“Mr. Poynsett cannot stay, ma’am,” said Grindstone, in a persuasive tone.  “He is very tired, and not well, and you would not wish to keep him.”

“Give me a kiss,” she said, like a tired child.  It was not like the shy embrace with which they had sometimes met and parted, but he knew he must not rouse her, and only said very low, “Good night, my poor dear; God bless you, and grant us a happy meeting, whenever it is.”

Tears were flowing down his cheeks when Julius presently came to him again, and only left him when settled for the night.

CHAPTER, XXVII The Water Lane Fever

The Water Lane Fever.  People called it so, as blinking its real name, but it was not the less true that it was a very pestilence in the lower parts of Wil’sbro’; and was prostrating its victims far and wide among the gentry who had resorted to the town-hall within the last few weeks.

Cases had long been smouldering among the poor and the workmen employed, and several of these were terminating fatally just as the outbreak was becoming decisive.

On Monday morning Julius returned from visits to his brothers to find a piteous note from Mrs. Fuller entreating him to undertake two funerals.  Her husband had broken down on Sunday morning and was very ill, and Mr. Driver had merely read the services and then joined his pupils, whom he had sent away to the sea-side.  He had never been responsible for pastoral care, and in justice to them could not undertake it now.  “Those streets are in a dreadful state,” wrote the poor lady, “several people dying; and there is such a panic in the neighbourhood that we know not where to turn for help.  If you could fix an hour we would let the people know.  The doctor insists on the funerals being immediate.”

Julius was standing in the porch reading this letter, and thinking what hour he could best spare from nearer claims, when he heard the gate swing and beheld his junior curate with a very subdued and sobered face, asking, “Is it true?”

“That the fever is here?  Yes, it is.”

“And very bad?”

“Poor Frank is our worst case as yet.  He is constantly delirious.  The others are generally sensible, except that Terry is dreadfully haunted with mathematics.”

“Then it is all true about the Hall.  Any one else ill?”

“Only the two Willses.  They were carousing at the ‘Three Pigeons.’  I hope that Raymond’s prohibition against that place may have been the saving of the Hall servants.  See here,” and he gave the note.

“I had better take those two funerals.  I can at least do that,” said Herbert.  “That Driver must be a regular case of a hireling.”

“He never professed that the sheep were his,” said Julius.

“Then I’ll go to the Vicarage and get a list of the sick, and see after them as far as I can,” said Herbert, in a grave, humble tone, showing better than a thousand words how he felt the deprivation he had brought on himself; and as to shame or self-consciousness, the need had swallowed them all.