“Then, Lord Hartledon, I can tell you the alarm’s worse, and another has taken it, and the parish is up in arms,” said the countess-dowager, tartly.  “It has proved to be fever of a most malignant type, and not a soul but Hillary the surgeon goes near the Rectory, You must not venture within half-a-mile of it.  Dr. Ashton was so careless as to occupy his pulpit on Sunday; but, thank goodness, I did not venture to church, or allow Maude to go.  Your Miss Ashton will be having it next.”

“Of course they have advice from Garchester?” he exclaimed.

“How should I know?  My opinion is that the parson himself might be prosecuted for bringing the fever into a healthy neighbourhood.  Port, Hedges!  One has need of a double portion of tonics in a time like this.”

The countess-dowager’s alarms were not feigned—­no, nor exaggerated.  She had an intense, selfish fear of any sort of illness; she had a worse fear of death.  In any time of public epidemic her terrors would have been almost ludicrous in their absurdity but that they were so real.  And she “fortified” herself against infection by eating and drinking more than ever.

Nothing else was said:  she shunned allusion to it when she could:  and presently she and Maude left the dining-room.  “You won’t be long, Hartledon?” she observed, sweetly, as she passed him.  Val only bowed in answer, closed the door upon them, and rang for Hedges.

“Is there much alarm regarding this fever at the Rectory?” he asked of the butler.

“Not very much, I think, my lord.  A few are timid about it; as is always the case.  One of the other servants has taken it; but Mr. Hillary told me when he was here this morning that he hoped it would not spread beyond the Rectory.”

“Was Hillary here this morning?  Nobody’s ill?” asked Lord Hartledon, quickly.

“No one at all, my lord.  The countess-dowager sent for him, to ask what her diet had better be, and how she could guard against infection more effectually than she was doing.  She did not allow him to come in, but spoke to him from one of the upper windows, with a cloak and respirator on.”

Lord Hartledon looked at his butler; the man was suppressing a grim smile.

“Nonsense, Hedges!”

“It’s quite true, my lord.  Mrs. Mirrable says she has five bowls of disinfectant in their rooms.”

Lord Hartledon broke into a laugh, not suppressed.

“And in the courtyard, looking towards the Rectory, as may be said, there’s several pitch-pots alight night and day,” added Hedges.  “We have had a host of people up, wanting to know if the place is on fire.”

“What a joke!” cried Val—­who was not yet beyond the age to enjoy such jokes.  “Hedges,” he resumed, in a more confidential tone, “no strangers have been here inquiring for me, I suppose?”

He alluded to creditors, or people acting for them.  To a careless man, as Val had been, it was a difficult matter to know whether all his debts were paid or not.  He had settled what he remembered; but there might be others.  Hedges understood; and his voice fell to the same low tone:  he had been pretty cognizant of the embarrassments of Mr. Percival Elster.