John Ingerfield | Page 8

two."
Then Anne sits in the great empty drawing-room, and takes her turn at
thinking.
John Ingerfield finds, on his return to Limehouse, that the evil has
greatly increased during the short time he has been away. Fanned by
fear and ignorance, fed by poverty and dirt, the scourge is spreading
through the district like a fire. Long smouldering in secret, it has now
burst forth at fifty different points at once. Not a street, not a court but
has its "case." Over a dozen of John's hands are down with it already.
Two more have sunk prostrate beside their work within the last hour.
The panic grows grotesque. Men and women tear their clothes off,
looking to see if they have anywhere upon them a rash or a patch of

mottled skin, find that they have, or imagine that they have, and rush,
screaming, half- undressed, into the street. Two men, meeting in a
narrow passage, both rush back, too frightened to pass each other. A
boy stoops down and scratches his leg--not an action that under
ordinary circumstances would excite much surprise in that
neighbourhood. In an instant there is a wild stampede from the room,
the strong trampling on the weak in their eagerness to escape.
These are not the days of organised defence against disease. There are
kind hearts and willing hands in London town, but they are not yet
closely enough banded together to meet a swift foe such as this. There
are hospitals and charities galore, but these are mostly in the City,
maintained by the City Fathers for the exclusive benefit of poor citizens
and members of the guilds. The few free hospitals are already
over-crowded and ill-prepared. Squalid, outlying Limehouse, belonging
to nowhere, cared for by nobody, must fight for itself.
John Ingerfield calls the older men together, and with their help
attempts to instil some sense and reason into his terrified people.
Standing on the step of his counting-house, and addressing as many of
them as are not too scared to listen, he tells them of the danger of fear
and of the necessity for calmness and courage.
"We must face and fight this thing like men," he cries, in that deep, din-
conquering voice that has served the Ingerfields in good stead on many
a steel-swept field, on many a storm-struck sea; "there must be no
cowardly selfishness, no faint-hearted despair. If we've got to die we'll
die; but please God we'll live. Anyhow, we will stick together, and help
each other. I mean to stop here with you, and do what I can for you.
None of my people shall want."
John Ingerfield ceases, and as the vibrations of his strong tones roll
away a sweet voice from beside him rises clear and firm:--
"I have come down to be with you also, and to help my husband. I shall
take charge of the nursing and tending of your sick, and I hope I shall
be of some real use to you. My husband and I are so sorry for you in
your trouble. I know you will be brave and patient. We will all do our

best, and be hopeful."
He turns, half expecting to see only the empty air and to wonder at the
delirium in his brain. She puts her hand in his, and their eyes meet; and
in that moment, for the first time in their lives, these two see one
another.
They speak no word. There is no opportunity for words. There is work
to be done, and done quickly, and Anne grasps it with the greed of a
woman long hungry for the joy of doing. As John watches her moving
swiftly and quietly through the bewildered throng, questioning,
comforting, gently compelling, the thought comes to him, Ought he to
allow her to be here, risking her life for his people? followed by the
thought, How is he going to prevent it? For in this hour the knowledge
is born within him that Anne is not his property; that he and she are
fellow hands taking their orders from the same Master; that though it be
well for them to work together and help each other, they must not
hinder one another.
As yet John does not understand all this. The idea is new and strange to
him. He feels as the child in a fairy story on suddenly discovering that
the trees and flowers has he passed by carelessly a thousand times can
think and talk. Once he whispers to her of the labour and the danger,
but she answers simply, "They are my people too, John: it is my work";
and he lets her have her way.
Anne has a true woman's instinct for nursing, and her strong sense
stands her in stead