CHAPTER XXXVIII.
MR. GLOVER DECLINES TO SATISFY ME.
The friend to whom Turk referred was, fortunately for us, in the lobby of the theatre, and as the two were engaged in conversation, the man I came to seek lounged towards us. He seemed surprised to see me, but approached me quite affably, and asked what I was doing in his part of the world so late in the night. I made some sort of awkward, bungling answer, and then he recognised Turk.
'You, too, Turk,' he said in his slow way; 'but that is natural, for these are your quarters now. Let me see. You take possession to-morrow?'
'Yes,' Turk answered, everything was settled, and he went into his new place of business early in the morning.
'And how is business with you?' asked Mr. Glover, directing his attention to me again.
I answered that it was very good, and that I had nothing to complain of in that respect.
'You have nothing to complain of in that respect,' he said, glancing from me to Turk and from Turk to me, and appearing to be seeking for some solution of the circumstance that we were in company together. When he was in any doubt, he had an irritating habit of repeating the last words spoken by the person he was conversing with, which gave him time to think of his own words in reply. 'That must be very satisfactory. I hear good accounts of you. You will get on, I should say, if you are steady and straightforward, and if you keep a good name. That is everything in this world. A good name--a good name. But what brings you out to-night? Have you business in this quarter too?'
'No,' I said; 'I did not come out for business.'
'You did not come out for business. For pleasure, then. Well, young men will be young men.'
'To tell you the truth, sir,' I said----
'That's right, always tell the truth,' he interrupted, speaking from a height, slowly, and coolly, and patronisingly, as though he were truth's conservator, and was glad to hear that it was being practised. 'Yes, to tell me the truth----'
'I came out partly for the purpose and in the hope of seeing you.'
With his hand playing with his moustache, he looked not at me, but at Turk, for an explanation. Turk, however, had nothing to say.
'You came out for the purpose and in the hope of seeing me. Yes. Have you brought me any message?'
'Did you expect one, sir?' I asked quickly.
'Did I expect one? No, I cannot really say that I did; but I should not have been surprised. Go on,' he said, with gentle encouragement.
There were some persons passing us occasionally, and I moved to a more retired spot. I saw that he was curious, and I saw that his curiosity increased at this movement.
'You seem agitated,' he said. 'Turk, our young friend here seems agitated. Take your time--take your time. If you are going to beg a favour, I shall be glad to assist you in any way in my power--in any way in my power.'
'I have not come to beg any favour of you, sir. I only came to ask----'
But I hesitated here; the justice of Turk's reproach came upon me with great force, and I was conscious that the words I was about to utter might be construed into an ungenerous suspicion of Jessie. If they reached her ears from the lips of one who was not well disposed towards me, I should sink for ever in her esteem.
'Take time--take time,' said Mr. Glover, outwardly quite at his ease.
Turk came to my rescue here. He divined my thoughts, and the cause of my hesitation.
'Perhaps, Mr. Glover,' said Turk, 'if you would not mind regarding what passes as confidential, and not to be mentioned to any one else, Christopher would be more at his ease.'
I gave Turk a grateful look.
'Christopher would be more at his ease,' repeated Mr. Glover. 'This really is very mysterious. I don't see any objection. Then you know what he is going to say?'
'I know the subject he wishes to speak upon--but I was not aware of it when I first came out with him to-night.'
'Is it such a subject as ought to be spoken of in confidence between us?'
He totally ignored me, as if my opinion on the point were of the smallest possible value.
'I think so,' replied Turk, 'if it be spoken of at all.'
'You have your doubts as to the judiciousness of the communication our young friend is about to make?'
'I have; and I have told him so.'
'Oh, you have told him so.'
He appeared to me to debate within himself whether, under such circumstances, he should listen any further; but his curiosity overcame his evident wish to baulk me.
'You may go on,' he said to me, with a condescending wave of his hand.
'It is understood, then,' I said, somewhat more boldly, 'that what we say to each other is quite private and will not be repeated?'
He stared at me very haughtily, and bent his head, and stood before me, with his fingers to his lips, waiting for me to speak. A singular fancy occurred to me at this moment as I gazed at him--a fancy which need not here be mentioned; it lingered in my mind then and afterwards, although I strove to dismiss it on this occasion as being utterly wild and out of all reason. But, in conjunction with another circumstance, which came to light in the course of time, it led to a strange discovery.
'I have not come to make any communication,' I said; 'I have only come to ask a question. I can speak more freely now, as you are a gentleman, and as what I say will not reach her ears.' (His lips repeated 'Her ears,' but he did not repeat the words aloud.) 'It is about Miss Trim'----
'About Jessie,' he said, in a lighter tone. 'Yes; what about her?'
'Do you know where she is?'
His looks were disturbed now, although he strove to be cool.
'Do I know where she is?' he repeated, with a contraction of his eyes.
'That is what I have come to ask.'
'Oh, that is what you have come to ask.'
'There is no need for me to repeat the question, I suppose,' I said, controlling my desire to strike at him, for his manner was in the last degree contemptuous, notwithstanding that the interest he took in the conversation was evidently strengthened.
'No; I understand the English language, and you will be kind enough to understand that I am not in the habit of being questioned. There is no need for you to repeat the question, but there is a need for my asking why it is put to me.'
'Then you do not know?'
He would not give me the satisfaction of a simple answer.
'Let me see,' he said, in a musing tone, 'to-day is her birthday.'
'You do know that.'
'She told me herself; these things are not guessed at.'
'You have not answered my question,' I said, trembling from passion and from a sense of helplessness.
'You have not answered mine,' he replied. 'I ask you why you put it to me?'
Turk motioned to me that I ought to tell him, but I could not speak.
'Perhaps I had best explain,' Turk then said. 'This is Jessie's birthday, as you know, and Christopher and his mother had prepared a little feast in honour of it.'
'After the manner of such people,' observed Mr. Glover, with a sneer and a laugh, which set my pulses beating more quickly. Turk took no notice of the observation.
'My sister Josey was invited, to please Jessie, and Chris had a little present to give her----'
'Exceedingly pretty and pathetic,' interrupted Mr. Glover. 'It would make a charming domestic scene in poor life, if it was placed on the stage. These commonplace circumstances tickle the fancy, and please sentimental persons, whenever they are presented in an unreal form. In real life, of course, there is nothing very attractive in them--often the reverse, I should say. But the picture you have drawn would be a failure even on the stage, if there was nothing exciting to follow. We want a "situation," Turk.'
'We have one ready,' responded Turk. 'Without warning, and most strangely and suddenly, Jessie leaves her home. Her friends suppose she has gone out for a walk, and are waiting for her with uneasiness, which grows stronger as the time goes on and Jessie does not return. While they are waiting, a letter comes----'
'Are you concocting a plot?' asked Mr. Glover.
'I am telling you exactly what has occurred. A letter is received from Jessie, in which she says that she has gone away, and never intends to return. Chris, in his anxiety, has come to see you, in the hope--or the fear--of hearing some news of her.'
I had been watching Mr. Glover's face all the time Turk was speaking, but it was impossible for me to decide whether he was acting or not. The only change I observed in him occurred during Turk's last words; then a little light came into his eyes, which might have been construed into an expression of triumph.
'And Chris, in his anxiety,' he said, has come to see me in the hope--or the fear--of hearing some news of her. Which is it?' he asked, turning to me; 'hope or fear?'
'Fear,' I replied unhesitatingly.
'What do you suspect me of?' he continued politely; 'running away with her? You don't answer. Afraid to put it into words. But that's the plain English of it, isn't it? You did a wise thing in stipulating that what passes between us is to be kept private, or I might have been tempted to tell the young lady in question something which would not be pleasant for her to hear. Had you known what is due to a gentleman from one in your station of life, I might have been induced to satisfy your inexplicable anxiety concerning her; as it is, I decline to do so. She would be both amused and angry to learn that you have set up some sort of a claim upon her, as if there could be any community of feeling between you. You seem to forget that she is a lady, and that you--well, that you are not a gentleman. Take this piece of advice from one who is competent to give it--go home and stick to your bench, and don't presume to cast your thoughts on what is not only beyond your reach, but immeasurably above you. Good-night, Turk.'
And with a contemptuous glance at me, Mr. Glover walked away in a very leisurely manner.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A NEW FEAR.
I walked home in the most sorrowful of moods. Turk accompanied me part of the way, but when he began to speak in Mr. Glover's favour, I said that I would prefer to walk by myself. The good fellow took the hint, and would not notice my churlishness.
'I know, I know, old fellow,' he said, shaking hands with me; 'but you might count me as nobody. Never mind, Chris, my boy, you won't find many better friends than Turk West; and he's not to be shaken off, let me tell you.'
I reflected with bitterness that I had not one friend who thought as I thought. Everybody was against me, and I was distrusted and misunderstood even by those who should have held to me most closely. I walked for miles out of my way, almost blindly, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, but my own despair and grief. The streets were very still as I approached our house, and I lingered about the spots where Jessie and I had lingered and talked in the days that were gone.
Josey West opened the door for me. Her face was very grave.
'Well?' she said.
'I have heard nothing, Josey. She has not come home?'
'No.'
A peculiar accent in her voice struck me.
'How is mother?' I asked.
She closed her lips firmly, and looked at me seriously and reproachfully. I rebelled against that look; my heart was full almost to bursting.
'Why don't you and those who were my friends say what you think of me?' I demanded bitterly. 'Why don't you say at once that I am to blame for all that has occurred, and that I, and I only, am the cause of all this misery?'
'I don't say so,' she replied gently, 'because I don't think so.'
'But you look at me as if it were so,' I said loudly; 'you and all the others. You have fair words and fair excuses for every one but me----'
She placed her fingers on her lips. 'Hush!' she said; 'don't be cruel as well as unjust.'
Her hand was on my arm, and I shook it off roughly. 'Who is the just one? Uncle Bryan? I will talk to you no more. How is mother?'
'Go up and see; but tread softly. You are not the only sufferer--remember that.'
I went upstairs, and into my mother's room, softly. Josey West followed me.
'Mother,' I said.
She opened her eyes and looked at me vacantly. She did not know me; even when I took her hand, and fondled it in mine, she showed no sign of recognition. Then a feeling of desolation, more terrible than any pain I had yet suffered, entered my heart, and I fell on my knees by her side. Was I to lose her next? It seemed so. Her white pitiful face, her parched restless lips, her mournful eyes gazing on vacancy, her hot skin, were like so many tongues reproaching me for my selfishness.
'For God's sake tell me, Josey,' I whispered, 'how long has she been like this?'
'The change came a little while after the doctor left. She bore up while he was here, and tried to answer him cheerfully; but when he was gone, she broke down.'
'Did she speak, Josey.'
'A little at first.'
'What about?'
'Only about you, Chris; but I cannot tell you what she said. They were only broken words of tenderness----' Josey turned from me, and could not continue for her tears.
'Did you not go for the doctor again, Josey?'
'I could not leave her, Chris.'
'Uncle Bryan might have gone--'
I knocked at his door, and called him again and again; but I got no answer.'
I went at once to his room, and knocked, but no answer came. I tried the handle, and found that the door was unlocked. I entered the room, and struck a light. Uncle Bryan was not there, and his bed had not been lain upon. I went downstairs into my own bedroom, and searched the house swiftly; uncle Bryan was not in it.
Did you see him go out, Josey?'
'No; I have not seen him since you left.'
'I must run for the doctor. Will you stop here?'
'I'll stop, Chris, and do all I can to help you.'
I pressed her hand, and within half an hour the doctor was at my mother's bedside. I waited below until he came down.
'If you will walk back with me,' he said, will give you some medicine for your mother.'
'Is she very ill, sir?'
'Very.'
My heart sank as I asked, 'Dangerously?'
'I think so, but we shall know more in a day or two.'
'Then there is no immediate danger, sir?'
'I think not--I think not; but we must be prepared for the worst.' He said something more than this, but I did not hear him. A mist stole upon my senses, for his quiet tone portended the worst. 'Bear up, Mr. Carey,' he said; 'you must not give way. We will do our best. A great deal will depend upon good nursing. That is a sensible little woman who is with her now.'
This doctor was a man who was deservedly worshipped by the poor in our neighbourhood; his life was really one of self-sacrifice, for he was a capable man, was paid badly, worked hard, and did his duty bravely.
'Can you tell me what she is suffering from, sir?'
'I was about to ask you that question Mr. Carey,' was his reply. 'All that I know at present is that she is in a high state of fever, that her blood is thin and poor, and that she is as weak as a human being dare be who requires strength to battle successfully with disease. It appears to me that she must have been suffering for some time, for a very long time probably--but I am in the dark as to that--and that she has at length given way. If you put upon a beam a pressure greater than it can bear, the beam must break.'
'But I do not think my mother has worked too hard, sir.'
The mind has acted upon the body. Hard physical work itself seldom, if ever, kills. In the case of this beam----you follow me?'
'Yes sir.'
'In the case of this beam, there have been secret inroads upon its power of resistance, and the wood has rotted. I have seen stout planks cut through, and colonies of little insects bared to the light which have been steadily and surely eating away its strength. I am speaking plainly, because I think it is the best course in all these cases, and when I am speaking to a sensible man.'
'Thank you, sir; I should prefer to hear the truth, terrible though it be.'
'Outwardly, these planks seem capable of bearing any pressure, but when a great trial comes, they must give way. There are thousands and thousands of human beings walking about, in seemingly good health, in precisely the same condition. Has your mother suffered any great trouble?'
'A great trouble has come upon us within the last few hours.'
'An unexpected trouble?'
'Totally unexpected, sir.'
'For which you were quite unprepared?'
'Quite, sir.'
'That may be the immediate, but is not the direct, cause of your mother's illness. She has been enduring a long strain, as I have said, and has at length broken down under it.' By this time we were in his shop, and he was preparing the medicine. 'You look ill yourself. Let me feel your pulse.' He looked me steadily in the face. 'You are your mother's only child, I believe. Miss West led me to infer as much.'
'She was right, sir.'
'Well, then,' he said, giving me a rough and kindly shake, 'your mother's ultimate recovery may depend--I only say may--upon you. Think of that, and don't be falling ill yourself.'
'I'll try not to,' I murmured, for I felt sick and faint.
'Drink this,' he said, pouring out a draught for me; it will revive you. You will try not to? Nay, you must make up your mind not to, for your mother's sake. We never know what we can do. Why, we can conquer pain, if we are strong-willed enough. I was explaining about your mother. She is so delicately and exquisitely susceptible, that to have those about her whom she loves may contribute more to her recovery than anything all the doctors in London could do. She is in a state of delirium at present; under the most favourable circumstances, she is likely to remain in this state for a week or two, probably for longer. If, when she recovers her senses, the first face she looks upon and recognises is a face that she loves, it may not only contribute to her recovery, it may accomplish it. On the other hand, if she misses a face that is dear to her, and that she has been accustomed to see about her, it may cause a relapse, and prove fatal. I have tried to make myself clear, and to give you a good reason why you must keep well. Don't mope. If you have any private grief of your own, keep it under until this peril is past.'
I thanked him, and left him. I told Josey West exactly what the doctor had said, and she returned the compliment he had paid her of calling her a sensible little woman by saying that he was a sensible man.
'And now, Chris,' she said, 'you must go to bed.'
I said that I would sit up with my mother, and tried to persuade Josey to lie down; but she refused, saying rest was more necessary to me than to her.
'In the first place, you have your work to do; that must not be neglected for all the Jessie Trims in the world. Oh, yes, my dear. You may shake your head, but I've been remarkably quiet all through, and I think I'm entitled to say a few words.'
'I'll not stop to hear anything spoken against her,' I said.
'That's right. Fly up. You think you're fonder of her than I am. That you can't be. But I'm not satisfied with her, and I sha'n't be until I get all this explained. There's something behind it that neither you nor I suspect, or my name isn't Josey West.'
'That's what Turk says,' I interposed.
'I expect you've been leading him a fine life to-night. Poor Turk! Why, he worships the ground she walks upon. I tell you what it is, my sweet child,' she said sarcastically, there's more lessons than one you've got to learn. But to come back. There's some mystery behind all this; but it might be one thing, and it might be another. I'm in a whirl, that's what I am, my dear.'
I really think Josey administered these words to me as a kind of medicine. But she could not deceive me as to the feelings she entertained for Jessie. If any person had dared in her presence to say a word against her friend, she would have been the first to defend her.
'Josey,' I said, 'I shall feel much relieved if you will promise me one thing.'
'That depends. I'm not going to open my mouth and shut my eyes.'
'If Jessie tells you the reason of her going away----'
'Which she's sure to do. Oh, I shall know all about it.'
'And if the knowledge does not come to me in any other way, will you tell me?'
'Upon my word! Me tell a secret? Not for all the world, master Chris.'
'But if it's not a secret?'
'Then of course you'll hear it.' We spoke in an undertone, so as not to disturb my mother, who lay unconscious of what was going on around her. But here you are stopping up,' continued Josey fretfully, when every minute's rest is precious to you and all of us. I have only told you one of my reasons why you must be fresh in the morning--and mind you sleep, master Chris, when you get to bed. I'll tell you another. There'll be the shop to look after.'
'That's uncle Bryan's business,' I replied, flushing with anger. The mere mention of his name aroused all my bitterness against him. 'If mother could be moved from this house to-morrow with safety, I'd take her out of his sight without a moment's delay.'
'You'll not see your uncle Bryan again in a hurry,' said Josey. 'You mark my words--he's gone for good.'
I did not stop to discuss the point, but went to the bedside and kissed my mother. As I leant over her, I could scarcely hear her breathing, and but for a light convulsive sob which rose to her throat every now and then, and which she seemed to make an effort to check, it would have been difficult to detect any sign of life in her. The doctor's words dwelt in my mind as I gazed at her beloved face, and for the first time in my life I appreciated at their proper worth the sacrifices which this dearest of women had made for one so unworthy as I. I knelt at her bedside, and prayed that her life might be spared to me--prayed with humble heart--and my tears flowed freely.
Josey was outside on the landing.
'Good-night, my dear,' she said; 'give me a kiss.'
Mine were not the only tears on my face as I walked downstairs.
CHAPTER XL.
WHAT THE NEIGHBOURS SAID.
Josey West's prediction proved to be right. When I rose the next morning uncle Bryan had not returned. Josey, looking as fresh as though she had had a good night's rest, told me that there had been no change in my mother's condition--that only a few words had passed her lips, and that those words were about me.
'There's a lot to do,' she said; you've got your work to look after, the shop must be attended to, and there's your mother to nurse. I really think, my dear, that if your uncle doesn't make his appearance, we had best take possession of the place. Two things we must be careful of--we mustn't let the business be ruined, and we must try to keep the neighbours from talking of what has occurred. When a lot of gossiping women get hold of a woman's name, with a story attached to it, they tear that woman's name to pieces with as much pleasure as they would eat a good dinner; and as for the story, my dear, when you hear it the next day you wouldn't know it, they twist and mangle it so. Stop here while I run round to my house; I sha'n't be gone ten minutes.'
During Josey's absence the doctor came.
'Your mother is no worse,' he said, after his examination; 'but I am not satisfied with her condition; it puzzles me. I can say nothing at present except that rest and freedom from agitation are imperative; there must be no noise in the house, no voices raised in anger, nothing that can in any way disturb her. Her life may depend upon it.'
By this I knew that he must have heard something more of what had taken place than what I had told him. Indeed, the gossips of the neighbourhood had commenced their work. I have puzzled my head many times to discover by what means they knew what they knew, but it was and is a mystery to me. They were familiar with matters which I had supposed no person outside our little circle could possibly be acquainted with. They knew that uncle Bryan and I were at daggers drawn, and that there had been a desperate quarrel between us; they knew that he had left the house, that Jessie had run away on her birthday, and that my mother was lying dangerously ill. Being in possession of these bare bones, they put them together with amazing ingenuity, and produced the most astounding results. The first thing they settled was, that uncle Bryan and I had quarrelled not alone with our tongues, but with our hands; and one of the pictures which grew out of the story as it was related by one to another represented uncle Bryan lying on the ground and me standing over him with a knife, while Josey West was rushing between us to prevent murder being done. Another picture represented uncle Bryan packing up in a handkerchief all his treasure in money (for, strange to say, I now learned for the first time that he bore the reputation of a miser, and that it was generally supposed he had large sums of money concealed), and stealing off in the dead of night in fear of his life. Another, and the worst, picture concerned Jessie and Mr. Glover. Mr. Glover, an enormously rich gentleman, had fallen desperately in love with Jessie, and she had consented to elope with him. The gossips gloated over the details. A carriage with a pair of gray horses was waiting at the corner of a certain street (name given) about a quarter of a mile away; Mr. Glover, in a large cloak, was on the watch at the appointed time; Jessie made her appearance, with a small bundle in her hand wrapped in a handkerchief; Mr. Glover lifted her into the carriage, jumped in after her, and away they whirled. Even if they had been inclined to doubt the truth of this story (which they were not), it was impossible for them to do so because of the exact and wonderful details which accompanied its relation. There were a coachman and a footman dressed in such and such a way, down to their very buttons; the carriage was painted blue, with edgings of yellow; Mr. Glover wore a smoking-cap, and his cloak had a fur collar, and two gold tassels attached to it. This cloak gave an air of mysterious romance to the picture, and added much to the enjoyment of it. It is worthy of notice that both uncle Bryan and Jessie left our house with something done up in a pocket-handkerchief. This occurs to me as an arbitrary feature in the painting of such pictures; and I have no doubt that, had a dozen persons been missing, each would have been portrayed as stealing away with something done up in a pocket-handkerchief in his hand.
Before the day was out, the whole neighbourhood was busy talking over these stories, and discussing their probable results.
Josey had returned within the ten minutes, and brought with her Matty and Rosy. The shop was opened, and a more than usually brisk business was done, in consequence of the gossips dropping in to pick up information; but I resolutely refused to go behind the counter. I would have nothing to do with it. I had already saved a little purse of money, and my earnings were good. I was determined to have no further connection with uncle Bryan in any shape or way whatever.
'Then I must take possession,' observed Josey, after listening to my views, which I expressed in most unmistakable terms. It would be a pity to let such a business go to rack and ruin. If your uncle Bryan returns, I shall be able to render a proper account.'
She entered upon this as she entered upon everything else, with intense and thorough earnestness, and the business was carried on, and the duties of the house performed, as though nothing of importance had occurred to disturb them. She might have been born a grocer for the intimate knowledge she displayed of the requirements of the trade. When I expressed my astonishment, she said philosophically:
'My dear, nothing's difficult. One can do anything if one makes up one's mind to do it. All one has got to do is to go about it willingly.'
In the mean time I looked out anxiously for news of Jessie, but on the first day of her absence I learnt nothing. I went to Mr. Rackstraw's in the afternoon to make inquiries, but he received me coldly, and desired me not to call again--in such terms that I was certain Mr. Glover had made him my enemy. Then I went to Turk's new shop, and found him very busy, and sanguine of his prospects. But as he had no news of Jessie I listened to his relation of his plans with small interest.
'I shall be able to serve you, Chris,' he said, before I went away; 'I shall keep my eyes open.'
That night I sat up with my mother until three o'clock, when Josey relieved me. My mother did not know me, and although I strove hard to make her recognise me, her eyes dwelt on my face as they would have done on the face of a stranger. What pain and grief this brought to me I cannot describe.
There was something different in the arrangement of the room, and I made a remark concerning it to Josey. The room was clearer, lighter. Josey explained it to me in a sharp tone, as though she desired not to be questioned.
'The doctor said the room must be made as airy as possible; he doesn't want a lot of lumber about.'
But the next morning it occurred to me that the box in which Jessie kept her clothes and nicknacks had been taken out of the room. I looked about the house for it, but could not find it.
'Where is Jessie's box, Josey?' I asked.
'Gone,' was the short and snappish reply.
'Gone where?'
'Well, I suppose you must be told. While you were away yesterday, Jessie sent for it.'
'Then you know where she is,' I cried excitedly, jumping to my feet, and tearing off my working-coat.
'Yes, I know where she is.'
I waited, but Josey did not volunteer further information. I looked at her reproachfully.
'I'll just tell you as much as I'm compelled to, master Christopher, and no more. I had a letter from Jessie yesterday---O, no; you'll not see it! It was meant for my own eyes, and no others. I said that Jessie would tell me the reason of her going away, and she has done so; and I know where she is, and I've sent her clothes and all her things to her. And that's all, master Christopher.'
'No, it isn't all, Josey. You will tell me something more. If I'm not to know where she is----'
'Which you are not,' Josey interrupted; 'not from me at least.'
'I may know whether she is well.'
'Yes, she is well in health.'
'And happy?'
'I don't know; I can't tell.'
'Did she do right in going away?'
She answered me in precisely the same words.
'I don't know; I can't tell.'
'Is she stopping with friends?'
'Yes, she is stopping with friends.'
'But what friends can she have that we don't know of?'
'Ah,' exclaimed Josey, more snappishly than before, 'what friends, I wonder?'
'Josey,' I said coaxingly, putting my arm round her waist----
'I tell you what it is, master Christopher. If you ask me many more questions, I shall run away;' but in spite of her assumed severity, her tone softened.
'I won't ask you many more, Josey,' I said, and I felt the tears rising to my eyes, 'but you might have some pity for me.'
'Bless the dear child!' she said, with a motherly air, I have some pity for you! Why, you stupid boy, I'm as fond of you as though you were my own brother!'
'Then tell me if it was because of me Jessie went away.'
'You had nothing to do with it.'
It was a relief to me to hear this, for I had in some way got it in my mind that Jessie had run away to escape the proposal she suspected I intended to make to her. I approached a more delicate subject.
'You have heard the stories the neighbours are telling each other, Josey, about Jessie and Mr. Glover.'
'Oh, yes, I've heard them! The scandal-mongers! I'd like to wring their ears for them.'
That was sufficient for me; a great weight was lifted from my heart. There was another question that I must ask.
'Did Jessie in her letter say anything about me? Did she send me any message?'
'She did, and I wasn't to give it to you unless you asked for it. Perhaps I'd better read it.' She took the letter from her pocket and read: '"Chris will be sure to miss my box"--you see,' said Josey interrupting her reading, 'Jessie sent the letter to my house; she didn't know I was here; and I was to ask your mother to let me have her box, so that I might send it to Jessie without your knowing.'
'Then there's a message to mother in that letter?'
'There is, but I can't give it to her, poor dear!'
'Go on with what Jessie says about me, Josey.'
'"Chris will be sure to miss my box, and if he asks you if I have sent him any message, say that I hope he will not try to discover where I am, and that I hope also he will not think worse of me than I am. If we meet again----"' here Josey broke off with, 'But that's not for you, I should say.'
'It must be for me, Josey. You have no right to keep it from me.'
'Well, if you will have it. "If we meet again, it must be at my own time and in my own way. Whether I am right or wrong in what I have done and what I intend to do, I have quite made up my mind, and no one can advise me." Now I hope you are satisfied.'
I was compelled to be. There were both balm and gall in the letter--balm because the tales that slanderous tongues were circulating were false, and gall because Jessie had written in such a manner as to give me but little hope that she reciprocated my love. If she loved me, she would have confided in me. Is it possible, I reflected with bitterness, that she could have led me on, knowing my feelings towards her, and making light of them? But the thought was transient; I would not entertain it. It would be a shame on my manhood to doubt her. What if she were not for me--would that prove her unworthy? But it was bitter to bear, and the scalding tears ran from my eyes as I laid my head on my mother's pillow. My sobs disturbed her, and she moved her fingers feebly towards my neck. It was the first sign of recognition she had displayed since her illness. I fondled her poor thin hand, and kissed it, and moved close to her lips, for she was murmuring faint words. But these words were addressed not to me, but to my father, who had been dead for so many years. She was speaking to him of their darling boy, and of the happiness he would be to them when he grew to be a man. I listened sadly; every soft word she murmured was a dagger in my heart, for I was beginning to learn the strength of her love and the weakness of mine. Heavy as was the blow which had fallen upon me, I felt that there might be comfort and peace even yet for me, if my mother lived to enjoy the outward evidences of my penitence and love, and that a curse indeed must fall upon my life if she died without blessing me.
CHAPTER XLI.
JOSEY WEST DECLARES THAT SHE HAS GOT INTO HER PROPER GROOVE.
A week had passed, and there was still no change in my mother's condition. Every time the doctor visited her, his manner became more serious. The shadow of death seemed to hang already over the house.
'Her strength will not hold out for another week, I am afraid.' He spoke these words to Josey West, out of my hearing as he thought.
I followed him from the house.
'I heard what you said to Miss West,' I said to him. 'Is all hope really gone? Can nothing be done?'
He did not reply immediately, and before he spoke he took my arm kindly.
'This is one of the cases outside my experience. Your mother has nothing that a physician can grapple with. She has no organic disease that I can discover, and although physically she is fearfully weak, it is mental suffering that is killing her. It is not usual for a doctor to speak as plainly as I am speaking to you, but it is best to do so. I have heard so much that is good and noble in your mother's life, that it would rejoice me exceedingly to see her rise from her bed in health.'
'No one but I can know how tender and beautiful her life has been,' I said, with sobs. 'If I could give my life for hers, I would resign it with cheerfulness.'
'But I suspect,' said the doctor, with a curiously-observant air upon him, 'that that is just the thing that would be most effectual in killing her. Come, now, recover yourself: I have something to say to you. I shall count a hundred, and then I shall go on. . . . When you first consulted me, and I asked you what your mother was suffering from, I seriously meant it. I want to cure your mother, or at all events to show you the way to do it, for I have an idea that you, not I, must be the doctor. I will make you a present of all my little fees in this case if I am successful. That ought to assure you of my earnestness.' He smiled gently as he said this. 'Knowing full well, as you say, that you would treble them if we happily succeed. I will give you another proof of my earnestness. I loved my mother. Have I won your confidence? Well then, I can grapple with physical disease with fair success; give me the opportunity of grappling with the mental disease which is killing your mother. I have an hour, perhaps two, to spare. Tell me, unreservedly, the story of your mother's life, in which of course yours will be included. Conceal nothing, and be especially explicit in every incident where the feelings are brought into play. If you understand me, and are willing to trust me, commence at once.'
I told him all, freely and without reservation, from my first remembrance in connection with my mother, to the time--but a few days past--when I heard her in her delirium speaking to my father about me and my future. Many times during the recital I was compelled to pause from emotion, and when I finished his eyes also were suffused with tears.
'I know now,' he said softly, what will kill your mother if she dies. It will shock you to hear it, and you must not think me cruel for telling you. When your mother, in the night she was taken ill, cried to you that her heart was almost broken, it was no mere phrase that she uttered--it was a cry from her soul, and the words exactly represented her condition. If she dies, it will be because her heart is broken. And you will have broken it. Ay,' he continued gently, as I started in horror from him, 'and so would your mother start from me if she had strength and sense to hear and understand. She would think me the cruelest monster. But what I have said is true nevertheless. Your mother's life has been bound up in yours. No woman, unsustained by most perfect and most unselfish love, could have held up against such trials as hers; where she has had doubts she has thrust them from her, and her deep affection has given her strength to bear her sufferings. For a long time there has been raging within her a mental conflict, the torture of which only those can understand who love as she loves, and only those can feel whose natures are as delicately sensitive as hers. Even I, until now a stranger to her and to you, can see the fire which has been consuming her gentle spirit. And when the final blow came, and she was made to feel by your words that she had wrecked your happiness and had lost your love (for she must have felt then what she had long feared), she sank beneath it. I have, thank God, through all my life reverenced woman's character, but I never reverenced it so thoroughly as I do now, after hearing your story. You ask me if all hope is really gone, and if nothing can be done? Well, I see a way. What can kill can cure. I warn you that the chance is a slight one, but it must be tried. Can you afford to go away from London for a time?'
'Yes, I have money saved; and I think I could arrange to take work with me, and do it in the country.'
'That is well. If you will take your mother away from London, say to the scenes with which you were familiar when you were a child, and attend to her yourself, and make her feel and understand that you love her as she deserves and yearns to be loved, she may recover. That is the only chance. She is almost certain to have conscious intervals. If you have tact enough to be alone with her, as you were in the old days, when her consciousness first returns, it may prove the turning-point towards convalescence. I cannot explain myself more fully; I will give you a simple strengthening medicine with you, and all necessary directions as to diet. When will you go?'
I arranged to go on the following day, and Josey West said that, notwithstanding what the doctor had said, it was impossible that I should go alone. Her sister Florry, who was nearly sixteen years of age, should accompany us.
'If your mother asks who she is,' said Josey, 'you can say she is the maid.'
So it was settled, and Florry, a pretty good girl, who was wild with delight at the idea of going into the country, promised to do her best.
No news had been heard of uncle Bryan. I cannot say that, after my anger had cooled, I was not anxious about him. It was impossible for me to be indifferent as to his fate, and I made inquiries quietly, but without result. He had disappeared most effectually, and had left no trace behind. My principal reason for wishing to find him was to let him know that we were leaving his house, and that we should not return; I had made up my mind on this point. Josey West and I had a long conversation about him.
I believe he will never come back, my dear,' said Josey, 'never, under any circumstances. Of course you have heard what some of the neighbours say--that he has made away with himself; but that's all nonsense. He's not a man of that sort. He'll rub on grimly and grumly to the end. Why, my dear, if it was to happen that he was to starve to death--which he wouldn't do willingly, and without trying to get bread--he'd starve quietly and without a murmur. Ah, he's a wicked old man, I daresay, and I know that you have cause to hate him, but I can't help liking him a bit for all that. What I shall do about the shop is this, unless you object. I shall shut up our house--there's no business doing, my dear; I don't lend out a wardrobe a month--and all the children shall come round here to live. It will be good fun for them. I shall keep the accounts as square as I can, although the figures are getting into a mess already, and I'm beginning to be bothered with them--but never mind, there's the money, so much paid out, so much coming in; it'll be simple enough to reckon what's left. And if I do hear anything of your uncle, I'll be off to him at once, and bring him back, tied up, if he won't come any other way.'
I could see no better plan than this, and I thanked Josey cordially.
'Where are you going to first?' she asked, interrupting me abruptly.
'To Hertford, where I was born,' I replied.
She nodded, and said she thought it was the best place, and that I must be sure and keep her informed of my whereabouts, as she would want to write to me regularly. The next morning we were off.
We reached Hertford by easy stages. Josey was quite right in insisting that I should take Florry with me. I soon learnt that I could not have done without some one, and I found Florry to be so quietly and unobtrusively useful that I grew very fond of the little maid. I took lodgings in a pleasant suburb, from the windows of which we could see the river Lea, and the barges gliding indolently along. Florry said it was heavenly. My mother bore the journey well, and was no worse at the end than when we started. I was very thankful for that, for I feared she might not be strong enough to bear it; but we were very careful of her, and if she had been my sister Florry could not have been more attentive and affectionate. But my mother knew no one, and saw only the pictures and figures which her fevered imagination conjured up. I selected for her bedroom a large room on the first floor, and placed her bed so that she could see the river from it. I fixed my table for work so that when she opened her eyes, and looked towards the river, she could see me also. I had been fortunate enough to obtain sufficient work to last me for three or four weeks, and I was sure of more to follow.
On the very first day I observed what I thought was a favourable change in my mother. Awaking from a restless sleep she opened her eyes, and saw a white sail passing along the river; she watched it quietly until it was out of sight, and then closed her eyes and slept again, but more peacefully than before. She did not seem to see me, although I turned my face to her and smiled. It was soon evident that she took pleasure in the prospect of the river, for before two days had passed I observed her lie and watch it restfully. It appeared to act like a charm upon her, bringing peace to her troubled heart in some strange way. In London, during her illness, scarcely an hour had passed, day and night, without her rest being broken by sobs; but here in Hertford, after she grew accustomed to the sight of the river, her days were quiet and peaceful, and it was only in the night that she was disturbed. During the first week I left her but twice; once to go to the house in which I was born, and once to visit the old churchyard in which my father was buried. The house was the same as I remembered it, and the churchyard had a few new gravestones in it; there was no other change. All my childish experiences came vividly to my mind, and I should scarcely have been surprised, as I peeped through the parlour-window, where I used to sit in my low armchair with my grandmother, listening to her monotonous heavy breathing, to see her sitting in state, in her silk dress, with her large fat hands folded in her lap! I did see a woman who reminded me of Jane Painter, our servant, and I crossed the road quickly and walked away from her. In the churchyard, I went to my father's grave, and then to the grave of Snaggletooth's little daughter. I found it quite easily, but the inscription upon it was no longer discernible. I remembered so well every incident of that day that I could see myself carried out of the churchyard in Snaggletooth's arms, and I closed my eyes as I thought how I fell asleep there.
These scenes and remembrances soothed and consoled me; I seemed to be lifted out of a fever of unrest.
Gradually my mother's eyes grew accustomed to see me working always at my table, and they began to dwell on me, at first unconcernedly, but presently with a kind of struggling observance in them. I hailed this change with gladness, and waited and hoped, and prayed humbly night and morning. Josey West wrote to me regularly, and one day this letter came: