MINISTERING ANGELS.
A crowd gathered round her in an instant. A nursery-maid, with her
shrieking, frightened, inquisitive charges; a man who had been reading
a book, and who still retained it open in his hand; a Life-guardsman
who, jauntily striding along with a cane under his arm, had seen the
horse jump and fall, and had him by the bridle so soon as he staggered
to his feet, after rolling; a few vagrant boys, who came whooping from
under the trees where they had been at play; and two old gentlemen,
who had been silently pacing up and down together. Flecked with foam,
covered with gravel, and bleeding at the knees and mouth, Balthazar
stood trembling all over; and now and then looking down in wonder at
his mistress who lay there, her head supported on a man's knee, her
face deadly white, with one small thread of blood trickling down her
forehead. The man on whose knee she lay passed his hand rapidly down
her side and in the region of her heart. He was a park-keeper--a big
brown-bearded man, whose decorated breast showed what deadly service
he had seen--a stalwart giant with the heart of a child, for the tears
were in his eyes, and his voice was any thing but steady as he looked
up and said, "It beats yet!" It was to the guardsman he said it--the
guardsman, who gave Balthazar's bit a wrench, and who muttered hearty
curses on the horse for spoiling the beauty of such a comely lass.
"All your fault, you blunder-headed brute, it was! The lady sat him
like a bird, but he got the bit between his teeth and came bolting
down the Row; and when she tried to turn him over the rails, he jumped
short, the beast, and went slap on to his head. Yarr!" and he gave the
horse another chuck in the mouth, and looked as if he would have liked
nothing so well as to punish him on the spot.
As he spoke, a carriage drawn by a pair of horses came whirling down
the Drive. It contained two ladies, one of whom, seeing the crowd, sat
up, and pointed it out to her companion. Then they both looked eagerly
out, and checked the coachman just as they reached the spot. By his
mistress's orders the footman descended, inquired what had happened,
and returned to the carriage to report. The next minute Alice
Schröder, closely followed by Barbara Churchill, was kneeling by Kate
Mellon's side.
What was it?--how had it happened?--who was the lady?--did any one
know her?--had a doctor been sent for? These questions were asked in a
breath, and almost as speedily answered. The story of the accident, so
much of it at least as had been witnessed, was narrated. The
park-keeper knew the lady by sight as a constant rider in the Row,
always splendidly mounted, generally with other ladies, who, he
thought, were pupils like; real ladies, the latter, and no doubt
about it; for he thought he saw a glimmer of distrust in Barbara's
eye; and this poor lady regularly like one of themselves. Poor lady!
always so affable, giving "Good morning" to him and the other
park-keepers--never knew her name, no; but no harm in her--one of the
right sort, take his word for it. Had a doctor been sent for? Yes; two
of the vagrant boys had been started off by the man with the book to
fetch the nearest surgeon; but in the mean time several other persons
had come up; among them a tall thin gentleman on an old white horse.
This gentleman dismounted at once, quietly pushed his way through the
crowd, knelt down by poor Kate Mellon's senseless body, and placed his
finger on her pulse; then, looking up with a grave, thoughtful,
professional smile into Mrs. Schröder's face, said:
"You are a friend of this lady's?"
"Only in my desire to serve her," said poor little Alice, who was the
best-hearted little creature in the world, and who was bursting with
philanthropy. "Why do you ask?"
"Simply that she must be moved to the nearest house as quietly and as
quickly as possible. I am Dr. B.," continued the gentleman, naming a
well-known physician; "but this is a surgeon's case, and should be
seen by a surgeon at once. I fear St. George's is almost too far off."
"St. George's!" said Alice. "Oh, she must not go to an hospital;
she--"
"My dear lady," said the old physician, "she could not go to any place
so good; but it is a little far off."
"Then let her go to my house," said Alice. "I live close here--in
Saxe-Coburg Square--just through Queen's Gate. Let us take her there
at once, and--"
"My dear young lady," said Dr. B., "you scarcely know what trouble you
are entailing on yourself. This poor girl is in a very bad way, I am
sure, from the mere cursory examination I have been able to make.
And--and, pardon me," he added, glancing at Alice's widow's-cap, "but
you, surely, have seen enough trouble already for one so young."
"Will you be kind enough to superintend her being lifted into the
carriage?" was all Alice said in reply. And the doctor bowed, and
looked at her with a wonderfully benevolent expression out of his keen
gray eyes.
Where had Barbara been during this colloquy? Where, but at the side of
the prostrate figure, staunching the little stream of blood that welled
slowly from the wound in the forehead, and bathing the deadly-cold
brow and the limp hands with water that had been fetched from the
neighbouring Serpentine. And then, at the doctor's suggestion, the
park-keeper fetched a hurdle from the enclosure, and this they
stretched across the seats of the carriage, and, covering it with
Shawls and cloaks and wraps, lifted on to it the prostrate form of
Kate Mellon, and with Alice and Barbara attendant on her, and the
doctor riding close by, they drove slowly away.
Informed by the doctor that it would be dangerous to attempt to carry
the patient upstairs, Mrs. Schröder had sent the footman on with
instructions; and by the time they arrived at the house they found
that a bed had been prepared in the library, a room on the ground
floor, unused since Mr. Schröder's death. As they passed through
Queen's Gate Dr. B. had cantered off, promising to return in a minute,
and they had scarcely laid poor Kitty on the bed before he appeared,
followed by a handsome bald-headed man, with a keen eye and a smile of
singular sweetness, wham he introduced as Mr. Slade, the celebrated
surgeon of St. Vitus's.
"I thought I recognised Slade's cab standing at a door in
Prince's Terrace. He drives the most runaway horse in the most easily
over-turned vehicle in London; but I suppose he thinks he can set his
own neck when he breaks it, which he is safe to do sooner or later; so
I rode round, and fortunately caught him just as he was coming out. And
now I'll leave the case in his hands; it would be impossible to leave
it in better." And so saying, Dr. B. bowed to the ladies, exchanged a
laugh and a pinch of snuff with his brother-professional, and took his
leave.
Mr. Slade then approached the bed, and made a rapid examination of the
patient, the others watching him anxiously. His face revealed nothing,
nor did he speak until he sent one of the servants for a small square
box, which was, he said, in his carriage. While waiting for this,
Alice took heart to speak to him, and ask him if the case was very
serious.
"Very," was his quiet reply. "Could scarcely be worse."
"But there _is_ hope?"
"There is always hope," said the old man, his lace lighting up with
his sweet grave smile; "but this is a very bad case. The poor girl's
ribs are severely fractured, and there is concussion here," pointing
to the head, "which causes her insensibility. The box--thank you. Now,
ladies, will you kindly leave the room, and I will join you
presently."
When he came into the drawing-room, he said, "It is a compound
fracture, and of a very bad kind. I fear she will never pull through;
if she does, she must never dream of work again. I presume you ladies
have been pupils of hers?"
"Pupils!" said Alice; "no, indeed; was she a governess?"
"We do not even know this poor lady's name," said Barbara; "we saw the
accident, and Mrs. Schröder had her brought here at once."
"Mrs. Schröder is an angel of mercy," said Mr. Slade, with an
old-fashioned bow. "This poor girl lying downstairs is Miss Mellon, a
riding-mistress; a most correct and proper person, I've always heard,
and one who had a great deal to do in breaking and training horses.
I've often seen her in the Park; she rode splendidly; and I cannot
conceive how this accident occurred."
"Do you think her senses will return--that she will be able to express
any wishes--before--"
"I should think so," said Mr. Slade, not permitting Barbara to finish
the sentence; "I think she will probably recover from the concussion,
and then she will be sensible. It is the fracture I fear. I'll send a
man to her place in Down Street, to let them know where she is, and
I'll look round again this evening."
SO there Kate Mellon lay helpless, senseless, motionless, watched over
unconsciously by two women, one of whom she hated deeply, and by the
other of whom she was held in the greatest detestation. There she lay
through the dreary afternoon, through the long evening,--when Mr.
Slade came again bringing with him one of the hospital-nurses,--and
through the dead solemn night. Very early the next morning, between
seven and eight, Barbara, on her way from her bedroom to the library,
was surprised to see Mr. Slade enter the hall, and expressed her
surprise.
"Well, it _is_ early," said the kind-hearted surgeon; "but, my dear
Mrs. Churchill, I've taken a great interest in this poor girl; and as
I always take a constitutional round the Park before breakfast, I
thought I'd just run across and see her.--Well, nurse, what news?
None, eh? Just raise that curtain the least bit--that'll do. Hm!
she'll get rid of the concussion; but--hm! well, well, not our will,
but Thine; hm, hm! Any body come after her yesterday?"
"An old bailiff or stud-groom," said Barbara, "came down in the
evening, and entreated to be allowed to see his Mistress. I told him
that was impossible, and explained the state of things to him myself.
Poor fellow, he was dreadfully overcome, the tears rolled down his
cheeks, and he bemoaned his mistress's fate most bitterly."
"Hm! right not to let him see her then; could have done no good. But
she'll probably come to her senses during the day, and then, if she
asks to see any body--well, send for them. The refusal might irritate
her, and--and it can make very little difference."
"You think then she is--in danger?" asked Barbara.
"My dear young lady," said he, taking her hand, "in the greatest
danger. If inflammation of the lungs sets in, as I much fear it will,
nothing can save her.--Nurse, I'll write a prescription for a cordial.
If she speaks, and sends for any one, give it to her just before they
come. It will revive her for a time."
About midday, when Alice had gone out for a little air, and Barbara
was left alone with the nurse and the patient, there came a groan from
the bed, and running up together, they found Kate with her eyes open,
staring vaguely before her. After a few minutes she spoke, in a hoarse
strange voice.
"What's this?" she said. "Have I missed my tip at the ribbons and had
a spill? Lord, how old Fox will give it me! A-h, my side! This must
have been a bad cropper, eh? Hollo! I was fancying I was at the old
circus, again. Where am I? who are you? what has happened?"
"You are, with friends," said Barbara, kneeling by the bed; "you have
had an accident, and--"
"Ah, now I recollect! the Irish horse bolted and blundered at the
rails! How long ago was it?"
"Yesterday, about this time."
"And I was brought here--to your house! What a kind voice you've got!
and I'm bad, eh? I know I must be from the pain I'm in; my side
hurts me most awful. Has the doctor seen me? what doctor?"
"Mr. Slade: you've heard of him?"
"Oh, yes, seen him often; drives a rat-tailed bay in a D'Orsay cab;
goes the pace; often wondered he didn't break his neck. What does
he--oh! my side!" She groaned deeply, and while groaning seemed to
drop off into a heavy stertorous slumber.
When she roused again Mr. Slade was standing over her holding her
pulse. "Well," he asked in a gentle voice, "you know me? Ah, of course
you do! I've seen you taking stock of my old rattletrap, as you've
spun by me, and laughing at my nag. Pain still? kind of pressure, eh?
Yes, yes, my poor lass, I know what you mean; so dreadfully weak too;
yes, yes. What, danger? Wen, my dear, there's always danger in these
cases; and one never knows. Not afraid? no, my brave girl, I know your
courage; but--well, there's no harm in settling any little matters
which--eh? if in God's will we come all right, there's no harm done,
and,---yes, yes; rest now a bit; I'll see you again to-night." And Mr.
Slade hurried into his carriage, blowing his Rose very loudly indeed
with his red-silk pocket-handkerchief, and with two large tears on his
spectacle-glasses..
When the door had shut behind him, Kate called the nurse in a feeble
voice, and bade her send for the lady to whom she had previously
spoken. In answer to this call, Barbara was speedily by the bedside.
"You--you don't mind my sending for you! do you, dear?" asked Kate, in
a low tremulous voice.
"Mind, my poor child,--mind! of course not. What is it, dear?"
"I want you to--do you mind, giving me your hand? I can't reach it
myself--so, dear; thank you. I want you to do something for me. I--I'm
dying, dear--oh, don't shrink from me--I know it; he tried to hide it
from me, that kind old man, and bless him for it! but I saw how he
looked at the nurse, and I heard her whispering to him behind the
screen. I don't fear it, dear. I know--well, never mind! I want to see
two people before I go; and I want you to send for them and let them
come here, and let me talk to them--will you, dear?"
"Why, of course, of course," said Barbara, the tears streaming down
her cheeks; "but you mustn't talk in this way,--you mustn't give way
so--no one can tell how this will turn out."
"_I_ can," said Kate quietly. "I seemed to know it when I heard the
click of that horse's shoes against the iron railing. It all rose
before me in an instant, and I knew I was a dead woman. You can't
conceive--I haven't said much--but you can't conceive what torture I'm
going through with my side. It burns and burns, and presses--there! I
won't say any more about it. Now, dear, will you put down the names of
the people who are to be sent to?"
"I shall recollect them; tell me now."
"Well, Mr. Simnel, Tin-Tax Office, Rutland House--"
"Yes; and--"
"And Frank Churchill, Esq.--oh, how your grasp tightens on my hand!
Frank Churchill, Esq., _Statesman_ newspaper-office--in the City
somewhere--they'll find it. What is the matter, dear? You heard me?"
"Yes," said Barbara faintly; "they shall be sent for at once."
"At last," said she to herself when she had regained her own room,
after despatching the messenger--"at last I shall be enabled to fathom
this horrible mystery, and to show those who have doubted, that I was
not wrong, after all, in taking the decisive step which I did. If this
wretched creature prove to be--as I suppose she will--Frank's
correspondent both at Bissett and at home; if--and yet Mr. Slade said
he believed her to be a perfectly correct and proper person, else he
would not have permitted her to be received here. Mr. Slade's
belief--what is that worth? Is it possible that--no! Here is a woman,
poor creature, believing herself to be on her deathbed, and sending
for my husband,--a woman of whose existence I have never heard, who is
obviously not a person of society, and yet who--great Heavens, if it
be proved!--if the worst that I have dared to imagine be proved! And
yet lately I have felt that that is impossible, in thinking over
Frank's character and ways of life, in thinking over all he has said
of dishonour and deception, I have felt certain that--and yet here is
this woman sending for him not to his private house,--'_Statesman_
office, somewhere in the City--they'll find it.' _Statesman_ Office!
That's where the first letter was addressed, and redirected to
Bissett; and the second letter,--the envelope, I mean,--now I think of
it, was sent to the same place. It _must_ be the same. And yet how
sweet, and patient, and resigned she is! how quiet and calm,
and--Frank Churchill, Esq.--no mistake in both the names! Who is the
other man, I wonder? Frank Churchill! what an extraordinary fate has
planned this for us! I'll see their interview, and hear all that she
has to say; and then if--of course it can't be otherwise--what other
solution can there be? If Frank has intrigued with this--and she going
to die too; lying there at the point of death, and looking up into my
face with so much gratitude and affection--oh, Heaven direct me! I'm
at my wits'-end!" and Barbara threw herself on her bed and wept
bitterly.
The short dim twilight had faded into dusk before the cab containing
the messenger and the two gentlemen whom he had been sent to fetch
arrived at the house. They were ushered at once into the dining-room,
where they were received by Pilkington the butler, who produced
refreshment. That being declined, they were shown into the library. In
the middle of the room stood the bed in deep shadow; across the far
end of the room stood a large folding screen, almost hidden by which
was a woman with her back to them, bending over a table and apparently
engaged in compounding some medicine or drink. A shaded lamp placed on
a table between the bed and the screen shed a dim light throughout the
room. As the door opened, Mr. Simnel entered first, with a faltering
step, strode swiftly to the bedside, and then dropped on to his knees,
burying his face in his hands. Kate moved her arm with great
difficulty until her hand rested on his head, and then she said, half
trustingly, half reproachfully, "Robert!" There was no spoken reply,
but the man's big strong frame heaved up and down convulsively, and
the tears came rushing thick as rain through his closed fingers.
"Robert, my poor fellow! you must not give way so; you'll break me
down. I hadn't a notion you--and yet how faithfully you've served! I
saw it, Robert; I knew it long ago, when--ah, well, all over now; all
over now, Robert, eh?--What, Guardy, you here too! That's well. Ah, I
feel so much more composed now I see your dear solemn old face. You
came at once."
"Came at once, my poor child--my poor dear child--" and Churchill's
voice failed him and he stopped.
"Now, Guardy, come! You won't have much more trouble with your
bothering charge, and you must be steady now. It gives me fresh
courage, I declare, to hear your solemn voice and to know that you're
at my very side for all sorts of serious advice.--Now, Robert, you
know that I'm in a bad way; that I'm going to--no, no, be a man,
Robert; you'll upset me, if you give way so,--Guardy, this gentleman,
Mr. Simnel, has been very, very kind to me for a long, long time. He
wanted to marry me, Guardy; and wanted me to have a proper place as
his wife, and so he's been hunting up all about my friends and my
birth and that, and he's found out a lot. But he doesn't know about
you, Guardy; and as I wanted to tell him about that, and to settle one
other thing, I sent for you both to-night. The--the medicine!--ask
nurse--I'm a little faint!"
Both men rose; but Simnel was nearest, and it was into his hand that
the woman behind the screen placed the glass. When Kate had swallowed
the cordial, she said, in firmer tones:
"I told you, Robert, that when I left old Fox's circus I was fetched
away by two gentlemen, an old fellow and another. This is the other.
When we got to the hotel that night, the old man said to me, 'Never
you mind who I am, my lass; you won't see me any more after I've once
started you in town; but you will see this gentleman, and you'll have
to send to him whenever you want advice or any thing else. He's your
guardian,' he said, 'and he'll look after you.' I recollect I laughed,
and said he looked very young, and giggled out some girl's nonsense;
but he--I can see you now, Guardy!--put his hand on my head and told
me he was much older than I, and that he'd had plenty of experience to
teach him the ways of the world. I've never seen the old man since;
but, oh, how often I've sent for Guardy! I've worried him day and
night, written to him whenever I wanted to know any thing: how to
treat swells who wouldn't pay, or who were getting troublesome in
other ways; when I wanted the landlord seen, or fresh land bought;
when--good Lord! when I lost heart over--something--and thought of
giving the place up, and selling off and going away, he's kept me as
straight as a die; he's never shown the least ill-temper with all my
worryings and fidgettings; he's always shown me what to do for the
best--and has been my kindest and least selfish and best friend."
"You say too much, Kate," said Churchill; "any thing I have done you
have repaid long since by your good sense and docility."
"You could never be repaid, sir, I see plainly enough," said Simnel;
"there are few men who would have so acquitted themselves of each a
charge, and I shall ever honour and esteem you for it. But may I ask
how you came to be known to the other person of this story, who from
some knowledge I guess to be Scadgers the bill-discounter?"
"It is easily explained. When I arrived in London from Germany, and
determined to make my bread by literature, I wrote where I could, and
for what I could get. Some article of mine was seen by Mr. Scadgers.
who then owned, amongst other lucrative speculations, a weekly
newspaper and a cheap periodical. Pleased with what he had read--or
had recommended to him more likely--he sent for me, and after a little
discussion, made me editor and manager of both his literary
speculations. He paid liberally, and seemed pleased with all I did;
then wanted me to undertake the management of others of his affairs,
which I declined. But one night in his office he told me the story of
this girl--incidentally, as a suggestion for a tale for the paper, I
believe; and so interested me that I suggested his removing her from
the life she was then leading, and giving her a chance of doing
something for herself. After some discussion he agreed, on the
understanding that he should never appear in the matter; but that if
he provided the necessary funds, I would manage the whole business and
undertake a kind of guardianship of the girl. I hesitated, until I saw
her at the circus; then, being somewhat of a physiognomist, and
thinking I saw in her face promise of what was wanted--honesty,
endurance, and a power of keeping straight in front of adverse
circumstances--I consented. The rest you know."
"Will you take my hand, Mr. Churchill?" said Simnel in a low voice;
"God Almighty bless you for--for your kindness and your trust!"
"That's right!" said Kate on whom the action had not passed
unobserved--"shake hands, you two, good fellows both of you! And now
look here--but one word! I didn't catch all you said, Guardy, but you
and Robert seem to have made it all right. And now I want to tell you
about something--about--when I'm gone, you know--oh, you silly fellow,
Robert, how can I speak if you go on so!--I've put away some money,
you know; and I want you to have it, Guardy. You're married, some one
told me; and you'll want all that; and you won't despise it, eh? You
know it's all honestly come by, and you've seen how it's been made--my
accounts, you know, you used to say they were very decently kept; and
there'll be no shame in taking it--your wife, I mean, and that sort of
thing; you can tell her about it. I wonder what she's like. I should
have liked to have seen her, Guardy, though perhaps she wouldn't have
cared for such as I. Oh, poor old Freeman and the men at The Den--let
them have a year's wages; I've put it all regular in a will which I
made last year; you'll find it in the desk; and sell the stud--high
prices, most of them. I--my side's awful now; don't go yet; let me
have a little--just a little rest. I'm faint, and in such--such
dreadful pain!"
She fell back exhausted. Simnel still knelt by the bedside convulsed
with grief; but Frank Churchill looked round the screen to summon the
nurse. No one was there, so he went to the door and called softly. The
nurse responded at once and passed by him; but as he turned back he
saw the butler, who beckoned to him.
"Will you please to step this way, sir?" said the man; "you're wanted
in the dining-room."
Churchill followed him; and as the dining-room door shut behind him,
found himself face to face with his wife.