Michael was going to obey him; but, at the moment he was about to pass the threshold, something in the eye of the superintendent made him pause. He recollected full well the ready lock of that once hated door; and it struck him, as by no means impossible, that his old acquaintance might turn it upon him, if he put it in his power to do so.
Fears for his own personal safety, he certainly had none, being quite aware that he was no longer in danger of being kidnapped as heretofore; but the idea of Martha being left, at this her utmost need, in want of any little service he could afford, was quite enough to make him cautious, and with something of an involuntary smile, he stepped back, saying, “There is no occasion for me to wait for you, Mr. Parsons; I have delivered my message, and you may obey it or not, as you please. At any rate, you cannot want me to show you the way to Dowling Lodge.” And so saying, he turned round, and walked out of the yard.
“Pestilent young viper!” muttered the superintendent between his closed teeth. “That I should live to see him strut off before me in that fashion! But! Ml have a try if I can’t plague him yet. Fool that I was, when I had him snug by myself on Ridgetop Moor, not to give him one farewell thrashing with the horsewhip! If I had put out a joint or two, it would have been no great matter; and then I should have been spared the d — d sight of him now, marching off — hang him! like a peacock before me! As to changing my coat, that’s fudge. People don’t trouble themselves to change their coats, when they are going to pay their compliments to an apoplectic bankrupt.”
Having fairly got beyond all the bolts and bars immediately within the jurisdiction of Mr. Parsons, Michael slackened his pace, being rather inclined to have the society of his former tyrant, than not. “Sir Matthew appears to be in a very dangerous state, Mr. Parsons,” said he, as soon as the sulky superintendent came up to him.
“Perhaps your right honourable greatness has been studying medicine, since I had the pleasure of taking that little drive with you into Derbyshire?”
“I have studied many things since that time, Mr, Parsons,” replied Michael, laughing; “and one is the nature and use of locks.”
The tone in which this was answered was so brutal, that the young man, rather from disgust than anger, walked on faster than his foe could follow him; and reaching the house some minutes before him, made his way again without ceremony — for it was no time for it — into the apartment of Sir Matthew. A considerable change had taken place in the condition of the patient since he left it. The cataplasms had so far succeeded as to restore animation and consciousness: Sir Matthew, still surrounded by Martha, Mrs. Gabberly, and the doctor, was gazing upon them with widely-opened eyes, which, though wild and wandering in expression, were evidently not devoid of speculation. Michael had entered very gently, but not without being heard by the sick man; for he turned his eyes full upon him as he approached. The sight of him, however, no longer seemed to produce any emotion; for after looking quietly at him for a moment, Sir Matthew turned his gaze upon Mrs. Gabberly, who from being in the act of leaning over him, brought herself particularly within his sight.
“Is Parsons come?” said Martha in a whisper.
“He must be in the hall by this time,” replied Michael: “shall I tell him to come up?”
“My dear father has not yet spoken,” she said; “but, perhaps, he may understand me. — Parsons is here, papa,” she added, taking her father’s hand, and leaning over him— “should you like to see him?”
“He is in London, my dear,” replied the knight very distinctly.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Martha, tenderly kissing him—” Thank God! His speech is not in the least affected!”
“Rather wandering, though,” said Dr. Crockley, winking his eye at Mrs. Gabberly.
“I should say, bleed him again, if you want to get any thing out of him;” observed Mrs. Gabberly, looking sagaciously at the doctor.
“Perhaps I may, in an hour or two,” he replied, applying his finger to the patient’s pulse.
Sir Matthew fixed his eyes upon him, and laughed a horrid, rattling, ghastly sort of laugh, that seemed to come from his throat. “You haven’t quite done with me yet, have you, Crockley?” said he.
“Done with you, my dear friend? God forbid!” replied the physician, rather startled at the apparently healthy state of his patient’s intellect, and affectionately smoothing his pillows, and settling the bedclothes about him.
“Would you like to see Parsons, dear papa?” said Martha, gently, and again bending over him.
“Oh, yes!” he replied eagerly; “I’ll see Parsons now, directly — I should be very sorry not to see Parsons. I may live, or I may die, you know; but I must see Parsons.
Martha immediately left the room, intending to explain to the superintendent, before she brought him into it, the state in which he? father lay, and the necessity of receiving any orders he might wish to give, with as little disturbance to him as possible. On reaching the hall, however, she saw him not, and was on the point of returning up stairs to inquire of Michael where he had left him, when she caught the sound of his voice from Sir Matthew’s study. On entering this room she perceived not only Mr. Parsons but Lady Clarissa, who, standing before the commode in which, as she happened to know, her husband was accustomed to keep papers of importance, as well as money, appeared to have been very assiduously examining its contents; for every recess had evidently been visited, and, as one of her hands was tightly clutched over a pocket-book, it seemed that her researches had not been wholly in vain, and that she had not privately obtained possession of his keys for nothing.
“I was sent for, my lady,” said Parsons, apparently replying to some question of her ladyship’s, which, to judge by her angry frown, and the vexed expression of her countenance, had not been a civil one.
“My father wishes to see Mr. Parsons directly,” said Martha.
“And by your ladyship’s leave I must take that green pocket-book with me,” said Parsons.
“What pocket-book, you rude fellow?” replied Lady Clarissa, indignantly. —
“That one as your ladyship now holds in your left hand,” replied the confidential superintendent.
“I wonder, sirrah, that you do not ask me to give you the rings off my fingers!” cried the angry mistress of the mansion. “Go to your master, fellow, if he has sent for you, and I shall go too. So you need not trouble yourself about the pocket-book.”
And with these words she pushed past both Martha and Mr. Parsons, preceding them to the sick man’s chamber. By the time they entered it his eyes were again closed, but he appeared to breathe without difficulty, though rather more audibly than usual, and Martha fancied that he was asleep.
“Hush!” said she. “Do not disturb him. He is sleeping.”
Dr. Crockley and Mrs. Gabberly had withdrawn to a window, and were evidently in consultation; but whether on the symptoms of apoplexy, or bankruptcy, might be doubtful. Michael, however, was standing close beside the bed, and in answer to Martha’s observation shook his head, saying, “No! not asleep.”
“Then he’ll manage to hear what I’ve got to say to him,” said Parsons, advancing, and throwing a glance of spiteful vengeance at Lady Clarissa, “because it is just what he wants to know.”
At the sound of Parsons’s voice Sir Matthew opened his eyes, and made an effort to raise himself, but this was beyond his power, and it was only by being lifted with as little effort as possible on his own part, as if he were already dead, that he was placed in the attitude he seemed to desire, and in which he was supported by pillows, and by the arms of poor Martha, who had placed herself on the bolster behind him.
It was a frightful and awful expression which then took possession of his sunken features, nevertheless a hateful sort of smile made part of it.
“Parsons! that’s you, isn’t it? That’s Parsons that stands there?” he said, directing his misty eyes full upon the superintendent.
“Yes, Sir Matthew, ’tis me,” replied the man.
&
nbsp; “Have you done my bidding, Parsons?” demanded the knight, with a sort of gasping which seemed to threaten that his breath was about to leave him.
“Yes, Sir Matthew, it’s all regularly made out,” replied Parsons, “nobody can mistake now about times or dates in any way.”
“And isn’t that the Honourable Lady Clarissa?” said the sick man, directing his eyes towards her.
“Yes, Sir Matthew,” replied Parsons, with something like a titter.
“Then — then — then,” panted the dying man, “let her ladyship know what was the last business that I gave you instructions about.”
“A very fitting business for an honourable gentleman to attend to, when his affairs are in confusion, and he not in an over good state of health,” replied the confidential servant, turning himself round, so as exactly to face her ladyship. “No less a matter than restoring three good thousand pounds a year, for ever, towards clearing scores with his creditors.”
Now three thousand pounds a year was exactly the sum, for the settlement of which upon herself, a daughter of the noble house of Highlandloch had condescended to assume the name of Dowling, and the mention of the often-meditated sum roused her ladyship’s attention so effectually that her face involuntarily protruded itself beyond her body, till her nose very nearly reached that of the individual who was addressing her.
“Go on!” said Sir Matthew, positively chuckling, though his chin dropped on his chest as he spoke.
“Well then,” resumed Parsons, leering aside at Dr. Crockley, who with Mrs. Gabberly had drawn near to listen to this very interesting disclosure, “well then, justice is justice; and Sir Matthew, let him die when he will, won’t have it upon his conscience that he defrauded his creditors to make a settlement upon any lady in the land, gentle or simple; because you see he has left proof, plain and clear, that he had committed more than one act of bankruptcy before he made the settlement upon her ladyship, and for that good and excellent reason her ladyship will have no right to one single penny that he leaves behind him; and that is a comfort to an honest man like me, who likes to see justice done to high and low.”
“Villain!” screamed Lady Clarissa, “it is false!”
“No, no, no, no!” issued from the pillows, in a voice that shook with ghastly laughter. “True, all true; and now she may go to Scotland.”
“Just ask her to give you your green pocket-book, Sir Matthew, before she goes,” said Parsons, grinning. “I saw her ladyship take it out of your bureau, and if she will be pleased to open her hand, I think it will tumble out of it.”
With a look of inexpressible rage, Lady Clarissa turned away from him and made towards the door.
“Stop her, Crockley!” cried Sir Matthew, feebly, adding with panting difficulty, “and — you — shall — have — it.”
Dr. Crockley had a great respect for the peerage, and would, beyond all question, have preferred snatching a pocket-book from nine hundred and ninety-nine untitled ladies in succession, rather than from one Lady Clarissa; but he felt that this was no moment for ceremony, and obeying what was very likely to be the last behest of his patron, he rolled his fat person after her with extraordinary muscular exertion, and grasping the lady’s robe with one hand, seized on her rigidly clenched fist with the other, in such a sort, that, according to the prophecy of Mr. Parsons, the green pocket-book dropped out of it.
Unfortunately, however, the attitude in which this feat was performed, was one which could not be retained by the ill-balanced person of the doctor, after the supporting form of the lady on whom he had thrown himself had escaped from his grasp, and, struggling with as much anxious care as Cæsar to fall well (i.e.. upon the pocket-book), he measured his length upon the ground.
Parsons, though certainly not hoping for so lucky an accident, had, with the same sort of instinct which brings the crow beside a sickly sheep, followed closely the retreating steps of her ladyship, and adroitly jerking the coveted pocket-book with his foot, so that it should escape the being buried under the stumbling physician, prepared himself to dip and catch it. But the success of the manoeuvre was less perfect than its ingenuity deserved; for ere his tall rigid person had bent itself sufficiently for him to reach the ground, Mrs. Gabberly, who had become one of the group at the same instant with Dr. Crockley, was in possession of it, and ere the prostrate Crockley or the stooping Parsons could raise their eyes, the prize had dropped into the deepest recesses of a prodigious pocket, which reached nearly to the bottom of her little petticoat.
It is probable that both inquiry and search might have been instituted in consequence of this, had not the condition of the patient at that moment rendered it impossible. Sir Matthew’s ghastly eyes had fixed themselves on Lady Clarissa during the foregoing scene, but as if, though they had still the power of discerning objects, they had lost that of moving after them, he appeared to lose sight of her as she approached the door, and the heavy orbs seemed seeking for something on which to rest themselves without any change of position. It chanced that Michael, who, quite aware that the last moments of Sir Matthew were approaching, determined not to leave the premises till he had learned the wishes and intentions of Martha, was at that moment moving from the corner he had occupied near a window, not within sight of the bed, to a table exactly at the foot of it, on which was placed a flacon of Cologne water, which poor Martha, almost exhausted by the painful attitude necessary to sustain the pillows, had made him a sign to get for her. This movement brought him within the range of Sir Matthew’s eyes, and something in his aspect as he cautiously bent to take the bottle, or else the thick-coming fancies of a brain diseased, though not paralyzed, suddenly produced a terrible effect upon the dying man, and he uttered a cry so harsh and terrible as to constrain the attention even of the preoccupied group at the door.
“There’s a dead body walking about the room!” he ejaculated in an unnatural and frightful accent. “He is come for me! and I must go!” The shriek which followed these words was terrible. In a minute or two he spoke again, but almost in a whisper. “One? No! — it is not one, it is five hundred! Take them! — take them away from me, I tell you! They are all dirty, beastly factory-children. Their arms and legs are all broken and smashed, and hanging by bits of skin. Take them away, I tell you, Crockley! Their horrid joints will drop upon me! They are dangling and loose, I tell you!” and then again he shouted with so fearful a cry, that even Parsons pressed his hands upon his ears to save them from the sound.
“Calm him! calm him!” cried the trembling Martha. “Can you not give him something that may still this dreadful agony, Doctor Crockley?”
“It is not a very easy symptom to master, Miss Martha,” replied the physician drily. “However, it is not likely that it will last long. All the life that’s left is just about the heart and brain, which is always unlucky if there happens to be any thing particular upon the mind.”
“Parsons!” cried the dying man, again raising his voice, but without looking towards the person he addressed. “Parsons! are you not ashamed of yourself to turn the whole set of them out upon me at once in this way? You that have paid, and bribed, and tipped so often! Rascal! Take them off me, I tell you! Do you mean that they shall stifle me? They will stifle me! — they will, they will. I cannot breathe for them! Parsons! — I tell you they will stifle me!”
“Papa! my dear, dear papa!” cried Martha, bending forward till her cheek touched that of her father. “Compose yourself! It is only that you are unwell and fancy things. There are no children here, papa, but your own Martha.”
Her tender caresses, and her gentle voice together, seemed to reach, and quiet for a moment his wandering intellect. He made an effort to turn his head towards her, but that was impossible; and Michael, who had, upon his first frightful cry, removed, himself to the head of the bed, where the eye of the wretched man could not reach, silently offered to take Martha’s place, that she might station herself where it could. She quickly understood him, and in a moment stood where that dyin
g eye could gaze upon her. His hand, with its glittering ring, still lay upon the bed; she took it in hers, and fondly chafed and kissed it. But it was stiff and cold as marble!
“Father! dearest father!” she said, “speak one word to me!”
But it was too late; his lips never opened more. For some hours longer he continued to breathe, but, on again feeling his pulse, Dr. Crockley declared that its faint pulsations must inevitably cease before night.
“I suppose your old servant Betty Parker is still in the house, Miss Martha?” said he. The poor girl bowed an affirmative, but had no power to speak.
“Well, then,” said the doctor, “I should recommend that you should put her to sit here; it is no good for any of us to stay any longer, for it’s all over just as much as if he was already in his coffin. You had better go away, and see what you can pack up to get off with, Miss Martha, that’s all that is left to be done, as far as I can see. Come, Mrs. Gabberly,” he added, “I have got a friendly word or two to say to you, so your boy shall mount my pony and I’ll drive your donkey for you.” And so saying, he took the little woman under his arm and trudged off, without waiting for her to inform him whether she approved his proposal, or not. Mr. Parsons, giving one scowling look at the silent bed, followed them, and Martha and Michael were left together beside the dying man.
Upon perceiving the totally unconscious state into which Sir Matthew had fallen, Michael had gently withdrawn himself from behind his pillows, and now stood, almost as silent and motionless as himself, beside the bed, respectfully waiting to receive from the desolate and weeping Martha some hint or instruction respecting his staying where he was, or leaving her. Never, when the poor dependant of her family, had the young heart of Michael been impressed with a feeling of respect so profound as he at that moment felt for the unhappy girl. In truth the feeling was so powerful as to interfere with his usefulness, for he shrank from appearing to put himself forward too presumptuously by giving her advice, or venturing in any degree to dictate what it might be best for her to do. But when, after remaining thus bashfully silent for a quarter of an hour, he perceived that she gave no other sign of life than by tears that flowed incessantly, and sighs that seemed to heave her breast “almost to bursting,” — when he saw this, he began to think that some degree of seeming presumption on his part might be better and more profitable for her, whom he would really have died to serve, than the continuance of a degree of deference, which must render him useless. Approaching, therefore, to the chair on which she had thrown herself, he ventured to say, “Miss Martha! where can I find your old servant Betty Parker? I remember her very well — she used to be always in the nursery. If you would tell me where she is likely to be, I will go for her.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 219