The Family at Misrule/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV.
"IN THE MIDNIGHT, IN THE SILENCE OF THE SLEEP TIME."
"Have I not trodden a weary road
Saint, my Saint?
And where, at last, shall be my abode,
Oh, my Saint?"
BUT Meg only had it very lightly, or those two poor human hearts could not have borne their misery. She was not half so ill as Essie had been; she was not delirious at all, and she never went near to the great wide sea whose cold waves had washed up to the little baby feet.
When she woke after a troubled sleep in the afternoon, there was Nellie standing by the bedside looking at her, with all her heart in her eyes.
"What about the children?" she said with instant anxiety. "You oughtn't to be here."
But Nell stooped and kissed her.
"It's just where I ought to be," she said, "and Esther's mother will be here this evening, to look after the children,—don't worry."
Meg turned over restfully; how good it was to feel there would be a sister near always instead of the strange hands and face of a nurse! What a relief, now the strain was over, to be able to give up and be taken care of instead of taking care!
In the morning, when she woke, her first question again, after hearing Essie was improving fast, was what about the children?
Mrs. Hassal had come, Nell said; Mr. Gillet had brought her, and they were both at the cottage. Mr. Gillet was much distressed to hear she was ill, and had sent kindest regards and hopes for a speedy recovery.
For a moment the long-unheard name brought no connection with it to Meg; then she saw the burnt grass paddocks, the dingy sheep, the homestead and clustering cottages of Yarrahappini.
She called to mind his little room as she had seen it when she went for the keys of the storeroom. She was surprised to still remember, after all these years, her astonishment at finding the keeper of the stores with the room of a gentleman.
She could remember the rows of books, the medallion of Shelley, the pictures, the little breakfast table—even the silver chased vase with the passion flowers in it.
She wondered if he had kept the blue ribbon she had given him; even now her cheeks coloured above their fever to think how intolerant she had been in those days. But perhaps she was just as bad now, or had other faults still worse; she tossed unhappily and thought upon all the mistakes she was for ever making. Then Nellie's cool fingers touched her forehead and replaced a wet, lavender-sweet handkerchief, and she dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
She thought they were binding her head round and round with ribbon, pale blue with creases in it; it held her down to the bed so that she could not move; and there in the dancing river little Essie was struggling, the grey look of death on her small sweet face.
Then that torture shifted, and it was Pip who was struggling, and he could not put out his arms to swim because he had a monstrous gold wedding-ring binding them to his body. And Peter was at the top of the forbidden tree, and Poppet shrieking to him to come down. And Bunty was in the hospital with scarlet fever, and they could not give him medicine because he would not tell his name.
For several days troubles of this kind lasted, with short unrefreshing waking intervals when her mouth was parched, her throat swollen, and her head throbbing.
On the sixth morning she opened her eyes about eleven o'clock. Nellie was mixing lemon drink at a small table, and Alan was standing by the bedside, Alan with a face grown quite haggard, and a look in his eyes that had never quite left them since she fell ill.
"Am I getting better or worse?" she said, for his look made her suddenly fearful for herself. But he brightened instantly, for, in truth, the anxiety was almost over, only he could not shake it off at once.
"Much better," he said. "Do you know you have been asleep since nine last night?"
"How many hours is that?" she asked, with smiling languor; "my brain's asleep yet, I can't count." But neither could he. His lip trembled suddenly, and he put his face down on hers.
She slipped her thin hands round his neck.
"Poor old fellow!" she said, "dear old fellow! I'm going to get better immediately now." "Try to go to sleep again," he whispered, putting a kiss on each eyelid to keep them shut. "Please, my little, pale daisy."
The eyelashes lay quite still, but the lips smiled up to him. Then, before she knew it, she was asleep again, her breathing regular, her skin cool. And when she woke she was far on the road to recovery.
But down in the cottage, while Essie and Meg were struggling slowly up the beautiful tiring hill of convalescence, a terrible tragedy had happened.
In the middle of one night, Poppet, sleeping in a little made-up bed in the room with Mrs. Hassal, woke up hot and choking. One side of the room was in a sheet of fire; the curled, leaping tongues of flame came nearer every instant.
She sprang out of bed shrieking wildly, and pulled and shook poor little Mrs. Hassal, who, half suffocated with the smoke, lay motionless.
Pip slept at the Courtneys now, since the cottage was so taxed for room, Bunty and Peter across the passage, and Mr. Gillet had a camp bed in the sitting-room. No one had wakened till the little girl's wild shrieks rang through the house; the smoke had stupefied them all.
Then there was a terrible scene of confusion. The door of the bedroom was in a blaze—all the wall adjacent; the flames were licking at the long French window, and the curtains already burning.
Mr. Gillet went back one second for his thick coat, which he had not put on at first; then, shielding his face with his arm, he sprang into the room through the window, calling to Bunty to stand outside.
[Full page illustration: "He sprang through the flames, the child close in his arms."
The Family at Misrule.] [Page 271. ]
Poppet, mad with terror, was still pulling at Mrs. Hassal, and the mosquito nets of the bed had just caught.
He pushed the child aside, and bade her go into the one safe corner. Then he enveloped Mrs. Hassal in the blanket, carried her across the room, and hastily put her through the window to Bunty.
Then he went back for the little girl,—Meg's little sister.
He took off his coat to wrap her in, as the other bedclothes had caught, but as he did so Bunty threw back the big blanket, and he used it instead.
The flames at the window were growing worse, but he sprang through them, the child close in his arms. When they took the blanket off her not a hair of her head was hurt.
One breathless second they looked at the burning room together from the safe vantage ground of the grass plot at the side.
Then Mr. Gillet started forward again.
"I've left my coat," he said.
Mrs. Hassal held his arm. "As if that matters," she answered indignantly.
"But there's something I rather prize in it," he said; "there's no danger,—see, I'll have the blanket this time."
He flung it round his head and shoulders, and went through the window again.
"Catch!" he cried, and threw the rough serge coat far out to them.
[Illustration: "THE BOY SEIZED HIM BY THE SHOULDERS AND DRAGGED HIM OUT THROUGH THE BLAZING GAP."]
They saw him in the burning window putting his arms up to dive out. But even as he did so there was a crash and fall—a great burning rafter had dropped from the ceiling.
Bunty was the hero now. He put his coat over his head and dashed into the room.
Mr. Gillet had fallen just inside, the blanket still around him.
With incredible strength and courage the boy seized him by the shoulders, dragged him out through the blazing gap and into safety, amid the shouts of the awakened neighbours, who had come too late to be of use.
But the man was dead.
The rafter had struck his temple, and he had no more days of life to ruin, no more with which to redeem past ruin.
They did not tell Meg until long after, not until Blue Mountain air had blown the last of the fever away, and all the seven were together for the last week before coming home.
Then they gave her the something he had "rather prized."
She sobbed and went away from them all when she had opened the little parcel and seen its pitifulness.
It was nothing but the length of ribbon, the blue faded, and still creased as it had tied her hair.
On the paper wrapping it he had written, "My soft-eyed girl St. Cecily."