the funerals were going about in dallory. dr. rane's prognostications had proved correct; the fever was severe. it spread, and a panic set in.

as yet it had been confined to the poor. to those who for some months now had been living in despair and poverty. some called it a famine fever; some a relapsing fever; some typhus fever: but, whatever the name accorded to it, one thing was certain--it was of a malignant and fatal type.

it possessed a somewhat singular feature: it had seemed to break out all at once--in a single night. before the doctors had well ascertained that anything of the kind was in the air, before most of the public had so much as heard of it, it came upon them. the probability of course was that it had been smouldering for some days. on the afternoon that witnessed madam's departure from dallory hall--after the receipt of the telegram and the reading of dick's letter--there had not been one decided case: in the morning no less than seven cases had shown themselves. after that, it spread rapidly.

madam remained away. james bohun was dead, and she stayed with sir nash. matilda north, taking french leave, went up to join her without an invitation; she did not care to stay in the midst of the sickness. so the master of dallory hall was alone, and enjoyed his liberty as much as trouble had left him any capacity for enjoyment.

a week or ten days had passed on since the outbreak, and the funerals were going about dallory. the two medical men, dr. rane and mr. seeley, were worked nearly off their legs. the panic was at its height. dallory had been an exceptionally healthy place: people were not used to this state of things, and grew frightened. some of the better families took flight, for the seaside, or elsewhere. the long-continued distress, resulting on the strike, had predisposed the poorer classes for it. it was they whom it chiefly attacked, but there were now two or three cases amongst their betters. this was no time for the medical men to speculate whether they should or should not be paid; they put all such considerations aside, and gave the poor sufferers their best care. dr. rane in particular was tenderly assiduous with his patients. in spite of that fatal letter and the mistake--nay, the sin--it involved, he was a humane man. were he a successful practitioner, making his hundreds or his thousands a-year, as might be, he would be one of the first and readiest to give away largely of his time and skill to any who could not afford to pay him.

the last person whom the fever had attacked was one of the brothers hepburn, of dallory, undertakers, carpenters, and coffin-makers. both were sickly men, but very steady and respectable. the younger brother, henry, was the one seized: it was universally assumed that he caught it in the discharge of certain of the duties of his calling, and the supposition did not tend to decrease the public panic. dr. rane thought him a bad subject for the illness, and did all he could for him.

bessy rane stood in her kitchen, making an apple pudding. it is rather a sudden transition of subject, from sickness to puddings, but only in accordance with life. whatever calamity may be decimating society around, the domestic routine of existence goes on at home in its ordinary course. molly green was pudding-maker in general: but molly was hastening over her other work that day, for she had obtained leave to go home in the evening to see her mother: a woman who had been ailing for years with chronic illness, and lived at whitborough. so bessy this morning took the pudding upon herself.

mrs. rane stood at the table; a brown holland apron tied over her light morning gown, her sleeves turned up to the middle of her delicate arms. hands and wrists and arms were alike pretty and refined. the apples were in a basin, ready pared, and she was rolling out the crust. ever and anon she glanced at the kitchen clock. her husband had been called out at four o'clock that morning, and she was growing a little anxious. now it was close upon eleven. it cannot be said that bessy was afraid of the fever for him: she shared in the popular belief that medical men are generally exempt from infection; but she was always glad to see him arrive home safe and well.

his latch-key was heard in the door whilst she was thinking of him. dr. rane went straight up to the unused top-room, changed his clothes, and washed his hands and face--a precaution he always took when he had been with fever patients. bessy put the kitchen-door open, that he might see her when he came down.

"pudding-making, bessy!" he cried, looking in. "why don't you let molly do that?"

"molly's busy. she wants to go home this evening, oliver, as soon as we can spare her, and will not come back until tomorrow night. she received a letter this morning to say her mother has at last taken to her bed, and the doctor thinks her very ill. i have given her leave to go."

"but how shall you manage without her?"

"i shall have old phillis in. molly has been to her, and she says she'll be glad to come."

dr. rane said no more. it was quite the same to him whether molly or phillis did what was wanted. when men are harassed in spirit, they cannot concern themselves with the petty details of domestic life.

"i was thinking, oliver, that--if you don't mind--as we can have phillis, i would leave it to molly whether to come back tomorrow night, or not. if her mother is really growing worse, the girl may like to stay a day longer with her."

"my dear, do just as you like about it," was the doctor's rather impatient answer.

"your breakfast shall be ready in a moment, oliver."

"i have taken breakfast. it was between eight and nine before i could get away from ketler's, and i went and begged some of mrs. gass. after that i went the round of the patients."

bessy was putting the crust into the basin. she lifted her hands and turned in some dismay.

"surely, oliver, they have not got the fever at ketler's!"

dr. rane laughed slightly. "not the fever, bessy: something else. the baby. it was ketler who called me up this morning."

"oh dear," said bessy, going on with her pudding. "i thought that poor baby was not expected for a month or two. how will they manage to keep it? it seems to me that the less food there is for them, the quicker the babies come."

"that's generally the case," observed dr. rane.

"is the mother well?"

"tolerably so."

"and--how are the other things going on, oliver?"

he knew, by the tone of her voice, that she meant the fever. bessy never spoke of that without a kind of timidity.

"neither better nor worse. it's very bad still."

"and fatal?"

"yes, and fatal. henry hepburn is in danger."

"but he will get over it?" rejoined bessy quickly.

"i don't think so. his brother will have it next if he does not mind. he is as nervous over it as he can be. i am off now, bessy, up the ham."

"you will be in to dinner?"

"before that, i hope."

bessy settled to her pudding again, and the doctor departed. not into danger this time, for the fever had not yet shown itself in dallory ham. scarcely a minute had elapsed when the door-bell rang, and molly went to answer it. mrs. rane, her hands all flour, peeped from the kitchen, and saw mr. north.

"oh papa! how glad i am to see you! do you mind coming in here?"

mind! mr. north felt far more at home in bessy's kitchen than in his wife's grand drawing-room. he had brought a small open basket of lovely hot-house flowers for bessy. he put it on the table, and sat down on one of the wooden chairs in peace and comfort. richard had not returned, and he was still alone.

"go on with your pudding, my dear. don't mind me. i like to see it."

"it's all but done, papa. molly will tie it up. oh, these beautiful flowers!" she added, bending down to them. "how kind of you to think of me!"

"i'm going to ham court about some seeds, child; the walk will do me good, this pleasant day. i feel stronger and better, bessy, than i did."

"i am so glad of that, papa."

"and so i thought--as i intended to call in here--that i would cut a few blossoms, and bring them with me. how's the fever getting on, bessy?"

"it is not any better, i am afraid, papa."

"so i hear. they say that henry hepburn's dying."

bessy felt startled. "oh, i trust not! though i think--i fear--oliver has not very much hope of him."

"well, i've heard it. and i came here, bessy, to ask if you would not like to come to the hall for a week or two. it might be safer for you. are you at all afraid of catching it, child?"

"n--o," answered bessy. but it was spoken doubtfully, and mr. north looked at her.

"your husband has to be amongst it pretty well every hour of his life, and i can only think there must be some risk in it for you. you had better come to the hall."

"oliver is very careful to change his clothes when he comes in; hut still i know there must of course be some little risk," she said. "i try to be quite brave, and not think of it, papa: and i have a great piece of camphor here"--touching the bosom of her dress--"at which oliver laughs."

"which is as good as confessing that you are nervous about it, bessy," said mr. north.

"not very, pupa. a doctor's wife, you know, must not have fancies."

"well, come up to the hall to-day, bessy. it will be a change for you, and pleasant for me, now i'm alone; it will be like some of the old days come back again, you and me together. as to oliver, i dare say he'll be glad to have the house to himself a bit, whilst he is so busy."

bessy, wiping the flour off her hands, consented. in point of fact, her husband had proposed, some days ago, that she should go away: and she did feel half afraid of taking the fever through him.

"but it cannot be until tomorrow, papa," she said, as mr. north rose to depart, and she accompanied him to the door, explaining that molly was going home. "i should not like to leave oliver alone in the house for the night. phillis will be here tomorrow: she can stay and sleep, should molly green not return."

"very well," said mr. north.

so it was left. bessy opened the door for her father, and watched him on his way up the ham.

dr. rane came back to dinner; and found his patients allowed him an hour's peace for it. bessy informed him of the arrangement she had made: and that he was to be a bachelor from the morrow for an indefinite period. the doctor laughed, making a jest of it: nevertheless he glanced keenly from under his eyelids at his wife.

"bessy! i do believe you are afraid!"

"no, not exactly," was her answer: "i don't think 'afraid' is the right word. it is just this, oliver: i do not get nervous about it; but i cannot help remembering rather often that you may bring it home to me."

"then, my dear, go--go by all means where you will be out of harm's way, so far as i am concerned."

dinner over, dr. rane hastened out again, on his way to see mrs. ketler. he had just reached that bench in the shady part of the road at the neck of the ham, when he saw jelly coming along. the doctor only wished there was some shelter to dart into, by which he might avoid her. ever since the night when he had heard that agreeable conversation as he sat under the cedar-tree, jelly's keen green eyes had been worse than poison to him. she stopped when she met him.

"so that child of susan ketler's is come, sir!"

"ay," said dr. rane.

"what in the world brings it here now?"

"well, i don't know," returned the doctor. "children often come without giving their friends due notice. i am on my way there."

"and not as much as a bed gown to wrap it in," resentfully went on jelly, "and not a bit of tea or oatmeal in the place for her! my faith! baby after baby coming into the world, and the men out on strike! this makes seven--if they'd all been alive: she'll be contented perhaps when she has seventeen."

"it is the way of the world, jelly. set up the children first, and consider what to do with them afterwards."

"what's this that's the matter with tim wilks, sir?" demanded jelly, abruptly changing the subject.

"with tim wilks! i did not know that anything was the matter with him."

"yes, there is," said jelly. "i met old green just now, and he said timothy wilks was in bed ill. they thought it might be a bilious attack, if it was not the fever."

"i'll call in and see him," said dr. rane. "has he been drinking again?"

jelly's eyes flashed with resentment. considering that tim had really kept sober and steady for the past year and a half, she looked on the question as a frightful aspersion. more especially so as proceeding from dr. rane.

"i can answer for it that he has not been drinking--and so, as i supposed, might everybody else," was her tart reply. "timothy wilks is worried, sir; that's what it is. he has never been at ease since people accused him of writing that anonymous letter: and he never will be till he is publicly cleared of it. sir, i think he ought to be cleared."

was it an ice-bolt that seemed to shoot through oliver rane's heart?--or only a spasm? something took it: though he managed to keep his countenance, and to speak with quiet indifference.

"cleared? cleared of what? i fancied it had been ascertained that wilks was the man who spoke of the affair out of dale's office. he can't clear himself from that. as to any other suspicion, no one has cast it on him."

"well, sir--of course you know best," answered jelly, recollecting herself and cooling down: but she could not help emphasizing the words. "if tim should become dangerously ill, it might have to be done to set his mind at rest."

"what might have to be done?" demanded dr. rane with authority.

and jelly did not dare to answer the direct question. she could boast and talk at people in her gossiping way as long as she felt safe, but when it came to anything like proving her words, she was a very coward. dr. rane was looking at her, waiting for her to speak, his manner stern and uncompromising.

"oh well, sir, i'm sure i don't know," she said, feeling as if her throat had dried up. "and i'm sure i hope poor tim has not got the fever."

"i'll call and see him," repeated dr. rane, proceeding on his way. jelly curtsied and went on hers.

when beyond her view, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, damp as with the dews of death. he must, he must get away from jelly and dallory! but for having a wife on his hands, he might have felt tempted to make a hasty flitting to america and join dr. jones. join dr. jones? but how obtain the funds to do it with? his thoughts turned, as they ever did on these occasions, to that money of his locked up in the tontine. of his:that was how dr. rane had come to regard it. that money would bring him salvation. if he could only obtain it----

a bow from some white-haired old gentleman, passing in a carriage. dr. rane returned it, the singular coincidence of his appearance at that moment flashing through his mind. for it was sir thomas ticknell. yes: it truly seemed that that tontine money would be nothing less than salvation to him. he went on with a great fear and pain in his throbbing heart, wondering for how long or how short a time jelly would keep her counsel.

the next morning was thursday. it brought news that almost struck people dumb: henry hepburn, the undertaker, was dead, and mrs. rane had been seized with the fever. dr. rane's account was, that his wife had been very restless all night; he gave her a composing draught, which seemed to be of use for the time: but upon attempting to get up she was attacked with nausea and faintness, and had to go back to bed. the symptoms that subsequently set in he feared were those of fever.

it was an awkward time for bessy to be ill, as molly green had gone homo: but phillis, an excellent substitute, was there. she attended on mrs. rane, and the doctor went abroad to his patients. mr. north, disappointed at bessy's non-arrival, hearing of her indisposition, came to the house; but bessy sent down an urgent message by phillis, begging him not to run any danger by coming up to her chamber. and mr. north, docile and obedient--as madam in her imperiousness had trained him to be--left his best love, and went home again.

in the course of the morning dr. rane called in at hepburn's. it was a double shop and house; in the one were sold articles of furniture, in the other the carpenter's work was carried on. thomas hepburn and his family lived in the former; henry, now dead, had occupied the latter. he was a married man, but had no children. when dr. rane entered the second shop, he did not at first see thomas hepburn; the shutters up at the window made the place dark, coming in from the bright sunshine. thomas hepburn saw him, however, and came forward from the workshop behind, where he had been looking on at his men. various articles seemed to be in the course of active construction, coffins amongst the rest.

"i am very sorry for this loss, hepburn," began the doctor.

"well, sir, i've not had any hope from the first," sighed hepburn, his face looking careworn and unusually sickly in the half light. "i don't think poor henry had."

"the fact is, hepburn, he had not strength to carry him through the disorder; it did not attack him lightly. i did all i could."

"yes, sir, i'm sure of that," returned hepburn--and what with his naturally weak voice, and the hammering that was going on behind, dr. rane had to listen with all his ears to catch the words. "we've been an ailing family always: liable to take disorders, too, more than others."

dr. rane made no reply for the moment. he was looking at the speaker. something in his aspect suggested the suspicion that the man was in actual fear himself.

"you must keep up a good heart, you know, hepburn."

"i'd rather go a hundred miles, sir, than do what i've got to do just now amidst the dead," said hepburn, glancing round, "that's how my brother took it."

"let the workman go instead of you."

the undertaker shook his head. "one has to go with me; and the other is just as afraid as can be. no, i must go on myself. there'll be double work for me, now henry's gone."

"well, hepburn, i begin to think the fever is on the turn," said the doctor cheerily, as he walked away.

the day wore on. mrs. rane's symptoms were decidedly those of fever, and the doctor went all the way to whitborough himself: not far in point of distance, only that he could not well spare the time: to tell molly green she was to keep where she was, out of harm's way, and not return until sent for. when he returned home his wife was worse. phillis met him at the door, and said her poor mistress's face was scarlet, and she rolled her head from side to side. phillis wanted to remain the night, but the doctor would not have it: there was no necessity for it, he said, and she had better not be subjected to infection more than could be helped. so phillis went away at ten o'clock.

between eleven and twelve, just as mr. seeley was preparing for rest, dr. rane came in and asked him to go over to see his wife. the surgeon went at once. bessy was lying in her comfortable chamber, just as phillis had described--her face scarlet, her head turning uneasily on the pillow. a candle stood on the table, dimly lighting the room; mr. seeley took it close to inspect her face; but bessy put up her hand and turned her head away, as if the light disturbed her.

"she seems slightly delirious," whispered mr. seeley apart, and dr. rane nodded. after that, the two doctors talked together a little on the stairs, and mr. seeley went away, saying he would come again in the morning.

in the morning, however, dr. rane went over to tell him that his wife, after a most restless night, had dropped into a quiet doze, and had better not be disturbed. he felt sure she was better. this was friday.

phillis arrived betimes. she found a wet sheet flapping in the grey ante-room, just outside the bedroom door, which dr. rane had saturated with disinfecting fluid. jars of disinfectants stood on the wide landing, on the staircase, and in other parts of the house. phillis had no fear, and went in behind the flapping sheet. she could make nothing of mrs. rane. instead of the scarlet face and restless head, she now lay buried in her pillow, still, and pale, and intensely quiet. phillis offered her some tea; mrs. rane just opened her eyes, and feebly motioned it away with her hand, just as she had motioned away the light the previous night. "it's a sudden change," thought phillis. "i don't like it."

later in the morning, dr. rane brought up mr. seeley. she lay in exactly the same position, deep in the pillow. what with that, and what with the large night-cap, the surgeon could get to see very little of her face.

"don't disturb me," she faintly said, when he would have aroused her sufficiently to get a good look. "i am easy now."

"do you know me?" questioned mr. seeley, bending over her.

"yes," she answered, opening her eyes for a moment. "let me sleep; i shall be better tomorrow."

"how do you feel?" he asked.

"only tired. let me sleep."

"bessy," said her husband, in the persuasive voice he used to the sick, "won't you just turn to mr. seeley?"

"to-morrow. i want to sleep."

and so they did not disturb her further. after all, sleep does wonders, as dr. rane remarked.

it might have been that mr. seeley went away somewhat puzzled, scarcely thinking that the fever had been on her sufficiently long to leave her in this state of exhaustion.

as the day went on a rumour was whispered that mrs. rane was dying. whence it arose none could trace, unless from a word or two dropped by dr. rane himself to thomas hepburn. they happened to meet in the street, and the undertaker stopped to inquire after mrs. rane. she was in a most critical state, was the doctor's answer; the night would decide it, one way or the other.

phillis went up to her mistress several times. dr. rane kept the hanging sheet well saturated, and flapped it often. mrs. rane never seemed to rouse herself throughout the day: seemed, in fact, to sleep through it. phillis began to hope that it was indeed comfortable, refreshing rest, and that she would wake from it better.

"you'll let me stay here to-night, sir?" she said, when there was nothing more to be done, as dr. rane--who had been out--came in, and passed by the kitchen.

"no need," he answered in his decisive manner. "be here the first thing in the morning."

phillis put on her shawl and bonnet, wished him goodnight, and departed. it was about ten o'clock. dr. rane saw her out and went up to the sick room. in less than five minutes he came down again with a white face, opened the front-door, and strode across the road to mr. seeley's. the latter was in his surgery, in the act of pouring some medicine into a small phial.

"seeley! seeley! my wife is gone!"

what with the suddenness of the interruption, and the words, the surgeon was so startled that he dropped the bottle.

"gone!" he cried. "do you mean dead?"

"i do."

"why, when i saw you at dusk, you told me she was sleeping comfortably!" said the surgeon, staring at dr. rane. "phillis also said it."

"and so she was. she was to all appearance. heaven is my witness that i thought and believed the sleep then to be natural, and was refreshing her. she must have died in it. i went up now, and found her--found her--gone."

oliver rane put his arm on mr. seeley's counter and bent his face to hide his emotion. the surgeon in the midst of his surprise, had hardly ever felt so sorry for any one as he felt in that moment for his brother practitioner.