“Pray God she is not dead!” he said, in a low tone.
The woman who was bathing the victim’s forehead answered in an equally low tone:
“Oh no, sir, I don’t think she’s dead,” — but she trembled a little as she spoke— “though Lord knows none of us never knows whether we’ll live from week to week, the men are’ goin’ that wild on Minchin’s stuff which they drinks at all hours o’ the day. Dan Kiernan was quite a decent chap, so I’m told, till he came here.”
At that moment Dan Kiernan’s wife opened her eyes, and her poor livid lips twitched into a little smile.
“Don’t you worrit, Dan!” she said faintly— “I know you didn’t mean it — it was just the drink that drove you to it — only the drink, for you’re the best an’ finest husband ever woman ‘ad when ye’re sober. That’ll do, Dan! — I’m obliged to ye! — I’ll be getting up presently—”
Her eyes closed again, and at that moment Everton thankfully perceived the local surgeon, one Henry Brand, entering the little room — a quiet, shrewd-eyed man of middle-age, known as ‘Dr. Harry,’ who walking straight up to the bedside, bent over the unfortunate Mrs. Kiernan, and examined her injuries with kindly solicitude.
“She’s rather badly hurt,” he said then, turning to Everton with a friendly nod— “It will be some days before she gets about again. And she’ll want some little nursing. Wouldn’t some one—”
“I’ll attend to her,” said the woman who had already proffered her assistance— “I’ve got nothing much to do at home, my son bein’ away — I’ll see she gets all she wants—”
“And I’ll pay you for your trouble, Mrs. Adcott,” said Everton quickly— “But Kiernan himself—”
“Kiernan himself is in a far worse state than his wife,” said the doctor— “He’s poisoned. That’s what’s the matter with him. He has got as much arsenic inside him as would kill a horse — it would kill him if he had not accustomed his system to it. I passed him just now in the porch — he’s in a dead stupor.”
“He’s drunk,” — said Everton.
“He’s drugged” — said Brand, emphatically— “Not quite the same thing, yet passing for the same. Come and look at him.” ——
They went out of the cottage into the little garden, and stood together surveying the heavy inert form of the miserable man who was half-sitting, half-lying in the porch, huddled together like a sack of useless lumber.
“What’s to be done with him?” asked Everton, in a kind of despair— “He cannot go back to his work to-day.”
“Of course he can’t — and nothing’s to be done with him. He’ll sleep it off — and then — he’ll go to one of Minchin’s places again, and drink more of the vile stuff sold there — and then — well then! — he’ll come home here and — probably — finish off his wife.”
“But it can’t — it mustn’t be,” — said Everton firmly— “I’ll come myself and see that nothing happens. I’ll call at both public-houses and ask them not to sell him any more drink—”
‘Dr. Harry’ smiled. —
“You’ll kick against the pricks, Mr. Everton!” he said— “I mean, you’ll get yourself into trouble if you do! Take my advice — don’t interfere!”
“But, good God!” exclaimed Everton— “Would you have me, as Vicar of this parish, stand off and allow a woman to be murdered by her husband when he is not really responsible for the crime!”
Brand was silent. He seemed to be thinking.
“That’s a very true phrase of yours, Mr. Everton,” — he said presently— “And I’m glad to hear it from a clergyman’s mouth. ‘Not really responsible for the crime.’ That’s it. Kiernan is not responsible. Who is? Tell me that!”
“In this case Minchin is responsible!” — rejoined Everton hotly— “His brewery is a curse to the parish!”
“If it were only good beer,” — said Brand, thoughtfully, “there’d be no harm at all in it. A pint of pure beer hurts no man. But a pint of mixed poison is a different matter altogether. And — as you say — Minchin is responsible. If Dan Kiernan wakes up in two or three hours, and gets more drink and kills his wife altogether, Minchin will be the real murderer, — not Kiernan.”
“That’s the right way to put it,” — said Everton— “It’s a strong way — but it’s the right way. However, I’ll take care no more mischief is done for the present at any rate. I’ll look after Kiernan when he wakes.”
“You’ll look after him!” and the doctor’s eyes twinkled humorously— “What will you do with him?”
Everton’s rather thin, delicate face looked a shade more careworn and serious.
“I don’t quite know,” — he said, simply— “But I am placed here in this parish as guardian of the moral and spiritual welfare of all the people under my charge — and I must try my best. I am quite aware” — here he hesitated a moment, then spoke out more bravely— “I am quite aware how little a clergyman can do even at the best of times to warn or persuade, — I know that the very doctrines of Our Lord are, in these strange days of rank materialism, placed as it were ‘under suspicion,’ — but I am inured to all that — and prepared for failure always; — still — as I said before — I must try my best.”
Brand was silent. He had a great respect for the Vicar, commingled with an under-sense of vague compassion. As a medical man whose practice lay chiefly among the working classes, he knew exactly how much and how little to expect of them. He knew that they resented all interference, even if it were for their good — and equally he knew that most of them possessed an inexhaustible fund of warm homely sentiment, which if appealed to in the proper way, never failed to move them to a right condition of mind. In fact, as he often said among his own intimates, it was not religion which had so much hold on them as the sentiment of religion — and the most successful spiritual controller of their conduct was the man who most ably maintained that sentiment in his own attitude and behavior towards them.
“I think,” — resumed Everton, after a pause, in a cheerier tone— “I’ll just run up and tell my wife that I shall not be home to luncheon — and then I’ll come back here and wait till Kiernan wakes.”
“He won’t wake for at least an hour,” — said Brand, surveying with some disfavor the hulking heap of man doubled up in the porch, over which an early flowering yellow jasmine nodded its innocent golden sprays— “Besides — why should you come back? Isn’t there a man in the village who could keep an eye on him?”
“Not a man who would have the strength to contend with him,” — replied Everton— “If he wanted to go back to the public-house, there’s no one in the place who would dare hinder him.”
“No one who would dare!” repeated the doctor musingly—”.Well! — No! — I suppose not.” He looked again at Everton’s slim figure and thoughtful face — then he said hurriedly— “All right! I shall be about in the neighborhood, — Mrs. Kibble, another victim of Minchin’s brew, fell over with a kettle of boiling water yesterday and scalded her arm — so I’m looking after her and a few others. And — by the way — there’s that young fellow, Robert Hadley — he’ll not last very long now. It’s galloping consumption and he has not the ghost of a chance. I suppose you couldn’t say a word about him to the girl Jacynth?”
Everton’s brows darkened.
“The girl Jacynth is a hopeless character,” he said slowly— “Hopeless, because heartless!”
The doctor gave him a quick glance.
“Well, you know best about that,” — he said— “Her good looks are almost as great a curse to some men as the brewery. You’ve certainly got enough to do with your parishioners, Mr. Everton! Your work’s cut out for you in Shadbrook and no mistake! Good-bye for the present!”
He strode off — and Everton stood still in the little porch of Kiernan’s cottage, smitten by a sudden sharp sense of pain.
“Your work’s cut out for you in Shadbrook!”
Was it so ‘cut out’? Had he not that very morning longed
for a wider field of labor? His heart ached heavily — and a feeling of utter weariness overcame him. He looked at the drunken man huddled on the seat close by, with an almost shuddering sense of repulsion. Was the ‘soul’ of that disgraced human creature really valuable to the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth, before whom our planet itself is but a grain of dust? Surely it was stretching too fine a point to say it was! And yet — Science with her clear vision and evenly-balanced scales of justice, declared that not even a grain of dust was lost in the great scheme of the universe. And what and who was he — Richard Everton — that he should presume to set any limit to the minute as well as magnificent intention of the Divine Cosmos! Stung by a quick shame as well as remorse, he roused himself from his thoughts, and turning towards the half-open cottage door inquired gently of the woman within —
“How is Mrs. Kiernan now?”
“Sleeping easy, sir, thank you,” — and Mrs. Adcott, brown, wrinkled, but kindly of face and brisk in movement, came to the door—’’Don’t you bother no more, Mr. Everton — mebbe we’ll ‘ave a bit of trouble when Dan wakes—”
“I shall be here,” replied Everton quickly— “So you need not be anxious. I’m just going to the Vicarage for a moment — and then I’ll come back again.”
He smiled cheerily and raised’ his hat with the courtesy which he invariably showed to all women, rich or poor, old and young — and hurried away home. His wife saw him coming from the nursery windows, and ran down to open the door with expressions of cooing delight that he had returned so soon.
“It’s only for a few minutes, Azalea,” — he said regretfully— “Just give me a cup of soup and a biscuit — that’s all the lunch I want. I must go and watch Kiernan till he wakes.”
She uttered an exclamation of surprise and dismay.
“You can’t, Dick,” — said his wife, positively— “He’ll simply knock you down!”
“Go and watch Kiernan!” she echoed— “Oh, Dick! What are you thinking about! That dreadful man! Why should you! It’s quite absurd! — it really is — !”
“I don’t think so, Azalea,” — he said, with mild firmness— “Kiernan has nearly killed his wife as it is — it will be days before she leaves her bed. He’s now in a heavy stupor — when he wakes, the first thing he will do is to set off to the public-house again — and I wouldn’t answer for his wife’s life to-night if he does. He must be prevented from drinking any more to-day — and I’m going to prevent him.”
“Let him!” and Everton laughed— “I daresay I shall be a match for him if it comes to boxing!”
Mrs. Everton drooped her pretty head, and her lips framed the little pout that was so eminently kissable.
“But, Dick!” she protested, “I don’t really see that it is your business—”
He interrupted her.
“Is it my business to prevent murder in the village, or is it not?” he asked, almost sternly. “Azalea, why do you try to weaken my hands!”
She tried to look penitent, but failed.
“You might send for a policeman,” — she murmured —
“and have the wretched drunken brute locked up—”
“If I did that,” — he said quietly— “I should deserve to be locked up myself. Kiernan would, when sober, very rightly judge me as one of the sneaks and cowards he thinks all clergymen are. No, Azalea! — I shall deal with Kiernan as I would wish to be dealt with myself, if I were in his condition.”
“Oh dear!” And Azalea clapped her hands and gave vent to a little rippling peal of laughter— “You in that condition! Fancy! You, poor, gentle, good old Dick! There! — I’m sorry if I’ve said anything naughty! I’ll order the soup for you — and oh, Dick! — Baby is simply quite wonderful to-day! — Nurse says he’s a positive miracle!”
“What has he done now?” And Richard, his momentary vexation passing, threw off his wet great-coat and went into the dining-room, there to wait till the light refreshment he had asked for was served to him— “I’m prepared for anything!”
“He has begun to write! “declared Azalea gleefully— “Nurse gave him a pencil and paper just to keep him quiet, and he wrote all over it in the sweetest running hand! Don’t laugh, Dick! It’s really wonderful! Of course there are no real words on the paper, — it’s only scribble, — but still it shows that he wants to write, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it does!” said Everton, with an air of mock gravity— “And it’s a very bad sign, Azalea! It shows that we must keep the boy down — nip him in the bud! For if he were to be clever — what then! You know you don’t want him to be a clever man — you’ve often said so!”
Azalea pouted and looked a little cross.
“I didn’t mean that way,” — she said— “Of course I want him to know how to read and write.”
“Why?” demanded Richard playfully— “Why should he possess such doubtful accomplishments? For if he reads, he will perhaps think — and if he thinks, he may possibly want to utter his thoughts to a wider audience than his mother and father — and so he may perhaps become that dreadful, dangerous, and dyspeptic thing — an author — and what should we do then, Azalea? What should we do with such a disappointing son? Suppose he were to turn out a second Shakespeare? I’m sure it would break our hearts!”
He laughed, and his light luncheon being brought in at this juncture, he made haste to dispose of it. His wife watched him, looking rather like a chidden child.
“Will you be with that man Kiernan long?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It will depend on Kiernan — not on me,” he answered— “And I think — yes, I think, Azalea, you must go and see his poor wife to-morrow morning, — sit with her a little and cheer her up — it will do the poor thing a world of good to see your bright pretty face bending over her.”
She was silent. In her heart she hated visiting poor people, especially when they were ill. It was so ‘painful,’ she said — and sometimes things were ‘not very clean.’ But she made no objection to her husband’s suggestion. He finished his hasty meal, and looked at her questioningly.
“You’ll go, won’t you, dear?” he said.
“Oh yes!” she replied, with a little sigh— “I’ll go!”
He took no notice of the touch of hesitation in her manner.
“Young Hadley is dying fast,” — he went on— “So Mr. Brand tells me. I suppose,” — he paused and then went on; “I suppose — you, as a woman — cannot do anything with Jacynth Miller?”
She flushed suddenly.
“Oh, Dick! How can I? Jacynth Miller is a real bad girl! It isn’t only Bob Hadley — she’s a brute to others as well!”
“I know!” he said, sorrowfully— “But Hadley is dying — and he loved her. He would like to see her again just once — and she will not go near him.”
“Well, if she won’t, I cannot make her,” — said Azalea, decisively— “So don’t ask me to try, Dick!”
“Very well.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, and for a moment, bent an earnest, rather wistful gaze upon her. Then he kissed her gently. “You must do as you think best, Azalea!”
“You won’t be long away, will you?” she pleaded, as she followed him out of the dining-room into the hall.
“No, — certainly not longer than I can help!” — he answered, and in another couple of minutes he was gone.
“Horrible villagers!” and Azalea, uttering this exclamation to herself, gave a little stamp of her foot to enforce it— “They are just simply awful! Oh, they are! Drink, drink, drink, and gossip, gossip, gossip, all day long! They come to church on Sundays, and stare at each other, and pretend to say their prayers, and then they go home and run each other down as wickedly and scandalously as they; can. And they actually call themselves Christians!”
She gave a toss of her pretty head and ran upstairs to her precious baby, never considering for a moment that perhaps she herself was not altogether ‘Christian’ in the sentiments she had just expressed, concernin
g the inhabitants of Shadbrook.
“Nurse!” — she exclaimed, as she tripped lightly into the pretty airy room, where ‘Master Laurence’ was just now considering the possibilities of a square wooden block with the first letter of the alphabet gorgeously painted thereon— “Mr. Everton has had to go down into the village again to see after that terrible Kiernan! And he’s only had a cup of soup and a biscuit! It’s too bad! There is such a lot of drunkenness in the place! It’s simply awful! And yet nearly all the parishioners come to church and pretend to be good!”
Nurse Tomkins smiled discreetly.
“Oh well, ma’am,” she said— “It’s not only in Shadbrook that they do that!”
Azalea paid no heed to this remark. She flung herself down on the floor beside her small son, who stared at her with gravely sweet blue eyes, and a little wondering smile.
“Baby darling!” she said— “Oh, baby darling, you’ve no idea what horrid people there are in the world!”
Baby darling certainly had not. He wore an expression of heavenly peace and contentment — and only manifested a slight surprise when his mother, to attract his attention, held up a woolly toy-dog which had a bell in its inside, and shook it at him. Now he had left that interesting animal purposely in a corner — and he could not quite understand why it had been brought out to confront him suddenly, when he was busy with the letter A. In the strong predilection he had shown for neatness and cleanliness, he had likewise intimated his desire to avoid mental confusion — and he liked one thing at a time — not two or three things all cast before him in a higgledly-piggledly fashion. And at the present moment he grasped the wooden-blocked letter A more tenaciously and showed plainly that he considered the toy-dog an intruder. Whereupon Azalea threw it down, so that its inside bell clashed dismally.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 702
