MRS. GASS AT HOME.
It was a warm and sunny day in Dallory. Mrs. Gass threw open her
window and sat behind the geraniums enjoying the sunshine, exchanging
salutations and gossip with as many of her acquaintances as happened
to pass her windows.
"How d'ye do, doctor? Isn't this a lovely day?"
It was Dr. Rane who was hurrying past now. He turned for an instant to
the window, his brow clearing. For some time now a curious look of
care and perplexity had sat upon it.
"Indeed it is," he answered. "I hope it will last. Are you pretty
well, Mrs. Gass?"
"I'm first-rate," said that lady. "A fine day, with the wind in the
north, always sets me up. Doctor, have they paid you the tontine money
yet?"
"No," said Dr. Rane, somewhat angrily. "There are all sorts of forms
to be gone through, apparently; and the Brothers Ticknell do not hurry
for any one. The two old men are past business, in my opinion. They
were always slow and tiresome; it is something more than that now."
"Do you stir 'em well up?" questioned Mrs. Gass.
"When I have the chance of doing it; but that's very rarely. Go when I
will, I can scarcely ever see any one except the confidential clerk,
old Latham; and he is as slow and methodical as his master. I suppose
the money will come sometime, but I am tired of waiting for it."
"And what about your plans when you get it, doctor? Are they all cut
and dried?"
"Time enough to decide on them when I do get the money," replied the
doctor, shortly.
"But you still intend to leave Dallory Ham?"
"Oh yes, I shall do that."
"You won't be going to America?"
"I think I shall. It is more than likely."
"Well, I wouldn't banish myself from my native country for the best
practice that ever shoes dropped into. You might be getting nothing
but Red Indians for patients."
Dr. Rane laughed a little; and there was an eager sort of light in his
eyes that seemed to speak of anticipation and hope. Only he knew how
thankful he would be to get to another country and find himself clear
of this.
"I wonder," soliloquized Mrs. Gass, as he walked on his way, "whether
it is all straight-for'ard about that tontine money? Have the
Ticknells heard any of these ugly rumours that's flying about; and are
they keeping it back in consequence? If not, why it ought to have been
paid over to him before this. The delay is odd--say the least of it.
How d'ye do, sir? A nice day."
A gentleman, passing, had raised his hat to Mrs. Gass. She resumed her
reflections.
"The rumours be spreading wider and getting uglier. They'll go up
presently, like a bomb-shell. I'm heartily sorry for him; for I don't
believe--no, I _don't_--that he'd do such a frightful thing. If it
should turn out that he did--why, then I shall blame myself ever after
for having procrastinated my intentions."
Mrs. Gass paused, and began to go over those intentions, with a view,
possibly, to seeing whether she was very much to blame.
"Finding Oliver and his wife couldn't get the tontine money paid to
them--and a hard case it was!--I had it in my mind to say, 'I'll
advance it to you. You'll both be the better for something in my will
when I'm gone--the doctor being my late husband's own nephew, and the
nearest relation left of him--and if two thousand pounds of it will be
of real good to you now, you shall have it. But I didn't say it at
once--who was to suppose there was such need for hurry--and then she
died. If the man's innocent--and I believe he is--that Jelly ought to
have her mouth sewn up for good. She---- Why, there you are! Talk of
the dickens and he's sure to appear."
"Were you talking of me?" asked Jelly: for Mrs. Gass had raised her
voice with surprise and brought it within Jelly's hearing. She carried
a small basket on her arm, under her black shawl, and turned to the
window.
"I was thinking of you," responded Mrs. Gass. "Be you come out
marketing?"
"I'm taking a few scraps to Ketler's," replied Jelly, just showing the
basket. "My mistress has given me general leave to give them any
trifles not likely to be wanted at home. The cook's good-natured too.
_This_ is a jar of dripping, and some bones and bread."
"And how do you like the Beverages, Jelly?"
"Oh, very well. They are good ladies; but so serious and particular."
Mrs. Gass rose from her seat, pushed the geraniums aside, and leaning
her arms upon the window-sill, brought her good-natured red face very
near to Jelly's bonnet.
"I'll tell you what I was thinking of, girl: it was about these awful
whispers that's flying round. Go where you will, you may hear 'em.
Within dwelling-houses or at street corners, people's tongues are
cackling secretly about Dr. Rane's wife, and asking what she died of.
I knew it would be so, Jelly."
Jelly turned a little paler. "They'll die away again, perhaps," she
said.
"Perhaps," repeated Mrs. Gass, sarcastically. "It's to be hoped they
will, for your sake. Jelly, I wouldn't stand in your shoes to be made
a queen tomorrow."
"I wouldn't stand in somebody else's," returned Jelly, irritated into
the avowal. "I shall have pretty good proof at hand, if I'm forced to
bring it out."
"What proof?"
"Well, I'd rather not say. You'd only ridicule it, Mrs. Gass, and
blow me up into the bargain. I must be going."
"I guess it's moonshine, Jelly--like the ghost you saw. Good-morning."
Jelly went away with a hard and anything but a happy look, and Mrs.
Gass resumed her seat again. Very shortly there came creeping by,
following the same direction as Jelly, a poor shivering woman, with a
ragged shawl on her thin shoulders, and a white, pinched, hopeless
face.
"Is that you, Susan Ketler?"
Susan Ketler turned and dropped a curtsy. Some of the women of North
Inlet were even worse off than she was. She did have help now and then
from Jelly.
"Yes, ma'am, it's me."
"How long do you think you North Inlet people will be able to keep
going--as things be at present?" demanded Mrs. Gass.
"The Lord above only knows," said the woman, looking upwards with a
pitiful shiver. "Here's the winter a-coming on."
"What does Ketler think of affairs now?"
Ketler's wife shook her head. The men were not fond of disclosing what
they might think, unless it was to one another. Ketler had never told
her what _he_ thought.
"Is he still in love with the Trades' Unions, and what they've done
for him? My opinion is this, Susan Ketler," continued Mrs. Gass, after
a pause: "that in every place where distress reigns, as it does here,
and where it can be proved that the men have lost their work through
the dictates of the society, the parish ought to go upon the society
and make it keep the men and the families. If a law was passed to that
effect, we should hear less of the doings of the Trades' Union people
than we do now. They'd draw in a bit, Susan; they'd not give the
gaping public quite so many of their procession-shows, and their
flags, and their speeches. It would be a downright good law to make,
mind you. A just one, too. If the society forbids men to work, and so
takes the bread necessary for life out of their mouths, it is only
fair they should find them bread to replace it."
An almost hopeful look came into the woman's eyes. "Ma'am, I said as
good as this to Ketler only yesterday. Seeing that it was the society
that had took the bread from us, and that the consequences had been
bad instead of good, for we were starving, the society ought to put us
into work again. It might bestir itself to do that: or else support us
while we got into something."
Mrs. Gass smiled pityingly. "You must be credulous, Susan Ketler, to
fancy the society can put 'em into work again. Where's the work to
come from? Well, it's not your fault, my poor woman, and there's more
people than me sorry for you all. And now, tell me," Mrs. Gass lowered
her voice, "be any of the men talking treason still? You know what I
mean."
Mrs. Ketler glanced over both her shoulders to see that no one was
within hearing, before she whispered in answer.
"They be always a-talking it. I can see it in their faces as they
stand together. Not Ketler, ma'am; he'd stop it if he could: he don't
wish harm to none."
"Ah. I wish to goodness they'd all betake themselves off from the
place. Though it's hard to say so, for there's no other open to them
that I see. Well, you go on home, Susan. Jelly has just gone there
with a basket of scraps for you. Stay a minute, though."
Mrs. Gass quitted the room, calling to one of her servants. When she
returned she produced a half-pint physic bottle corked up.
"It's a drop of beer," she said. "For yourself, mind, not for Ketler.
You want it, I know. Put it under your shawl. It will help down
Jelly's scraps."
The woman went away with grateful tears in her eyes. And Mrs. Gass sat
on and enjoyed the sunshine. Just then Mary Dallory came by in her
little low pony-carriage. She often drove about in it alone. Seeing
Mrs. Gass, she drew up. That lady, without any ceremony, went out in
her cap and stood talking.
"I hear you have left the Hall, my dear," she said, when the gossip
was coming to an end.
"Ages ago," replied Miss Dallory. "Frank is at home again, and wanted
me."
"How did you enjoy your visit on the whole?"
"Pretty well. It was not very lively, especially after Sir Nash was
taken ill."
"He is better, Mr. Richard tells me," said the elder lady.
"Yes; he sits up now. I went to see him yesterday."
"Captain Bohun looks but poorly still."
"His illness was a bad one. Fancy his having jaundice. I thought it
was only old people who had that."
"My dear, it attacks young and old. Once the liver gets out of order,
there's no telling. Captain Bohun was born in India; and they are more
liable to liver complaint, it's said, than others. You are driving
alone to-day, as usual," continued Mrs. Gass.
"I like to be independent. Frank won't show himself in this little
chaise; he says it is no better than a respectable wheelbarrow; and
I'm sure I am not going to be troubled with a groom at my side."
"If all tales told are true, you'll soon run a chance of losing your
independence," rejoined Mrs. Gass. "People say a certain young lady,
not a hundred miles at this moment from, my elbow, is likely to give
her heart away."
Instead of replying, Mary Dallory blushed violently. Observant Mrs.
Gass saw and noticed it.
"Then it is true!" she exclaimed.
"What's true?" asked Mary.
"That you are likely to be married."
"No, it is not."
"My dear, you may as well tell me. You know me well; I'll keep good
counsel."
"But I have nothing to tell you. How can I imagine what you mean?"
"'Twasn't more than a hint I had: that Captain Bohun--Sir Arthur as he
will be--was making up his mind to have Miss Dallory, and she to have
him. Miss Mary, is it so?"
"Did madam tell you that?"
"Madam wouldn't be likely to tell me--all of us in Dallory are so much
dust under her feet; quite beneath being spoken to. No: 'twas her
maid, Parrit, dropped it to me. She had heard it through madam,
though."
Mary Dallory laughed a little and flicked the ear of the rough Welsh
pony. "I fancy madam would like it," she said.
"Who wouldn't?" rejoined Mrs. Gass. "I put the question to Richard
North--Whether there was anything in it? He answered there might be;
he knew it was wished for."
"Richard North said that, did he? Of course, so it might be--and may
be--for anything he can tell."
"But, my dear Miss Mary, is it so?"
"Well--to tell you the truth, the offer has not yet been made. When it
comes, why then--I dare say it will be all right."
"Meaning that you'll accept him."
"Meaning that--oh, but it is not right to tell tales beforehand, even
to you, Mrs. Gass," she broke off, with a laugh. "Let the offer come.
I wish it would."
"You would like it to come, child?"
"Yes, I think I should."
"Then be sure it will come. And God bless you, my dear, and bring you
happiness whatever turns out. Though it is not just the marriage I had
carved out in my own mind for one of the two of you."
She meant Arthur Bohun. Mary Dallory thought she meant herself; and
laughed again as the pony trotted away.
The next friend to pass the window after Mrs. Gass had again resumed
her seat, was Richard North. He did not stop at the window, but went
in. Certain matters connected with the winding-up of the old firm of
North and Gass, had arisen, rendering it necessary that he should see
Mrs. Gass.
"Do as you think best, Mr. Richard," she said, after they had talked
together for a few minutes. "Please yourself, sir, and you'll please
me. We'll leave it at that: I know it's all safe in your hands."
"Then I will do as I propose," said Richard.
"I've had Miss Dallory here--that is, in her pony-chay before the
door," observed Mrs. Gass. "I taxed her with what I'd heard about her
and Captain Bohun; She didn't say it was, and she didn't say it
wasn't: but Mr. Richard, I think there's truth in it. She as good as
said she'd like him to make her an offer: and she did say madam wished
it. So I suppose we shall have wedding cards before a year's gone over
our heads. In their case--he next step to a baronet, and she rolling
in money--there's nothing, to wait for."
"Nothing," mechanically-answered Richard North.
"But I did think, as to him, that it would have been Ellen Adair.
Talking of that, Mr. Richard, what is it that's amiss with her?"
"With her?--with whom?" cried Richard, starting out of a reverie.
"With that sweet young lady, Ellen Adair?"
"There's nothing amiss with her that I know of."
"Isn't there! There _is_, Mr. Richard, if my judgment and eyes are to
be trusted. Each time I see her, she strikes me as looking worse and
worse. You notice her, sir. Perhaps now the clue has been given you'll
see it too. I once knew a young girl, Mr. Richard, that was dying
quietly under her friends' very eyes, and they never saw it. Never saw
it at all, till an aunt came over from another country. She started
back when she saw the child, and says: 'Why, what have yon been doing
with her? She's dying.' They were took aback at that, and called in
the first doctor: but it was too late. I don't say Ellen Adair is
dying, Mr. Richard; 'tisn't likely; but I'm sure she is not all right.
Whether it's the mind, or whether it's the body, or whether it's the
nerves, I'm not prepared to say; but it's something."
"I will find out," said Richard.
"Anything fresh about the men, Mr. Richard?"
"Nothing. Except that my workmen are getting afraid to stir out at
night, and the disaffection increases amongst the others. I cannot see
what is to be the end of it," he continued. "I do not mean of this
rivalry, but of the sad state to which the men and their families are
reduced. I often wish I did not think of it so much: it is like a
chain about me from which I cannot escape. I wish I could help them to
find work elsewhere."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Gass, "work elsewhere is very nice to think about in
dreamland; but I'm afraid it'll never be seen for them in reality.
It's not as if work was going a-begging: it has broken up everywhere,
Mr. Richard; and shoals and shoals of men, destitute as our own, are
tramping about at this minute, like so many old ravens with their
mouths open, ready to pick up anything that may fall."
Richard North went home, his mind full of what Mrs. Gass had said
about Ellen Adair. Was she indeed looking so ill? He found her sitting
in the open seat near what would be in spring the tulip bed. Mr. North
had just left her and gone in. Yes: Richard saw that she looked very
ill; the face was wan, the eyes were sad and weary. She was coughing
as he went up to her: a short, hacking cough. Some time ago she had
caught cold, and it seemed to hang about her still.
"Are you well, Ellen?" he asked, as he sat down beside her.
"Yes, I believe so," was her reply. "Why?"
"Because I don't think you look well."
A soft colour, like the pink on a sea-shell, stole over her face as
Richard said this. But she kept silence.
"You know, Ellen, we agreed to be as brother and sister. I wish to
take care of you as such: to shield you from all ill as far as I
possibly can. Are you happy here?"
A moment's pause, and then Ellen took courage to say that she was not
happy.
"I should like to go elsewhere," she said. "Oh, Richard, if it could
only be managed!"
"But it cannot," he answered.
"I have sufficient money, Richard."
"My dear, it is not that. Of course you have sufficient. I fancy, by
sundry signs, that you will be a very rich young lady," he added,
slightly laughing. "But you have no near friends in England, and we
could not entrust you to strangers."
"If I could go for a time into some clergyman's family, or something
of that sort."
"Ellen!"
She raised her hand from beneath the grey shawl--her favourite
outdoor covering, for the shawl was warm--and passed it across her
brow. In every movement there was a languor that spoke weariness of
body or of spirit.
"When Mr. Adair comes home, if he found you had gone into 'some
clergyman's family,' what would he think and say of us, Ellen?"
"I would tell him I went of my own accord."
"But, my dear, you cannot be allowed to do things of your own accord,
if they are not wise. I and my father are appointed to take charge of
you, and you must remain with us, Ellen, until Mr. Adair returns to
England."
It was even so. Ellen's better judgment acknowledged it, in the midst
of her great wish to be away. A wish: and not a wish. To be where
Arthur Bohun was, still brought her the most intense happiness; and
this, in spite of the pain surrounding it, she would not willingly
have relinquished: but the cruelty of his conduct--of their
estrangement--was more than she knew how to bear. It was making her
ill, and she felt that it was. There was, however, no help for it. As
Richard said, she had no friends to whom they could entrust her. The
lady in whose house she was educated had recently died, and the
establishment was being broken up.
Ten times a-day she longed to say to Arthur Bohun, "You are ungenerous
to remain here. I cannot help myself, but you might." But pride
withheld her.
"It may be months before papa arrives, Richard."
"And if it should be! We must try to make you happier with us."
"I think I must go in," she said, after a pause. "The day has been
very fine, but it is growing cold now."
Folding the shawl closer to her throat, as if she felt chilly, and
coughing a little as she walked, Ellen went round to the hall-door and
entered. Richard, occupied in watching her and busy with his own
thoughts, did not perceive the almost silent approach of Arthur Bohun,
who came slowly up from behind.
"Well, Dick, old fellow!"
"Why, where did you spring from?" asked Richard, as Arthur flung
himself down in the place vacated by Ellen.
"I have been under yonder tree, smoking a cigar. It has a good broad
trunk to lean against."
"I thought the doctors had forbidden you to smoke."
"So they have. Until I grew stronger. One can't strictly obey orders.
I don't suppose it matters much one way or the other. You have been
enjoying a confidential chat, Dick."
"Yes," replied Richard. He had not felt very friendly in his heart
towards Arthur for some time past. What was the meaning of his changed
behaviour to Ellen Adair?--what of the new friendship with Mary
Dallory? Richard North could not forgive dishonour; and he believed
Arthur Bohun was steeping himself in it to the backbone.
"Were you making love, Dick?"
Richard turned his eyes in silence on the questioner.
"She and I have had to part, Dick. I always thought you admired and
esteemed her almost more, perhaps quite more, than you do any other
woman. So if you are thinking of her----"
"Be silent," sternly interrupted Richard, rising in anger. "Are you a
man?--are you a gentleman? Or are you what I have been thinking you
lately--a false-hearted, despicable knave?"
Whatever Arthur Bohun might be, he was just then in desperate
agitation. Rising too, he seized Richard's hands.
"Don't you see that it was but sorry jesting, Richard? Pretending to a
bit of pleasantry, to wile away for a moment my weight of torment. I
am all that you say of me; and I cannot help myself."
"Not help yourself?"
"As Heaven is my witness, No! If I could take you into my
confidence--and perhaps I may do so one of these days, for I long to
do it--you would see that I tell you the truth."
"Why have you parted from Ellen Adair?--she and you _have_ parted? You
have just said so."
"We have parted for life. For ever."
"You were on the point of marriage with her only a short time ago?"
"No two people could have been nearer marriage than she and I were. We
were within half-an-hour of it, Dick; and yet we have parted."
"By your doing, or hers?"
"By mine."
"I thought so."
"Dick, I have been _compelled_ to do it. When you shall know all, you
will acknowledge that I could not do otherwise. And yet, in spite of
this, I feel that to her I have been but a false-hearted knave, as you
aptly style me: a despicable, dishonourable man. My father fell into
dishonour--or rather had it forced upon him by another--and he could
not survive it; he shot himself. Did you know it, Dick?"
"Shot himself!" repeated Richard, in his surprise. "No, I never knew
that. I thought he died of sunstroke."
"My father shot himself," cried Arthur. "He could not live
dishonoured. Dick, old fellow, there are moments when I feel tempted
to do as he did."
"What--because you have parted from Ellen?"
"No. That's bitter enough to bear; but I can battle with it. It is the
other thing, the dishonour. That is always present with me, always
haunting me night and day; I know not how to live under it."
"I do not understand at all," said Richard. "You are master of your
own actions."
"In this case I have not been: my line of conduct was forced upon me.
I cannot explain. Don't judge me too harshly, my friend. I am bad
enough, Heaven knows, but not quite as bad, perhaps, as you have been
thinking me."
And Arthur Bohun turned and went limping away, leaving Richard lost in
wonder.
He limped away to indulge his pain where no mortal eye could see him.
Parted from Ellen Adair, the whole world was to him as nothing. A
sense of dishonour lay ever upon him, the shame of his conduct towards
her was present to him night and day. With all his heart he wished
James Bohun had not died, that there might have been no question of
his succession. He would then have gone somewhere away with her, have
changed his name, and been happy in obscurity. But there was no place
unfrequented by man; he could not change his wife's face; and she
might be recognized as the daughter of Adair the convict. Besides,
would it not be an offence against Heaven if he wedded the daughter of
the man who had caused the death of his father? No; happiness could
never be his. Look where he would, there was nothing around him but
pain and misery.