would only distress them, she says, for they could not help her. Mr.
Sanker has been ill again for some time past, has not been allowed, I
believe, to draw his full salary, and there's no doubt they want every
penny of their means for themselves; and more too."
"How have they lived here?" asked the Squire, as we went slowly back to
the gate.
"Blair earned a little while he could get about; and his wife has been
enabled to procure some kind of wool-work from a warehouse in the city,
which pays her very well," said the clergyman, dropping his voice to a
whisper, as if he feared to be overheard. "Unfortunately there's the
baby to take up much of her time. It was born in October, soon after
they came there."
"And I should like to know what business there has to be a baby?" cried
the Squire, who was like a man off his head. "Couldn't the baby have
waited for a more convenient season?"
"It might have been better; it is certainly a troublesome, crying little
thing," said the parson. "Yes, you can go straight in: the parlour door
is on the right. I have a service this evening at seven, and shall be
late for it. This is your son, I presume, sir?"
"My son! law bless you! My son is a strapping young fellow, six feet two
in his stockings. This is Johnny Ludlow."
He shook hands pleasantly, and was good enough to say he had heard
of me. The Squire went on, and I with him. There was no lamp in the
passage, and we had to feel on the right for the parlour door.
"Come in," called out Mary, in answer to the knock. I knew her voice
again.
We can't help our thoughts. Things come into the mind without leave or
licence; and it is no use saying they ought not to, or asking why they
do. Nearly opposite the door in the small room was the fireplace. Mary
Blair sat on a low stool before it, doing some work with coloured wools
with a big hooked needle, a baby in white lying flat on her lap, and the
little chap, Joe, sitting at her feet. All in a moment it put me in mind
of Mrs. Lease, sitting on her stool before the fire that day long ago
(though in point of fact, as I discovered afterwards, hers had been a
bucket turned upside down) with the sick child on her lap, and the other
little ones round her. Why this, to-night, should have reminded me of
that other, I cannot say, but it did; and in the light of an omen. You
must ridicule me if you choose: it is not my fault; and I am telling
nothing but the truth. Lease had died. Would Pyefinch Blair die?
The Squire went in gingerly, as if he had been treading on ploughshares.
The candle stood on the mantel-piece, a table was pushed back under the
window. Altogether the room was poor, and a small saucepan simmered on
the hob. Mary turned her head, and rose up with a flushed face, letting
the work fall on the baby's white nightgown, as she held out her hand.
Little Joe, a sturdy fellow in a scarlet frock, with big brown eyes,
backed against the wall by the fireplace and stood staring, Lena's doll
held safely under his pinafore.
She lost her presence of mind. The Squire was the veriest old stupid,
when he wanted to make-believe, that you'd see in a winter's day. He
began saying something about "happening to be in town, and so called."
But he broke down, and blurted out the truth. "We've come to see after
you, my dear; and to learn what all this trouble means."
And then _she_ broke down. Perhaps it was the sight of us, recalling
the old time at Dyke Manor, when the future looked so fair and happy;
perhaps it was the mention of the trouble. She put her hands before her
face, and the tears rained through her fingers.
"Shut the door, will you, Johnny," she whispered. "Very softly."
It was the other door she pointed to, one at the end of the room, and I
closed it without noise. Except for a sob now and again, that she kept
down as well as she could, the grief passed away. Young Joe, frightened
at matters, suddenly went at her, full butt, and hid his eyes in her
petticoats with a roar. I took him on my knee and got him round again.
Somehow children are never afraid of me. The Squire rubbed his old red
nose, and said he had a cold.
But, was she not altered! Now that the flush had faded, and emotion
passed, the once sweet, fresh, blooming face stood out in its reality.
Sweet, indeed, it was still; but the bloom and freshness had given place
to a haggard look, and to dark circles round the soft brown eyes, weary
now.
She had no more to tell of the past calamities than her letter and Mr.
Lockett had told. _Jerry's Gazette_ was the sore point with the Squire,
but she did not seem to understand it better than we did.
"I want to know one thing," said he, quite fiercely. "How did _Jerry's
Gazette_ get at the transaction between your husband and Gavity? Did
Gavity go to it, open-mouthed, with the news?"
Mary did not know. She had heard something about a register--that the
bill of sale had to be registered somewhere, and thought _Jerry's
Gazette_ might have obtained the information from that source.
"Heaven bless us all!" cried the Squire. "Can't a man borrow a bit of
money but it must become known to his enemies, if he has any, bringing
them down upon him like a pack of hounds in full cry? This used to be
the freest land on earth."
The baby began to scream. She put down the wool-work, and hushed it to
her. I am sure the Squire had half a mind to tell her to give it a
gentle shaking. He looked upon screaming babies as natural enemies: the
truth is, with all his abuse, he was afraid of them.
"Has it got a name?" he asked gruffly.
"Yes--Mary: he wished it," she said, glancing at the door. "I thought
we should have to call it Polly, in contradistinction to mine."
Polly! That was another coincidence. Lease's eldest girl was Polly. And
what made her speak of things in the past tense? She caught me looking
at her; caught, I fancy, the fear on my face. I told her hurriedly that
little Joe must be a Dutchman, for not a word could I understand of the
tale he was whispering about his doll.
What with Mary's work, and the little earned by Blair while he was
about, they had not wanted for necessaries in a plain way. I suppose
Lockett took care they should not do so: but he was only a curate.
The baby needed its supper, to judge by the squealing. Mary poured the
contents of the saucepan--some thin gruel--into a saucer, and began
feeding the little mite by teaspoonfuls, putting each one to her own
lips first to test it.
"That's poor stuff," cried the Squire, in a half-pitying, half-angry
tone, his mind divided between resentment against babies in general and
sympathy with this one. As the baby was there, of course it had to be
fed, but what he wanted to know was, why it need have come just when
trouble was about. When put out, he had no reason at all. Mrs. Blair
suddenly turned her face towards the end door, listening; and we heard
a faint voice calling "Mary."
"Joe, dear, go and tell papa that I will be with him in one minute."
The little chap slid down, giving me his doll to nurse, and went
pattering across the carpet, standing on tiptoe to open the door. The
Squire said he should like to go in and see Blair. Mary went on first
to warn him of our advent.
My goodness! _That_ Pyefinch Blair, who used to flourish his cane, and
cock it over us boys at Frost's! I should never have known him for the
same.
He lay in bed, too weak to raise his head from the pillow, the white
skin drawn tightly over his hollow features; the cheeks slightly
flushing as he watched us coming. And again I thought of Lease; for the
same look was on this face that had been on his when he was dying.
"Lord bless us!" cried the Squire, in what would have been a solemn tone
but for surprise. And Mr. Blair began faintly to offer a kind of apology
for his illness, hoping he should soon get over it now.
It was nothing but the awful look, putting one unpleasantly in mind of
death, that kept the Squire from breaking out with a storm of abuse all
round. Why could they not have sent word to Dyke Manor, he wanted to
know. As to asking particulars about _Jerry's Gazette_, which the
Squire's tongue was burning to do, Blair was too far gone for it. While
we stood there the doctor came in; a little man in spectacles, a friend
of Mr. Lockett's. He told Blair he was getting on all right, spoke to
Mrs. Blair, and took his departure. The Squire, wishing good night in a
hurry, went out after the doctor, and collared him as he was walking up
the street.
"Won't he get over it?"
"Well, sir, I am afraid not. His state of weakness is alarming."
The Squire turned on him with a storm, just as though he had known him
for years: asking why on earth Blair's friends (meaning himself) had not
been written to, and promising a prosecution if he let him die. The
doctor took it sensibly, and was cool as iced water.
"We medical men are only gifted at best with human skill, sir," he said,
looking the Squire full in the face.
"Blair is young--not much turned thirty."
"The young die as well as the old, when it pleases Heaven to take them."
"But it doesn't please Heaven to take _him_," retorted the Squire,
worked up to the point when he was not accountable for his words. "But
that you seem in earnest, young man, probably meaning no irreverence,
I'd ask you how you dare bring Heaven's name into such a case as this?
Did Heaven fling him out of house and home into _Jerry's Gazette_, do
you suppose? Or did man? Man, sir: selfish, hard, unjust man. Don't talk
to me, Mr. Doctor, about Heaven."
"All I wished to imply, sir, was, that Mr. Blair's life is not in my
keeping, or in that of any human hands," said the doctor, when he had
listened quietly to the end. "I will do my best to bring him round; I
can do no more."
"You must bring him round."
"There can be no 'must' about it: and I doubt if he is to be brought
round. Mr. Blair has not naturally a large amount of what we call
stamina, and this illness has laid a very serious hold upon him. It
would be something in his favour if the mind were at ease: which of
course it cannot be in his circumstances."
"Now look here--you just say outright he is going to die," stormed the
Squire. "Say it and have done with it. I like people to be honest."
"But I cannot say he is. Possibly he may recover. His life and his death
both seem to hang on the turn of a thread."
"And there's that squealing young image within earshot! Could Blair be
got down to my place in the country? You might come with him if you
liked. There's some shooting."
"Not yet. It would kill him. What we have to fight against now is the
weakness: and a hard fight it is."
The Squire's face was rueful to look at. "This London has a reputation
for clever physicians: you pick out the best, and bring him here with
you to-morrow morning. Do you hear, sir?"
"I will bring one, if you wish it. It is not essential."
"Not essential!" wrathfully echoed the Squire. "If Blair's recovery is
not essential, perhaps you'll tell me, sir, whose is! What is to become
of his poor young wife if he dies?--and the little fellow with the
doll?--and that cross-grained puppet in white? Who will provide for
them? Let me tell you, sir, that I won't have him die--if doctors can
keep him alive. He belongs to me, sir, in a manner: he saved my son's
life--as fine a fellow as you could set eyes on, six feet two without
his boots. Not essential! What next?"
"It is not so much medical skill he requires now as care, and rest, and
renovation," spoke the doctor in his calm way.
"Never mind. You take a physician to him, and let him attend him with
you, and don't spare expense. In all my life I never saw anybody want
patching up so much as he wants it."
The Squire shook hands with him, and went on round the corner. I was
following, when the doctor touched me on the shoulder.
"He has a good heart, for all his hot speech," whispered he, nodding
towards the Squire. "In talking with him this evening, when you find him
indulging hopes of Blair's recovery, _don't encourage them_: rather lead
him, if possible, to look at the other side of the question."
The surgeon was off before I recovered from my surprise. But it was now
my turn to run after him.
"Do you know that he will not get well, sir?"
"I do not know it; the weak and the strong are alike in the hands of
God; but I think it scarcely possible that he can recover," was the
answer; and the voice had a solemn tone, the face a solemn aspect, in
the uncertain light. "And I would prepare friends always to meet the
worst when it is in my power to do so."
"Now then, Johnny! You were going to take the wrong turning, were you,
sir! Let me tell you, you might get lost in London before knowing it."
The Squire had come back to the corner, looking for me. I walked on by
his side in silence, feeling half dazed, the hopeless words playing
pranks in my brain.
"Johnny, I wonder where we can find a telegraph office? I shall
telegraph to your mother to send up Hannah to-morrow. Hannah knows what
the sick need: and that poor thing with her children ought not to be
left alone."
But as to giving any hint to the Squire of the state of affairs, I
should like the doctor to have tried it himself. Before I had finished
the first syllable, he attacked me as if I had been a tiger; demanding
whether those were my ideas of Christianity, and if I supposed there'd
be any justice in a man's dying because he had got into _Jerry's
Gazette_.
In the morning the Squire went on an expedition to Gavity's office in
the city. It was a dull place of two rooms, with a man to answer people.
We had not been there a minute when the Squire began to explode, going
on like anything at the man for saying Mr. Gavity was engaged and could
not be seen. The Squire demanded if he thought we were creditors, that
he should deny Gavity.
What with his looks and his insistence, and his promise to bring in
Sir Richard Mayne, he got to see Gavity. We went into a good room with
a soft red carpet and marble-topped desk in it. Mr. Gavity politely
motioned to chairs before the blazing fire, and I sat down.
Not the Squire. Out it all came. He walked about the room, just as he
walked at home when he was in a way, and said all kinds of things;
wanting to know who had ruined Pyefinch Blair, and what _Jerry's
Gazette_ meant. Gavity seemed to be used to explosions: he took it so
coolly.
When the Squire calmed down, he almost grew to see things in Gavity's
own light--namely, that Gavity had not been to blame. To say the truth,
I could not understand that he had. Except in selling them up. And
Gavity said if he had not done it, the landlord would.
So nothing was left for the Squire to vent his wrath on but _Jerry's
Gazette_. He no more understood what _Jerry's Gazette_ really was, or
whether it was a good or bad thing in itself, than he understood the
construction of the planet Jupiter. It's well Dwarf Giles was not
present. The day before we came to London, he overheard Giles swearing
in a passion, and the Squire had pounced upon him with an indignant
inquiry if he thought swearing was the way to get to heaven. What he
said about _Jerry's Gazette_ caused Gavity's eyes to grow round with
wonder.
"Lord love ye!" said Gavity, "_Jerry's Gazette_ a thing that wants
putting down! Why, it is the blessedest of institutions to us City men.
It is a public Benefactor. The commercial world has had no boon like it.
Did you know the service it does, you'd sing its praises, sir, instead
of abusing it."
"How dare you tell me so to my face?" demanded the Squire.
"_Jerry's Gazette's_ like a gold mine, sir. It is making its fortune.
A fine one, too."
"_I_ shouldn't like to make a fortune out of my neighbours' tears, and
blood, and homes, and hearths," was the wrathful answer. "If Pyefinch
Blair dies in his illness, will _Jerry's Gazette_ settle a pension from
its riches on his widow and children? Answer me that, Mr. Gavity."
Mr. Gavity, to judge by his looks, thought the question nearly as
unreasonable as he thought the Squire. He wanted to tell of the vast
benefit _Jerry's Gazette_ had proved in certain cases; but the Squire
stopped his ears, saying Blair's case was enough for him.
"I do not deny that the _Gazette_ may work mischief once in a way,"
acknowledged Mr. Gavity. "It is but a solitary instance, sir; and in all
commercial improvements the few must suffer for the many."
No good. The Squire went at him again, hammer and tongs, and at last
dashed away without saying good morning, calling out to me to come on,
and not stop a moment longer in a nest of thieves and casuists.
Difford's Buildings had us in the afternoon. The baby was in its basket,
little Joe lay asleep before the fire, the doll against his cheek, and
Mary was kneeling by the bed in the back room. She got up hastily when
she saw us.
"I think he is weaker," she said in a whisper, as she came through the
door and pushed it to. "There is a look on his face that I do not like."
There was a look on hers. A wan, haggard, patiently hopeless look, that
seemed to say she could struggle no longer. It was not natural; neither
was the calm, lifeless tone.
"Stay here a bit, my dear, and rest yourself," said the Squire to her.
"I'll go in and sit with him."
There could be no mistake now. Death was in every line of his face. His
head was a little raised on the pillow; and the hollow eyes tried to
smile a greeting. The Squire was good for a great deal, but not for
making believe with that sight before him. He broke down with a great
sob.
"Don't grieve for me," murmured poor Blair. "Hard though it seems to
leave her, I have learnt to say, 'God's will be done.' It is all for the
best--oh, it is all for the best. We must through much tribulation enter
into the Kingdom."
And then _I_ broke down, and hid my face on the counterpane. Poor old
Blair! And we boys had called him Baked Pie!
I went to Paddington station to meet the train. Hannah was in it, and
came bursting out upon me with a shriek that might have been heard at
Oxford. Upon the receipt of the telegram, she and Mrs. Todhetley came to
the conclusion that I had been run over, and was lying in some hospital
with my legs off. That was through the Squire's wording of the message;
he would not let me write it. "Send Hannah to London to-morrow by
mid-day train, to nurse somebody that's in danger."
Blair lingered three days yet before he died, sensible to the last,
and quite happy. Not a care or anxiety on his mind about what had so
troubled him all along--the wife and children.
"Through God's mercy; He knows how to soothe the death-bed," said Mr.
Lockett.
Whether Mary would have to go home to Wales with her babies, or stay and
do what she could for them in London, depending on the wool-work, the
clergyman said he did not know, when talking to us at the hotel. He
supposed it must be one of the two.
"We'll have them down at the Manor, and fatten 'em up a bit, Johnny,"
spoke the Squire, a rueful look on his good old face. "Mercy light upon
us! and all through _Jerry's Gazette_!"
* * * * *
I must say a word for myself. _Jerry's Gazette_ (if there is such a
thing still in existence) may be, as Mr. Gavity expressed it to us then,
the "blessedest of institutions to him and commercial men." I don't wish
to deny it, and I could not if I wished; for except in this one instance
(which may have been an exceptional case, as Gavity insisted) I know
nothing of it or its working. But I declare on my honour I have told
nothing but the truth in regard to what it did for the schoolmaster,
Pyefinch Blair.
XIII.
SOPHIE CHALK.
The horses went spanking along the frosty road, the Squire driving, his
red comforter wrapped round his neck. Mrs. Todhetley sat beside him; Tod
and I behind. It was one of the jolliest days that early January ever
gave us; dark blue sky, and icicles on the trees: a day to tempt people
out. Mrs. Todhetley, getting to her work after breakfast, said it was a
shame to stay indoors: and it was hastily decided to drive over to the
Whitneys' place and see them. So the large phaeton was brought round.
I had not expected to go. When there was a probability of their staying
anywhere sufficiently long for the horses to be put up, Giles was
generally taken: the Squire did not like to give trouble to other
people's servants. It would not matter at the Whitneys': they had a host
of them.
"I don't know that I care about going," said Tod, as we stood outside,
waiting for the others, Giles at the horses' heads.
"Not care, Tod! Anna's at home."
He flicked his glove at my face for the impudence. We laughed at him
about Anna Whitney sometimes. They were great friends. The Squire,
hearing some nonsense one day, took it seriously, and told Tod it would
be time enough for him to get thinking about sweethearts when he was out
of leading-strings. Which of course Tod did not like.
It was a long drive; I can tell you that. And as we turned in at the
wide gravel sweep that led up to the house, we saw their family coach
being brought round with some luggage on it, the postillion in his
undress jacket, just laced at the seams with crimson. The Whitneys never
drove from the box.
Whitney Hall was a long red-brick house with a good many windows and
wide circular steps leading to the door, its park and grounds lying
around it. Anna came running to meet us as we went in, dressed for a
journey. She was seventeen; very fair; with a gentle face, and smooth,
bright, dark auburn hair; one of the sweetest girls you could see on a
summer's day. Tod was the first to shake hands with her, and I saw her
cheeks blush as crimson as Sir John's state liveries.
"You are going out, my dear," said Mrs. Todhetley.
"Oh yes," she answered, the tears rising in her eyes, which were as blue
as the dark blue sky. "We have had bad news. William----"
The dining-room door across the hall opened, and a host of them came
forth. Lady Whitney in a plaid shawl, the strings of her bonnet untied;
Miss Whitney (Helen), Harry, and some of the young ones behind. Anna's
quiet voice was drowned, for they all began to tell of it together.
Sir John and William were staying at some friend's house at Ombersley.
Lady Whitney thought they would have been home to-day: instead of which
the morning's post had a brought letter to say that an accident had
occurred to William in hunting; some muff who couldn't ride had gone
swerving right against Bill's horse, and he was thrown. Except that Bill
was insensible, nothing further of the damage could be gathered from the
letter; for Sir John, if put out, could write no more intelligibly than
the Squire. The chief of what he said was--that they were to come off at
once.
"We are going, of course; I with the two girls and Harry; the carriage
is waiting to take us to the station," said poor Lady Whitney, her
bonnet pushed off. "But I do wish John had explained further: it is such
suspense. We don't think it can be extremely serious, or there would
have been a telegram. I'm sure I have shivered at every ring that has
come to the door this morning."
"And the post was never in, as usual, until nearly ten o'clock,"
complained Harry. "I wonder my father puts up with it."
"And the worst is that we had a visitor coming to-day," added Helen.
"Mamma would have telegraphed to London for her not to start, but there
was not time. It's Sophie Chalk."
"Who is Sophie Chalk?" asked Tod.
Helen told us, while Lady Whitney was finding places for everyone at the
table. They had been taking a scrambling luncheon; sitting or standing:
cold beef, mince-pies, and cheese.
"Sophie Chalk was a schoolfellow of mine," said Helen. "It was an old
promise--that she should come to visit us. Different things have caused
it to be put off, but we have kept up a correspondence. At length I got
mamma to say that she might come as soon as Christmas was turned; and
to-day was fixed. We don't know what on earth to do."
"Let her come to us until you see how things turn out," cried the
Squire, in his hearty good-nature, as he cut himself a slice of beef.
"We can take her home in the carriage: one of these boys can ride back
if you'll lend him a horse."
Mrs. Todhetley said he took the very words out of her mouth. The
Whitneys were too flurried to affect ceremony, and very gladly accepted
the offer. But I don't think it would ever have been made had the Squire
and madam known what was to come of it.
"There will be her luggage," observed Anna; who usually remembered
things for every one. And Lady Whitney looked round in consternation.
"It must come to us by rail; we will send for it from the station,"
decided Tod, always ready at a pinch. "What sort of a damsel is this
Sophie Chalk, Anna?"
"I never saw her," replied Anna. "You must ask Helen."