'He went out as usual?'
'Yes, though he had such a bad cold. He said he could not be spared; and he was out all yesterday till bedtime, or I should have told him grandmamma was not well.'
'You thought so!'
'Yes, she panted and breathed so oddly; but she would not let me say a word to him. She made me promise not, but being anxious about him helped to do it. Dr. Lucas said so.'
There was a strange hardness and yet a trembling in Janet's voice; nor did she look as if she had shed tears, though her face was pale and her eyes black-ringed, and when old nurse, now very old indeed, tottered in sobbing, she flung herself to the other end of the room. It was more from nurse than from Janet that Carey learnt the particulars, such as they were, namely, that the girl had been half- dressed when she had taken alarm from her grandmother's unresponsive stillness, and had rushed down to her father's room. He had found that all had long been over. His friend, old Dr. Lucas, had come immediately, and had pronounced the cause to have been heart complaint.
Nurse said her master had been 'very still,' and had merely given the needful orders and written a few letters before going to his patients, for the illness was at its height, and there were cases for which he was very anxious.
The good old woman, who had lived nearly all her life with her mistress, was broken-hearted; but she did not forget to persuade Caroline to take food, telling her she must be ready to cheer up the master when he should come in, and assuring her that the throbbing headache which disgusted her with all thoughts of eating, would be better for the effort. Perhaps it was, but it would not allow her to bring her thoughts into any connection, or to fix them on what she deemed befitting, and when she saw that the book over which Janet had been asleep in the twilight was 'The Last of the Mohicans,' she was more scandalised than surprised.
It was past Janet's bedtime, but though too proud to say so, she manifestly shrank from her first night of loneliness, and her mother, herself unwilling to be alone, came with her to her room, undressed her, and sat with her in the darkness, hoping for some break in the dull reticence, but disappointed, for Janet hid her head in the clothes, and slept, or seemed to sleep.
Perhaps Carey herself had been half dozing, when she heard the well- known sounds of arrival, and darted down stairs, meeting indeed the welcoming eye and smile; but 'Ah, here she is!' was said so hoarsely and feebly, that she exclaimed 'Oh Joe, you have knocked yourself up!'
'Yes,' said Dr. Lucas, whom she only then perceived. 'He must go to bed directly, and then we will see to him. Not another word, Brownlow, till you are there, nor then if you are wise.'
He strove to disobey, but cough and choking forbade; and as he began to ascend the stairs, Caroline turned in dismay to the kind, fatherly old man, who had always been one of the chief intimates of the house, and was now retired from practice, except for very old friends.
He told her that her husband was suffering from a kind of sore throat that sometimes attacked those attending on this fever, though generally not unless there was some predisposition, or unless the system had been unduly lowered. Joe had indeed been over-worked in the absence of several of the regular practitioners and of all those who could give extra help; but this would probably have done little harm, but for a cold caught in a draughty room, and the sudden stroke with which the day had begun. Dr. Lucas had urged him to remain at home, and had undertaken his regular work for the day, but summonses from his patients had been irresistible; he had attended to everyone except himself, and finally, after hours spent over the critical case of the wife of a small tradesman, he had found himself so ill that he had gone to his friend for treatment, and Dr. Lucas had brought him home, intending to stay all night with him.
Since the wife had arrived, the good old man, knowing how much rather they would be alone, consented to sleep in another room, after having done all that was possible for the night, and cautioned against talking.
Indeed, Joe, heavy, stupefied, and struggling for breath, knew too well what it all meant not to give himself all possible chance by silent endurance, lying with his wife's hand in his, or sometimes smoothing her cheek, but not speaking without necessity. Once he told her that her head was aching, and made her lie down on the bed, but he was too ill for this rest to last long, and the fits of struggling with suffocation prevented all respite save for a few minutes.
With the early light of the long summer morning Dr. Lucas looked in, and would have sent her to bed, but she begged off, and a sign from her husband seemed to settle the matter, for the old physician went away again, perhaps because his eyes were full of tears.
The first words Joe said when they were again alone was 'My tablets.' She went in search of them to his dressing-room, and not finding them there, was about to run down to the consulting-room, when Janet came out already dressed, and fetched them for her, as well as a white slate, on which he was accustomed to write memorandums of engagements.
Her father thanked her by a sign, but there was possibility enough of infection to make him wave her back from kissing him, and she took refuge at the foot of the bed, on a sofa shut off by the curtains. which had been drawn to exclude the light.
Joe meantime wrote on the slate the words, 'Magnum bonum.'
'Magnum bonum?' read his wife, in amazement.
'Papers in bureau,' he wrote; 'lock all in my desk. Mention to no one.'
'Am I to put them in your desk?' asked Caroline, bewildered as to his intentions, and finding it hard to read the writing, as he went on-
'No word to anyone!' scoring it under, 'not till one of the boys is ready.'
'One of the boys!' in utter amazement.
'Not as a chance for himself,' he wrote, 'but as a great trust.'
'I know,' she said, 'it is a great trust to make a discovery which will save life. It is my pride to know you are doing it, my own dear Joe.'
'It seems I am not worthy to do it,' was traced by his fingers. 'It is not developed enough to be listened to by anyone. Keep it for the fit one of the boys. Religion, morals, brains, balance.'
She read each word aloud, bending her head in assent; and, after a pause, he wrote 'Not till his degree. He could not work it out sooner. These is peril to self and others in experimenting- temptation to rashness. It were better unknown than trifled with. Be an honest judge-promise. Say what I want.'
Spellbound, almost mesmerised by his will, Caroline pronounced-'I promise to keep the magnum bonum a secret till the boys are grown up, and then only to confide it to the one that seems fittest, when he has taken his degree, and is a good, religious, wise, able man, with brains and balance, fit to be trusted to work out and apply such an invention, and not make it serve his own advancement, but be a real good and blessing to all.'
He gave her one of his bright, sweet smiles, and, as she sealed her promise by a kiss, he took up the slate again and wrote, 'My dear comfort, you have always understood. You are to be trusted. It must be done worthily or not at all.'
That was the burthen of everything; and his approval and affection gave a certain sustaining glow to the wife, who was besides so absorbed in attending to him, as not to look beyond the moment. He wrote presently, after a little more, 'You know all my mind for the children. With God's help you can fill both places to them. I should like you to live at Kenminster, under Robert's wing.'
After that he only used the tablets for temporary needs, and to show what he wanted Dr. Lucas to undertake for his patients. The husband and wife had little more time for intimate communings, for the strangulation grew worse, more remedies were tried, and one of the greatest physicians of the day was called in, but only to make unavailing efforts.
Colonel Brownlow arrived in the middle of the day, and was thunderstruck at the new and terrible disaster. He was a large, tall man, with a good-humoured, weather-beaten face, and an unwieldy, gouty figure; and he stood, with his eyes brimming over with tears, looking at his brother, and at first unable to read the one word Joe traced for him-for writing had become a great effort-'Carey.'
'We will do our best for her, Ellen and I, my dear fellow. But you'll soon be better. Horrid things, these quinsies; but they pass off.'
Poor Joe half-smiled at this confident opinion, but he merely wrung his brother's hand, and only twice more took up the pencil-once to write the name of the clergyman he wished to see, and lastly to put down the initials of all his children: 'Love to you all. Let God and your mother be first with you.-J. B.'
