by Ellen Wood
At that moment there was heard a knock and ring at the house door, the presumable announcement of a visitor. Florence, much addicted to acting upon natural impulse, and thereby getting into constant hot water with her governess, who assured her nothing could be more unbefitting a young lady, quitted her stool and flew to the window. By dint of flattening her nose and crushing her curls against a corner of one of its panes, she contrived to obtain a partial view of the visitor.
‘Oh dear! I hoped it was Uncle Bevary. Mamma’s always better when he comes; he tells her she is not so ill as she fancies. Papa!’
‘What?’ cried Mr. Hunter, quickly.
‘I do believe it is that same lady who came to John Baxendale’s. She is as tall as a house.’
What possessed Mr. Hunter? He started up; he sprung half way across the room, hesitated there, and glided back again. Glided stealthily as it were; and stealthily touching Austin Clay, motioned him to follow him. His hands were trembling; and the dark frown, full of embarrassment, was still upon his features. Mrs. Hunter noticed nothing unusual; the apartment was shaded in twilight, and she sat with her head turned to the fire.
‘Go to that woman, Clay!’ came forth in a whisper from Mr. Hunter’s compressed lips, as he drew Austin outside the room. ‘I cannot see her. You go.’
‘What am I to say?’ questioned Austin, feeling surprised and bewildered.
‘Anything; anything. Only keep her from me.’
He turned back into the room as he spoke, and closed the door softly, for Miss Gwinn was already in the hall. The servant had said his master was at home, and was conducting her to the room where his master and mistress sat, supposing it was some friend come to pay an hour’s visit. Austin thought he heard Mr. Hunter slip the bolt of the dining-room, as he walked forward to receive Miss Gwinn.
Austin’s words were quick and sharp, arresting the servant’s footsteps. ‘Not there, Mark! Miss Gwinn,’ he courteously added, presenting himself before her, ‘Mr. Hunter is unable to see you this evening.’
‘Who gave you authority to interfere, Austin Clay?’ was the response, not spoken in a raving, angry tone, but in one of cold, concentrated determination. ‘I demand an interview with Lewis Hunter. That he is at home, I know, for I saw him through the window, in the reflection of the firelight, as I stood on the steps; and here I will remain until I obtain speech of him, be it until to-morrow morning, be it until days to come. Do you note my words, meddling boy? I demand the interview; I do not crave it: he best knows by what right.’
She sat deliberately down on one of the hall chairs. Austin, desperately at a loss what to do, and seeing no means of getting rid of her save by forcible expulsion, knocked gently at the room door again. Mr. Hunter drew it cautiously open to admit him; then slipped the bolt, entwined his arm within Austin’s, and drew him to the window. Mrs. Hunter’s attention was absorbed by Florence, who was chattering to her.
‘She has taken a seat in the hall, sir,’ he whispered. ‘She says she will remain there until she sees you, though she should have to wait until the morning. I am sure she means it: stop there, she will. She says she demands the interview as a right.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Hunter, ‘she possesses no right. But — perhaps I had better see her, and get it over: otherwise she may make a disturbance. Tell Mark to show her into the drawing-room, Clay; and you stay here and talk to Mrs. Hunter.’
‘What is the matter, that you are whispering? Does any one want you?’ interrupted Mrs. Hunter, whose attention was at length attracted.
‘I am telling Clay that people have no right to come to my private house on business matters,’ was the reply given by Mr. Hunter. ‘However, as the person is here, I must see her, I suppose. Do not let us be interrupted, Louisa.’
‘But what does she want? — it was a lady, Florence said. Who is she?’ reiterated Mrs. Hunter.
‘It is a matter of business of Henry’s. She ought to have gone to him.’ Mr. Hunter looked at his wife and at Austin as he spoke. The latter was leaving the room to do his bidding, and Miss Gwinn suffered herself to be conducted quietly to the drawing-room.
A full hour did the interview last. The voices seemed occasionally to be raised in anger, so that the sound penetrated to their ears downstairs, from the room overhead. Mrs. Hunter grew impatient; the tea waited on the table, and she wanted it. At length they were heard to descend, and to cross the hall.
‘James is showing her out himself,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘Will you tell him we are waiting tea, Mr. Clay?’
Austin stepped into the hall, and started when he caught sight of the face of Mr. Hunter. He was turning back from closing the door on Miss Gwinn, and the bright rays of the hall-lamp fell full upon his countenance. It was of ghastly whiteness; its expression one living aspect of terror, of dread. He staggered, rather than walked, to a chair, and sank into it. Austin hastened to him.
‘Oh, sir, what is it? You are ill?’
The strong man, the proud master, calm hitherto in his native self-respect, was for the moment overcome. He leaned his forehead upon Austin’s arm, hiding its pallor, and put up his finger for silence.
‘I have had a stab, Clay,’ he whispered. ‘Bear with me, lad, for a minute. I have had a cruel stab.’
Austin really did not know whether to take the words literally. ‘A stab?’ he hesitatingly repeated.
‘Ay; here,’ touching his heart. ‘I wish I was dead, Clay. I wish I had died years ago; or that she had. Why was she permitted to live? — to live to work me this awful wrong?’ he dreamily wailed. ‘An awful wrong to me and mine!’
‘What is it?’ spoke Austin, upon impulse. ‘A wrong? Who has done it?’
‘She has. The woman now gone out. She has done it all.’
He rose, and appeared to be looking for his hat. ‘Mrs. Hunter is waiting tea, sir,’ said the amazed Austin.
‘Tea!’ repeated Mr. Hunter, as if his brain were bewildered; ‘I cannot go in again to-night; I cannot see them. Make some excuse for me, Clay — anything. Why did that woman work me this crying wrong?’
He took his hat, opened the hall door, and shut it after him with a bang, leaving Austin in wondering consternation.
He returned to the dining-room, and said Mr. Hunter had been obliged to go out on business; he did not know what else to say. Florence was sent to bed after tea, but Austin sat a short while longer with Mrs. Hunter. Something led back to the previous conversation, when Mrs. Hunter had been alluding to her state of health, and to some sorrow that was her daily portion.
‘What is it?’ said Austin, in his impulsive manner.
‘The thought that I shall have to leave Florence without a mother.’
‘Dear Mrs. Hunter, surely it is not so serious as that! You may get better.’
‘Yes; I know I may. Dr. Bevary tells me that I shall. But, you see, the very fear of it is hard to bear. Sometimes I think God is reconciling me to it by slow degrees.’
Later in the evening, as Austin was going home, he passed a piece of clear ground, to be let for building purposes, at the end of the square. There, in its darkest corner, far back from the road, paced a man as if in some mental agony, his hat carried in his hands, and his head bared to the winds. Austin peered through the night with his quick sight, and recognised Mr. Hunter.
CHAPTER VII. MR. SHUCK AT HOME.
Daffodil’s Delight was in a state of commotion. It has often been remarked that there exists more real sympathy between the working classes, one for another, than amongst those of a higher grade; and experience generally seems to bear it out. From one end of Daffodil’s Delight to the other, there ran just now a deep feeling of sorrow, of pity, of commiseration. Men made inquiries of each other as they passed in the street; women congregated at their doors to talk, concern on their faces, a question on their lips— ‘How is she? What does the doctor say?’
Yes; the excitement had its rise in one cause alone — the increased illness of Mrs. Baxendale. The physician had pronounced his
opinion (little need to speak it, though, for the fact was only too apparent to all who used their eyes), and the news had gone forth to Daffodil’s Delight — Mrs. Baxendale was past recovery; was, in fact, dying!
The concern, universal as it was, showed itself in various ways. Visits and neighbourly calls were so incessant, that the Shucks openly rebelled at the ‘trampling up and down through their living-room,’ by which route the Baxendale apartments could alone be gained. The neighbours came to help; to nurse; to shake up the bed and pillows; to prepare condiments over the fire; to condole; and, above all, to gossip: with tears in their eyes and lamentation in their tones, and ominous shakes of the head, and uplifted hands; but still, to gossip: that lies in human female nature. They brought offerings of savoury delicacies; or things that, in their ideas, stood for delicacies — dainties likely to tempt the sick. Mrs. Cheek made a pint jug of what she called ‘buttered beer,’ a miscellaneous compound of scalding-hot porter, gin, eggs, sugar, and spice. Mrs. Baxendale sipped a little; but it did not agree with her fevered palate, and she declined it for the future, with ‘thanks, all the same,’ and Mrs. Cheek and a crony or two disposed of it themselves with great satisfaction. All this served to prove two things — that good feeling ran high in Daffodil’s Delight, and that means did not run low.
Of all the visitors, the most effectual assistant was Mrs. Quale. She gossiped, it is true, or it had not been Mrs. Quale; but she gave efficient help; and the invalid was always glad to see her come in, which could not be said with regard to all. Daffodil’s Delight was not wrong in the judgment it passed upon Mary Baxendale — that she was a ‘poor creature.’ True; poor as to being clever in a domestic point of view, and in attending upon the sick. In mind, in cultivation, in refinement, in gentleness, Mary Baxendale beat Daffodil’s Delight hollow; she was also a beautiful seamstress; but in energy and capability Mary was sadly wanting. She was timid always — painfully timid in the sick-room; anxious to do for her mother all that was requisite, but never knowing how to set about it. Mrs. Quale remedied this; she did the really efficient part; Mary gave love and gentleness; and, between the two, Mrs. Baxendale was thankful and happy.
John Baxendale, not a demonstrative man, was full of concern and grief. His had been a very happy home, free from domestic storms and clouds; and, to lose his wife, was anything but a cheering prospect. His wages were good, and they had wanted for nothing, not even for peace. To such, when trouble comes, it seems hard to bear — it almost seems as if it came as a wrong.
‘Just hold your tongue, John Baxendale,’ cried Mrs. Quale one day, upon hearing him express something to this effect. ‘Because you have never had no crosses, is it any reason that you never shall? No. Crosses come to us all sometime in our lives, in one shape or other.’
‘But it’s a hard thing for it to come in this shape,’ retorted Baxendale, pointing to the bed. ‘I’m not repining or rebelling against what it pleases God to do; but I can’t see the reason of it. Look at some of the other wives in Daffodil’s Delight; shrieking, raving trollops, turning their homes into a bear-garden with their tempers, and driving their husbands almost mad. If some of them were taken they’d never be missed: just the contrary.’
‘John,’ interposed Mrs. Baxendale, in her quiet voice, ‘when I am gone up there’ — pointing with her finger to the blue October sky— ‘it may make you think more of the time when you must come; may help you to be preparing for it, better than you have done.’
Mary lifted her wan face, glowing now with the excitement of the thought. ‘Father, that may be the end — the reason. I think that troubles are sent to us in mercy, not in anger.’
‘Think!’ ejaculated Mrs. Quale, tossing back her head with a manner less reverent than her words. ‘Before you shall have come to my age, girl, it’s to be hoped you’ll know they are. Isn’t it time for the medicine?’ she continued, seeing no other opening for a reprimand just then.
It was time for the medicine, and Mrs. Quale poured it out, raised the invalid from her pillow, and administered it. John Baxendale looked on. Like his daughter Mary, he was in these matters an incapable man.
‘How long is it since Dr. Bevary was here?’ he asked.
‘Let’s see?’ responded Mrs. Quale, who liked to have most of the talking to herself, wherever she might be. ‘This is Friday. Tuesday, wasn’t it, Mary? Yes, he was here on Tuesday.’
‘But why does he not come oftener?’ cried John, in a tone of resentment. ‘That’s what I was wanting to ask about. When one is as ill as she is — in danger of dying — is it right that a doctor should never come a near for three or four days?’
‘Oh, John! a great physician like Dr. Bevary!’ remonstrated his wife. ‘It is so very good of him to come at all. And for nothing, too! He as good as said to Mary he didn’t mean to charge.’
‘I can pay him; I’m capable of paying him, I hope,’ spoke John Baxendale. ‘Who said I wanted my wife to be attended out of charity?’
‘It’s not just that, father, I think,’ said Mary. ‘He comes more in a friendly way.’
‘Friendly or not, it isn’t come to the pass yet, that I can’t pay a doctor,’ said John Baxendale. ‘Who has let it go abroad that I couldn’t?’
Taking up his hat, he went out on the spur of the moment, and bent his steps to Dr. Bevary’s. There he was civil and humble enough, for John Baxendale was courteous by nature. The doctor was at home, and saw him at once.
‘Listen, my good man,’ said Dr. Bevary, when he had caught somewhat of his errand. ‘If, by going round often, I could do any good to your wife, I should go. Twice a day; three times a day — by night, too, if necessary. But I cannot do her good: had she a doctor over her bed constantly, he could render no service. I step round now and then, because I see that it is a satisfaction to her, and to those about her; not for any use I can be. I told you a week ago the end was not very far off, and that she would meet it calmly. She will be in no further pain — no worse than she is now.’
‘I am able to pay you, sir.’
‘That is not the question. If you paid me a guinea every time I came round, I should visit her no more frequently than I do.’
‘And, if you please, sir, I’d rather pay you,’ continued the man. ‘I’m sure I don’t grudge it; and it goes against the grain to have it said that John Baxendale’s wife is attended out of charity. We English workmen, sir, are independent, and proud of being so.’
‘Very good,’ said Dr. Bevary. ‘I should be sorry to see the day come when English workmen lost their independence. As to “charity,” we will talk a bit about that. Look here, Baxendale,’ the doctor added, laying his hand upon his shoulder, in his kind and familiar way, ‘you and I can speak reasonably together, as man to man. We both have to work for our living — you with the hands, I chiefly with the head — so, in that, we are equal. I go twice a week to see your wife; I have told you why it is useless to go oftener. When patients come to me, they pay me a guinea, and I see them twice for it, which is equivalent to half a guinea a visit; but, when I go to patients at their own houses, my fee is a guinea each time. Now, would it seem to you a neighbourly act that I should take two guineas weekly from your wages? — quite as much, or more, than you gain. What does my going round cost me? A few minutes’ time; a gossip with Mrs. Quale, touching the doings of Daffodil’s Delight, and a groan at those thriftless Shucks, in their pigsty of a room. That is the plain statement of facts; and I should like to know what there is in it that need put your English spirit up. Charity! We might call it by that name, John Baxendale, if I were the guinea each time out of pocket, through medicines or other things furnished to you.’
John Baxendale smiled; but he looked only three parts convinced.
‘Tush, man!’ said the doctor; ‘I may be asking you to do me some friendly service, one of these days, and then, you know, we should be quits. Eh, John?’
John Baxendale half put out his hand, and the doctor shook it.
‘I think I under
stand now, sir; and I thank you heartily for what you have said. I only wish you could do some good to the wife.’
‘I wish I could, Baxendale,’ he replied, throwing a kindly glance after the man as he was moving away. ‘I shan’t bring an action against you in the county court for these unpaid fees, Baxendale, for it wouldn’t stand,’ called out the doctor. ‘I never was called in to see your wife — I went of my own accord, and have so continued to go, and shall so continue. Good day.’
As John Baxendale was descending the steps of the house door, he encountered Mrs. Hunter. She stopped him to inquire after his wife.
‘Getting weaker daily, ma’am, thank you. The doctor has just told me again that there’s no hope.’
‘I am truly sorry to hear it,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘I will call in and see her. I did intend to call before, but something or other has caused me to put it off.’
John Baxendale touched his hat, and departed. Mrs. Hunter went in to her brother.
‘Oh, is it you, Louisa?’ he exclaimed. ‘A visit from you is somewhat a rarity. Are you feeling worse?’
‘Rather better, I think, than usual. I have just met John Baxendale,’ continued Mrs. Hunter, sitting down, and untying her bonnet strings. ‘He says there is no hope for his wife. Poor woman! I wish it had been different. Many a worse woman could have been better spared.’
‘Ah,’ said the doctor, ‘if folks were taken according to our notions of whom might be best spared, what a world this would be! Where’s Miss Florence?’
‘I did not bring her out with me, Robert. I came round to say a word to you about James,’ resumed Mrs. Hunter, her voice insensibly lowering itself to a tone of confidence. ‘Something is the matter with him, and I cannot imagine what.’
‘Been eating too many cucumbers again, no doubt,’ cried the doctor. ‘He will go in at that cross-grained vegetable, let it be in season, or out.’
