CHAPTER XVI. – MUCH TO ALTER
At the same moment Constance Channing was traversing the Boundaries, on her way to Lady Augusta Yorke’s, where she had, some days since, commenced her duties. It took her scarcely two minutes to get there, for the houses were almost within view of each other. Constance would willingly have commenced the daily routine at an earlier hour. Lady Augusta freely confessed that to come earlier would be useless, for she could not get her daughters up. Strictly speaking, Lady Augusta did not personally try to get them up, for she generally lay in bed herself.
“That is one of the habits I must alter in the children,” thought Constance.
She entered, took off her things in the room appropriated to her, and passed into the schoolroom. It was empty, though the children ought to have been there, preparing their lessons. Fanny came running in, her hair in curl-papers, some bread and butter in her hand.
“Carry has not finished her breakfast, Miss Channing,” quoth she. “She was lazy this morning!”
“I think some one else was lazy also,” said Constance, gently drawing the child to her. “Why did you come down half-dressed, my dear?”
“I am quite dressed,” responded Fanny. “My frock’s on, and so is my pinafore.”
“And these?” said Constance, touching the curl-papers.
“Oh, Martha got up late, and said she had no time to take them out. It will keep in curl all the better, Miss Channing; and perhaps I am going to the missionary meeting with mamma.”
Constance rang the bell. Martha, who was the only maid kept, except the cook, appeared in answer to it. Lady Augusta was wont to say that she had too much expense with her boys to keep many servants; and the argument was a true one.
“Be so kind as to take the papers out of Miss Fanny’s hair. And let it be done in future, Martha, before she comes to me.”
Gently as the words were spoken, there was no mistaking that the tone was one of authority, and not to be trifled with. Martha withdrew with the child. And, just then, Caroline came in, full of eagerness.
“Miss Channing, mamma says she shall take one of us to the missionary meeting, whichever you choose to fix upon. Mind you fix upon me! What does that little chit, Fanny, want at a missionary meeting? She is too young to go.”
“It is expected to be a very interesting meeting,” observed Constance, making no reply to Miss Caroline’s special request. “A gentleman who has lived for some years amongst the poor heathens is to give a history of his personal experiences. Some of the anecdotes are beautiful.”
“Who told you they were?” asked Caroline.
“Mr. Yorke,” replied Constance, a pretty blush rising to her cheek. “He knows the lecturer well. You would be pleased to hear them.”
“It is not for that I wish to go,” said Caroline. “I think meetings, where there’s nothing but talking, are the dullest things in the world. If I were to listen, it would send me to sleep.”
“Then why do you wish so much to attend this one?”
“Because I shall wear my new dress. I have not had it on yet. It rained last Sunday, and mamma would not let me put it on for college. I was in such a passion.”
Constance wondered where she should begin. There was so much to do; so much to alter in so many ways. To set to work abruptly would never answer. It must be commenced gradually, almost imperceptibly, little by little.
“Caroline, do you know that you have disobeyed me?”
“In what way, Miss Channing?”
“Did I not request you to have that exercise written out?”
“I know,” said Caroline, with some contrition. “I intended to write it out this morning before you came; but somehow I lay in bed.”
“If I were to come to you every morning at seven o’clock, would you undertake to get up and be ready for me?” asked Constance.
Caroline drew a long face. She did not speak.
“My dear, you are fifteen.”
“Well?” responded Caroline.
“And you must not feel hurt if I tell you that I should think no other young lady of that age and in your position is half so deficient as you are. Deficient in many ways, Caroline: in goodness, in thoughtfulness, and in other desirable qualities; and greatly so in education. Annabel, who is a year younger than you, is twice as advanced.”
“Annabel says you worry her into learning.”
“Annabel is fond of talking nonsense; but she is a good, loving child at heart. You would be surprised at the little trouble she really gives me while she makes a show of giving me a great deal. I have so much to teach you, Caroline—to your mind and heart, as well as to your intellect—that I feel the hours as at present arranged, will be insufficient for me. My dear, when you grow up to womanhood, I am sure you will wish to be loving and loved.”
Caroline burst into tears. “I should do better if mamma were not so cross with me, Miss Channing. I always do anything that William Yorke asks me; and I will do anything for you.”
Constance kissed her. “Then will you begin by rising early, and being ready for me at seven?”
“Yes, I will,” answered Caroline. “But Martha must be sure to call me. Are you going to the meeting this afternoon?”
“Of course not,” said Constance. “My time now belongs to you.”
“But I think mamma wishes you to go with us. She said something about it.”
“Does she? I should very much like to go.”
Lady Augusta came in and proffered the invitation to Constance to accompany them. Constance then spoke of giving the children the extra two hours, from seven to nine: it was really necessary, she said, if she was to do her duty by them.
“How very conscientious you are!” laughed Lady Augusta, her tone savouring of ridicule.
Constance coloured almost to tears with her emotion. “I am responsible to One always, Lady Augusta. I may not make mine only eye-service.”
“You will never put up with our scrambling breakfast, Miss Channing. The boys are so unruly; and I do not get up to it half my time.”
“I will return home to breakfast. I should prefer to do so. And I will be here again at ten.”
“Whatever time do you get up?”
“Not very early,” answered Constance. “Hitherto I have risen at seven, summer and winter. Dressing and reading takes me just an hour; for the other hour I find plenty of occupation. We do not breakfast until nine, on account of Tom and Charley. I shall rise at six now, and come here at seven.”
“Very well,” said Lady Augusta. “I suppose this will only apply to the summer months. One of the girls shall go with us to-day; whichever deserves it best.”
“You are not leaving one of them at home to make room for me, I hope, Lady Augusta?”
“Not at all,” answered Lady Augusta. “I never chaperon two children to a crowded meeting. People might say they took up the room of grown-up persons.”
“You will let me go—not Caroline, Miss Channing?” pleaded Fanny, when her mother had quitted them.
“No,” said Caroline, sharply; “Miss Channing will fix upon me.”
“I shall obey Lady Augusta, and decide upon the one who shall best merit it,” smiled Constance. “It will be only right to do so.”
“Suppose we are both good, and merit it equally?” suggested Fanny.
“Then, my dear little girl, you must not be disappointed if, in that case, I give the privilege to Caroline, as being the elder of the two. But I will make it up to you in some other way.”
Alas for poor Caroline’s resolution! For a short time, an hour or so, she did strive to do her best; but then good resolutions were forgotten, and idleness followed. Not only idleness, temper also. Never had she been so troublesome to Constance as on this day; she even forgot herself so far as to be insolent. Fanny was taken to the meeting—you saw her in the carriage when Lady Augusta drove to Mr. Galloway’s office, and persuaded Hamish to join them—Caroline was left at home, in a state of open rebellion, with the lessons to learn which she had not learnt in the day.
“How shall you get on with them, Constance?” the Rev. William Yorke inquired of her that same evening. “Have the weeds destroyed the good seed?”
“Not quite destroyed it,” replied Constance, though she sighed sadly as she spoke, as if nearly losing heart for the task she had undertaken. “There is so much ill to undo. Caroline is the worst; the weeds, with her, have had longer time to get ahead. I think, perhaps, if I could keep her wholly with me for a twelvemonth or so, watching over her constantly, a great deal might be effected.”
“If that anticipated living would fall in, which seems very far away in the clouds, and you were wholly mine, we might have Caroline with us for a time,” laughed Mr. Yorke.
Constance laughed too. “Do not be impatient, or it will seem to be further off still. It will come, William.”
They had been speaking in an undertone, standing together at a window, apart from the rest. Mr. Channing was lying on his sofa underneath the other window, and now spoke to Mr. Yorke.
“You had a treat, I hear, at the meeting to-day?”
“We had, indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Yorke, advancing to take a seat near him. “It is not often we have the privilege of listening to so eloquent a speaker as Dr. Lamb. His experience is great, and his whole heart was in his subject. I should like to bring him here to call upon you.”
“I should be pleased to receive him,” replied Mr. Channing.
“I think it is possible that his experience in another line may be of service to you,” continued Mr. Yorke. “You are aware that ill health drove him home?”
“I have heard so.”
“His complaint was rheumatism, very much, as I fancy, the same sort of rheumatism that afflicts you. He told me he came to Europe with very little hope: he feared his complaint had become chronic and incurable. But he has been restored in a wonderful manner, and is in sound health again.”
“And what remedies did he use?” eagerly asked Mr. Channing.
“A three months’ residence at some medicinal springs in Germany. Nothing else. When I say nothing else, of course I must imply that he was under medical treatment there. It is the very thing, you see, sir, that has been ordered for you.”
“Ay!” sighed Mr. Channing, feeling how very faint appeared to be the hope that he should have the opportunity of trying it.
“I was mentioning your case to him,” observed Mr. Yorke. “He said he had no doubt the baths would do you equal good. He is a doctor, you know. I will bring him here to talk it over with you.”
At that moment Mr. Galloway entered: the subject was continued. Mr. Yorke and Mr. Galloway were eloquent on it, telling Mr. Channing that he must go to Germany, as a point of duty. The Channings themselves were silent; they could not see the way at all clear. When Mr. Yorke was leaving, he beckoned Constance and Arthur into the hall.
“Mr. Channing must go,” he whispered to them. “Think of all that is at stake! Renewed health, exertion, happiness! Arthur, you did not urge it by a single word.”
Arthur did not feel hopeful; indeed his heart sank within him the whole time that they were talking. Hamish and his difficulties were the dark shadow; though he could not tell this to Mr. Yorke. Were Mr. Channing to go abroad, and the arrest of Hamish to follow upon it, the post they held, and its emoluments, might be taken from them at once and for ever.
“Dr. Lamb says the cost was so trifling as scarcely to be credited,” continued Mr. Yorke in a tone of remonstrance. “Arthur, don’t you care to help—to save him?”
“I would move heaven and earth to save my father!” impulsively spoke Arthur, stung by the implied reproof. “I should not care what labour it cost me to procure the money, so that I succeeded.”
“We all would,” said Constance; “you must know we would, William. From Hamish downwards.”
“Who is that, making free with Hamish’s name?” demanded that gentleman himself, entering the house with a free step and merry countenance. “Did you think I was lost? I was seduced into joining your missionary-meeting people, and have had to stop late at the office, to make up for it.”
“We have been talking about papa, Hamish,” said Constance. “Fresh hope seems to arise daily that those German baths would restore him to health. They cured Dr. Lamb.”
“I say, Hamish, that the money must be found for it somehow,” added Mr. Yorke.
“Found! of course it shall be found,” cried gay Hamish. “I intend to be a chief contributor to it myself.” But his joking words and careless manner jarred at that moment upon the spirit both of Arthur and Constance Channing.
Why? Could there have been any unconscious foreshadowing of evil to come?
CHAPTER XVII. – SUNDAY MORNING AT MR. CHANNING’S, AND AT LADY AUGUSTA’S
The day of rest came round in due course. A day of rest it is in truth to those who have learnt to make it such; a pleasant time of peace; a privileged season of commune with God; a loving day of social happiness for home and home ties. And yet, strange to say, it is, to some, the most hurried, uncomfortable, disagreeable day of all the seven.
Mrs. Channing’s breakfast hour was nine o’clock on ordinary days, made thus late for the sake of convenience. On Sundays it was half-past eight. Discipline and training had rendered it easy to observe rules at Mr. Channing’s; or, it may be better to say, it had rendered them difficult to be disobeyed. At half-past eight all were in the breakfast-room, dressed for the day. When the hour for divine service arrived, they had only to put on their hats and bonnets to be ready for it. Even old Judy was grand on a Sunday morning. Her mob-cap was of spotted, instead of plain net, and her check apron was replaced by a white one.
With great personal inconvenience, and some pain—for he was always worse in the morning—Mr. Channing would on that day rise to breakfast. It had been his invariable custom to take the reading himself on Sunday—the little time he devoted to religion—and he was unwilling to break through it. Breakfast over, it was immediately entered upon, and would be finished by ten o’clock. He did not preach a sermon; he did not give them much reading; it was only a little homely preparation for the day and the services they were about to enter upon. Very unwise had it been of Mr. Channing, to tire his children with a private service before the public service began.
Breakfast, on these mornings, was always a longer meal than usual. There was no necessity to hurry over it, in order to hasten to the various occupations of every-day life. It was taken leisurely, amidst much pleasant, social converse.
As they were assembling for breakfast on this morning, Arthur came in. It was so unusual for them to leave the house early on a Sunday, that Mr. Channing looked at him with surprise.
“I have been to see Jenkins, sir,” he explained. “In coming home last night, I met Mr. Hurst, who told me he feared Jenkins was getting worse. I would not go to see him then; it might have been late to disturb him, so I have been now.”
“And how is he?” inquired Mr. Channing.
“A great deal better,” replied Arthur. “So much better that Mr. Hurst says he may come to the office to-morrow should there be no relapse. He enjoins strict quiet for to-day. And Mrs. Jenkins is determined that he shall have quiet; therefore I am sure, he will,” Arthur added, laughing. “She says he appeared ill last night only from the number of visitors he had seen. They were coming in all day long; and on Friday besides.”
“Why should people flock to see Jenkins?” exclaimed Tom. “He is nobody.”
“That is just what Mrs. Jenkins said this morning,” returned Arthur. “I believe they go out of curiosity to hear the truth of the locking-up in the cloisters. The bishop’s having been one of the sufferers has aroused the interest of Helstonleigh.”
“I am very glad that Jenkins is better,” observed Mr. Channing.
“So am I,” emphatically answered Arthur. He was pretty sure Tom had had no share in the exploit; but he did not know about Charley.
“The dean preaches to-day,” suddenly called out Tom.
“How do you know?” demanded Annabel.
“Because I do,” oracularly spoke Tom.
“Will you condescend to inform me how you know it, Tom, if you will not inform Annabel?” asked Mr. Channing.
Tom laughed. “The dean began his close residence yesterday, papa. Therefore we know he will preach to-day.”
Mr. Channing sighed. He was debarred from attending the services, and he felt the deprivation keenly when he found that any particularly eminent man was to fill the cathedral pulpit. The dean of Helstonleigh was an admirable preacher.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, in the uncontrollable impulse of the moment, “if I could only regain health and strength!”
“It will come, James; God willing,” said Mrs. Channing, looking up hopefully from the cups she was filling. “What I have heard of Dr. Lamb’s restoration has put new confidence into me.”
“I think Mr. Yorke intends to bring Dr. Lamb to see you this afternoon, papa,” said Constance.
“I shall be glad to see him; I shall be glad to hear the particulars of his case and its cure,” exclaimed Mr. Channing, with all conscious eagerness. “Did Mr. Yorke tell you he should bring him to-day, Constance?”
“Yes, papa. Dr. Lamb intends to be at the cathedral for afternoon service, and Mr. Yorke said he would bring him here afterwards.”
“You must get him to take tea with us, Mary.”
“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Channing. “In six months from this, James, you may be as well and active as ever.”
Mr. Channing raised his hands, as if warding off the words. Not of the words was he afraid, but of the hopes they whispered. “I think too much about it, already, Mary. It is not as though I were sure of getting to the medicinal baths.”
“We will take care that you do that, sir,” said Hamish, with his sunny smile.
“You cannot help in it, you know, Hamish,” interposed saucy Annabel. “It will be Arthur and Constance who will help—not you. I heard you say so!”
“But I have changed my mind, and intend to help,” returned Hamish. “And, if you will allow me the remark, young lady, I think it would better become a certain little girl, not to chatter quite so much!”
Was Hamish speaking in jest, or earnest, with regard to the helping point of the affair? A peculiar tone in his voice, in spite of its lightness, had struck both Constance and Arthur, each being in the secret of his more than want of funds.
The second bell was beginning to chime as the Channings entered the cloister gates. Tom and Charles had gone on before. Panting, breathless, almost knocking down Annabel, came Tod Yorke, terribly afraid of being marked late.
“Take care, Tod!” exclaimed Hamish. “Are you running for a wager?”
“Don’t keep me, Mr. Hamish Channing! Those incapable servants of ours never called us till the bell began. I have had no breakfast, and Gerald couldn’t find his shirt. He has had to come off in his dirty one, with his waistcoat buttoned up. Won’t my lady be in a rage when she sees him?”
Getting up and breakfasting were generally bustling affairs at Lady Augusta’s; but the confusion of every day was as nothing compared with that of Sunday. Master Tod was wrong when he complained that he had not been called. The servants had called both him and Gerald, who shared the same room, but the young gentlemen had gone to sleep again. The breakfast hour was the same as other mornings, nine o’clock; but, for all the observance it obtained, it might as well have been nine at night. To give the servants their due, breakfast, on this morning, was on the table at nine—that is, the cloth, the cups and saucers: and there it remained until ten. The maids meanwhile enjoyed their own leisurely breakfast in the kitchen, regaling themselves with hot coffee, poached eggs, buttered toast, and a dish of gossip. At ten, Lady Augusta, who made a merit of always rising to breakfast on a Sunday, entered the breakfast-room in a dirty morning wrapper, and rang the bell.
“Is nobody down?” cried she, sharply.
“I think not, my lady,” was Martha’s reply. “I have not heard them. I have been three times in the young ladies’ room, but they would not get up.”
This was not quite true. Martha had been in once, and had been scolded for her pains. “None of them ever will get up on a Sunday morning,” added Martha; “they say, ‘where’s the good?’”
“Bring in breakfast,” crossly responded Lady Augusta. “And then go to the young ladies, and see whether the rest are getting up. What has the cook been at with this coffee?” Lady Augusta added, when she began to pour it out. “It is cold. Her coffee is always cold.”
“It has been made half an hour, I know, my lady.”
The first to appear was the youngest child of all, little Frank; the next his brother, a year older; they wore dirty collars, and their hair was uncombed. Then came the girls—Caroline without a frock, a shawl thrown on, instead, and Fanny in curl papers. Lady Augusta scolded them for their late appearance, forgetting, possibly, that she herself set the example.
“It is not much past ten,” said Caroline. “We shall be in time for college.”
“It is nearly upon half-past,” replied Lady Augusta. “Why do you come down in a petticoat, Caroline?”
“That stupid dressmaker has put no tape to my dress,” fretfully responded Caroline. “Martha is sewing it on.”
Roland lounged in, not more presentable than the rest. Why had Lady Augusta not brought them up to better habits? Why should they come down on a Sunday morning more untidy than on other mornings? They would have told you, had you asked the question, that on other mornings they must be ready to hasten to their daily occupations. Had Sunday no occupation, then? Did it deserve no marked deference? Had I been Lady Augusta Yorke, I should have said to Roland that morning, when I saw his slip-shod slippers and his collarless neck, “If you can show no respect for me, show it for the day.”
Half-past ten struck, and Lady Augusta started up to fly to her own room. She had still much to do, ere she could be presentable for college. Caroline followed. Fanny wondered what Gerald and Tod would do. Not yet down!
“Those boys will get a tanning, to-morrow, from old Pye!” exclaimed Roland, remembering the time when “tannings” had been his portion for the same fault. “Go and see what they are after, Martha.”
They were “after” jumping up in alarm, aroused by the college bell. Amidst wild confusion, for nothing seemed to be at hand, with harsh reproaches to Martha, touching their shirts and socks, and other articles of attire, they scrambled downstairs, somehow, and flew out of the house on their way to the college schoolroom; Gerald drinking a freshly made scalding cup of coffee; Tod cramming a thick piece of bread and butter into his pocket, and trusting to some spare moment to eat it in. All this was the usual scramble of Sunday morning. The Yorkes did get to college, somehow, and there was an end of it.
After the conclusion of the service, as the congregation were dispersing, Mr. Galloway came up to Arthur Channing in the cloisters, and drew him aside.
“Do you recollect taking the letters to the post, on Friday afternoon?” he inquired.
“On Friday?” mused Arthur, who could not at the moment recollect much about that particular day’s letters; it was he who generally posted them for the office. “Oh yes, I do remember, sir,” he replied, as the relative circumstances flashed across him.
Mr. Galloway looked at him, possibly doubting whether he really did remember. “How many letters were there for the post that afternoon?” he asked.
“Three,” promptly rejoined Arthur. “Two were for London, and one was for Ventnor.”
“Just so,” assented Mr. Galloway. “Now, then, to whom did you intrust the posting of those letters?”
“I did not intrust them to any one,” replied Arthur; “I posted them myself.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure, sir,” answered Arthur, in some surprise. But Mr. Galloway said no more, and gave no reason for his inquiry. He turned into his own house, which was situated near the cloister gates, and Arthur went on home.
Had you been attending worship in Helstonleigh Cathedral that same afternoon, you might have observed, as one of the congregation, a tall stout man, with a dark, sallow face, and grey hair. He sat in a stall near to the Reverend William Yorke, who was the chanter for the afternoon. It was Dr. Lamb. A somewhat peculiar history was his. Brought up to the medical profession, and taking his physician’s degree early, he went out to settle in New Zealand, where he had friends. Circumstances brought him into frequent contact with the natives there. A benevolent, thoughtful man, gifted with much Christian grace, the sad spiritual state of these poor heathens gave the deepest concern to Dr. Lamb. He did what he could for them in his leisure hours, but his profession took up most of his time: often did he wish he had more time at his command. A few years of hard work, and then the wish was realized. A small patrimony was bequeathed him, sufficient to enable him to live without work. From that time he applied himself to the arduous duties of a missionary, and his labours were crowned with marked success. Next came illness. He was attacked with rheumatism in the joints; and after many useless remedies had been tried, he came home in search of health, which he found, as you have heard, in certain German spas.
Mr. Channing watched the clock eagerly. Unless it has been your portion, my reader, to undergo long and apparently hopeless affliction, and to find yourself at length unexpectedly told that there may be a cure for you; that another, afflicted in a similar manner, has been restored to health by simple means, and will call upon you and describe to you what they were—you could scarcely understand the nervous expectancy of Mr. Channing on this afternoon. Four o’clock! they would soon be here now.
A very little time longer, and they were with him—his family, Mr. Yorke, and Dr. Lamb. The chief subject of anxiety was soon entered upon, Dr. Lamb describing his illness at great length.
“But were you as helpless as I am?” inquired Mr. Channing.
“Quite as helpless. I was carried on board, and carried to a bed at an hotel when I reached England. From what I have heard of your case, and from what you say, I should judge the nature of your malady to be precisely similar to mine.”
“And now tell me about the healing process.”
Dr. Lamb paused. “You must promise to put faith in my prescription.”
Mr. Channing raised his eyes in surprise. “Why should I not do so?”
“Because it will appear to you so very simple. I consulted a medical man in London, one skilled in rheumatic cases, and he gave it as his opinion that a month or two passed at one of the continental springs might restore me. I laughed at him.”
“You did not believe him?”
“I did not, indeed. Shall I confess to you that I felt vexed with him? There was I, a poor afflicted man, lying helpless, racked with pain; and to be gravely assured that a short sojourn at a pleasant foreign watering-place would, in all probability, cure me, sounded very like mockery. I knew something of the disease, its ordinary treatment, and its various phases. It was true I had left Europe for many years, and strange changes had been taking place in medical science. Still, I had no faith in what he said, as being applicable to my own case; and for a whole month, week after week, day after day, I declined to entertain his views. I considered that it would be so much time and money wasted.”
Dr. Lamb paused. Mr. Channing did not interrupt him.
“One Sunday evening, I was on my solitary sofa—lying in pain—as I can see you are lying now. The bells were ringing out for evening service. I lay thinking of my distressed condition; wishing I could be healed. By-and-by, after the bells had ceased, and the worshippers had assembled within the walls of the sanctuary, from which privilege I was excluded, I took up my Bible. It opened at the fifth chapter of the second book of Kings. I began to read, somewhat listlessly, I fear—listlessly, at any rate, compared with the strange enthusiasm which grew upon me as I read, ‘Go and wash in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come again to thee, and thou shalt be clean. And Naaman was wroth.... And his servants spake unto him and said, My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, wouldest thou not have done it? how much rather then, when he saith unto thee, Wash, and be clean?’
“Mr. Channing,” Dr. Lamb continued in a deeper tone, “the words sounded in my ear, fell upon my heart, as a very message sent direct from God. All the folly of my own obstinate disbelief came full upon me; the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I said, ‘Shall I not try that simple thing?’ A firm conviction that the chapter had been directed to me that night as a warning, seated itself within me; and, from that hour, I never entertained a shadow of doubt but that the baths would be successful.”
“And you journeyed to them?”
“Instantly. Within a week I was there. I seemed to know that I was going to my cure. You will not, probably, understand this.”
“I understand it perfectly,” was Mr. Channing’s answer. “I believe that a merciful Providence does vouchsafe, at rare times, to move us by these direct interpositions. I need not ask you if you were cured. I have heard that you were. I see you are. Can you tell me aught of the actual means?”
“I was ordered to a small place in the neighbourhood of Aix-la-Chapelle; a quiet, unpretending place, where there are ever-rising springs of boiling, sulphuric water. The precise course of treatment I will come in another day and describe to you. I had to drink a great deal of the water, warm—six or eight half-pints of it a day; I had to bathe regularly in this water; and I had to take what are called douche baths every other day.”
“I have heard of the douche baths,” said Mr. Channing. “Rather fierce, are they not?”
“Fierce!” echoed the doctor. “The first time I tried one, I thought I should never come out alive. The water was dashed upon me, through a tube, with what seemed alarming force until I grew used to it; whilst an attendant rubbed and turned and twisted my limbs about, as if they had been so many straws in his strong hand. So violent is the action of the water that my face had to be protected by a board, lest it should come into contact with it.”