Anna retired in discomfiture.
Tea was finished. They went out, but kept at a discreet distance from the artist, who continued to use her pencil until dusk had fallen. Then they returned to the sitting-room, where a fire had been lighted, and Beatrice at length followed. As the others sat in a circle round the fire, Beatrice, who occupied the sofa in solitude, gave a shiver.
“Beatrice, you’ve taken cold,” said her mother, “sitting out there like that.”
“Oh, nonsense, mother—what a fidget you are!”
“A fidget I certainly am not, my darling, and that you know very well. As you’ve had no tea, you shall have some gruel at once, and go to bed and get warm.”
“Oh no, mother!” But Mrs. Sutton was resolved, and in half an hour she had taken Beatrice to bed and tucked her up.
When Anna went to the bedroom Beatrice was awake.
“Can’t you sleep?” she inquired kindly.
“No,” said Beatrice, in a feeble voice, “I’m restless, somehow.”
“I wonder if it’s influenza,” said Mrs. Sutton, on the following morning, when she learnt from Anna that Beatrice had had a bad night, and would take breakfast in bed. She carried the invalid’s food upstairs herself. “I hope it isn’t influenza,” she said later. “The girl is very hot.”
“You haven’t a clinical thermometer?” Mynors suggested.
“Go, see if you can buy one at the little chemist’s,” she replied eagerly. In a few minutes he came back with the instrument.
“She’s at over a hundred,” Mrs. Sutton reported, having used the thermometer. “What do you say, father? Shall we send for a doctor? I’m not so set up with doctors as a general rule,” she added, as if in defence, to Anna. “I brought Beatrice through measles and scarlet fever without a doctor—we never used to think of having a doctor in those days for ordinary ailments; but influenza—that’s different. Eh, I dread it; you never know how it will end. And poor Beatrice had such a bad attack last Martinmas.”
“If you like, I’ll run for a doctor now,” said Mynors.
“Let be till tomorrow,” the Alderman decided. “We’ll see how she goes on. Happen it’s nothing but a cold.”
“Yes,” assented Mrs. Sutton; “it’s no use crying out before you’re hurt.”
Anna was struck by the placidity with which they covered their apprehension. Towards noon, Beatrice, who said that she felt better, insisted on rising. A fire was lighted at once in the parlour, and she sat in front of it till teatime, when she was obliged to go to bed again. On the Wednesday morning, after a night which had been almost sleepless for both girls, her temperature stood at 103°, and Henry fetched the doctor, who pronounced it a case of influenza, severe, demanding very careful treatment. Instantly the normal movement of the household was changed. The sickroom became a mysterious centre round which everything revolved, and the parlour, without the alteration of a single chair, took on a deserted, forlorn appearance. Meals were eaten like the passover, with loins girded for any sudden summons. Mrs. Sutton and Anna, as nurses, grew important in the eyes of the men, who instinctively effaced themselves, existing only like messenger-boys whose business it is to await a call. Yet there was no alarm, flurry, nor excitement. In the evening the doctor returned. The patient’s temperature had not fallen. It was part of the treatment that a medicine should be administered every two hours with absolute regularity, and Mrs. Sutton said that she should sit up through the night.
“I shall do that,” said Anna.
“Nay, I won’t hear of it,” Mrs. Sutton replied, smiling.
But the three men (the doctor had remained to chat in the parlour), recognising Anna’s capacity and reliability, and perhaps impressed also by her businesslike appearance as, arrayed in a white apron, she stood with firm lips before them, gave a unanimous decision against Mrs. Sutton.
“We’st have you ill next, lass,” said the Alderman to his wife; “and that’ll never do.”
“Well,” Mrs. Sutton surrendered, “if I can leave her to anyone, it’s Anna.”
Mynors smiled appreciatively.
On the Thursday morning there was still no sign of recovery. The temperature was 104°, and the patient slightly delirious. Anna left the sickroom at eight o’clock to preside at breakfast, and Mrs. Sutton took her place.
“You look tired, my dear,” said the Alderman affectionately.
“I feel perfectly well,” she replied with cheerfulness.
“And you aren’t afraid of catching it?” Mynors asked.
“Afraid?” she said; “there’s no fear of me catching it.”
“How do you know?”
“I know, that’s all. I’m never ill.”
“That’s the right way to keep well,” the Alderman remarked.
The quiet admiration of these two men was very pleasant to her. She felt that she had established herself forever in their esteem. After breakfast, in obedience to them, she slept for several hours on Mrs. Sutton’s bed. In the afternoon Beatrice was worse. The doctor called, and found her temperature at 105°.
“This can’t last,” he remarked briefly.
“Well, Doctor,” Mr. Sutton said, “it’s i’ your hands.”
“Nay,” Mrs. Sutton murmured with a smile, “I’ve left it with God. It’s with Him.”
This was the first and only word of religion, except grace at table, that Anna heard from the Suttons during her stay in the Isle of Man. She had feared lest vocal piety might form a prominent feature of their daily life, but her fear had proved groundless. She, too, from reason rather than instinct, had tried to pray for Beatrice’s recovery. She had, however, found much more satisfaction in the activity of nursing.
Again that night she sat up, and on the Friday morning Beatrice was better. At noon all immediate danger was past; the patient slept; her temperature was almost correct. Anna went to bed in the afternoon and slept soundly till suppertime, when she awoke very hungry. For the first time in three days Beatrice could be left alone. The other four had supper together, cheerful and relieved after the tension.
“She’ll be as right as a trivet in a few days,” said the Alderman.
“A few weeks,” said Mrs. Sutton.
“Of
