by Ellen Wood
CHAPTER XVII.
Taken from the Evil to come.
DREADFUL commotion at Mrs. Jinks’s. Young ladies coming in, all in excitement; the widow nearly off her head. Their pastor was ill.
On a sofa before his parlour fire, he lay extended, the Reverend Guy; his head on a soft pillow, his feet (in embroidered slippers) on an embroidered cushion. The room was quite an epitome of sacred decorations, crosses lay embedded amid ferns; illuminated scrolls adorned the walls. Something was wrong with the reverend gentleman’s throat: his hands and brow were feverish. Whether it was merely a relaxed throat, or a common soreness, or a quinsy threatening him could not be decided in the general dismay. Some thought one way, some another; all agreed in one thing — that it must be treated promptly. The dear man was passive as any lamb in their ministering hands, and submitted accordingly. What rendered the case more distressing and its need of recovering treatment allurgent, was the fact that the morrow would be some great day in the calendar, necessitating high services at St. Jerome’s. How were they to be held when the chief priest was disabled? Damon Puff was all very well; but he was not the Reverend Guy Cattacomb.
The Widow Jinks, assuming most experience by reason of years, and also in possessing a cousin who was a nurse of renown, as good as any doctor on an emergency, had recommended the application of “plant” leaves. The ladies seized upon it eagerly: anything to allay the beloved patient’s sufferings and stop the progress of the disorder. The leaves had been procured without loss of time; Lawyer St. Henry’s kitchen garden over the way having had the honour of supplying them; and they were now in process of preparation in the ladies’ fair hands. Two were picking, three boiling and bruising, four sewing, all inwardly intending to apply them. The Widow Jinks had her hands full below: gruel, broth, jelly, arrow-root, beef-tea, custard puddings, and other things being alike in the course of preparation over the kitchen fire: the superabundant amount of sick dainties arising from the fact that each lady had ordered that which seemed to her best. What with the care of so many saucepans at once, and the being called off perpetually to answer the knocks at the front door, the widow felt rather wild; and sincerely wished all sore throats at Jericho. For the distressing news had spread; and St. Jerome’s fair worshippers were coming up to the house in uninterrupted succession.
It fell to Miss Blake to apply the cataplasm. As many assisting, by dint of gingerly touching the tip of the reverend gentleman’s ears or holding back his shirt collar as could get their fingers in. Miss Blake, her heart attuned to sympathy, felt stirred by no common compassion. She was sure the patient’s eyes sought hers: and, forgetting the few years’ difference in their ages, all kinds of flattering ideas and sweet hopes floated into her mind — for it was by no means incumbent on her to waste her charms in wearing the willows for that false renegade — false in more ways than one — Karl Andinnian. Looking on passively, but not tendering her own help amid so many volunteers, sat Jemima Moore in a distant chair, her face betokening anything but pleasurable ease. There were times when she felt jealous of Miss Blake.
The leaves applied, the throat bound up, and some nourishment administered in the shape of a dish of broth, nothing remained to be essayed, save that the patient should endeavour to get some sleep. To enable him to do this, it was obvious, even to the anxious nurses themselves, that he should be left alone. Miss Blake suggested that they should all make a pilgrimage to St. Jerome’s to pray for him. Eagerly was it seized upon, and bonnets were tied on. A thought crossed each mind almost in unison — that one at least might have been left behind to watch the slumbers: but as nobody would help another to the office, and did not like very well to propose herself, it remained unspoken.
“You’ll come back again!” cried the reverend sufferer, retaining Miss Blake’s hand in his, as she was wishing him good-bye.
“Rely upon me, dear Mr. Cattacomb,” was the response — and Miss Blake regarded the promise as sacred, and would not have broken it for untold gold.
So they trooped out: and Mr. Cattacomb, left to himself and to quiet, speedily fell into the desired sleep. He was really feeling ill and feverish.
The time was drawing on for the late afternoon service, and Tom Pepp stood tinkling the bell as the pilgrims approached. Simultaneously with their arrival, there drove up an omnibus, closely packed with devotees from Basham, under the convoy of Mr. Puff. That reverend junior, his parted hair and moustache and assumed lisp in perfect order, conducted the service to the best of his ability; and the foreheads of some of his fair hearers touched the ground in humility when they put up their prayers for the sick pastor.
The autumn days were short now; the service had been somewhat long, and when St. Jerome turned out its flock, evening had set in. You could hardly see your hand before you. Some went one way, some another. The omnibus started back with its freight: Mr. Puff, however (to the utter mental collapse of those inside it) joined the pilgrims on their return to Mr. Cattacomb’s. Miss Blake went straight on to Foxwood Court: for, mindful of her promise to the patient, she wished to tell Lady Andinnian that she should not be in to dinner.
Margaret Sumnor was staying with Lucy: her invalid sofa and herself having been transported to the Court. The rector and his wife had been invited to an informal dinner that evening; also Mr. Moore and his sister: so Miss Blake thought it better to give notice that she should be absent, that they might not wait for her. Jemima Moore, a very good-natured girl on the whole, offered to accompany her, seeing that nobody else did; for they all trooped off in the clerical wake of Mr. Puff. As the two ladies left the Court again, they became aware that some kind of commotion was taking place before the Maze gate. It was too dark to see so far, but there was much howling and groaning.
“Do let us go and see what it is!” cried Miss Jemima. And she ran off without further parley. The irruption into the Maze of Mr. Detective Tatton — who was by this time known in his real name and character — had excited much astonishment and speculation in Foxwood; the more especially as no two opinions agreed as to what there was within the Maze that he could be after. The prevailing belief amid the juvenile population was, that a menagerie of wild beasts had taken up its illegitimate abode inside. They collected at hours in choice groups around the gate, pressing their noses against the iron work in the hope of getting a peep at the animals, or at least of hearing them roar. On this evening a dozen or two had come down as usual: Tom Pepp, having cut short the ringing out, in his ardour to make one, had omitted to put off the conical cap.
But these proceedings did not please Sir Karl Andinnian’s agent at Clematis Cottage. That gentleman, after having warned them sundry times to keep away, and enlarged on the perils that indiscriminate curiosity generally brought to its indulgers, had crossed the road to-night armed with a long gig-whip, which he began to lay about him kindly. The small fry, yelling and shrieking, dispersed immediately.
“Little simpletons!” cried Miss Jemima Moore, as the agent walked back with his whip, after explaining to her. “Papa says the police only went in to take the boundaries of the parish. And — oh! There’s Tom Pepp in his sacred cap! Miss Blake, look at Tom Pepp. Oh! Oh, if Mr. Cattacomb could but see him!”
Miss Blake, who never did things in a hurry, walked leisurely after the offending boy, intending to pounce upon him at St. Jerome’s. In that self-same moment the Maze gate was thrown open, and Mrs. Grey, her golden hair disordered, herself in evident tribulation, came forth wringing her hands, and amazing Miss Jemima more considerably than even the whip had amazed the boys.
What she said, Jemima hardly caught. It was to the effect that her baby was in convulsions; that she wanted Mr. Moore on the instant, and had no one to send.
“I’ll run for papa,” cried the good-natured girl. “I will run at once; I am his daughter. But you should get it into a warm bath, instantly, you know. There’s nothing else does for convulsions. I would come and help you if there were any one else to go for papa.”
In
answer to this kind suggestion, Mrs. Grey stepped inside again, and shut the gate in Miss Jemima’s face. But she thanked her in a few heartfelt words, and begged her to get Mr. Moore there without delay: her servant was already preparing a bath for the baby.
Jemima ran at the top of her speed, and met her father and aunt walking to Foxwood Court. The doctor hastened to the Maze, leaving his sister to explain the cause of his absence to Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian.
Dinner was nearly over at the Court when the doctor at length got there. The baby was better, he said: but he was by no means sure that it would not have a second attack. If so, he thought it could not live: it was but weakly at the best.
As may readily be imagined, scarcely any other topic formed the conversation at the dinner-table. Not one of the guests seated round it had the slightest notion that it was, of all others, the most intensely unwelcome to their host and hostess: the one in his dread to hear the Maze alluded to at all; the other in her bitter pain and jealousy. The doctor enlarged upon the isolated position of Mrs. Grey, upon her sweetness and beauty, upon her warm love for her child, and her great distress. Sir Karl made an answering remark when obliged. Lucy sat in silence, bearing her cross. Every word seemed to be an outrage on her feelings. The guests talked on; but somehow each felt that the harmony of the meeting had left it.
Making his dinner of one dish, in spite of the remonstrances of Sir Karl and the attentions of Mr. Giles and his fellows, the doctor drank a cup of coffee, and rose to leave again. His sister, begging Lady Andinnian to excuse her, put on her hat and shawl, and left with him.
“Are you going over to the Maze, William?” she asked, when they got out “I am, Diana.”
“Then I will go with you. That’s why I came away. The poor young thing is alone, save for her servants, and I think it only a charity that some one should be with her.”
The surgeon gave a grin of satisfaction in the darkness of the night. “Take care, Diana,” said he, with assumed gravity. “You know the question the holy ones at St. Jerome’s are raising — whether that lovely lady is any better than she should be.”
“Bother to St. Jerome’s,” independently returned Miss Diana.
“If the holy ones, as you call them, would expend a little more time in cultivating St. Paul’s enjoined charity, and a little less in praying with those two parsons of theirs, Heaven might be better served. Let the lady be what she will, she is to be pitied in her distress, and I am going to her. Brother William!”
“Well?”
“I cannot think what is the matter with Lady Andinnian. She looks just like one that’s pining away.”
The evening went on at the Court Miss Blake came back, bringing the news that the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb’s throat was easier, which was of course a priceless consolation. At ten o’clock Mr and Mrs.
Sumnor took their departure, Sir Karl walking with them as far as the lodge. Lost in thought, he had gone out without his hat: in returning for it he saw his wife at one of the flower beds.
“Lucy! Is it you, out in the damp? What do you want?”
“I am getting one of the late roses for Margaret,” was the answer. “She likes to have a flower to cheer her when she lies awake at night She says it makes her think of heaven.”
“I will get it for you,” said Karl. And he chose the best he could in the starlight, and cut it “Lucy, I am going over the way,” he resumed in a low tone, as they turned to the steps, “and I cannot tell when I shall be back. Hewitt will sit up for me.”
Of all audacious avowals, this sounded about the coolest to its poor young listener. Her quickened breath seemed to chafe her; her heart beat as though it would burst its bounds.
“Why need you tell me of it?” she passionately answered, all her strivings for patience giving way before the moment’s angry pain.
Karl sighed. “It lies in my duty to do what I can, Lucy: and as I should have thought you might see and recognize. Should the child have a relapse in the course of the night, I shall be there to fetch Moore: there’s no one else to go.”
Lucy let fall the train of her dress, which she had been holding, gathered round her, and swept across the hall; vouchsafing back to him neither look nor word.
The chamber lay in semi-light; with that still hush pervading it, common to rooms where death is being waited for, and is seen visibly approaching. Mr. Moore’s fears had been verified. The infant at the Maze had had a second attack of convulsions, and was dying.
It lay folded in a blanket on its mother’s lap. The peaceful little face was at rest now; the soft breathing, getting slower and slower, alone stirring it Miss Diana, her hat thrown off, sat on her heels on the hearth-rug, speaking every now and then a word or two of homely comfort: the doctor stood near the fire looking on; Ann Hopley was noiselessly putting straight some things in a comer.
With her golden hair all pushed from her brow, and her pretty face so delicate and wan, bent downwards, she sat, the poor mother. Save for the piteous sorrow in the despairing eyes, and a deep sobbing sigh that would arise in the throat, no sign of emotion escaped her. She knew the fiat — that all hope was over. The doctor, who saw the end getting nearer and nearer, and was aware that such ends are sometimes painful to see, even in an infant — the little frame struggling with the fleeting breath, the helpless hands fighting for it — had been anxious that Mrs. Grey should resign her charge to some one else. Miss Diana made one more effort to bring it about.
“My dear, I know you must be tired. You’ll get the cramp. Let me take it, if only for a minute’s relief.”
“Do, Mrs. Grey,” said the doctor.
She looked up at them with beseeching entreaty; her hands tightening involuntarily over the little treasure.
“Please don’t ask me,” she piteously said. “I must have him to the last. He is going from me for ever.”
“Not for ever, my dear,” corrected Miss Diana. “You will go to him, though he will not return to you.” The door softly opened, and some one came gently in. Absorbed by the dying child though she was, and by the surroundings it brought, Mrs. Grey glanced quickly up and made a frantic movement to beckon the intruder back, her face changing to some dread apprehension, her lips parting with fear. She thought it might be one who must not dare to show himself if he valued life and liberty: but it was only Karl Andinnian.
“Oh Karl, he is dying!” she cried in the hasty impulse of the moment — and the dry eyes filled with tears. “My darling baby is dying.”
“I have been so sorry to hear about it, Mrs. Grey,” returned Karl, who had his wits about him if she had not, and who saw the surprise of the doctor and Miss Diana, at the familiarity of the address. “I came over to see if I could be of any use to you.”
He fell to talking to Mr. Moore in an under-tone, giving her time to recover her mistake; and the hushed silence fell on the chamber again. Karl bent to look at the pale little face, soon to put on immortality; he laid his hand lightly on the damp forehead, keeping it there for a minute in solemn silence, as though breathing an inward prayer.
“He will be better off there than here,” whispered he to the mother, in turning to leave the chamber. “The world is full of thorns and care, as some of us too well know: God is taking him from it.”
Pacing a distant room like a caged lion, was Sir Adam Andinnian. He wheeled round on his heel when his brother entered.
“Was ever position like unto mine, Karl?” he broke out, anger, pain, impatience, and most deep emotion mingling together in his tone. “Here am I, condemned to hide myself within these four walls, and may not quit them even to see my child die! The blackest criminal on earth can call for his friends on his death-bed. When are that offensive doctor and his sister going?”
“They are staying out of compassion to Rose,” spoke Karl, in his quiet voice. “Oh, Adam, I am so sorry for this! I feel it with my whole heart.”
“Don’t talk,” said Adam, rather roughly. “No fate was ever like my fate. Heaven has mercy for
others: none for me. Because my own bitter punishment was not enough, it must even take my son!”
“It does seem to you cruel, I am sure. But God’s ways are not as our ways. He is no doubt taking him, in love, from the evil to come. When we get up above there ourselves, Adam, we shall see the reason of it.”
Sir Adam did not answer. He sat down and covered his face with his hand, and remained in silence. Karl did not break it.
Sounds by and by. The doctor and his sister were departing, escorted by Ann Hopley — who must see them out at the gate and make it fast again. Adam was bursting from the room: but his brother put his arm across the entrance.
“Not yet, Adam. Not until Ann is in again, and has the door fast. Think of the consequences if you were seen!”
He recognised the good sense, the necessity for prudence, fierce as a caged lion though his mood indeed was. The bolts and bars were shot at last, and Adam went forth.
In its own crib lay the baby then, straight and still. The fluttering heart had ceased to beat; the sweet little peaceful face was at rest. Rose knelt by her own bed, her head muffled in the counterpane. Sir Adam strode up to his child and stood looking at it A minute’s silence deep as that of the death that was before him, and then a dreadful burst of tears. They are always dreadful when a man sheds them in his agony.
“It was all we had, Karl,” he said between his sobs. “And I did not even see him die!”
Karl took the strong but now passive hands in his. His own eyes were wet as he strove to say a word of comfort to his brother. But these first moments of grief are not best calculated for it.
“He is happier than he could ever have been here, Adam. Try and realize it He is already one of God’s bright angels.”
And my young Lady Andinnian, over at Foxwood Court, did not choose to go to bed, but sat up to indulge her defiant humour. Never had her spirit been so near open rebellion as it was that night Sir Karl did not come in: apparently he meant to take up his abode at the Maze until morning.