by Ellen Wood
“I think, Judith, you must have been accustomed to attend on the sick?”
“Pretty well, ma’am. In my last place, where I lived four years, my mistress’s sister was bedridden, and I waited on her. She was a great sufferer. She died just three weeks ago, and they did not want me any more: that’s why I am changing places.”
“The mourning you wear is for her?”
“Yes, it is, ma’am. Mr. Stephen Grey was her doctor, and never failed to come every day all those four years; so that I feel quite at home with him, if that is a proper expression for a servant to use when speaking of a gentleman.”
“What was the matter with her?”
“It was an inward complaint, causing her distressing pain. We were always trying fresh remedies to give her ease, but they did not do much good. I don’t fancy Mr. Stephen ever thought they would; but she would have them tried. Ah, ma’am! we talk about suffering, and pity it, when people are laid up for a week or two; but only think what it must be to lie by for years, and be in acute pain night and day!”
The tears had come into Judith’s eyes at the remembrance. Mrs. Crane looked at her. She had a large, full forehead, strongly marked. One, gifted with phrenological lore, would have pronounced her largely gifted with concentration and reticence. Good qualities when joined to an honest heart.
“Judith, where was my workbox put to?”
“It is here, ma’am, on the drawers.”
“Unlock it, will you? You will find my keys somewhere about. Inside the little compartment that lifts up, you will see a locket set round with pearls.”
Judith did as she was bid, and brought forth the locket. It was a charming little trinket of blue enamel, the gold rim round it studded with pearls, and a place for hair in the front. A very fine gold chain, about two inches long, was attached to it; so that it could be worn as a necklace, or as a pendant to a bracelet.
“Take it, Judith. It is for you.”
“Oh, ma’am!”
“That is my own hair inside; but you can take it out if you like, and put in your sweetheart’s. I dare say you have one.”
“A costly thing like this is not fit for me, ma’am. I could not think of taking it.”
“But it is fit for you, and I’m glad to give it you; and I owe you a great deal more than that, for what I should have done without you I don’t know,” reiterated the invalid. “Put it up in your treasure-box, Judith.”
“I’m sure I don’t know how to say enough thanks,” spoke Judith in her gratitude. “I shall keep it to my dying day, dear lady, and store up the hair in it for ever.”
CHAPTER III.
THE ENCOUNTER AT THE RAILWAY STATION.
“HARK! what hour can that be?”
The question came from Mrs. Crane. She had been dozing, and awoke with a start at the striking of the Widow Gould’s kitchen clock. “It is eight, ma’am,” replied Judith from her seat near the bed.
“Eight! why, you told me the London train came in at seven.”
“To Great Wennock it does; or, rather, a quarter before it. The omnibus gets here about half-past seven. It is in, I know, ma’am, for I saw it taking a passenger through the town.”
“Then where can she be? — the — the person I sent for yesterday,” returned Mrs. Crane in excitement. “She would get the letter this morning, and might have come off at once. You are sure you posted it in time last night, Judith?”
“Quite sure, ma’am; but there will be another train in late to-night.”
Mrs. Crane lay for a little time in thought. Presently she spoke again: “Judith, do you think my baby will live?”
“I don’t see why it should not live, ma’am. It is certainly very little, but it seems quite healthy. I think it would have a better chance if you would nurse it, instead of letting it be brought up by hand.”
“But I have told you I cannot,” said Mrs. Crane, and the tone bore a peremptory sound. “It would not be convenient to me. Mrs. Smith will see about it when she comes, and it is on his account, poor little fellow, that I am impatient for her. I am so pleased it’s a boy.”
“Ma’am, do you think you ought to talk so much?” asked Judith.
“Why should I not?” quickly returned the invalid. “I am as well as I can be: Mr. Stephen Grey said this afternoon he wished all his patients did as well as I am doing. Judith, I am glad I had Mr. Stephen Grey. What a kind man he is! He did nothing but cheer me up from first to last.”
“I think that is one great secret why all Mr. Stephen’s patients like him so much,” observed Judith.
“I am sure I like him,” was the lady’s answer. “Mr. Carlton could not have done better for me than he has done.”
The evening and night passed, bringing not the expected visitor, and the invalid began to display symptoms of restlessness. On the following morning Mrs. Smith arrived, having evidently travelled by the night-train. This was Sunday; the baby having been born early on the Saturday morning. At least, some one arrived; a hard-featured, middle-aged woman, who was supposed by the household to be the Mrs. Smith expected. Mrs. Crane did not say, and caused herself to be shut up with the stranger.
The sitting-room and bedroom, it has been remarked, communicated with each other. Each had also a door opening on to rather a spacious landing, spacious in proportion to the size of the house. At one end of this landing was a large window that looked out on the street; at the other end, opposite, was a closet, and the doors of the two rooms were on one side; the railings of the balustrades were opposite the doors. It is as well to explain this, as you will find later.
Mrs. Pepperfly and Judith sat in the front room, the sitting-room, the stranger being shut up with the invalid. Their voices could be heard in conversation, it almost seemed in dispute. Mrs. Smith’s tones were full of what sounded like a mixture of lamentation, complaint, persuasion, remonstrance; and the sick lady’s were angry and retorting. The nurse was of a constitution to take things coolly, but Judith was apprehensive for the effect of the excitement on the invalid. Neither of them liked to interfere; Mrs. Crane having peremptorily ordered them not to disturb her with her friend. Suddenly the door between the two rooms was thrown open, and this friend appeared.
The nurse was lying back idly in her chair, jogging the infant on her lap, after the approved nurse fashion; Judith sat at the window, crimping a little cap border with a silver knife. Mrs. Smith, who had taking off neither bonnet nor shawl, caught up the child; and carrying it to the window, examined its face attentively.
“It is not like her? she remarked to Judith, jerking her head in the direction of the bedroom.
“How can you judge yet awhile?” asked Judith. “It’s nothing but a poor little mite at present.”
“Mite? I never saw such a mite! One can hardly believe such an atom could be endowed with life.”
“You can’t expect a child born before its time to be a giant,” remarked Mrs. Pepperfly as she passed into the next room.
“Before its time, indeed!” irascibly echoed the stranger. “What business had she to be exposing herself to railway jerks and shaking omnibuses? Nasty dangerous things! The jolts of that omnibus sent me flying up to its top, and what must they have done by a slight young thing such as she is? Now, a mile of ruts to get over; now, a mile of flint stones! I think the commissioners of roads here must all be abed and asleep.”
“People are continually talking of the badness of the road between this and the Great Wennock Station,” observed Judith. “It is said that Mr. Carlton made a complaint to the authorities, telling them it was ruin to his horse and carriage to go over it. Then they had those flint stones laid down, and that has made it worse.”
“Who’s Mr. Carlton?”
“He is one of the medical gentlemen living down here.”
“And why couldn’t they attend to his complaint?”
“I suppose they did attend to it; they put the flint stones down in places afterwards, and they had done nothing to the road for years.”<
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“What has this child been fed on?” demanded Mrs. Smith, abruptly quitting the unsatisfactory subject of the roads.
“Barley-water and milk, half and half,” replied Judith. “It was a puzzle to Mrs. Pepperfly at first what to give it, as it’s so small.”
“I don’t like the look of her,” curtly returned the stranger, alluding to Mrs. Pepperfly.
“If we were all bought and sold by our looks, some of us would remain on hand, and she’s one,” said Judith. “But she has her wits about her; provided she keeps sober, there’s not a better nurse living, and when people know her failing they can guard against it.”: “What are you? another nurse?”
“I am only a neighbour. But the lady took a fancy to me, and I said I would stop with her a few days. My home just now is at the next door, so I can run in and out. I am sure she is a lady,” added Judith.
“She is a lady born and bred, but she took and married as — as I think she ought not to have married. But she won’t hear a word said against him.”
“Will he be coming here?” continued Judith.
“It’s no business of mine whether he comes or not. They’ll do as they please, I suppose. Where’s this infant’s things? They must be made into a bundle; and some food prepared for it.”
“You are not going to take the baby away!” exclaimed Judith, looking all amazement.
“Indeed, but I am. The trains don’t run thick on a Sunday; but there’s one leaves the station at seven, and I shall travel by it.”
“And you are thinking to take this little mortal all the way to London?” said Judith breathlessly.
“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t take it away, and there’s a reason why I should,” persisted Mrs. Smith. “Whether it’s to London, or whether it’s elsewhere, is my affair. Wrapped in flannel and lying in my arms in a first-class carriage, it will take no more harm than in this room.”
Judith felt that it was not her place to interfere with Mrs. Crane’s arrangements, whatever they might be, or to put prying questions to the stranger before her, and she relapsed into silence.
“You were expected last night, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pepperfly, returning to the room from the inner chamber.
“I dare say I was,” was the curt answer. “But I couldn’t come. I travelled all night to come as soon as I did.”
“And you’ll travel all night again to-night?” questioned the nurse.
“It won’t kill me.”
At that moment Mr. Stephen Grey’s step was heard on the stairs. He went on at once to the bed-chamber by the direct door, without entering the sitting-room. Mrs. Crane was flushed and feverish with excitement, and the surgeon saw it with surprise; he had left her calm and well at his early visit that morning.
“What have you been doing to yourself?” he exclaimed.
“I feel a little hot,” was the answer, given in a half-contrite tone, “it is nothing; it will soon go off. The person I told you of is come, and she — she—” Mrs. Crane paused for a minute and then went on— “she lectured me upon being so imprudent as to travel, and I got angry with her.”
Mr. Stephen Grey looked vexed. “So sure as I have a patient going on unusually well, so sure does she herself upset it by some nonsensical folly or other. I will send you a composing draught; and now, my dear, understand me: I positively interdict all talking and excitement whatever for a day or two to come.”
“Very well,” she answered in a tone of acquiescence. “But let me ask you one thing — can I have the baby baptized?”
“Baptized! why should you wish it baptized? It is not ill.”
“It is going away to-day to be nursed.”
“Have you heard of a fit person to undertake it?” he rejoined, never supposing but that the baby was to be sent to some one in the neighbourhood. “I wish you would nurse it yourself; better for you, and the child too.”
“I told you that circumstances do not permit me to nurse it,” was her answer; “and I am sure my husband would not be pleased if I did. I wish it to be baptized before it goes away; perhaps some clergyman or curate in the town would kindly come in and do it.”
“I can arrange that,” said Mr. Stephen. “Only you keep quiet. What is the young giant’s name to be?”
“I must think of that,” said Mrs. Crane.
However, later in the morning, when church was over, and the Reverend William Lycett, curate of St. Mark’s, called to perform the rite, Judith went down to him and said that the sick lady had changed her mind with regard to having it baptized so soon, and was sorry to have troubled him. So Mr. Lycett, with a kindly hope that both lady and baby were going on satisfactorily, went away again. The event had caused quite a commotion in the little town, and its particulars were known from one end of it to the other.
The omnibus, so often referred to, allowed itself half-an-hour to start and jolt over the unpromising two miles of road. When ordered to do so, it would call for any passengers in South Wennock who might be going by it, and it was so ordered to call for Mrs. Smith. At a quarter past six, — for it liked to give itself plenty of time, — it drew up at Mrs. Gould’s house in Palace Street, and Mrs. Smith stepped into it with two bundles; one bundle containing the baby, the other the baby’s clothes.
It happened that she was the only passenger that Sunday evening; the omnibus, therefore, not having a full load, tore and jolted along to its heart’s content, pretty nearly shaking Mrs. Smith to pieces. In vain, when she dared free a hand for a moment, did she hammer at the windows and roof; but her hands had full occupation, the one taking care of the breathing bundle, the other clasping the cushions, the woodwork, anything to steady herself. In vain she shrieked out to the driver that her brains were being shaken out of her, herself battered to atoms; the driver was a phlegmatic man, and rarely paid attention to these complaints of his passengers. He knew, shaken or not, they must go by him, unless they had a private conveyance; and the knowledge made him independent. The consequence of all the speed and jolting on this particular evening was, that the omnibus arrived at Great Wennock Station unusually early, twenty minutes before the up-train would start, and five minutes before the down-train was expected in.
Mrs. Smith, vowing vengeance against the driver and the omnibus, declared she would lay a complaint, and bounced out to do so. But the clerk at the station — and there was only one on duty that Sunday evening, and he a very young man — aggravatingly laughed in Mrs. Smith’s face at the account she gave of her bruises, and said the omnibus had nothing to do with him. Mrs. Smith, overflowing with wrath, took herself and her bundles into the first-class waiting-room, and there sat down. The room opened on one side to the platform, and on the other to the road, lately the scene of Mrs. Smith’s unpleasant journey.
Five minutes, and the down-train came steaming in. Some five or six passengers alighted, not more; the English as a nation do not prefer Sundays for making long journeys; and the train went steaming on again. The passengers all dispersed, except one; they belonged to Great Wennock; that one crossed the line when it was clear, and came into the waiting-room.
It was Mr. Carlton, the medical gentleman whom the sick lady had wished to employ. He was of middle height, slender, and looking younger than his years, which may have been seven or eight and twenty; his hair and complexion were fair, his eyes a light blue, his features regular. It was a good-looking face, but singularly impassive, and there was something in the expression of the thin and closely-compressed lips not pleasing to many an eye. Altogether his appearance was that of a gentleman in rather a remarkable degree.
Discerning some one sitting there in the twilight, — for the station generally neglected to light up its waiting-rooms on a Sunday night, — he lifted his hat momentarily, and walked straight across to the door, where he stood gazing down the road. Nothing was to be seen except the waiting omnibus, its horses still steaming.
“Taylor,” said Mr. Carlton, as the railway clerk came out whistling, and took a general view outs
ide, having probably nothing else to do, “do you know whether my groom has been here with the carriage?”
“No, sir, not that I have seen; but we only opened the station five minutes ago.”
Mr. Carlton retraced his steps indoors, glancing keenly at the middle-aged woman seated there. She paid no attention to him; she was allowing her anger to effervesce. It was too dark for either to discern the features of the other; a loss not felt, as they were strangers. He went again to the door, propped himself against its post, and stood peering down the South Wennock road, softly whistling.
“Dobson,” he called out, as the driver of the omnibus came up to look after his patient horses, “did you see my servant anywhere as you came along? I sent him orders to be here to meet the train.”
“Naw, sir, I didn’t see nothing on him,” was Dobson’s reply. “Like to take advantage of the ‘bus, sir? — it be a-going back empty.”
“No, thank you,” replied Mr. Carlton, some sarcasm in his tone. “You had the chance of bumping me to a jelly once; I don’t intend to give it you a second time.”
“That was afore I knowed who you was, sir. I don’t bump our gentry. I takes care of my driving when I’ve got any o’ them inside.”
“They may trust you if they will. If my carriage is not here shortly, I shall walk.”
Dobson, seeing no chance of a customer, ascended to his seat, whipped up his horses, and set off home; his hat bobbing upwards with his speed, and his omnibus flying behind him.
By this time it wanted ten minutes to seven: the period, as Mrs. Smith had been informed, when she could get her ticket. She deposited the live bundle at the very back of the wide sofa, and went to procure it. Mr. Carlton turned in at the door again, whistling still, when a faint, feeble cry was heard to proceed from the sofa.
It brought him and his whistling to a standstill. He stood looking at the sofa, wondering whether his ears had deceived him. The cry was repeated.
