Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  ‘Tell him, with my duty, that I am not equal to coming myself,’ said Mrs. Baxendale, when Mary stood ready in her neat straw bonnet and light shawl. ‘I ought to have gone weeks ago, and that’s the truth. Don’t forget to describe the pain in my right side, and the flushings of heat.’

  So Mary went on her way, and was admitted to the presence of Dr. Bevary, where she told her tale with awkward timidity.

  ‘Ah! a return of the old weakness that she had years ago,’ remarked the doctor. ‘I told her she must be careful. Too ill to get up? Why did she not come to me before?’

  ‘I suppose, sir, she did not much like to trouble you,’ responded Mary. ‘She has been hoping from week to week that Mr. Rice would do her good.’

  ‘I can’t do her good, unless I see her,’ cried the doctor. ‘I might prescribe just the wrong thing, you know.’

  Mary repressed her tears.

  ‘I am afraid, then, she must die, sir. She said this morning she thought she should never get up from her bed again.’

  ‘I’ll step round some time to-day and see her,’ said Dr. Bevary. ‘But now, don’t you go chattering that to the whole parish. I should have every sick person in it expecting me, as a right, to call and visit them.’

  He laughed pleasantly at Mary as he spoke, and she departed with a glad heart. The visit had been so much less formidable in reality than in anticipation.

  As she reached Daffodil’s Delight, she did not turn into it, but continued her way to the house of Mrs. Hunter. Mary Baxendale took in plain sewing, and had some in hand at present from that lady. She inquired for Dobson. Dobson was Mrs. Hunter’s own maid, and a very consequential one.

  ‘Not able to get Miss Hunter’s night-dresses home on Saturday!’ grumbled Dobson, when she appeared and heard what Mary had to say. ‘But you must, Mary Baxendale. You promised them, you know.’

  ‘I should not have promised had I known that my mother would have grown worse,’ said Mary. ‘A sick person requires a deal of waiting on, and there’s only me. I’ll do what I can to get them home next week, if that will do.’

  ‘I don’t know that it will do,’ snapped Dobson. ‘Miss Florence may be wanting them. A promise is a promise, Mary Baxendale.’

  ‘Yes, it will do, Mary,’ cried Florence Hunter, darting forward from some forbidden nook, whence she had heard the colloquy, and following Mary down the steps into the street. A fair sight was that child to look upon, with her white muslin dress, her blue ribbons, her flowing hair, and her sweet countenance, radiant as a summer’s morning. ‘Mamma is not downstairs yet, or I would ask her — she is ill, too — but I know I do not want them. Never you mind them, and never mind Dobson either, but nurse your mother.’

  Dobson drew the young lady back, asking her if such behaviour was not enough to ‘scandalize the square;’ and Mary Baxendale returned home.

  Dr. Bevary paid his visit to Mrs. Baxendale about mid-day. His practised eye saw with certainty what others were only beginning to suspect — that Death had marked her. He wrote a prescription, gave some general directions, said he would call again, and told Mrs. Baxendale she would be better out of bed than in it.

  Accordingly, after his departure, she got up and went into the front room, which they made their sitting-room. But the exertion caused her to faint; she was certainly on this day much worse than usual. John Baxendale was terribly concerned, and did not go back to his work after dinner. When the bustle was over, and she seemed pretty comfortable again, somebody burst into the room, without knocking or other ceremony. It was one of the Shucks, a young man of eight, in tattered clothes, and a shock head of hair. He came to announce that Mrs. Hunter’s maid was asking for Mary, and little Miss Hunter was there, too, and said, might she come up and see Mrs. Baxendale.

  Both were requested to walk up. Dobson had brought a gracious message from her mistress (not graciously delivered, though), that the sewing might wait till it was quite convenient to do it; and Florence produced a jar, which she had insisted upon carrying herself, and had thereby split her grey kid gloves, it being too large for her hands.

  ‘It is black-currant jelly, Mrs. Baxendale,’ she said, with the prettiest, kindest air, as she freely sat down by the sick woman’s side. ‘I asked mamma to let me bring some, for I remember when I was ill I only liked black-currant jelly. Mamma is so sorry to hear you are worse, and she will come to see you soon.’

  ‘Bless your little heart, Miss Florence!’ exclaimed the invalid. ‘The same dear child as ever — thinking of other people and not of yourself.’

  ‘I have no need to think for myself,’ said Florence. ‘Everything I want is got ready for me. I wish you did not look so ill. I wish you would have my uncle Bevary to see you. He cures everybody.’

  ‘He has been kind enough to come round to-day, Miss,’ spoke up John Baxendale, ‘and he’ll come again, he says. I hope he will be able to do the missis good. As you be a bit better,’ he added to his wife, ‘I think I’ll go back to my work.’

  ‘Ay, do, John. There’s no cause for you to stay at home. It was some sort of weakness, I suppose, that came over me.’

  John Baxendale touched his hair to Florence, nodded to Dobson, and went downstairs and out. Florence turned to the open window to watch his departure, ever restless, as a healthy child is apt to be.

  ‘There’s Uncle Henry!’ she suddenly called out.

  Mr. Henry Hunter was walking rapidly down Daffodil’s Delight. He encountered John Baxendale as the man went out of his gate.

  ‘Not back at work yet, Baxendale?’

  ‘The missis has been taken worse, sir,’ was the man’s reply. ‘She fainted dead off just now, and I declare I didn’t know what to think about her. She’s all right again, and I am going round.’

  At that moment there was heard a tapping at the window panes, and a pretty little head was pushed out beneath them, nodding and laughing, ‘Uncle Henry! How do you do, Uncle Henry?’

  Mr. Henry Hunter nodded in reply, and pursued his way, unconscious that the lynx eye of Miss Gwinn was following him, like a hawk watching its prey.

  It happened that she had penetrated Daffodil’s Delight, hoping to catch Austin Clay at his dinner, which she supposed he might be taking about that hour. She held his address at Peter Quale’s from Mrs. Thornimett. Her object was to make a further effort to get from him what he knew of the man she sought to find. Scarcely had she turned into Daffodil’s Delight, when she saw Mr. Henry Hunter at a distance. Away she tore after him, and gained upon him considerably. She reached the house of John Baxendale just as he, Baxendale, was re-entering it; for he had forgotten something he must take with him to the yard. Turning her head upon Baxendale for a minute as she passed, Miss Gwinn lost sight of Mr. Henry Hunter.

  How had he disappeared? Into the ground? or into a house? or down any obscure passage that might be a short cut between Daffodil’s Delight, and some other Delight? or into that cab that was now whirling onwards at such a rate? That he was no longer visible, was certain: and Miss Gwinn was exceeding wroth. She came to the conclusion that he had seen her, and hid himself in the cab, though she had not heard it stop.

  But she had seen him spoken to from the window of that house, where the workman had just gone in, and she determined to make inquiries there, and so strode up the path. In the Shucks’ kitchen there were only three or four children, too young to give an answer. Miss Gwinn picked her way through them, over the dirt and grease of the floor, and ascended to the sitting-room above. She stood a minute to take in its view.

  John Baxendale was on his knees, hunting among some tools at the bottom of a closet; Mary was meekly exhibiting the progress of the nightgowns to Dobson, who sat in state, sour enough to turn milk into curd; the invalid was lying, pale, in her chair; while the young lady appeared to be assisting at the tool-hunting, on her knees also, and chattering as fast as her tongue could go. All looked up at the apparition of the stranger, who stood there gazing in upon them.

  ‘Can you te
ll me where a gentleman of the name of Lewis lives?’ she began, in an indirect, diplomatic, pleasant sort of way, for she no doubt deemed it well to discard violence for tact. In the humour she was in yesterday, she would have said, sharply and imperiously, ‘Tell me the name of that man I saw now pass your gate.’

  John Baxendale rose. ‘Lewis, ma’am? I don’t know anybody of the name.’

  A pause. ‘It is very unfortunate,’ she mildly resumed. ‘I am in search of the gentleman, and have not got his address. I believe he belongs to this neighbourhood. Indeed, I am almost sure I saw him talking to you just now at the gate — though my sight is none of the clearest from a distance. The same gentleman to whom that young lady nodded.’

  ‘That was my uncle Henry,’ called out the child.

  ‘Who?’ cried she, sharply.

  ‘It was Mr. Henry Hunter, ma’am, that was,’ spoke up Baxendale.

  ‘Mr. Henry Hunter!’ she repeated, as she knit her brow on John Baxendale. ‘That gentleman is Mr. Lewis.’

  ‘No, that he is not,’ said John Baxendale. ‘I ought to know, ma’am; I have worked for him for some years.’

  Here the mischief might have ended; there’s no telling; but that busy little tongue of all tongues — ah! what work they make! — began clapping again.

  ‘Perhaps you mean my papa? Papa’s name is Lewis — James Lewis Hunter. But he is never called Mr. Lewis. He is brother to my uncle Henry.’

  A wild flush of crimson flashed over Miss Gwinn’s sallow face. Something within her seemed to whisper that her search was over. ‘It is possible I mistook the one for the other in the distance,’ she observed, all her new diplomacy in full play. ‘Are they alike in person?’ she continued to John Baxendale.

  ‘Not so much alike now, ma’am. In years gone by they were the very model of one another; but Mr. Hunter has grown stout, and it has greatly altered him. Mr. Henry looks just like what Mr. Hunter used to look.’

  ‘And who are you, did you say?’ she asked of Florence with an emphasis that would have been quite wild, but that it was in a degree suppressed. ‘You are not Mr. Lewis Hunter’s daughter?’

  ‘I am,’ said Miss Florence.

  ‘And —— you have a mother?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ repeated the child.

  A pause: the lady looked at John Baxendale. ‘Then Mr. Lewis Hunter is a married man?’

  ‘To be sure he is,’ said John, ‘ever so many years ago. Miss Florence is twelve.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Miss Gwinn abruptly turning away. ‘Good morning.’

  She went down the stairs at a great rate, and did not stay to pick her steps over the grease of the Shucks’ floor.

  ‘What a mistake to make!’ was her inward comment, and she laughed as she said it. ‘I did not sufficiently allow for the lapse of years. If that younger one had lost his life in the gravel pits, he would have died an innocent man.’

  Away to the yard now, as fast as her legs would carry her. In turning in, she ran against Austin Clay.

  ‘I want to speak with Mr. Hunter,’ she imperiously said. ‘Mr. Lewis Hunter — not the one I saw in the gig.’

  ‘Mr. Hunter is out of town, Miss Gwinn,’ was Austin’s reply. ‘We do not expect him at the yard to-day; he will not be home in time to come to it.’

  ‘Boy! you are deceiving me!’

  ‘Indeed I am not,’ he returned. ‘Why should I? Mr. Hunter is not in the habit of being denied to applicants. You might have spoken to him yesterday when you saw him, had it pleased you so to do.’

  ‘I never saw him yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, you did, Miss Gwinn. That gentleman who came into the office and bowed to you was Mr. Hunter.’

  She stared Austin full in the face, as if unable to believe what he said. ‘That Mr. Hunter? — Lewis Hunter?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘If so, how he is altered!’ And, throwing up her arms with a strange, wild gesture, she turned and strode out of the yard. The next moment Austin saw her come into it again.

  ‘I want Mr. Lewis Hunter’s private address, Austin Clay.’

  But Austin was on his guard now. He did not relish the idea of giving anybody’s private address to such a person as Miss Gwinn, who might or might not be mad.

  She detected his reluctance.

  ‘Keep it from me if you choose, boy,’ she said, with a laugh that had a ring of scorn. ‘Better for you perhaps to be on the safe side. The first workman I meet will give it me, or a court guide.’

  And thus saying, she finally turned away. At any rate for the time being.

  Austin Clay resumed his work, and the day passed on to evening. When business was over, he went home to make some alteration in his dress, for he had to go by appointment to Mr. Hunter’s, and on these occasions he generally remained with them. It was beginning to grow dusk, and a chillness seemed to be in the air.

  The house occupied by Mr. Hunter was one of the best in the west-central square. Ascending to it by a flight of steps, and passing through a pillared portico, you found yourself in a handsome hall, paved in imitation of mosaic. Two spacious sitting-rooms were on the left: the front one was used as a dining-room, the other opened to a conservatory. On the right of the hall, a broad flight of stairs led to the apartments above, one of which was a fine drawing-room, fitted up with costly elegance.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hunter were seated in the dining-room. Florence was there likewise, but not seated; it may be questioned if she ever did sit, except when compelled. Dinner was over, but they frequently made this their evening sitting-room. The drawing-room upstairs was grand, the room behind was dull; this was cheerful, and looked out on the square. Especially cheerful it looked on this evening, for a fire had been lighted in the grate, and it cast a warm glow around in the fading twilight.

  Austin Clay was shown in, and invited to a seat by the fire, near Mrs. Hunter. He had come in obedience to orders from Mr. Hunter, issued to him when he, Mr. Hunter, had been going out that morning. His journey had been connected with certain buildings then in process, and he thought he might have directions to give with respect to the following morning’s early work.

  A few minutes given by Austin and his master to business matters, and then the latter left the room, and Austin turned to Mrs. Hunter. Unusually delicate she looked, as she half sat, half lay back in her chair, the firelight playing on her features. Florence had dragged forth a stool, and was sitting on it in a queer sort of fashion, one leg under her, at Austin’s feet. He was a great favourite of hers, and she made no secret of the liking.

  ‘You are not looking well this evening,’ he observed, in a gentle tone, to Mrs. Hunter.

  ‘I am not feeling well. I scarcely ever do feel well; never strong. I sometimes think, Mr. Clay, what a mercy it is that we are not permitted to foresee the future. If we could, some of us might be tempted to — to—’ she hesitated, and then went on in a lower tone— ‘to pray that God might take us in youth.’

  ‘The longer we live, the more we become impressed with the wonderful wisdom that exists in the ordering of all things,’ replied Austin. ‘My years have not been many, comparatively speaking; but I see it always, and I know that I shall see it more and more.’

  ‘The confirmed invalid, the man of care and sorrow, the incessant battle for existence with those reduced to extreme poverty — had they seen their future, as in a mirror, how could they have borne to enter upon it?’ dreamily observed Mrs. Hunter. ‘And yet, I have heard people exclaim, “How I wish I could foresee my destiny, and what is to happen to me!”’

  ‘But the cares and ills of the world do not come near you, Mrs. Hunter,’ spoke Austin, after a pause of thought.

  Mrs. Hunter smiled. ‘From the cares and crosses of the world, as we generally estimate cares and crosses, I am free. God has spared them to me. He does not overwhelm us with ills; if one ill is particularly our portion, we are generally spared from others. Mine lie in my want of health, and in the thought that — that — I am rarely free
from pain and suffering,’ she concluded. But Austin felt that it was not what she had been about to say.

  ‘What should we do if all the ills came to us, mamma?’ cried Florence, who had been still, and was listening.

  ‘My dear, if all the ills came to us, God would show us a way to bear them. You know that He has promised so much; and His promises cannot fail.’

  ‘Clay,’ cried Mr. Hunter, returning to the room and resuming his seat, ‘did any one in particular call and want me to-day?’

  ‘No, sir. Several came, but Mr. Henry saw them.’

  ‘Did Arkwright come?’ resumed Mr. Hunter.

  ‘I think not; I did not see him. That — lady — who was there yesterday, came again. She asked for you.’

  A pause. Then Mr. Hunter spoke up sharply. ‘For my brother, you mean. She must have wanted him.’

  ‘She certainly asked for you, sir. For Mr. Lewis Hunter.’

  Those little ears pricked themselves up, and their owner unceremoniously wheeled herself round on her stool, holding on by Austin’s knee, as she faced her father.

  ‘There was a lady came to John Baxendale’s rooms to-day, when I and Dobson were there, and she asked for Mr. Lewis Hunter. At least — it was the funniest thing, papa — she saw Uncle Henry talking to John Baxendale, and she came up and said he was Mr. Lewis, and asked where he lived. John Baxendale said it was Mr. Henry Hunter, and she said no, it was not Mr. Henry Hunter, it was Mr. Lewis. So then we found out that she had mistaken him for you, and that it was you she wanted. Who was she, papa?’

  ‘She — she — her business was with Henry,’ spoke Mr. Hunter, in so confused, so startled a sort of tone, not as if answering the child, more as if defending himself to any who might be around, that Austin looked up involuntarily. His face had grown lowering and angry, and he moved his position, so that his wife’s gaze should not fall upon it. Austin’s did, though.