“You will not come back with us, then?”
Mercy shook her head. She must stifle weakness. She was a doctor first. This was her hospital; she believed it must be the love of her life, for Dr. Clement—her affectionate friend, though he might be—could not marry her.
“Then you will miss dinner.”
“I fear so. I do not know how long I must stay at the cottage.”
“Mercy,” said Cecily, “come and have dinner and go there afterward. Perhaps John Clement will escort you.”
There was temptation. She pictured dinner in the beloved home, herself saying grace as she used to in the old days; she imagined the interesting conversation, and then, afterward, riding pillion with John Clement to the cottage by Blandels Bridge, listening to his diagnosis of the patents's ailment, offering her own.
But sickness did not wait for such pretty, comforting scenes. Speed was everything in fighting sickness. A life could be lost by the delay of five minutes, let alone hours.
“Nay,” she said. “I must go at once. Ned, wait for me. I must bring a few simples with me.”
So Elizabeth and Cecily went back to the house on the other side of the pales, and Mercy trudged through the snow to Blandels Bridge.
The blizzard beat at her; the familiar landscape had become unfamiliar, a thick white cloth was laid over everything, disguising the shapes of hedges and cottages.
But Ned knew the way. She followed him blindly. Soon her fingers were numb, her feet icily cold. The journey—usually a walk of ten minutes—took the greater part of an hour.
She thought: I shall miss him then. It is so long since I have seen him. He is so busy that he comes to see us but rarely. And when he does … I cannot be there!
They had reached the cottage. The rushes stank. There seemed no air in the place, yet it was bitterly cold. The woman who had been sitting on a stool shivering as she watched the man on the floor, brightened when she heard Mercy's voice without.
“God bless you for coming!” she cried as Mercy entered the cottage.
And when Mercy looked into her eyes, she thought: That must be my reward.
She knelt by the man on the dirty straw, and laid a hand on his burning forehead. He began to cough.
“He has been coughing like that for hours,” said the woman. “It seems as though the cough will choke him.”
Mercy said: “When the weather improves, I want to take him to my hospital. It is not good for him to be here.”
The man's piteous eyes held Mercy's. He seemed to be begging her to make him well.
She took one of die phials from her bag which she had brought, and gave him its contents. The close, cold atmosphere of the room made her shiver, and the smell from the rushes sickened her.
She thought: If only I could get him away from here … into one of my warm rooms, with blankets and a comfortable pallet on which to lie. If I could give him hot soup, fresh air, who knows … I might cure him.
“How is he, Mistress Mercy?” asked the woman.
“He is very sick.”
“Is he going to die?”
Mercy looked into the panic-stricken eyes. How could she say: “I can do nothing for him here”? How could she say: “Clean out these foul rushes”? Why, to disturb them now would double the danger. He was not so far gone in disease she could not save him. If it were not for the weather, she would go to her foster fathers house; she would get strong men, and boards on which to place this man, and carry him away from this foul-smelling place which was his home. But how could she do this in a snowstorm?
Mercy closed her eyes and prayed for guidance and, as if by some miracle, the door opened and there, seeming strong and all-powerful, was Dr. John Clement.
“John!” she cried in delight. “You … here?”
“Indeed yes, Mercy. The girls told me where you were, and I came to see if I could help.”
“Thank God!” she said. “It is the answer to a prayer.”
“And the patient?”
He knelt in the rushes and looked into the sick man's face.
“This place …” said Mercy, and John nodded. “If I could get him to the hospital,” she went on, “care for him there … I believe I could nurse him back to health.”
John was silent for a while. Then he said: “I rode here. I tied my horse to a stake by the cottage. We could put him on the horse and get him to the hospital.”
“Through the snow?”
John's answer was to look round the room, at the foul rushes and the earthen walls, damp and noisome.
“He cannot live if he stays here.”
“Can he live if he is taken out into the cold?”
“In a case like this, we have to take a chance.”
“You would take this chance, then, John?”
“I would. Would you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I would do as you would.”
Happiness came in strange places at strange times. The snow was blowing in Mercy's face; she was wet and numb with cold, yet warm with pleasure.
She had rarely been so happy in her life as she was when she was walking through the snow with John Clement, the sick man, whom they held on John's horse, between them, while the pale-faced boy led the horse.
THERE WAS a double wedding that summer.
The marriages of Elizabeth with William Dauncey and Cecily with Giles Heron were to be celebrated in the private chapel attached to one of the mansions belonging to the Allington family.
Ailie—now Lady Allington—was delighted to have her family with her for this occasion.
Ailie was a happy person. Her husband adored her; she had a child now, but that fact had changed her little; she was still the gay and fascinating Ailie.
With great pleasure she showed her mother the kitchens of the house. They were older than those of Chelsea and far more grand.
Alice sniffed her disapproval of this and that, trying hard to find fault while she congratulated herself that it was her daughter who had made the best match of all.
“Look, Mother. Have you seen these ceilings? Giles is most proud of them. You see how cleverly they are painted. You'll find nothing like that in modern houses. Look at these painted cloths. They all represent scenes of some battles. Do not ask me which, I beg of you, for I do not know. In the great hall we have Flemish tapestry, which is every bit as fine as that which my Lord Cardinal has in Tittenhanger or Hampton Court.”
“Tilly valley!” said Alice. “What happens in the kitchen is of more importance than painted hangings or Flemish tapestry, I tell you. That has to be tested yet.”
Ailie kissed her mother; she loved to tease… to tease them all, her half-sisters, her stepfather, her mother and her husband. And it was very pleasant to have them all with her again.
Margaret spoke to her of William Dauncey. “Elizabeth loves him, but does he love Elizabeth? Or is he thinking solely of what Father can do for him?”
“Well,” said Ailie, confident in her own charms, “if he does not love her, then it is for her to make him do so. And if he will not…”
Ailie shrugged her shoulders, but, glancing at Margaret, decided not to finish what she had begun to say. Instead, she added: “Why, they'll be happy enough, I doubt not. Master Dauncey is a young man who will go far and, believe me, my dear Margaret, it is by no means unpleasant to be the wife of a rising star.”
“Is that so, then?” said Margaret. “I know what it is to be the daughter of one; and I would rather Father were less favorably looked upon at Court, so that his family might look upon him the more often.”
“Father! Oh, Father is no ordinary man. Father is a saint!”
Then Ailie left her sister; she was a busy hostess, and there was much to which she must attend, for her mansion at Willesden was filled with the most distinguished guests.