no one on back creek could remember a finer autumn; frosts before sunrise, summer heat at noon, chill nights. all morning the mountain lay in a soft blue haze, and in the afternoon broad fans of heavy golden sunlight warmed its back and flanks. the colour on the hillsides, in the low meadows, and along the streams had never been more brilliant. little rain fell in october, and the trees held their leaves. the great maples in mrs. blake’s yard were like blazing torches; scarlet leaves fluttered softly down to the green turf, leaving the boughs above still densely covered.
with november the weather changed. heavy rains set in. there was scarcely a clear day. the earth was soon soaked, the meadows became boggy, and all the streams rose. back creek overflowed its low banks and rushed yellow and foaming into the mill road. the schoolroom under the baptist church, set deep in the hillside, became very damp. suddenly david fairhead’s school was closed; nearly half his pupils were in bed with ulcerated throats or diphtheria.
it was a rare winter when there was not an outbreak of diphtheria in hayfield or back creek or timber ridge. this year it came before winter began. doctor brush rode with his saddle-bags all day long from house to house, never bothering to wash his hands when he came or went. his treatment was to scour throats with a mixture of sulphur and molasses, and to forbid his patients both food and water. if he found “white spots,” he declared the case diphtheria, and the patient was starved until the spots were gone. few children survived his treatment.
late one evening in the week after the school had been closed, mr. whitford was driving his covered spring-wagon along the big road, carrying two coffins up to timber ridge. as he passed mrs. blake’s house he saw that her front door stood wide open, and a flickering light came from the parlour windows. this was a signal to passers-by that help of some sort was needed within. as he slowed his team, mrs. blake herself ran out into the road to hail him.
“we’re in trouble here, mr. whitford. both my girls are sick, and i want you to carry word to the post office. yes sir, they’ve been ailing with colds since yesterday, but tonight, just after supper, they were taken very bad. maybe mrs. bywaters can come down to help me. and maybe she can send one of her boys along with you to hunt for the doctor. he’s likely somewhere on the ridge. i daren’t leave the house, and not a soul has come along the road till you.”
“i’ll get somebody here in no time, mrs. blake. don’t you worry, mam.” mr. whitford whipped up his horses.
at the post office there was a brief consultation between mrs. bywaters and david fairhead. most people, though not all, believed that diphtheria was “catching.” clearly the postmistress, who had to be on duty and see people every day, should not go where there was a contagious disease. fairhead said he would go: whitford could carry him back to mrs. blake’s, then drive up to timber ridge, deliver his coffins, and trail doctor brush until he found him.
when fairhead reached mrs. blake’s house, he found her in an upstairs bedroom, holding the wash-basin for betty, who was nauseated. after she laid the child back on her pillow, she rose and said: “oh, i’m glad it’s you, david.” she fronted him with a strange, dark look which frightened him. he was very fond of these children. he stood still and tried to think. mrs. blake had got the girls into their nightgowns, braided their hair, and put them into two cots in the room they shared together. fairhead told her he felt sure they ought not to be in the same room.
“there’s the spare room, across the hall, david. the bed’s made up. you can carry mary over and put her in it.”
toward morning mr. whitford brought word that doctor brush would stop at mrs. blake’s about sun-up, if she would have a good breakfast and plenty of coffee ready for him. the doctor came, looked down the girls’ throats, found his “white spots,” and seated himself in the dining-room to enjoy his breakfast. immediately david fairhead started for the mill.
the miller was standing before his little looking-glass, in the act of shaving, when fairhead called to him through the open window.
“mr. colbert, i’ve come from mrs. blake’s house. both her little girls are sick with bad throats. doctor brush is over there now. i thought you might like to talk to him before he leaves.”
the miller put down his razor, caught up his coat, and set off with david across the meadow. when he came home an hour later, he went directly to his wife’s room and sat down beside her.
“sapphira, i was called over to rachel’s. the trouble has reached her house. both the girls are down with it.”
she rose on her pillows and gave him a searching look. “you mean it’s diphtheria?”
“that’s what brush says.”
“brush! why, the man’s a complete ignoramus! it may be measles, for all he knows. have you sent to town for my doctor?”
“no. i’ve only just got back from rachel’s. i thought i’d better consult you. it’s come so sudden i’ve hardly had time to realize it.”
“but why haven’t you sent for clavenger?” she reached under her pillow for the bell and rang it vigorously. old washington answered.
“washington, send somebody down to the mill for tap. this minute, as fast as you can get him here. now, henry, you must start tap off for winchester on your own horse. who has rachel got over there to help her?”
“david fairhead left mrs. bywaters’s in the middle of the night and went down. he is going to stay with them. he’s a better nurse than any of the women around here.”
his wife scarcely heard him. “there comes tap. call him in here. i want to talk to him, and you see to saddling victor.”
tap came to the chamber door, which the master had left ajar, and called softly through the crack: “you wants to see me, miss sapphy?”
“yes, i do. come in.”
the boy came in, holding a rag of a hat in his two hands. the darky men never went about the place without some sort of hat on their heads.
“now, tap, listen to me,” she began sternly. tap stood rigid; he opened his eyes, prepared for a scolding. “i’m sending you to town to get doctor clavenger. my two granddaughters are very sick.”
the black boy stared at her, his shoulders went slack. “not miz blake’s li’l gals, mam?” he asked wistfully.
“yes, mary and betty have diphtheria, and you must go and get doctor clavenger here as quick as you can. you can ride faster than mr. henry or sampson, because you are lighter. i can’t write to doctor clavenger, my hand is too bad” (she held it up), “so you must explain to the doctor that children are dying around here every day, and i will never forgive him if he don’t get out to us before night. you understand this is serious, tap?”
tap squeezed his crumpled hat tighter to his chest. “you kin depen’ on me, miss sapphy. i’ll git de doctah, i’ll fetch ’im back. you kin depen’ on me.” his naturally lively voice had sunk to something deep and shadowy. he slipped out of the room, and only a few minutes later his mistress saw him flash down the driveway on victor, the fast trotter.
word of why tap was going to town had got through the house, and till came unbidden to mrs. colbert. she stood at the foot of the bed in her usual correct attitude, her hands under her white apron.
“kin i do anything, miss sapphy?”
“yes, till, you can. i want you to go over to mrs. blake’s and see how things are. mr. henry has been over, but men don’t notice very close. and you take one of the boys along, to carry a bundle of clean sheets and pillowcases. rachel can’t have many ahead, because she’s always giving them away. while you’re there, look around sharp for what’s needed. don’t ask rachel, but just see for yourself. and if you’re not afraid, slip in and peep at the children, and tell me how they look.”
“it ain’t likely i’d be afraid, missy. who must i tell to wait in, if you rings your bell?”
mrs. colbert gave a dry, sad little laugh: “well, there isn’t anybody but you, now, till. you might ask washington and trudy to sit outside in the hall.”
