CHAPTER V.

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY.

Milly's birthday had arrived at last. The weather was beautiful. We were all wildly excited. We girls ran about, helping, we said, but Martha sent us off into the garden out of her way. Miss Cole was in the big pantry, making ice-cream; she could make it splendidly. We didn't eat much dinner, of course, and as soon as ever it was over we went upstairs to get ready. Mother quickly came after us, and made us all rest for an hour and a half.

Before the time was up we thought we had, as Milly said, "lived three afternoons in one." Just as the clock struck three, mother and Mrs. Emson came to help us; then our tongues ran along as though they would never stop. Milly and I were dressed alike in our best party dresses of cream nuns-veiling, with elbow sleeves edged with long yellow lace, and lace gathered round the necks. Mrs. Emson said they were sweet; and indeed they were pretty.

Maud wore a white muslin dress and pinafore, as she would be sure to get some fruit-stains, or upset her tea. Jerry looked very nice in a pale blue silk, and pale blue stockings and shoes. Our shoes and stockings were tan; Percy called our legs mustard-pots.

When we were ready, we went down to the drawing-room to wait for our company. They were twelve: six boys and six girls; so we were eighteen altogether. We had such fun in the garden all the afternoon. Milly had such a lot of presents. At five o'clock we went to have our tea.

A very long table was spread, under the trees, with all sorts of nice things. Mother and Miss Cole poured out tea; Mrs. Emson and father passed the eatables. Father told us such funny tales all the time, and kept us laughing. The ice-cream was delicious. Tea over, we had games again; and the time fairly ran away. It seemed nine o'clock almost directly. We were too excited to want to go to bed when our friends had gone, but we had to go at once.

"You will all be knocked-up in the morning if you don't," said father; "besides, remember that Jerry and Jim have a long journey before them." So off we went. Maud was sleepy and cross. She had upset a glass of raspberryade over her pinafore, and had a wide pink stripe down the middle of her frock. What a lovely time we had had! In comparison with the dark days that followed so soon after, that one seemed to stand out clear, as one of the brightest and happiest we had ever spent.

The following day, Mrs. Emson and her children went away. We were really sorry to say good-bye to Jerry, for we had grown to like her and understand her, but Jim--as Martha said, "we were not at all sorry to see the back of him." He was sulky to the last. Milly was rather tired and out of sorts that day: the effects of the party, mother said. The next day she was no better, and did not go to church. On Monday she seemed feverish, and mother thought she had a bilious attack, and father gave her a powder.

She was a little better the next morning, but was so poorly again in the evening that mother told me I had better sleep in Percy's room; then I should not be disturbed by Milly's restlessness. Percy had gone to visit a friend of his in Moultby. Milly continued poorly up to Friday, sometimes better, sometimes worse. Father did not know what to make of her; he was worried about her. He told me not to go into her room more than I could help.

On Thursday, in the middle of the afternoon, I stopped at her door to ask her how she was. She was much better, she said; so I went in and sat down with her. Presently mother came up, delighted to see Milly looking so bright. Then Martha opened the door and peeped in.

"Miss Addie, here's little Miss Townley asking to see you," she said.

"To see me?" I cried.

"Yes, she asked to see Miss Adelaide. She come with her governess. I've showed 'em into the drawing-room."

"Mother, am I tidy? Oh, I wonder what she's come for!" I said excitedly.

"Don't be so wild, dear. You look very well. Don't fall over the stairs in your hurry to get down."

Eleanor was looking lovelier than ever, I thought. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling. She said her aunt had sent her to say that on Tuesday they intended driving to a beautiful seaside town about twenty miles away, staying one night and returning on Wednesday; would I like to accompany them? if so, Miss Townley would be very pleased. "Do try and come, Addie; won't you? I shall be so disappointed if you can't."

"Oh, I should like to," I said, feeling my cheeks get hot with excitement. "How lovely it would be! Where should we sleep?"

Eleanor laughed; the "dear creature," as Percy called her governess, smiled in a condescending way. "Why, at an hotel, of course. Did you suppose we should sleep on the sand? Will you ask your mother quickly? Miss Ashton says we must not stay long."

The "dear creature" murmured something in a low tone.

"Oh, I'll ask her now; she's upstairs. Milly isn't very well, and mother is sitting with her," I said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Eleanor; "what is the matter with her?"

"Father thinks the party last week was rather too much for her. She is upset by the excitement."

"I should so much like to see her," said she; "do you think I might?"

"I'll see," said I; and ran upstairs, two at a time, arriving in Milly's room out of breath. When I had managed to say all I wanted to, mother said she thought Eleanor might come up if she liked. She only stayed about ten minutes; mother said I might go on Tuesday. She and father were both very pleased that Miss Townley had asked me to go. The following afternoon, Eleanor called again, bringing with her some flowers and fruit; father said she had better not see Milly, who had been in bed all day. On Saturday, just after dinner, mother, who was looking anxious to-day, said, "Addie, just run up and see if Milly is awake yet. You need not go into the room. Stand at the door and speak."

I went up and called her softly. Receiving no answer, I went in, intending to look and go away. Milly was asleep, and I was turning to leave the room when I caught sight of a book lying on the chest of drawers. I took it up and turned over the pages to find the place where I had left off. I had read about half a page when I heard somebody say, in such a queer voice, "Addie jumped out of the apple tree and rode up to heaven on my bubble."

My heart gave such a jump. Who was that? The funny harsh voice went on, "Can't I drive now, Percy?" and then came such dreadful sobs; and at the same time it broke upon my senses that it was Milly talking so strangely. She was sitting up in bed, throwing her arms about wildly; her cheeks were very red, and her eyes looked very bright, as though she was frightened.

"Mother! mother!" I screamed, rushing out on the landing. "Mother, come up quickly!" Mother hurried up. Milly was crying bitterly, talking nonsense all the time.

"My darling, lie down," said mother in her sweet voice. "Tell me what is the matter;" but she only went on crying in the same strange way.

"Addie," said mother, "father is down at Mr. Gray's. Run down as quickly as you can and ask him to come at once. Tell him Milly is very ill. Call Martha as you go downstairs, and tell her to come up to me."

I did not wait to be told twice. I flew down the stairs, seized my hat, burst into the kitchen, sent Martha running upstairs nearly as fast as I came down, and then was off to Mr. Gray's. Fortunately it wasn't far, and in a very short time father was at home. He went to Milly at once; but after a few minutes, came out and wrote a few words on a slip of paper, gave it to me, and told me to take it down to Dr. Lang.

"If Dr. Lang isn't at home, Addie, ask where he is, and if it is not too far, go there with the note. I wish Percy hadn't gone away."

"Is Milly very ill, father?" I whispered.

"I hardly know yet, dear. I'm afraid she is. Don't be longer than you can help."

I ran all the way to Dr. Lang's. He was just riding in as I rang the bell. He read the note and went at once, I supposed, to our house. I followed. I went in the back way. Martha was pushing thin pieces of wood into the fire.

"How is Milly now, Martha? What is the matter with her?" I asked as soon as I got inside.

"She's very bad, Miss Addie. The doctor 've ordered poultices, so I'm making the kittle boil quick. Hand me out that there big knife, my dear. What's the matter, d' you say? I don't know, but I'm mortal feared 'tis fever."

"Fever?" I gasped. "Oh, Martha, no!"

"Hush, now hush, my dear; I don't say 'tis and I don't say 'tisn't. Be quiet now. Don't say I said so for the world, will you? Wherever is that Jane stoppin' to? Bother her! she never is where she's wanted to be."

"Addie!" called father softly. "Martha, has Miss Addie got back yet?"

"Yes, father, here I am;" and I went out to the hall.

"Take this note down to the Hospital, Addie. It's asking for a nurse to be sent up. Don't cry, my dear. It may not be so serious as we fear."

Looking back on that night and the wretched days that followed, to me it seems like a bad dream. How can I tell of the miserable time? Father wrote to the friends with whom Percy was staying, asking if they would mind keeping him for a week or two, as Milly had scarlet fever. They were so kind. They came over the next day to see if they could do anything more for us; they said Percy might stay as long as he liked, and might they take either of the others?

I could not be spared; Maud had already gone to Dr. Lang's. He had no children, his sister kept house for him, and we had been glad to get Maud out of danger's way. Father thought I wasn't very likely to take the fever now, as I had had it very badly when I was quite a little girl. I hadn't to go near the room in which Milly was lying; a great wet sheet flapped up and down outside the door all day and night long.

Milly did not have the fever so very, very badly, though for several days she was very ill. Of course my trip with Eleanor and Miss Townley had been put off.

Three weeks passed, Milly was progressing very favourably, when one day, as father and I were sitting alone in the parlour, mother being upstairs with Milly, Tom came in from the surgery, saying one of the grooms from the Court had been down, asking if Dr. Dixon would go up as soon as possible.

"Did he say who was ill, Tom?" asked father.

"Yes, sir. He said he thought it was Miss Eleanor, as she has been poorly for a day or two. He said, would you please step up at once, sir."

"Oh, father," I said, "suppose Eleanor has the fever too?"

"Hush, Addie! Don't tell your mother I have gone out."

How anxiously I waited for his return, and then I was almost afraid to hear what he had to say. He told me he was afraid she was going to be very, very ill; he had telegraphed to London for two trained nurses. They arrived by the midnight express. Father was up at the Court the first thing in the morning. He came home with a very grave face. It was fever.

"She will need all our prayers, Helen, and her aunt will too," he said to mother.

"Is Miss Townley very grieved?" I asked, with the tears running down over my face.

"Yes, dear, she is, very much so." And father turned to go and see Milly.

That afternoon father came home looking quite worn out. I poured out his tea and did several little things for him; he was very quiet, and let his tea grow quite cold before he drank it, and did not eat anything. At last he spoke--

"Where is mother, Addie?"

"She is lying down, I think. Shall I call her?"

"No, no. Let her rest while she may. Run and send Tom to tell Masters to bring round the brougham."

"The brougham, father! Isn't it too hot?"

"I am going to fetch Maud. Lang says she has the fever coming on. I was afraid of it yesterday. I don't want her to be ill there, so I must fetch her now, before she gets worse."

I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, yet I felt my lips tremble, and something queer in my throat as though it were breaking. Father came over and put his arm round me.

"Don't you give way, Addie. We must have somebody to look after us and comfort us. You go and lie down in the parlour. I'll go and tell Masters myself. And, Addie, don't say a word to mother to alarm her. I'll tell her myself when I come back."

I went slowly into the parlour, trying to realise what it all meant. Milly was slowly recovering; Eleanor was very ill; Maud was going to be ill; where and what would the end be? Milly and Eleanor both had scarlet fever. Suppose Eleanor had caught it from Milly? suppose mother should take it too? suppose she should be ill, and oh! the horrible thought flashed across my mind--what if mother, our dear sweet mother, should die? What--but I couldn't get any further in my supposings.

I remember getting up from the couch, and kneeling down and trying to pray that mother might not be ill; I know I could not say any words. I felt as though my breath were all going away, and as if everything in the room were spinning round, and then--I was lying on the couch, with Martha bending over me. I had fainted, she said, and coming to look for me, she had found me lying on the floor, and had been rather alarmed. However, there wasn't much the matter; but Martha made me go straight to bed.

"But, Martha, you won't say a word to mother about it, will you?" I asked in a voice I couldn't own for my own.

"You don't think I'm so silly as to go and worry your mother's life right out of her, do you? 'Specially now, when she got enough else to think on. You go and get to bed now. I'll tell your father you've got a headache."

I went to bed, but couldn't go to sleep. I had a horrible feeling that something was going to happen soon. I heard father come home with Maud; I heard him carry her into the spare-room; then Martha came up too. By and by, after what seemed hours to me, I heard mother's voice outside my door, and I called to her. She came in.

"What is it, dear?"

"I only want to say good-night to you, mother. How is Maud? Do you really think it is fever?"

"Yes, dear, it really is. Father has sent down for another nurse to help look after her," said mother, seating herself on the edge of the bed. "The fever isn't very high yet, so we must hope for the best;" and dear mother tried to smile cheerfully, but she couldn't.

"Mother," I said as well as I could for a great lump in my throat, "how did Milly get the fever in the first place?"

"We don't quite know, dear. Father says there are a good many cases about, so I suppose Milly caught it when she was in the town from someone."

"But, mother, Eleanor didn't take it from Milly, did she?"

"She may have, Addie, but we don't think so, as she has been going in and out of the houses in the part where the fever is."

"Oh, mother! Why did Miss Townley let her go?"

"I'm not sure that she knew, dear. But I mustn't stay any longer. Milly is going to get out of bed for a little while to-morrow. I must go back to poor little Maud. You will pray to God to grant that this illness of hers will not be more than she can bear, won't you, dear?"

I put my arms round her neck; I couldn't speak. She kissed me ever so many times and went away, and then I burst into tears and cried as I never remembered crying before, or than I have since. I was lying still, quite exhausted, when father came in with a glass in his hand.

"Here is some lemonade, Addie; sit up and drink it." As I lay down again I had such a queer taste in my mouth; so I said--

"Father, I think that lemonade is gone off. It tastes very funny."

"Never mind, go to sleep," was all he said; and I did go to sleep in earnest, sleeping soundly until late the next morning. As I went down, the kitchen clock struck eleven.

"How is Maud this morning, and Milly?" I asked of Martha, who was washing dishes.

"Miss Milly's getting on first-rate. Miss Maud's very bad; your mother has been up with her all night. There's two nurses here now. Your father's dreadful anxious about Maud for one thing, and little Miss Townley for another. She isn't expected to live; but there! talking won't do no good. Sit right down here and have your breakfast this morning, Miss Addie; I can't stop to take it inside. I was only thinking what a good thing it is Mrs. Emson went away before this came. Now eat away, my dear, and try and make a good breakfast."

I can only give a confused account of what happened during the next few days. Maud grew worse rapidly, and in two days was in great danger. Eleanor was in a critical condition: her fever had not "turned" at the right day, and now they were very much afraid she would die from weakness, if she got over the fever itself.

In the week that followed Maud's return from Dr. Lang's I saw Milly twice for a few minutes. She was getting better, but was fretful: wanting mother to stay with her all the time; and not understanding why she could not, as we had not told her that Maud was ill. She never mentioned Eleanor's name; she did not seem to think of her, and we were very glad, as we knew how grieved she would be to hear of her illness.

One dreadfully hot afternoon, passing quietly through the hall I overheard Martha say to the woman who came in to help during this time of sickness--

"Dear lamb! the crisis will be to-night. We shall see how 'tis to be with her then. 'Tis pitiful to watch her. She was a bit delirious again just now, nearly throwing herself out over the bed. Her father and the nurse held her down till the fit like passed. Poor missis nearly broke down then. The doctor took her away and gave her something to keep her strength up till to-night, anyhow. Dear, dear."

"Which way do you think it'll turn?" the woman asked; but I ran quickly upstairs, not daring to stay to hear Martha's answer. Looking into Milly's room, I saw she had been crying. "What is it, Milly?" I said, going over to her chair.

"Oh, Addie," she said, with a weak kind of sob; "it's so hot, and I'm tired, and I want mother. She never hardly comes in to see me now. Why is it, Addie?"

"Maud isn't very well, and as she's the baby, she wants most attention, you see."

"She hasn't got the fever, has she?"

"I--I--I think she has a touch of it," I answered, all in confusion at her sudden question.

"I hope she won't be very bad," went on Milly innocently.

"I'll run down and see if that is anyone calling," I said hurriedly; and left the room, because I was afraid of what she might say next. Father was crossing the landing from Maud's room to his own. I told him what Milly had been saying, and he turned into her room instead. One of the nurses was coming up as I went down; I asked how Maud was. "There is no change, dear; we are hoping for the best."

A little later on I was in the parlour, looking for my thimble, which I had mislaid, and now wanted in a great hurry, to make a doll's hat for Milly. I did not notice father was in the room until he said--

"Addie, Eleanor asked for you this afternoon."

"Did she, father? How is she to-day?"

"The fever has gone, but it has left her very weak, very weak indeed. I telegraphed to-day for Dr. Martin from London. Miss Townley said she would like to have him sent for, as he has attended Eleanor in London and knows her constitution. I thought I should like him to see Maud while he is here."

I glanced up at father as he said this, and I was struck by the worn, sad look on his face. How he had changed in the last few days! And mother too--all her pretty colour had gone; the trouble and grief had made them both look ever so much older.

Just then Martha opened the door and asked father if he could spare Tom to go to Mrs. Day's for some eggs she wanted. Father said to me--

"Mrs. Day said she would like to see you, Addie. She isn't afraid you will carry any infection. Would you like to go for the eggs? If so, put on your hat and run along."

I hadn't gone far before I met Miss Cole. She had been obliged to go away a fortnight before. Her sister, who lived in Oxford, was ill, and she had gone to see her. Miss Cole said she had only just returned, leaving her sister much better. She was so grieved to hear about poor little Maud. She was then going up to our house, to see if she could be of any use.

I hurried on to Mrs. Day's, longing yet dreading for the night to be passed and the next day come. What would it bring? joy or sorrow? death or life? Dear little Maud! Would Jesus, Who loved little children, see fit to take her away from this beautiful earth, which grown-up people said was so sinful and wicked, to the still more beautiful heaven, where everything was bright and glorious, and where He lived, and His Father, and our dear baby brother; or would He spare her to us, who loved her so dearly? I did not know; I could only pray that God would teach us that His will was best, whatever He did.

[Illustration: Chapter V tailpiece]

[Illustration: Chapter VI headpiece]