Framley Parsonage, Anthony Trollope [popular e readers txt] 📗

family it seemed impossible that their most ordinary wants could be supplied if that courageous head were even for a day laid low; and then the poverty of poor Mr. Crawley was such that the sad necessities of a sick bed could hardly be supplied without assistance.

“I will go over at once,” said Fanny.

“My dear!” said her husband, “it is typhus, and you must first think of the children. I will go.”

“What on earth could you do, Mark?” said his wife. “Men on such occasions are almost worse than useless; and then they are so much more liable to infection.”

“I have no children, nor am I a man,” said Lucy, smiling; “for both of which exemptions I am thankful. I will go, and when I come back I will keep clear of the bairns.”

So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage, carrying with her such things from the parsonage storehouse as were thought to be suitable to the wants of the sick lady at Hogglestock. When she arrived there, she made her way into the house, finding the door open, and not being able to obtain the assistance of the servant girl in ushering her in. In the parlour she found Grace Crawley, the eldest child, sitting demurely in her mother’s chair nursing an infant. She, Grace herself, was still a young child, but not the less, on this occasion of well-understood sorrow, did she go through her task not only with zeal but almost with solemnity. Her brother, a boy of six years old, was with her, and he had the care of another baby. There they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave, and silent, attending on themselves, because it had been willed by fate that no one else should attend on them.

“How is your mamma, dear Grace?” said Lucy, walking up to her, and holding out her hand.

“Poor mamma is very ill, indeed,” said Grace.

“And papa is very unhappy,” said Bobby, the boy.

“I can’t get up because of baby,” said Grace; “but Bobby can go and call papa out.”

“I will knock at the door,” said Lucy, and so saying she walked up to the bedroom door, and tapped against it lightly. She repeated this for the third time before she was summoned in by a low hoarse voice, and then on entering she saw Mr. Crawley standing by the bedside with a book in his hand. He looked at her uncomfortably, in a manner which seemed to show that he was annoyed by this intrusion, and Lucy was aware that she had disturbed him while at prayers by the bedside of his wife. He came across the room, however, and shook hands with her, and answered her inquiries in his ordinary grave and solemn voice.

“Mrs. Crawley is very ill,” he said, “very ill. God has stricken us heavily, but His will be done. But you had better not go to her, Miss Robarts. It is typhus.”

The caution, however, was too late; for Lucy was already by the bedside, and had taken the hand of the sick woman, which had been extended on the coverlid to greet her. “Dear Miss Robarts,” said a weak voice; “this is very good of you; but it makes me unhappy to see you here.”

Lucy lost no time in taking sundry matters into her own hands, and ascertaining what was most wanted in that wretched household. For it was wretched enough. Their only servant, a girl of sixteen, had been taken away by her mother as soon as it became known that Mrs. Crawley was ill with fever. The poor mother, to give her her due, had promised to come down morning and evening herself, to do such work as might be done in an hour or so; but she could not, she said, leave her child to catch the fever. And now, at the period of Lucy’s visit, no step had been taken to procure a nurse, Mr. Crawley having resolved to take upon himself the duties of that position. In his absolute ignorance of all sanatory measures, he had thrown himself on his knees to pray; and if prayers⁠—true prayers⁠—might succour his poor wife, of such succour she might be confident. Lucy, however, thought that other aid also was wanting to her.

“If you can do anything for us,” said Mrs. Crawley, “let it be for the poor children.”

“I will have them all moved from this till you are better,” said Lucy, boldly.

“Moved!” said Mr. Crawley, who even now⁠—even in his present strait⁠—felt a repugnance to the idea that anyone should relieve him of any portion of his burden.

“Yes,” said Lucy; “I am sure it will be better that you should lose them for a week or two, till Mrs. Crawley may be able to leave her room.”

“But where are they to go?” said he, very gloomily.

As to this Lucy was not as yet able to say anything. Indeed when she left Framley Parsonage there had been no time for discussion. She would go back and talk it all over with Fanny, and find out in what way the children might be best put out of danger. Why should they not all be harboured at the parsonage, as soon as assurance could be felt that they were not tainted with the poison of the fever? An English lady of the right sort will do all things but one for a sick neighbour; but for no neighbour will she wittingly admit contagious sickness within the precincts of her own nursery.

Lucy unloaded her jellies and her febrifuges, Mr. Crawley frowning at her bitterly the while. It had come to this with him, that food had been brought into his house, as an act of charity, in his very presence, and in his heart of hearts he disliked Lucy Robarts in that she had brought it. He could not cause the jars and the pots to be replaced in the pony-carriage, as he would have done had the position of his wife been different. In her state it would have been barbarous to