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Lady of the Basement Flat

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<h3>Chapter Eighteen.</h3> <h4>A Struggle for a Life.</h4> Billie has been desperately ill. For three weeks he has lain at the point of death, his little life hanging by a thread. Two trained nurses have been in attendance, and a third unofficial one, in the person of old Miss Harding! Winifred and Marion are living in my flat; Bridget looks after them, and does our own housekeeping, and also supplements Miss Brown’s efforts, which are, to put it mildly, inadequate for the occasion. She does not seem to realise that when people are torn with anxiety they don’t appreciate boiled mutton; and that when they sit up half the night, waiting in sickening suspense to hear the next temperature, a hot cup of chocolate can be more precious than rubies. Therefore Bridget and I manufacture dainties, and carry them upstairs to supplement the supplies. For the first few days the illness took a normal course, and anxiety, though real, was not acute; but on the fourth day strength failed noticeably, and oxygen was ordered to help the clogged lungs to work. At first it was given every two hours, then hourly, then every half-hour, and every woman who knows anything about nursing understands what that means, plus doses of brandy, struggles to pour as much milk as possible down an unwilling throat, and a constant taking of pulse and temperature, to say nothing of hypodermic injections at those awful moments when there seems no pulse to feel. It means that no one woman, be she ever so competent, can keep up the fight single-handed for twelve hours at a stretch, and that an understudy to work under her may mean the very turning of the scale. I have been understudy by night, and proud I am to record that Nurse proclaims me unusually “handy” for a member of the “laity”. Hour after hour we have fought together for the little darling’s life, while he lay unconscious against the piled cushions, a waxen image, unrecognisable as the bonnie curly-headed Billie we had loved. We racked our brains to think of new means and new contrivances to fight the ever-increasing danger. With the aid of screens and a sheet we contrived a tent over his cot, through a hole in which the elongated cardboard funnel of the steam-kettle could enter and give increased relief to the breathing. We made mustard poultices with white of egg instead of water, to save needless irritation of the skin; we used the French expedient of putting quinine pads under the armpits to reduce the terrible temperature. Nurse was indefatigable—a miracle of energy and resource—but through all her anxiety and tenderness for the little patient, it was impossible not to recognise the keen professional zest in a “good case.” “Give me a bad pneumonia, and I’m happy!” said she, frankly, and she meant what she said. At those rare intervals when Billie fell into a fitful sleep, I used to steal out of the room and pay a visit to the dining-room, where, on two arm-chairs on opposite sides of the fire, the poor father and his friend sat drearily smoking, and waiting until the small hours of the morning. It was useless to tell Mr Thorold to go to bed. His wife had breathed her last at two o’clock in the morning, and he was possessed by a dread that Billie would do the same. At three or thereabouts he might be persuaded to move, but until then it was but a waste of breath to ask it. Poor fellow! To have his old friend by his side was the best comfort that was left, but how he must have missed his wife, and how endlessly, breathlessly long the hours must have seemed, sitting with folded hands, with nothing to do but to wait! Even I—an outsider—was oppressed by the difference in the atmosphere of the two rooms. In the sick-room there was suffering indeed, but there was also a constant, earnest fight; here, the heavy, smoke-filled air seemed to breathe of despair! On those midnight visits, the first thing I did after giving my report, was to open the window, and the second to make a jug of chocolate, beating the powder in the milk till it foamed, in tempting continental fashion. The men shivered and protested. They were in a draught; they were not hungry; they wanted neither chocolate nor sandwiches; but I went on with my preparations in an elderly, persistent fashion, and said if they didn’t—well, I did, and I hoped they would not grudge me a little refreshment in the midst of my labours. By the time that the little meal was prepared, the smoke had cleared away and left a little air to breathe, so then I made a favour of shutting the window and poking the fire, and we would sit down together, and—it was wonderful how much we could eat! If Aunt Eliza could have seen me then, what—oh, what would she have said! How I blessed the grey wig and the spectacles, and the few deft, disfiguring touches which made my presence so easy and comfortable, not only for myself but for those two poor, sad, helpless young men. However much one may rail against convention, it remains an unalterable fact that youth and good looks are not the best qualification for indiscriminate work among one’s fellow-creatures. I must remember this fact when I grow really old, and apply it as balm to my wounded vanity. Over the chocolate and sandwiches we would talk—not about Billie, if possible; and I learnt that the two men had first met at Harrow, had then been separated for many years, and had renewed the old friendship during the last two years. There is evidently a strong sympathy between them—a sympathy of suffering, I think, for with all his charm, it is evident that Mr Hallett is not a happy man. He says little about himself, but I gather that he travels a great deal, that he writes for various reviews, and that—to say the least of it—he is not overburdened with wealth. He never mentions any “belongings,” and is evidently unmarried. I wonder why, for he is certainly unusually attractive. Sometimes when we have been sitting talking together, I have been so conscious of this attraction that I have had quite a violent longing to be Evelyn Wastneys once more, and to meet him, so to speak, on his own ground! He is most nice to me—oh, most nice! He thinks me a kind, sensible, generous old dear; says I deserve a Victoria Cross, and that no block of mansions is complete without me. One night he asked me smilingly if I would come and nurse him if he were ill; another time he said he could almost find it in his heart to wish that my money would disappear, so that he could engage me as a permanent housekeeper. Then Mr Thorold interrupted, and said that the first claim was his, and that if my services were to be bought, no other man should have them unless over his own dead body. They argued jestingly, while I blushed—a hot, overwhelming blush, and seeing it, they paused, looking mystified and distressed, and abruptly changed the conversation. Did they think me ridiculous and a prude, or did that blush for the moment obliterate the sham signs of age, and show them for the moment the face of a girl? I should like to know, but probably I never shall. For four long weeks Billie’s life hung in the balance, for after the pneumonia crisis was passed, unconsciousness continued, and the terrible word “meningitis” was whispered from lip to lip. There were heart-breaking days to be lived through, when the terror was no longer that he might die, but that he might live—deprived of speech, of hearing, possibly of reason itself. Never while I live shall I forget those days; but looking back, I can realise that they have taught me one great lesson, branded it on heart and brain so that I can never, never forget. The lesson is that death is not the last and worst enemy which we are so apt to think it when our dear ones are in its grasp. Oh, there were hours of darkness in which death seemed to us a lovely and beautiful thing, when we blamed ourselves for shrinking from the wrench of giving back a little child into God’s tender care. Who could compare a darkened life on earth with the perfected powers, the unimaginable glories of eternity? There were times when our prayers were reversed, and we asked God to take Billie home! But he lived; he spoke; he opened his dark eyes and smiled upon us; he demanded a battered “boy stout” doll, and hugged it to his pneumonia jacket; he drank his milk, and said “More!” he grew cross and fractious—oh, welcome, gladdening sign!—and said, “Doe away! No more daddies! No more nursies! Don’t want nobodies! Boo-hoo-hoo!” and we went and wept for gladness. Illness, the really critical touch-and-go illness which nurses call “a good case,” turns a home into an isolation camp. The outer world retreats to an immeasurable distance, and the watchers stare out of the windows, and behold with stupefaction hard-hearted men and women walking abroad on two legs, with hats on their heads, and umbrellas in their hands, talking and laughing and pursuing their petty avocations, not in the least affected by the fact that the temperature had again soared up to 104, and the doctor spoke gravely about heart strain. It seems inconceivable that human creatures, living a few yards away, are actually going to parties, and attending theatres, trying on new clothes, and worrying about cracked cups. It was with much the same shock of incredulity that, on descending to my flat one afternoon, I was met with the news that a gentleman was in the drawing-room waiting to see me. Bridget was out walking with the little girls, and the orphan, as usual, had opened the door. I demanded to be told “all about it,” upon which she inhaled a deep breath, and set forth her tale after the manner of a witness in the police court. “He says to me, ‘Is Miss Harding at home?’ I says, ‘Yes, sir, she’s at home, but she’s out at the moment nursing a little boy upstairs’. He says to me, ‘Is Miss Evelyn Wastneys at home?’ I says, ‘She don’t live here, sir. There has some letters come—’ He says, ‘When will Miss Harding be in?’ I says, ‘She generally gives us a look, as it might be, about six, before the young ladies settles to bed’. ‘Then I’ll wait!’ he says, takes off his hat, and walked in. I said, ‘What name shall I say, please?’ He said, ‘It doesn’t matter about my name. She doesn’t know it.’” I stood silent, digesting the news. “What sort of a gentleman is he? What does he look like?” The orphan considered, silently chewing the cud. “He looks,” she opined deliberately, “as if he could give you what for!” At that, without one second’s pause, I scuttled into my own room and locked the door behind me. (I would have “locked and double locked” it, as heroines of fiction do on such occasions, but it has always remained a mystery to me how they manage to do it!) That being done I fell into a chair, and breathlessly confronted—the worst! It was the Squire! I knew it without a doubt. If the orphan had devoted an hour to her description, she could not have been more apt. In some mysterious way he had tracked me to my lair. I might have known he would do it! He was not the sort of man to be daunted by a closed door. He would put out the whole of his big, indomitable force, till by hook or by crook it flew open, and the secret was revealed. Mercifully, however, it was so far only Miss Harding whom he had discovered; Evelyn Wastneys still eluded his grasp, and if I could summon enough nerve and courage to carry through one final interview, all might yet be well. It was useless to say I would not see him. He would simply wait until I did. The only result would be to arouse his suspicions. I rose slowly and confronted myself in the glass. The disguise was good, but was it good enough? I hastily opened my “make up” case, and accentuated the lines which the expert had shown were most telling—the curve of the upper lip, the kink in the eyebrow, the long wrinkle from nose to chin. I wrapped my Paisley scarf round my shoulders, took my courage in both hands, and opened the door. I decided to go into the dining-room, draw the casement curtains, seat myself with my back to the light, and—send the orphan to summon him to my presence! I was nervous and scared, but—let me confess it—the moment was not without a fearful joy! My heart was beating with quick, excited throbs. It was the oddest, most inexplicable thing, but I—I really wanted to see him. If a wish could have spirited him away, I could not have brought myself to breathe it. It seemed suddenly as if, unknown to myself, I had missed him, been missing him for a long, long time— The door opened and he came in. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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