa” which the doctor’s wife had rashly started—without Honorary President, but with a mission-field that could boast two genuine murders. Some of the Tryphena people rather regretted the annihilation of Tryphosa. It had formed such a fruitful theme when the missionary letters gave out.
“My dear Josine, I have got a most interesting report,” said the Freule, eagerly, taking off her heavy boots in the little Parsonage passage. The President and Secretary hated each other like poison. “The man at Palempilibang has lost two more children from dysentery—isn’t it dreadful?—and his wife has been so very bad they will have to take her up to a hill station for change of air.”
“I cannot understand it,” argued Josine, as they advanced to join the others; “I packed plenty of medicine in the box we sent out last Christmas. I wrote to Leipsic on purpose so as to make sure it should be genuine. And with me, when I have symptoms, Sympathetico—”
“My dear, I should not imagine it of any use in actual disease,” replied the Freule, hurriedly taking refuge from her own temerity in the bosom of “Tryphena.”
“Ladies, I have a most interesting report for this day’s meeting,” she began, with the common eagerness to promulgate calamity. “I shall not spoil it by picking out the best bits beforehand, but I must just tell you, because you will be so sorry to hear it, that Jobson, of Palempilibang, has lost two of his remaining seven children from dysentery, and his wife is so exceedingly weak the doctor says she cannot remain at the station. Isn’t it very, very sad? Ah, Juffrouw Pink, I am glad to see your cold is better.”