by Ellen Wood
‘Eating!’ returned Mrs. Hunter, ‘I wish he did eat. For at least a fortnight — more, I think — he has not eaten enough to support a bird. That he is ill is evident to all — must be evident; but when I ask him what is the matter, he persists in it that he is quite well; that I am fanciful: seems annoyed, in short, that I should allude to it. Has he been here to consult you?’
‘No,’ replied Dr. Bevary; ‘this is the first I have heard of it. How does he seem? What are his symptoms?’
‘It appears to me,’ said Mrs. Hunter, almost in a whisper, ‘that the malady is more on the mind. There is no palpable disorder. He is restless, nervous, agitated; so restless at night, that he has now taken to sleep in a room apart from mine — not to disturb me, he says. I fear — I fear he may have been attacked with some dangerous inward malady, that he is concealing. His father, you know, died of — —’
‘Pooh! Nonsense! You are indeed becoming fanciful, Louisa,’ interrupted the doctor. ‘Old Mr. Hunter died of an unusual disorder, I admit; but, if the symptoms of such appeared in either James or Henry, they would come galloping to me in hot haste, asking if my skill could suggest a preventive. It is no “inward malady,” depend upon it. He has been smoking too much: or going in at the cucumbers.’
‘Robert, it is something far more serious than that,’ quietly rejoined Mrs. Hunter.
‘When did you first notice him to be ill?’
‘It is, I say, about a fortnight since. One evening there came a stranger to our house, a lady, and she would see him. He did not want to see her: he sent young Clay to her, who happened to be with us; but she insisted upon seeing James. They were closeted together a long while before she left; and then James went out — on business, Mr. Clay said.’
‘Well?’ cried Dr. Bevary. ‘What has the lady to do with it?’
‘I am not sure that she has anything to do with it. Florence told an incomprehensible story about the lady’s having gone into Baxendale’s that afternoon, after seeing her uncle Henry in the street and mistaking him for James. A Miss — what was the name? — Gwinn, I think.’
Dr. Bevary, who happened to have a small glass phial in his hand, let it fall to the ground: whether by inadvertence, or that the words startled him, he best knew. ‘Well?’ was all he repeated, after he had gathered the pieces in his hand.
‘I waited up till twelve o’clock, and James never came in. I heard him let himself in afterwards with his latch-key, and came up into the dressing-room. I called out to know where he had been, it is so unusual for him to stay out, and he said he was much occupied, and that I was to go to sleep, for he had some writing to do. But, Robert, instead of writing, he was pacing the house all night, out of one room into another; and in the morning — oh, I wish you could have seen him! — he looked wild, wan, haggard, as one does who has got up out of a long illness; and I am positive he had been weeping. From that time I have noticed the change I tell you of. He seems like one going into his grave. But, whether the illness is upon the body or the mind, I know not.’
Dr. Bevary appeared intent upon putting together the pieces of his phial, making them fit into each other.
‘It will all come right, Louisa; don’t fret yourself: something must have gone cross in his business. I’ll call in at the office and see him.’
‘Do not say that I have spoken to you. He seems to have quite a nervous dread of its being observed that anything is wrong with him; has spoken sharply, not in anger, but in anguish, when I have pressed the question.’
‘As if the lady could have anything to do with it!’ exclaimed Dr. Bevary, in a tone of satire.
‘I do not suppose she had. I only mentioned the circumstances because it is since that evening he has changed. You can see what you think of him, and tell me afterwards.’
The answer was only a nod; and Mrs. Hunter went out. Dr. Bevary remained in a brown study. His servant came in with an account that patient after patient was waiting for him, but the doctor replied by a repelling gesture, and the man did not again dare to intrude. Perplexity and pain sat upon his brow; and, when at last he did rouse himself, he raised aloft his hands, and gave utterance to words that sounded very like a prayer:
‘I pray heaven it may not be so! It would kill Louisa.’
The pale, delicate face of Mrs. Hunter was at that moment bending over the invalid in her bed. In her soft grey silk dress and light shawl, her simple straw bonnet with its white ribbons, she looked just the right sort of visitor for a sick-chamber; and her voice was sweet, and her manner gentle.
‘No, ma’am, don’t speak of hope to me,’ murmured Mrs. Baxendale. ‘I know that there is none left, and I am quite reconciled to die. I have been an ailing woman for years, dear lady; and it is wonderful how those that are so get to look upon death, if they can but presume to hope their soul is safe, with satisfaction, rather than with dread. Though I dare not say as much yet to my poor husband.’
‘I have long been ailing, too,’ softly replied Mrs. Hunter. ‘I am rarely free from pain, and I know that I shall never be healthy and strong again. But still — I do fear it would give me pain to die, were the fiat to come forth.’
‘Never fear, dear lady,’ cried the invalid, her eyes brightening. ‘Before the fiat does come, be assured that God will have reconciled you to it. Ah, ma’am, what matters it, after all? It is a journey we must take; and, when once we are prepared, it seems but the setting off a little sooner or a little later. I got Mary to read me the burial service on Sunday: I was always fond of it; but I am past reading now. In one part thanks are given to God for that he has been pleased to deliver the dead out of the miseries of this sinful world. Ma’am, if He did not remove us to a better and a happier home, would the living be directed to give thanks for our departure from this?’
‘A spirit ripe for heaven,’ thought Mrs. Hunter, when she took her leave.
It was Mrs. Quale who piloted her through the room of the Shucks. Of all scenes of disorder and discomfort, about the worst reigned there. Sam had been — you must excuse the inelegance of the phrase, but it was much in vogue in Daffodil’s Delight— ‘on the loose’ again for a couple of days. He sat sprawling across the hearth, a pipe in his mouth, and a pot of porter at his feet. The wife was crying with her hair down; the children were quarrelling in tatters; the dirt in the place, as Mrs. Quale expressed it, stood on end; and Mrs. Hunter wondered how people could bear to live so.
‘Now, Sam Shuck, don’t you see who is a standing in your presence?’ sharply cried Mrs. Quale.
Sam, his back to the staircase door, really had not seen. He threw his pipe into the grate, started up, and pulled his hair to Mrs. Hunter in a very humble fashion. In his hurry he turned over a small child, and the contents of the pewter pot upon it. The child roared; the wife took it up and shook its clothes in Sam’s face, restraining her tongue till the lady should be gone; and Mrs. Hunter stepped into the garden out of the mêlée — glad to get there: Sam following her in a spirit of politeness.
‘How is it you are not at work to-day, Shuck?’ she asked.
‘I am going to-morrow — I shall go for certain, ma’am.’
‘You know, Shuck, I never do interfere with Mr. Hunter’s men,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘I consider that intelligent workmen, as you are, ought to be above any advice that I could offer. But I cannot help saying how sad it is that you should waste your time. Were you not discharged a little while ago, and taken on again under a specific promise, made by you to Mr. Henry Hunter, that you would be diligent in future?’
‘I am diligent,’ grumbled Sam. ‘But why, ma’am — a chap must take holiday now and then. ‘Tain’t in human nature to be always having the shoulder at the wheel.’
‘Well, pray be cautious,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘If you offend again, and get discharged, I know they will not be so ready to take you back. Remember your little children, and be steady for their sakes.’
Sam went indoors to his pipe, to his wife’s tongue, and to despatch a child to get
the pewter pot replenished.
CHAPTER VIII. FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS!
Mrs. Hunter, turning out of Mr. Shuck’s gate, stepped inside Mrs. Quale’s, who was astonishing her with the shortcomings of the Shucks, and prophesying that their destiny would be the workhouse, when Austin Clay came forth. He had been home to dinner, and was now going back to the yard. Mrs. Hunter said good morning to her talkative friend, and walked away by Austin’s side — Mrs. Baxendale, Sam Shuck, and Daffodil’s Delight generally, forming themes of converse. Austin raised his hat to her when they came to the gates of the yard.
‘No, I am not about to part; I am going in with you,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘I want to speak just a word to my husband, if he is at liberty. Will you find him for me?’
‘He has been in his private room all the morning, and is probably there still,’ said Austin. ‘Do you know where Mr. Hunter is?’ he inquired of a man whom they met.
‘In his room, sir,’ was the reply, as the man touched his cap to Mrs. Hunter.
Austin led the way down the passage, and knocked at the door, Mrs. Hunter following him. There was no answer; and believing, in consequence, that it was empty, he opened it.
Two gentlemen stood within it, near a table, paper and pens and ink before them, and what looked like a cheque-book. They must have been deeply absorbed not to have heard the knock. One was Mr. Hunter: the other — Austin recognised him — Gwinn, the lawyer of Ketterford. ‘I will not sign it!’ Mr. Hunter was exclaiming, with passionate vehemence. ‘Five thousand pounds! it would cripple me for life.’
‘Then you know the alternative. I go this moment and — —’
‘Mrs. Hunter wishes to speak to you, sir,’ interposed Austin, drowning the words and speaking loudly. The gentlemen turned sharply round: and when Mr. Hunter caught sight of his wife, the red passion of his face turned to a livid pallor. Lawyer Gwinn nodded familiarly to Austin.
‘How are you, Clay? Getting on, I hope. Who is this person, may I ask?’
‘This lady is Mrs. Hunter,’ haughtily replied Austin, after a pause, surprised that Mr. Hunter did not take up the words — the offensive manner in which they were spoken — the insulting look that accompanied them. But Mr. Hunter did not appear in a state to take anything up just then.
Gwinn bent his body to the ground.
‘I beg the lady’s pardon. I had no idea she was Mrs. Hunter.’
But so ultra-courteous were the tones, so low the bow, that Austin Clay’s cheeks burnt at the covert irony.
‘James, you are ill,’ said Mrs. Hunter, advancing in her quiet, composed manner, but taking no notice whatever of the stranger. ‘Can I get anything for you? Shall we send for Dr. Bevary?’
‘No, don’t do that; it is going off. You will oblige me by leaving us,’ he whispered to her. ‘I am very busy.’
‘You seem too ill for business,’ she rejoined. ‘Can you not put it off for an hour? Rest might be of service to you.’
‘No, madam, the business cannot be put off,’ spoke up Lawyer Gwinn.
And down he sat in a chair, with a determined air of conscious power — just as his sister had sat herself down, a fortnight before, in Mr. Hunter’s hall.
Mrs. Hunter quitted the room at once, leaving her husband and the stranger in it. Austin followed her. Her face wore a puzzled, vexed look, as she turned it upon Austin. ‘Who is that person?’ she asked. ‘His manner to me appeared to be strangely insolent.’
An instinct, for which Austin perhaps could not have accounted had he tried, caused him to suppress the fact that it was the brother of the Miss Gwinn who had raised a commotion at Mr. Hunter’s house. He answered that he had not seen the person at the office previously, his tone being as careless a one as he could assume. And Mrs. Hunter, who was of the least suspicious nature possible, let it pass. Her mind, too, was filled with the thought of her husband’s suffering state.
‘Does Mr. Hunter appear to you to be ill?’ she asked of Austin, somewhat abruptly.
‘He looked so, I think.’
‘Not now; I am not alluding to the present moment,’ she rejoined. ‘Have you noticed before that he does not seem well?’
‘Yes,’ replied Austin; ‘this week or two past.’
There was a brief pause.
‘Mr. Clay,’ she resumed, in a quiet, kind voice, ‘my health, as you are aware, is not good, and any sort of uneasiness tries me much. I am going to ask you a confidential question. I would not put it to many, and the asking it of you proves that my esteem for you is great. That Mr. Hunter is ill, there is no doubt; but whether mentally or bodily I am unable to discover. To me he observes a most unusual reticence, his object probably being to spare me pain; but I can battle better with a known evil than with an unknown one. Tell me, if you can, whether any vexation has arisen in business matters?’
‘Not that I am aware of,’ promptly replied Austin. ‘I feel sure that nothing is amiss in that quarter.’
‘Then it is as I suspected, and he must be suffering from some illness that he is concealing.’
She wished Austin good morning. He saw her out of the gate, and then proceeded to the room he usually occupied when engaged indoors. Presently he heard Mr. Hunter and his visitor come forth, and saw the latter pass the window. Mr. Hunter came into the room.
‘Is Mrs. Hunter gone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you know what she wanted?’
‘I do not think it was anything particular. She said she should like to say a word to you, if you were disengaged.’
Mr. Hunter did not speak immediately. Austin was making out certain estimates, and his master looked over his shoulder. Not to look; his mind was evidently all pre-occupied.
‘Did Mrs. Hunter inquire who it was that was with me?’ he presently said.
‘She inquired, sir. I did not say. I told her I had not seen the person here before.’
‘You knew?’ in a quick, sharp accent.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then why did you not tell her? What was your motive for concealing it?’
The inquiry was uttered in a tone that could not be construed as proceeding from any emotion but that of fear. A flush came into Austin’s ingenuous face.
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I never wish to be otherwise than open. But, as you had previously desired me not to speak of the lady who came to your house that night, I did not know but the same wish might apply to the visit of to-day.’
‘True, true,’ murmured Mr. Hunter; ‘I do not wish this visit of the man’s spoken of. Never mention his name, especially to Mrs. Hunter. I suppose he did not impose upon me,’ added he, with a poor attempt at a forced smile: ‘it was Gwinn, of Ketterford, was it not?’
‘Certainly,’ said Austin, feeling surprised. ‘Did you not know him previously, sir?’
‘Never. And I wish I had not known him now.’
‘If — if — will you forgive my saying, sir, that, should you have any transaction with him, touching money matters, it is necessary to be wary. Many a one has had cause to rue the getting into the clutches of Lawyer Gwinn.’
A deep, heavy sigh, burst from Mr. Hunter. He had turned from Austin. The latter spoke again in his ardent sympathy.
‘Sir, is there any way in which I can serve you? — any way? You have only to command me.’
‘No, no, Clay. I fell into that man’s clutches — as you have aptly termed it — years ago, and the penalty must be paid. There is no help for it.’
‘Not knowing him, sir?’
‘Not knowing him. And not knowing that I owed it, as I certainly did not know, until a week or two back. I no more suspected that — that I was indebted there, than I was indebted to you.’
Mr. Hunter had grown strangely confused and agitated, and the dew was rising on his livid face. He made a hollow attempt to laugh it off, and seemed to shun the gaze of his clerk.
‘This comes of the freaks of young men,’ he observed, facing Austin after a pause, and speaking volubly. ‘Aus
tin Clay, I will give you a piece of advice. Never put your hand to a bill. You may think it an innocent bit of paper, which can cost you at most but the sum that is marked upon it: but it may come back to you in after years, and you must purchase it with thousands. Have nothing to do with bills, in any way; they will be a thorn in your side.’
‘So, it is a money affair!’ thought Austin. ‘I might have known it was nothing else, where Gwinn was concerned. Here’s Dr. Bevary coming in, sir,’ he added aloud.
The physician was inside the room ere the words had left Austin’s lips. Mr. Hunter had seized upon a stray plan, and seemed bent upon its examination.
‘Rather a keen-looking customer, that, whom I met at your gate,’ began the doctor. ‘Who was it?’
‘Keen-looking customer?’ repeated Mr. Hunter.
‘A fellow dressed in black, with a squint and a white neckerchief; an ill-favoured fellow, whoever he is.’
‘How should I know about him?’ replied Mr. Hunter, carelessly. ‘Somebody after the men, I suppose.’
But Austin Clay felt that Mr. Hunter did know; that the description could only apply to Gwinn of Ketterford. Dr. Bevary entwined his arm within his brother-in-law’s, and led him from the room.
‘James, do you want doctoring?’ he inquired, as they entered the one just vacated by Lawyer Gwinn.
‘No, I don’t. What do you mean?’
‘If you don’t, you belie your looks; that’s all. Can you honestly affirm to me that you are in robust health?’
‘I am in good health. There is nothing the matter with me.’
‘Then there’s something else in the wind. What’s the trouble?’
A flush rose to the face of Mr. Hunter.
‘I am in no trouble that you can relieve; I am quite well. I repeat that I do not understand your meaning.’
The doctor gazed at him keenly, and his tone changed to one of solemn earnestness.
