"She shall not die."
In these emergencies Mrs. Marsden-Thompson is solid as her clock-tower.
"But Dr. Eldridge mayn't be right—perhaps it's something a thousand times worse than measles.... Oh, oh. What can we do? It may be some virulent fever—and when she drops off to sleep, she may never wake."
What Mrs. Marsden-Thompson can do to allay Enid's anxiety, she does do, and at once. She telephones to London, to the most famous physician of the period.
"There, my darling," she says presently; "now keep calm. Sir John is coming—by the evening express."
"Mother dear, how can I thank you enough?"
"My own Enid, there's nothing to thank me for. It will relieve all our minds to have the very highest opinion.... And Sir John will spend the night here—that will be nice for you, to know that he is remaining on the spot."
Then in due course the illustrious Sir John arrives, and confirms the diagnosis of Dr. Eldridge. It is measles—and a very mild case of it.
Jane grew up strong and hearty, none the worse for childish ailments, and uninjured by the idolatry of her two nearest female relatives. As Yates said, it was a miracle that Jane didn't get absolutely spoilt by so much fussing care and loving worship. But Yates stoutly declared that the young lady was not spoilt up to now; and attributed her escape from spoiling to the fortunate circumstance that she took after her grandmother.
Outwardly she was like her mother, but perhaps inwardly she did somewhat resemble her granny. At fourteen she was certainly more enthusiastic, vivacious, and expansive than Enid had been at that age. And, unlike the young Enid, she could not readily take the impress of other people's minds and manners. Governesses said she was very clever, but too much disposed to rely on conclusions reached by trains of thought set in motion by herself and running on lines of her own construction. Governesses would not say she was obstinate—oh, no, far from it—but perhaps guilty now and then of a certain intellectual arrogance that was unbecoming in one so young.