The Infidel: A Story of the Great Revival

by M. E. Braddon

  CHAPTER XVI.

  DEATH AND VICTORY.

  It was late in October when Lady Kilrush arrived at her house in St.James's Square. What a gloomy splendour, what an unromantic luxury thespacious mansion presented after the lake and mountains, the chestnutwoods and rose gardens of Lombardy. Yet this old English comfortwithin doors, while the grey mists of autumn brooded over the squarewhere the oil lamps made spots of quivering golden light amidst thedeepening gloom, had a certain charm, and Antonia was not ill pleasedto find herself taking a dish of tea by the fire in the library withher old friend Patty Granger, who brought her the news of the town, theweddings and elopements, the duels and law-suits, the beauties who hadlost their looks, and the prodigals who had anticipated their majorityand ruined an estate by a single cast at hazard.

  "And so Lord Dunkeld travelled all the way from Como with you and Mrs.Potter?" said Patty, when she had emptied her budget. "You must havebeen vastly tired of him by the time you got home, after being boxed ina travelling chariot for over a se'nnight."

  "There are people of whose company one does not easily tire, Patty."

  "Then my old General ain't one of 'em; for I yawn till my jaws achewhenever we spend an evening together, and he sits and proses overMarlborough's wars and the two chargers he had shot under him atMalplaquet. Sure I knew all his stories by heart long before we weremarried; and 'tain't likely I'll listen to 'em now. But if you canrelish Lord Dunkeld's conversation for a week in a chaise, perhapsyou'll be able to endure it from year's end to year's end when you'rehis wife."

  "What are you thinking of, child? I am not going to marry Lord Dunkeld,or any other man living."

  "Then I think you ought to have put the poor wretch out of his pain ayear ago, and not let him dance attendance on you half over Europe."

  "His lordship has known my mind for a long time, and is pleased tohonour me with his friendship."

  "Ah, you have a knack of turning lovers into friends. You was friendswith Mr. Stobart till you quarrelled with him and sent him off to thewars. And I doubt he's killed by this time, if he was with Wolfe; forthe General tells me our soldiers haven't a chance against the French."

  "Does the General say that, Patty?" Antonia asked anxiously.

  She had read all the newspapers on her home-coming. There was no freshnews from America; but the tone about the war was despondent. Wolfe'sarmy before Quebec was but nine thousand, the enemy's force nearlydouble. Amherst was at a distance, winter approaching, the outlook of auniversal blackness.

  "The General has hardly any hopes," said Patty. "He has seen Wolfe'slast letter, such a down-hearted letter; and the poor man is fitterto lie a-bed in a hospital than to storm a city. He has always been asickly wretch; never could abide the sea, and suffers more on a voyagethan a delicate young woman."

  * * * * *

  Antonia lay awake half that night, despondent and uneasy, and in hertroubled morning sleep dreamt of George Stobart, in a grenadier'suniform, with an ashen countenance, the blood streaming from a sabrecut on his forehead. He looked at her with fading eyes, and reproachedher for her cruelty. 'Twas her unkindness had sent him to his doom.

  She woke out of this nightmare vision to hear news-boys yelling in thesquare. "Taking of Quebec. A glorious victory. Death of General Wolfe.Death of General Montcalm." She sprang from her bed, threw up a window,and looked down into the square. It was hardly light. The news-boyswere bawling as if they were mad, and street doors and area gates wereopening, and eager hands were stretched out to snatch the papers. Aragamuffin crowd was following the news-boys, the crowd that is afootat all hours, and comes from nowhere. "Great English victory--Slaughterof the enemy. Death of General Wolfe on the field of battle. Death ofGeneral Montcalm. Destruction of the French. Quebec taken."

  Mr. Pitt had received the news late last night, and this morning 'twasin all the papers. The shouting of the news-vendors made a confusionof harsh noises, each trying to bawl louder than his fellows. And thencame the sound of trumpet and drum in Pall Mall, as the guard marchedto the Palace, and anon loud hurrahs from the excited crowd in thesquare, in Pall Mall, everywhere, filling the air with vociferousexultation.

  Death and victory! The words reached Antonia's ear together. Victorypurchased at what cost of blood, what sacrifice of lives that weredear? She had met old General Wolfe and his handsome wife, now a widow,the hero's proud mother; and it was sad to think of that lady's agonyto-day, while all England was rejoicing, all who had not lost theirdearest as she had.

  Both generals slain! And how many of those they led to battle? WereGeorge Stobart's bones lying on the heights of Abraham, the prey ofeagles and wolves, or buried hastily by some friendly hand, hidden forever under that far-off soil, which the winter snow would soon cover?Her heart ached at the thought that she would see him no more, she whohad desired, or thought she desired, never to look upon his face.

  She sent her woman for the newspapers, and turned them over withtrembling hands, standing by the open window in the chill autumnal air,too much discomposed even to sit down. The _Daily Advertiser_ had aletter with a description of the siege; all the wonder of it; the boatscreeping up the river under the midnight stars; the ascent of that grimheight through the darkness, the soldiers clambering with uncertainfoothold, clutching at bushes, struggling through trees, their musketsslung at their backs, the _qui vive?_ of the French sentinel above, thecourage, the address, the presence of mind of leaders and men. Therehad been great losses; but there was no list of the killed; and Stobartmight be among them.

  She ordered her coach to be at the door in an hour, and waited only todress and take a cup of chocolate before she went to see Mrs. Stobart,who, if her husband had survived the siege, might have had a letter bythe ship that brought England the news from Quebec.

  A stranger opened the door at Crown Place. Instead of Mrs. Stobart'shandmaiden, in white apron and mob cap, Antonia saw an old woman,of dejected aspect, who stared at the footman and coach as at someappalling vision.

  Yes, Mrs. Stobart was at home, but she was very ill, the woman said,and it might be dangerous for the lady to see her.

  The lady, who had alighted at the opening of the door, took no heed ofthis warning. The wife was ill, struck down perhaps by the shock offatal news. Antonia instantly associated Lucy's illness with the fateof her husband.

  "Where is she?" she asked, and ran upstairs without waiting to beanswered. In an eight-roomed house it was not difficult to find themistress's chamber. She opened the door of the front room softly, andfound herself in darkness, an obscurity made horrible by the stiflingheat of the room, where the red cinders of what had been a fierce firemade a lurid glow behind the high brass fender. The dimity curtainswere closed round the bed. Antonia drew one of them aside and lookedat the sick woman. She was asleep, and breathing heavily, her foreheadbound with a linen cloth, and the hand lying on the coverlet burnt likea hot coal under Antonia's touch.

  The old woman came panting up the stairs, and after stopping to recoverher normal breathing power, which was but feeble, she addressed thevisitor in a voice of alarm.

  "Oh, madam, you had best come away from the bed. 'Tis the small-pox, abad case, and if you have never had the disease----"

  "I have been inoculated. I am not afraid," Antonia answered quickly,thinking only of the patient. Alas, poor soul, to be seized with thathateful sickness, which she so feared. "How did she come by thishorrible malady, ma'am?"

  "She caught it from an old gentleman, my lady--I believe he was arelation--who died in the house. She was taken ill the night afterhis funeral, a fortnight ago. 'Tis the worst kind of small-pox. Shewas quite sensible two days ago, and then the fever came back, thesecondary fever, the doctor calls it. Even if she gets over it shewill be disfigured for life, poor lady, and may lose her eyesight.'Tis as bad a case as I ever nursed, and if your honour hadn't beeninoculated----"

  "But I have, woman, and I have no fear. Pray tell me where is thislady's son? Was he in th
e house when she was taken ill?"

  "No, my lady. The little master is living with his gran'ma, the servantgirl told me."

  "That is fortunate. Are you Mrs. Stobart's only nurse?"

  "Yes, my lady."

  "And at night when you are asleep, who attends upon her?"

  "I am a very light sleeper, ma'am. I mostly hears her when she callsme, if she calls loud enough."

  "She must have two nurses. I will get another woman to help you, and Ishall come every day to see that she is attended properly. Pray, who isher doctor?"

  The woman named a humble apothecary in Lambeth, called Morton, whomAntonia had often met in her visits to the poor, a meek elderly man inwhose skill and kindness she had confidence, in spite of his rusty coatand breeches, coarse cotton stockings and grubby hands.

  "I will send a physician to see her. Tell Mr. Morton that I shall sendDr. Heberden, who will confer with him. Do you know if Mrs. Stobart hashad any trouble on her mind lately, any anxiety?"

  "Only about her house, my lady. Her slut of a maid ran away directlyshe heard 'twas small-pox."

  The apothecary came in while Antonia was standing by the bed, and wasaghast at the spectacle.

  "Does your ladyship know what risk you run here? Oh, madam, for God'ssake, leave this infected air."

  "I am not afraid. I did not take the disease when the doctors tried toinoculate me. I doubt I am proof against the poison."

  "Nay, madam, you must not count on that. I implore you to leave thisroom instantly, and never to re-enter it. 'Tis a bad case of confluentsmall-pox, and I fear 'twill be fatal."

  "And this poor lady is alone, her husband fighting in America, killedin the late battle, perhaps. At whatever risk I shall do all I can forher. And I hope we may save her, sir, with care and good nursing."

  "Your ladyship may be sure I will do my best," said Morton.

  "I will go out into the air while you see to your patient. This room isstifling. You will find me below, waiting to talk to you."

  She walked on the footpath by the river till the apothecary came toher, and then gave him her instructions. Dr. Heberden was to see thepatient that afternoon, if possible. Antonia would wait upon him andpersuade him to do so. And Mr. Morton was to be at hand to receive hisinstructions. And a nurse was to be found, more serviceable than theold woman on the premises, who seemed civil and obliging, and could bekept to help her.

  "And I shall see the patient every day," concluded Antonia.

  "I must warn your ladyship once more, that you will do so at the perilof your life."

  "My good Mr. Morton, there are situations in which that hazard hardlycounts. This poor lady's husband, for instance, has he not risked hislife a hundred times in America? Risked and lost it, perhaps!"

  There was a catch in her voice like a stifled sob, as she spoke thelast sentence.

  "That is a vastly different matter, your ladyship," said Mortongravely; but he ventured no farther remonstrance.

  * * * * *

  Antonia saw the physician, and obtained his promise to see Mrs. Stobartthat afternoon. She drove through streets that were in a tumult ofrejoicing at the success of British arms. No one thought of thegeneral who had fallen, the soldiers who had died. Victory was on everylip, exultation in every mind. 'Twas all the coachman could do to steerhorses and chariot through the crowd.

  Arrived at home safely, Lady Kilrush told the hall porter to deny herto all visitors, which would not be difficult, since her arrival inLondon had not been recorded in the newspapers, and Lord Dunkeld wason the road to Scotland, to shoot grouse on his own moors. She orderedher chair for six o'clock, and in the meanwhile shut herself in herdressing-room, where Sophy found her, to whom she related her morning'swork.

  "If you are frightened don't come near me," she said.

  "I am frightened for you, madam, not for myself. I suppose after havinghad such a bout when I was inoculated I am safe to escape the small-poxfor the rest of my life. Sure I carry the marks on my face and neck,though they mayn't be so bad as to make me hideous."

  "Then if you are not afraid, you can keep me company in this room of anevening, till Mrs. Stobart is well enough to be sent into the country;and you can drive and walk with me. I will admit no visitors, for Imust see her every day if I would be sure that her nurses do theirduty. Poor soul, she is alone, and in great danger."

  Sophy implored her mistress to run no such hazard, besought her withtears, and with the importunity of a warm affection. In her ladyship'scase inoculation had been a failure. She would be mad to re-enter thatinfected house. Sophy would herself visit Mrs. Stobart, and see thatshe was properly nursed.

  "No, child, no, it is I who must go. It is my duty."

  "Why, I never knew you was so fond of her--a pretty simpleton, withscarce a word to say for herself."

  "Don't argue with me, Sophy. It is useless. If there is any risk, Ihave run it," Antonia answered.

  She shivered as she recalled that darkened chamber, the taintedatmosphere, the oppressive heat of a fire that had been burning day andnight through the mild October weather. She knew that there was poisonin that pestilential air, and that she had inhaled it, knew and did notcare.

  Her eyes were shining with a feverish light. Her heart ached withremorseful pity for the deserted wife, deserted by the man who had fledfrom his country, flung himself into a service of danger, flung awayhis life perhaps. It was because she had been unwise, had encouraged aclose friendship that was but a mask for love, that yonder poor womanwas lying on her sick bed deserted by her natural protector. He hadsacrificed every tie, renounced every duty, on account of that guiltylove. She hated herself when she thought that she had lured him fromhis home, had made him her friend and counsellor, at the expense of hisyoung wife. Every hour he had spent with her in St. James's Square hadbeen stolen from Lucy and her boy. It was the wife who had a right tohis thoughts, his counsels, his leisure; and she had filched them fromher. He had lingered by the fireside in her library, reluctant to leaveher, when he should have been brightening Lucy's monotonous existence,elevating her mind by his conversation, continuing that education ofheart and intellect in which he had been engaged before he lost himselfin a fatal friendship. She had driven him from her with anger andcontempt, driven him into exile and danger; but had she not as muchneed to be angry with herself, remembering her pleasure in his company,her forgetfulness of his wife's claims?

  This one thing remained for her to do, to watch over the lonely wifein her day of peril, to win her back to life and health if it werepossible. This atoning act would ease her conscience, perhaps, andbring her peace of mind. If George Stobart lived to come back toEngland he would know that she had done her duty, and, although not aChristian, had fulfilled the Christian's mission of mercy and love.

  And if that ghastly distemper struck her down--a possible result,though she did not apprehend it--what then? She had no keen love oflife, and would not much regret to lay down the load of days that hadlost their savour. She had tasted all the pleasures that the world,the flesh, and the devil can offer a beautiful woman, all the luxuriesthat gold can buy, all the homage that rank can claim, the adulation ofhigh-born profligates, the envy of rival beauties, and every trivialdiversion that Satan can put into the minds of the idle rich. She hadstruck every note in the gamut of elegant pleasures; and had arrived atthat period of satiety in which some women take to vice as the naturalcrescendo in the scale of emotion. What sacrifice would it be to diefor her who feared no hereafter, had no account to render?

  She visited Mrs. Stobart every day, questioned nurses and doctors,and took infinite trouble to secure the patient's comfort. She sat bythe sick-bed, endured the fetid atmosphere of a room carefully shutagainst the air of heaven, she listened to Lucy's delirious ravings,her frantic appeals to her husband to come back to her. She, who inher right senses had seemed to grieve so little at his absence, in herwanderings was for ever recalling the happy hours of their courtship,acting over again tha
t simple story of a girl's first love for asweetheart of superior station.

  Antonia listened with an aching heart. The love was there then; thewoman was not the pink-and-white automaton she had once thought her.And she had come between George Stobart and this idyllic affection, hadspoiled two lives, unwittingly, but not without guilt. She had absorbedhim, suffered him to squander all his leisure upon her company, soughthis counsel, invited his sympathy, made herself a part of his life, asno woman has the right to do with another woman's husband.

  And now, sitting by what might be the bed of death, she could notforgive herself for that friendship which she had cherished withoutthought of the cost. She had courted his company, and reproached himwhen he absented himself. He had been her most cherished companion;those days had been blank on which they had not met. All the feverishpleasures of the great world had not been enough to make up for onelost hour of his society. Their talk beside the firelit hearth, in thedarkening twilight, their meetings in poverty-stricken garrets andloathsome alleys, had been more to her than all the rest of her life.

  "If she should die before he comes back to her it will be on myconscience for ever that I was the wretch who parted them," she thought.

  The doctors were not hopeful of Mrs. Stobart's recovery. She had verylittle strength, they told Lady Kilrush, very little power to fightagainst the disease, which had attacked her in its most virulent form.Should she recover, she would be disfigured for life, and possiblyblind.

  Oh, the horror of it! If he came home to find the pretty childish face,the lily and rose complexion, so cruelly transformed! Was not deathalmost better for the victim than such a resurrection?

  Heaven was kinder to this weak soul than to spare her for such a cruelfate. After Antonia had been visiting her for over a week, in whichtime there had been no improvement in the symptoms, there came a rallywith some hours of consciousness; but this was only the prelude ofapproaching death.

  Lucy recognized Antonia, spoke of her husband and her son in a sage andmatter-of-fact tone which was quite unlike her talk in delirium, wasglad that the boy was safely out of the way when she was seized withthe malady.

  "My father came here one night, in a raging fever," she told Antonia."I was frightened; but I hadn't the heart to drive him out of thehouse. He looked like a dying man. It was the small-pox. He had sentthe disease inward by getting up from his bed and going out into thestreets in the rain. He lay ill over a week, and I got an old woman tonurse him. I never went near him after I knew. But the infection wasin the house, I suppose. I remember the night of his funeral, and myaching bones, and my burning head. I knew I was going to be ill. Andthen I remember nothing more--nothing more. Was it last night--thefuneral?"

  She spoke in a weak voice, in broken sentences, with long pausesbetween, Antonia holding her hand as she talked. The poor wasted handwas icy cold now; the fever was gone--gone with the life of the patient.

  "You'll give Mr. Stobart my love," she said, "and please tell him I wasvery unhappy after he went to America. It was very kind of you to cometo me; but then you like visiting sick people. I don't. Mr. Stobartused to tell me I was no Dorcas."

  She lingered for a day and a night after this return of consciousness;but her last hours were passed in a stupor, and she died in her sleep,so quietly that the nurse who kept watch by her bed knew not the momentof her last sigh.