by Ellen Wood
“Collect your basins!” interjected Mrs. Jones. “Where from?”
“I put them out with scraps for the cats.”
“The cats must be well off in your quarter; better than some children in others,” was the rejoinder, delivered with an unnecessary amount of spite. “What makes you so out of breath?” she tartly asked.
“I had a bit of a fright,” said the woman, simply. “My breath seems to get affected at nothing of late, Lydia.”
“A pity but you’d your hands full of work, as mine are: that’s the best remedy for fright,” said Mrs. Jones sarcastically. “What might your fright have been, pray?”
“I was standing, waiting to dart over here, when I saw a man come across the waste land and make for Pike’s shed,” said Mrs. Gum, looking at her husband. “It gave me a turn. We’ve never seen a soul go near the place of an evening since Pike has been there.”
“Why should it give you a turn?” asked Mrs. Jones, who was in a mood to contradict everything. “You’ve seen Pike often enough not to be frightened at him when he keeps his distance.”
“It wasn’t Pike, Lydia. The man had an umbrella over him, and he looked like a gentleman. Fancy Pike with an umbrella!”
“Was it Mr. Hillary?” interposed the clerk.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so; but it was getting too dark to see. Any way, it gave me a turn; and he’s gone right up to Pike’s shed.”
“Gave you a turn, indeed!” scornfully repeated Mrs. Jones. “I think you’re getting more of an idiot every day, Nance. It’s to be hoped somebody’s gone to take him up; that’s what is to be hoped.”
But Mr. Hillary it was. Hearing nothing from Jabez Gum all day, he had come to the conclusion that that respectable man had ignored his promise, and, unable to divest himself of the idea that Pike was ill, in the evening, having a minute to spare, he went forth to see for himself.
The shed-door was closed, but not fastened, and Mr. Hillary went in at once without ceremony. A lighted candle shed its rays around the rude dwelling-room: and the first thing he saw was a young man, who did not look in the least like Pike, stretched upon a mattress; the second was a bushy black wig and appurtenances lying on a chair; and the third was a formidable-looking pistol, conveniently close to the prostrate invalid.
Quick as thought, the surgeon laid his hand upon the pistol and removed it to a safe distance. He then bent over the sick man, examining him with his penetrating eyes; and what he saw struck him with consternation so great, that he sat down on a chair to recover himself, albeit not liable to be overcome by emotion.
When he left the shed — which was not for nearly half-an-hour after he had entered it — he heard voices at Clerk Gum’s front-door. The storm was over, and their visitor was departing. Mr. Hillary took a moment’s counsel with himself, then crossed the stile and appeared amongst them. Nodding to the three collectively, he gravely addressed the clerk and his wife.
“I have come here to ask, in the name of our common humanity, whether you will put aside your prejudices, and be Christians in a case of need,” he began. “I don’t forget that once, when an epidemic was raging in Calne, you” — turning to the wife— “were active and fearless, going about and nursing the sick when almost all others held aloof. Will you do the same now by a helpless man?”
The woman trembled all over. Clerk Gum looked questioningly at the doctor. Mrs. Jones was taking in everything with eyes and ears.
“This neighbour of yours has caught the fever. Some one must attend to him, or he will lie there and die. I thought perhaps you’d do it, Mrs. Gum, for our Saviour’s sake — if from no other motive.”
She trembled excessively. “I always was terribly afraid of that man, sir, since he came,” said she, with marked hesitation.
“But he cannot harm you now. I don’t ask you to go in to him one day after he is well again — if he recovers. Neither need you be with him as a regular nurse: only step in now and then to give him his physic, or change the wet cloths on his burning head.”
Mrs. Jones found her voice. The enormous impudence of the surgeon’s request had caused its temporary extinction.
“I’d see Pike in his coffin before I’d go a-nigh him as a nurse! What on earth will you be asking next, Mr. Hillary?”
“I didn’t ask you, Mrs. Jones: you have your children to attend to; full employment for one pair of arms. Mrs. Gum has nothing to do with her time; and is near at hand besides. Gum, you stand in your place by Dr. Ashton every Sunday, and read out to us of the loving mercy of God: will you urge your wife to this little work of charity for His sake?”
Jabez Gum evidently did not know what to answer. On the one hand, he could hardly go against the precepts he had to respond to as clerk; on the other, there was his scorn and hatred of the disreputable Arab.
“He’s such a loose character, sir,” he debated at length.
“Possibly: when he is well. But he is ill now, and could not be loose if he tried. Some one must go in now and then to see after him: it struck me that perhaps your wife would do it, for humanity’s sake; and I thought I’d ask her before going further.”
“She can do as she likes,” said Jabez.
Mrs. Gum — as unresisting in her nature as ever was Percival Elster — yielded to the prayer of the surgeon, and said she would do what she could. But she had never shown more nervousness over anything than she was showing as she gave her answer.
“Then I will step indoors and give you a few plain directions,” said the surgeon. “Mrs. Jones has taken her departure, I perceive.”
Mrs. Gum was as good as her word, and went in with dire trepidation. Calne’s sentiments, on the whole, resembled Mrs. Jones’s, and the woman was blamed for her yielding nature. But she contrived, with the help of Mr. Hillary’s skill, to bring the man through the fever; and it was very singular that no other person out of the Rectory took it.
The last one to take it at the Rectory was Mrs. Ashton. Of the three servants who had it, one had died; the other two recovered. Mrs. Ashton did not take it until the rest were well, and she had it lightly. Anne nursed her and would do so; and it was an additional reason for prolonging the veto against Lord Hartledon.
One morning in December, Val, in passing down the road, saw the Rectory turned, as he called it, inside out. Every window was thrown open; curtains were taken down; altogether there seemed to be a comprehensive cleaning going on. At that moment Mr. Hillary passed, and Val arrested him, pointing to the Rectory.
“Yes, they are having a cleansing and purification. The family went away this morning.”
“Went where?” exclaimed Hartledon, in amazement.
“Dr. Ashton has taken a cottage near Ventnor.”
“Had Mrs. Ashton quite recovered?”
“Quite: or they would not have gone. The Rectory has had a clean bill of health for some time past.”
“Then why did they not let me know it?” exclaimed Val, in his astonishment and anger.
“Perhaps you didn’t ask,” said the surgeon. “But no visitors were sought. Time enough for that when the house shall have been fumigated.”
“They might have sent to me,” he cried, in resentment. “To go away and never let me know it!”
“They may have thought you were too agreeably engaged to care to be disturbed,” remarked the surgeon.
“What do you mean?” demanded Val, hotly.
Mr. Hillary laughed. “People will talk, you know; and rumour has it that Lord Hartledon has found attractions in his own home, whilst the Rectory was debarred to him.”
Val wheeled round on his heel, and walked away in displeasure. Home truths are never palatable. But the kindly disposition of the man resumed its sway immediately: he turned back, and pointed to the shed.
“Is that interesting patient of yours on his legs again?”
“He is getting better. The disease attacked him fiercely and was unusually prolonged. It’s strange he should have been the only one to take it.�
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“Gum’s wife has been nursing him, I hear?”
“She has gone in and out to do such necessary offices as the sick require. I put it to her from a Christian point of view, you see, and on the score of humanity. She was at hand; and that’s a great thing where the nurse is only a visiting one.”
“Look here, Hillary; don’t let the man want for anything; see that he has all he needs. He is a black sheep, no doubt; but illness levels us all to one standard. Good day.”
“Good day, Lord Hartledon.”
And when the surgeon had got to a distance with his quick step, Lord Hartledon turned back to the Rectory.
CHAPTER XV.
VAL’S DILEMMA.
It was a mild day in spring. The air was balmy, but the skies were grey and lowering; and as a gentleman strolled across a field adjoining Hartledon Park he looked up at them more than once, as if asking whether they threatened rain.
Not that he had any great personal interest in the question. Whether the skies gave forth sunshine or rain is of little moment to a mind not at rest. He had only looked up in listlessness. A stranger might have taken him at a distance for a gamekeeper: his coat was of velveteen; his boots were muddy: but a nearer inspection would have removed the impression.
It was Lord Hartledon; but changed since you last saw him. For some time past there had been a worn, weary look upon his face, bespeaking a mind ill at ease; the truth is, his conscience was not at rest, and in time that tells on the countenance.
He had been by the fish-pond for an hour. But the fish had not shown themselves inclined to bite, and he grew too impatient to remain. Not altogether impatient at the wary fish, but in his own mental restlessness. The fishing-rod was carried in his hand in pieces; and he splashed along, in a brown study, on the wet ground, flinging himself over the ha-ha with an ungracious movement. Some one was approaching across the park from the house, and Lord Hartledon walked on to a gate, and waited there for him to come up. He began beating the bars with the thin end of the rod, and — broke it!
“That’s the way you use your fishing-rods,” cried the free, pleasant voice of the new-comer. “I shouldn’t mind being appointed purveyor of tackle to your lordship.”
The stranger was an active little man, older than Hartledon; his features were thin, his eyes dark and luminous. I think you have heard his name — Thomas Carr. Lord Hartledon once called him the greatest friend he possessed on earth. He had been wont to fly to him in his past dilemmas, and the habit was strong upon him still. A mandate that would have been peremptory, but for the beseeching terms in which it was couched, had reached Mr. Carr on circuit; and he had hastened across country to obey it, reaching Hartledon the previous evening. That something was wrong, Mr. Carr of course was aware; but what, he did not yet know. Lord Hartledon, with his natural vacillation, his usual shrinking from the discussion of unpleasant topics relating to himself, had not entered upon it at all on the previous night; and when breakfast was over that morning, Mr. Carr had craved an hour alone for letter-writing. It was the first time Mr. Carr had visited his friend at his new inheritance; indeed the first time he had been at all at Hartledon. Lord Hartledon seated himself on the gate; the barrister leaned his arms on the top bar whilst he talked to him.
“What is the matter?” asked the latter.
“Not much.”
“I have finished my letters, so I came out to look for you. You are not changed, Elster.”
“What should change me in so short a time? — it’s only six months since you last saw me,” retorted Hartledon, curtly.
“I alluded to your nature. I had to worm the troubles out of you in the old days, each one as it arose. I see I shall have to do the same now. Don’t say there’s not much the matter, for I am sure there is.”
Lord Hartledon jerked his handkerchief out of his pocket, passed it over his face, and put it back again.
“What fresh folly have you got into? — as I used to ask you at Oxford. You are in some mess.”
“I suppose it’s of no use denying that I am in one. An awful mess, too.”
“Well, I have pulled you out of many a one in my time. Let me hear it.”
“There are some things one does not like to talk about, Carr. I sent for you in my perplexity; but I believe you can be of no use to me.”
“So you have said before now. But it generally turned out that I was of use to you, and cleared you from your nightmare.”
“All those were minor difficulties; this is different.”
“I cannot understand your ‘not liking’ to speak of things to me. Why don’t you begin?”
“Because I shall prove myself worse than a fool. You’ll despise me to your heart’s core. Carr, I think I shall go mad!”
“Tell me the cause first, and go mad afterwards. Come, Val; I am your true friend.”
“I have made an offer of marriage to two women,” said Hartledon, desperately plunging into the revelation. “Never was such a born idiot in the world as I have been. I can’t marry both.”
“I imagine not,” quietly replied Mr. Carr.
“You knew I was engaged to Miss Ashton?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m sure I loved her with all my” — he seemed to hesitate for a strong term— “might and main; and do still. But I have managed to get into mischief elsewhere.”
“Elster’s folly, as usual. What sort of mischief?”
“The worst sort, for there can be no slipping out of it. When that fever broke out at Doctor Ashton’s — you heard us talking of it last night, Carr — I went to the Rectory just as usual. What did I care for fever? — it was not likely to attack me. But the countess-dowager found it out—”
“Why do they stay here so long?” interrupted Thomas Carr. “They have been here ever since your brother died.”
“And before it. The old woman likes her quarters, and has no settled home. She makes a merit of stopping, and says I ought to feel under eternal obligation to her and Maude for sacrificing themselves to a solitary man and his household. But you should have heard the uproar she made upon discovering I had been to the Rectory. She had my room fumigated and my clothes burnt.”
“Foolish old creature!”
“The best of it was, I pointed out by mistake the wrong coat, and the offending one is upstairs now. I shall show it her some day. She reproached me with holding her life and her daughter’s dirt-cheap, and wormed a promise out of me not to visit the Rectory as long as fever was in it.”
“Which you gave?”
“She wormed it out of me, I tell you. I don’t know that I should have kept it, but Dr. Ashton put in his veto also; and between the two I was kept away. For many weeks afterwards I never saw or spoke to Anne. She did not come out at all, even to church; they were so anxious the fever should not spread.”
“Well? Go on, Val.”
“Well: how does that proverb run, about idleness being the root of all evil? During those weeks I was an idle man, wretchedly bored; and I fell into a flirtation with Maude. She began it, Carr, on my solemn word of honour — though it’s a shame to tell these tales of a woman; and I joined in from sheer weariness, to kill time. But you know how one gets led on in such things — or I do, if you, you cautious fellow, don’t — and we both went in pretty deep.”
“Elster’s folly again! How deep?”
“As deep as I well could, short of committing myself to a proposal. You see the ill-luck of it was, those two and I being alone in the house. I may as well say Maude and I alone; for the old woman kept her room very much; she had a cold, she said, and was afraid of the fever.”
“Tush!” cried Thomas Carr angrily. “And you made love to the young lady?”
“As fast as I could make it. What a fool I was! But I protest I only did it in amusement; I never thought of her supplanting Anne Ashton. Now, Carr, you are looking as you used to look at Oxford; get your brow smooth again. You just shut up yourself for weeks with a fascinating girl, and see if yo
u wouldn’t find yourself in some horrible entanglement, proof against such as you think you are.”
“As I am obliged to be. I should take care not to lay myself open to the temptation. Neither need you have done it.”
“I don’t see how I was to help myself. Often and often I wished to have visitors in the house, but the old woman met me with reproaches that I was forgetting the recent death of my brother. She won’t have any one now if she knows it, and I had to send for you quietly. Did you see how she stared last night when you came in?”
Mr. Carr drew down his lips. “You might have gone away yourself, Elster.”
“Of course I might,” was the testy reply. “But I was a fool, and didn’t. Carr, I swear to you I fell into the trap unconsciously; I did not foresee danger. Maude is a charming girl, there’s no denying it; but as to love, I never glanced at it.”
“Was it not suspected in town last year that Lady Maude had a liking for your brother?”
“It was suspected there and here; I thought it myself. We were mistaken. One day lately Maude offended me, and I hinted at something of the sort: she turned red and white with indignation, saying she wished he could rise from his grave to refute it. I only wish he could!” added the unhappy man.
“Have you told me all?”
“All! I wish I had. In December I was passing the Rectory, and saw it dismantled. Hillary, whom I met, said the family had gone to Ventnor. I went in, but could not learn any particulars, or get the address. I chanced a letter, written I confess in anger, directing it Ventnor only, and it found them. Anne’s answer was cool: mischief-making tongues had been talking about me and Maude; I learned so much from Hillary; and Anne no doubt resented it. I resented that — can you follow me, Carr? — and I said to myself I wouldn’t write again for some time to come. Before that time came the climax had occurred.”
“And while you were waiting for your temper to come round in regard to Miss Ashton, you continued to make love to the Lady Maude?” remarked Mr. Carr. “On the face of things, I should say your love had been transferred to her.”
“Indeed it hadn’t. Next to Anne, she’s the most charming girl I know; that’s all. Between the two it will be awful work for me.”