And the little child, looking gratefully at me, hastened away. On re-entering the school, I told Doctor Lonsdale what I had heard, and I saw he shared in my apprehensions as to the dangerous condition of John Brideoake, in whom, as being one of the most promising of his pupils, he took a warm interest. He immediately wrote a note, and told me to take it at once to Doctor Foam, his particular friend, who, besides being the most eminent physician in the town, was a very humane man, and would attend to the case without fee or reward. I had intended mentioning the matter to Mrs. Mervyn, but this did just as well; and I accordingly repaired to the residence of the physician, which was in one of the principal streets of Cottonborough.
CHAPTER IX.
INTRODUCES A BENEVOLENT PHYSICIAN AND A DECAYED GENTLEWOMAN.
DOCTOR FOAM was a stout little man, with a head like an old piece of polished ivory — so perfectly bald, that I do not think there was a single hair upon it. His eyes were deeply sunk in their sockets, and his chin almost buried in the ample folds of a cravat. He wore a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and brown top-boots. The room smelt terribly of tobacco, as if he had just been smoking. His voice was extraordinarily husky, and he wheezed very much as he spoke; but his manner was affable, and he made me feel easy with him directly. Inquiring after Mrs. Mervyn, he launched out into praises of her, and spoke of her admirable library. I thought he had a good library of his own, as I glanced round the walls, which were covered with well-filled book-shelves; and, noticing the glance, he told me every room in the house was equally full of books, but still he was always adding to the collection; “though where I’m to put them all I don’t know,” he continued, with a smile, “and that reminds me that I’ve a sale to attend at Tomlinson’s to-day. There are several works I have marked (putting a catalogue into his pocket) which I mean to purchase if I can, for there are other collectors besides myself in Cottonborough, and I am often outbidden now. Tell Mrs. Mervyn, with my compliments, that I shall avail myself one of these days of her obliging offer to show me some of her manuscript treasures — her Jacobite memorials. And now as to this poor lad — this John Brideoake. Brideoake,” he repeated— “a north country name. I’m a Northumbrian myself. You’ve written down the address, my young friend — ay, Preston-court, Friar’s-gate — sad hole it must be. Wretchedly poor you say, and the lad a good scholar. Doctor Lonsdale says his best pupil — a hard student — a second Picus de Mirandola. Ah! we must preserve him. A miracle of erudition must not be nipped in the bud. I will be there in an hour, and will see what can be done for him. Don’t forget my message to Mrs. Mervyn.”
I promised him I would not; thanked him for his kind intentions towards John Brideoake, and left him with a lightened heart.
I next flew to my poor friend’s abode, and soon reached the narrow court where it was situated. I went straight to the house, and having passed through the lower rooms, tenanted by two different families, ascended a narrow, steep staircase, and reached a door, against which I tapped. It was instantly opened for me by Apphia, who greeted me sadly, and said, “John is worse.” I cast my eyes round the room, and saw that the walls were almost bare, and that it was nearly destitute of the needful articles of furniture, two or three ricketty chairs and a deal table forming the sum total, while a small shelf contained a scanty supply of crockery. The whole place bore marks of extreme poverty, even to the miserable fire, on which a small pan was set. Some of John’s school-books were lying on the mantelshelf, near a tin candlestick. Apphia was employed at some needlework, and had a basket before her. I had scarcely completed my survey, when an inner door opened, and Mrs. Brideoake came forth.
I was greatly surprised by her appearance, for, though worn and sorrow-stricken, there were still traces of great beauty in her countenance, coupled with an expression of pride wholly unsubdued, while her deportment was almost commanding. She was dressed in faded black; but in spite of her poor attire, it was perceptible at once that she was a lady. There was none of the gentleness about her that characterised both her children. She was made of sterner stuff. In her looks and in her manner it could be seen that all she had endured had not crushed her spirit, and that, probably, she would see her children perish from want, and perish likewise herself, rather than abate a jot of her independence. So, at least, I thought when I beheld her.
She thanked me for the interest I had taken in her son; but when I mentioned that Doctor Foam was coming in a short time to pay him a visit professionally, she appeared much annoyed and disconcerted, and a slight flush, almost of shame, overspread her pale features.
“Doctor Foam! I had rather it had been any one else,” she exclaimed.
“He is a very kind, humane man, ma’am,” I observed.
“So the world reputes him, and, no doubt, with justice; for it does not speak too favourably of any one,” she rejoined. “I have known the doctor under different circumstances, and at a time when I did not anticipate the sad reverses I have since experienced, and then liked him greatly. It will be a trial to me to see him now; but it cannot be helped, and I must submit. I will go and prepare my son.”
“May I not see him?” I inquired hastily.
“Not yet,” she answered, in a tone that did not admit of dispute. “Not till Doctor Foam has been here. If he permits it, you shall.” And she returned to the room whence she had come, and I presently heard John’s feeble accents, as if in expostulation with her.
Suddenly a sharp cry pierced our ears, and Mrs. Brideoake, in a voice of great alarm, called to Apphia to bring a cup of water quickly. I could not restrain myself, but rushed into the room likewise, and beheld John, stretched on a miserable pallet. I thought him dead; and his mother thought so too, for she was kneeling beside him, clasping her hands in bitterest anguish.
“He is gone!” she ejaculated, despairingly. “I have lost him — my only hope — my only support! He who was so good, so persevering, so clever, so wise — he who could have repaired our fallen fortunes, and reinstated me in my lost position — he is gone — gone for ever! Heaven, in its mercy, take me too, for I have nothing left to live for.”
As she uttered this outburst of selfish sorrow, my heart bled for poor little Apphia, who was weeping and trembling beside her.
Meanwhile, I had taken John’s arm, and feeling the returning pulsation, calmed Mrs. Brideoake’s frantic transports, by assuring her that her son was not yet lost to her. I sprinkled his face with water, and in a few moments he opened his eyes. Their gaze alighted on me.
“Ah!” he murmured, faintly. “Dear Mervyn here! I have seen him — I shall die content.”
“You are not going to die yet, John,” I replied. “Be of good heart. You have many years in store for you. You must live for your mother and sister.”
He looked at them ruefully.
“I have prayed fervently to Heaven to spare me for them,” he said.
“And the prayer will be granted, rest assured,” I replied. “Doctor Foam is coming to see you. He will be here presently. But your mother thinks it may do you harm to talk to me. So I will go into the next room to await the doctor’s arrival.”
Pressing his hand, I withdrew, and at a sign from her pother, Apphia followed me.
The poor child appeared almost broken-hearted: and I was so much touched by her looks, that I took her little hand in mine, and tried to cheer her.
“You must not dwell upon what escaped your mother in her affliction, Apphia,” I said. “She scarcely knew what she uttered.”
“I suppose not,” she replied; “but she loves John better than me, because he is to make us rich again, if he lives, poor fellow. Have you any brothers and sisters; and does your mamma make any distinction between them and you? Does she love you as well as the others?”
“Alas! Apphia,” I said, scarcely able to repress my emotion, “I have no mamma; she died when I was a little child; but I remember she was very fond of me. I have some half-brothers and sisters, for my papa has married again, but I have never seen them
— nor, indeed, him. They are in India.”
“Pray forgive me for asking the question. I fear I have occasioned you pain,” she said.
“No, Apphia; I always like to think and talk of my dear mother,” I rejoined. “Some day I will tell you all I know about her, and you will be pleased to hear how good and beautiful she was. And now dry your eyes, and don’t imagine yourself friendless, for even if you were to lose John, I will be a brother to you.”
Apphia then sat down, and attempted to resume her needlework, but in vain. The tears coursed down her pretty cheeks. I would have cheered her if I could, but I had exhausted all my stock of comfort, and now felt inclined to weep with her, for my sympathies were powerfully awakened in her behalf.
At length a knock was heard at the door, and Doctor Foam was admitted. He was puffing and blowing from the exertion of mounting the steep stairs, when Mrs. Brideoake came from the inner room. On seeing her, he gave a start, and looked as if he could scarcely believe his eyes.
“Bless my soul! Can it be?” he exclaimed.
“It is the person you suppose, Doctor Foam,” she replied, receiving him with as much stiffness and dignity as if she herself had sent for him, and intended to fee him handsomely. “You perceive to what I am reduced. I must beg you to consider me as what I am — Mrs. Brideoake, a poor widow — not what I was — nor what I may be,” she added, with a sigh.
“I will observe your instructions, madam,” replied the doctor, with a deferential bow.
“I ought to apologise for being the means of bringing you to such a wretched place, Doctor Foam,” she said, offering him a ricketty chair, on which he seemed unwilling to trust his bulky person. “I wonder you, who have all the wealthy families in Cottonborough as patients, would condescend to visit such poor people as we are.”
“Tut, tut, madam!” the doctor cried. “I came to visit your son, because I was asked to do so by Doctor Lonsdale; but I would have come just as readily — nay, far more readily — if you had sent for me yourself. I have many poor patients as well as many rich ones; and as I take more from some than I ought, I balance the account by attending the others gratis. I care nothing about the apartments, except that I lament you should be obliged to occupy them. But I must say I take it unkindly in you, madam, not to send for me, — if only for the sake of former times.”
“I entreat you not to refer to those times, doctor,” Mrs. Brideoake said, coldly.
“I only did so to show the claim you had upon my services,” the physician rejoined. “But come, madam,” he added, rising, “I have now recovered the breath I had lost in mounting your staircase. Show me to your son.”
“I must again apologise for the room, doctor—”
“Pooh! pooh! no more apologies, madam,” cried the physician, impatiently. “Let’s see the lad.”
And they entered the room, closing the door after them, and leaving Apphia and me in a state of breathless anxiety as to the result of the examination.
Some time elapsed, which seemed much longer to us than it was really, before they came forth again; and when they did so, I augured well from the physician’s cheerful looks. Doctor Foam seized a chair, and popping down in it rather hastily, it gave way beneath him, and he was prostrated on the floor. I flew to his assistance, and as he got up he laughed very heartily at the accident, checking Mrs. Brideoake’s apologies, and telling her there was no harm done except to the chair, which he would mend with a new one. Not liking to trust himself to another equally crazy concern, he continued standing, and Apphia went up to him timidly, and asked him how he found her brother.
“I am glad I can relieve your mind respecting him, my dear,” he replied, patting her head; “and yours too, youngster. John will get better, but time will be required for his entire recovery. He has greatly overworked himself, and his frame is in a most debilitated condition. If he had been allowed to go on as he is now, fever would have supervened, and have speedily taken him off. But there are no really dangerous symptoms about him; and what I most feared, consumption, has not declared itself; and I trust, under Providence, to be able to ward off its insidious attacks. As I have intimated, two or three months of repose of mind and body, of entire cessation from study, of freedom from all anxiety, will be required to reinstate him completely. He must have better air, better diet, and better rooms.”
“But, my good sir, where is the money for these things to come from?” Mrs. Brideoake exclaimed.
“Out of my pocket, madam.”
“I am equally indebted to you, doctor, but I cannot accept your assistance.”
“Cannot! But, madam, I tell you, you MUST. Without the aids I have mentioned I won’t undertake to cure your son. If he remains here another week he will die, madam. D’ye understand me now?”
“I must submit to the will of Providence,” Mrs. Brideoake replied. “Your professional aid I am willing to receive, doctor, but not your money. That I must positively decline. As you well know, I need not be here now if I would bow my neck.”
“Much better if you would bow it,” I heard Doctor Foam mutter. — .
He looked hard at her, but he saw no further arguments would prevail. It was an anxious moment both to me and Apphia; and I was very indignant with Mrs. Brideoake, for I feared she would sacrifice her son to her false notions of pride. At last the doctor’s countenance brightened up.
“I have hit upon a plan which I think will overcome all your scruples, madam,” he said. “I can appreciate, though I cannot approve of, your motives for declining pecuniary assistance from me, which, after all, would have been no obligation on your part whatever, because your son could repay me when he becomes a rich man; and he will assuredly be rich one of these days, if he lives. But, as I was saying, my plan will obviate every difficulty. I am acquainted with an excellent lady, whose whim — and a most amiable whim it is — is to render help without being cognizant of the names of those she assists; while the persons aided are kept in equal ignorance of their benefactress. Will you consent to be indebted to her for a time — only for a time, madam?”
Mrs. Brideoake appeared to hesitate. Little Apphia approached her, and taking her hand, looked up in her face in a manner so earnest and supplicating, that it could not be resisted.
“Well, for John’s sake, and his sake only, I consent,” Mrs. Brideoake said; “for I would not willingly be indebted to any human being, and that you may believe, doctor. But you are not deceiving me about the lady — indeed, I am sure you are not — you are too much of a gentleman for that, and have shown that you understand my feelings too well. I leave all in your hands.”
“Delighted to hear it, madam,” returned Doctor Foam, gleefully. “You will attend strictly to my directions respecting your son. Give him the medicine, which will be sent in by the apothecary, and a glass of the wine, which will be sent in by myself, and which you’ll find the best medicine after all. Don’t stint it, madam, for I shall send you a good supply, and some good, wholesome nutritious food, which will be equally efficacious. I wish you good morning, Mrs. — ah! let me see — Brideoake. Yes, that’s it. I shall see you again in the course of the day, Mrs. Brideoake, and trust to find John improved. Come, young sir,” he added, to me.
I was much surprised that Doctor Foam, who appeared so well acquainted with the lady, should hesitate about her name, and I reflected upon the matter as I followed him out of the room.
A small, old-fashioned yellow chariot, like a post-chaise, with a pair of old horses attached to it, and an old coachman on the box, was waiting at the entrance of the court, and the doctor begged me to get into it, telling the man to drive home. During the ride thither, he questioned me particularly as to Mrs. Brideoake’s circumstances. I told him all I knew, and he said, “It is a sad case. The poor lady has borne up with great fortitude; and, so, indeed, have they all. But she is most to be pitied, for she is as proud as Lucifer: and what humiliation and misery must she not have endured! Hers has been mental torture, while the poor young things
have only been half-starved. However, that’s bad enough.”
I thought so too, and by no means agreed with him that they were less to be pitied than their mother, whose inordinate pride appeared to be the sole cause of their misery. And as I felt sure there was some mystery in the case, which the doctor could unravel if he liked, I tried to bring him to the point.
“You have asked me a good many questions, doctor, — will you allow me to ask you one in return? I observed, when you were taking leave of Mrs. Brideoake, that you hesitated about her name, as if it did not come naturally to you. Is it assumed? If so, I do not believe her son can be aware of the circumstance.”
Doctor Foam looked a little puzzled, but at length said, “Do not ask me that question, my young friend, for I am not at liberty to answer it. And as to John, I must beg of you not to mention to him any suspicions which my inadvertence may have roused in your mind. They would only disturb him, and do no good whatever. You are his friend, I know, and will attend to my caution.”
I assured him I would, and soon after this we reached his house, and alighted. I went with him into the study, where he wrote out a prescription, and ringing the bell, gave orders to the servant to get it made up, and take it, without loss of time, as directed, with a basket of provisions, which he specified, and another of wine, to the same address. “And here,” he added, “let this easy-chair be taken to the same place, and one of my flannel dressing-gowns. D’ye hear?”
The servant having departed to execute his behests, he turned to me and said, “I must now tell you to whom I mean to apply for the relief of this poor lady. It is, as you see, a case of peculiar delicacy and difficulty, in which I am not allowed to interfere personally. Your relative, Mrs. Mervyn’s purse is always open, while her eyes are closed towards the object of her bounty. The channels in which her benevolence flows are only known to those who claim it. I shall apply to her; and I hope there will be no impropriety in the step.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 448