STUMBLED ACROSS—INTERVIEWED—TAKEN AT HIS WORD.
One night, before it was late, as Oliver was stooping over Jack, trying
to ascertain whether he were really muttering irrelevantly,
‘There’s Ruby, and Rover, and Ranter, too,’
or asking for something the sufferer wanted, a man’s figure in
professional black, which was yet not the doctor’s, appeared on the
opposite side of the bed. Oliver looked up—it was Mr. Holland, the
Dadds’ and Oliver’s minister. He had not been there before—partly
because he had been away on sick leave, partly because he had returned,
only half recruited, after the anxiously economised weeks at the
sea-side with his family—difficult for the poor minister to afford in
more ways than one. And his wife had so implored him not to put his
shaken health and strength, not fairly reestablished, to the severe
test of a fever-laden atmosphere, that he had yielded reluctantly,
and kept away from the unconscious Jack and his burdened father and
mother, till Mr. Holland could do so no longer. Come what might of it,
though it should cost him his own life, and his wife should be left
a widow and his children fatherless, the pastor must be at his post;
and when he went to it, he found the rebel of his congregation hanging
over the sick man—indifferent to inhaling the tainted vapours at the
fountain-head.
Mr. Holland coloured high and hesitated.
Oliver looked up and spoke without the slightest difficulty, rather
with a roughish freedom, born of the necessity of the moment.
‘Hallo, sir! are you there? Look here, Holland; from the colour of your
coat, you have seen more sickness than I. Can you feel a pulse? Can you
pronounce on the state of a tongue? You come as a stranger, you can
tell how Jack strikes you. What do you think of his chance?’
Mr. Holland stepped forward and did as he was required. Oliver and he
consulted together and watched and nursed Jack, without a thought of
anybody besides, for some hours. Then, after the clergyman had taken up
his hat to go, he hesitated once more, put it down again, and touched
Oliver’s arm with a hand that shook slightly.
‘Brother,’ said Mr. Holland solemnly, in phraseology adopted both by
Papists and Puritans in exceptional circumstances and seasons of strong
feeling, ‘have you any objection to joining with me in prayer, and
offering up an intercession for our sick brother?’
‘None in the world,’ replied Oliver promptly. And the two men prayed
aloud by the voice of the one, for Jack Dadd.
The next Sunday, Mr. Holland preached a sermon, which slightly
bewildered his hearers, on the text, ‘Not they who say “Lord, Lord,”
but they who do the will of my Father.’
The early October mornings were getting always darker—with a darkness
which partook of white haze as well as dank wet, dimmer, chiller, when
Oliver—buttoning up his great coat, as he came out of the Dadds’ house
into the street, where last night’s lamps were still burning, and which
had not yet woke up for the day, since not even an early milkman had
put in an appearance—was startled by a woman in a bonnet and veil,
hugging a shawl round her, coming out upon him from the nearest alley,
and accosting him in a gasping, constrained voice.
‘Please, sir, can you tell me how Mr.—how Mr. Jack Dadd is going on
this morning?’ enquired the speaker, with little pants between the
broken utterances of the words.
In place of answering the question, Oliver exclaimed in amazement,
‘Miss ’Liza Polley! What are you doing here at this hour of the
morning?’
‘Oh, Mr. Oliver, don’t betray me!’ cried poor ’Liza, in her natural
voice, though it was quivering with distress and terror. ‘I thought you
would not know me. But never mind that just now; tell me quick, how is
Jack? Oh! will he die, Mr. Oliver? Will Jack die?’
‘I hope not,’ said Oliver gently; ‘he’s no worse, and every hour gained
is in his favour. But this is not a time for you to be out. It was not
six when Mrs. Dadd took my seat. Let me see you home, Miss ’Liza, at
once.’
‘Oh! no, no, Mr. Oliver,’ refused ’Liza, in a fresh paroxysm of alarm
and trouble. Mother would be fit to kill me outright, if I came in
with a man—with a gentleman, at this hour of the morning—though it is
morning—not night,’ pleaded ’Liza piteously; ‘and old Betty Miles has
come to wash, and had the door opened for her’—taking further refuge
in the business of the day’s having really begun—‘or else I should not
have dared to get up, and slip out at all. Oh dear! You do not know
how hard mother has grown, how hard everything is, since poor ’Mily
went wrong,’ protested ’Liza, weeping, not violently, but in a crushed
manner. ‘It is so dull you cannot think! We dare not lift up our heads
from our work, or make a joke, or speak of running out to pay a single
call. Mother says we are all as bad as ’Mily, and have no sense or
feeling. She is ashamed of us. No respectable people will wish us to
darken their doors, or dream of returning our visits. But oh! it would
be nothing, Mr. Oliver,’ broke off ’Liza, returning to the dominant
cause of her misery, ‘if Jack Dadd were only a little better. Mother
may do or say what she chooses,’ continued the girl, writhing like any
other worm trodden on, and turning on its oppressor, ‘I must and will
hear how Jack is, or I shall go mad. Mother may serve me as she served
’Mily. I don’t care, there! Anybody may hear me, and go and tell mother
that likes.’
‘Jack is highly honoured,’ said Oliver, at a loss for any other
observation. ‘But now, don’t you think, since he is no worse, and will
soon, I trust, be a great deal better, it would be as well for you to
take care of yourself, and do what your mother wishes you, for his
sake, as well as hers, Miss ’Liza?’
‘Oh! hush, hush! Don’t say my name, in case anybody hear you,’ ’Liza
objected with the greatest inconsistency. ‘You are a kind chap—that is,
you are very good; but I did not mean you or anybody to see or know me.
I thought you would not penetrate my disguise,’ said ’Liza with solemn
simplicity.
‘I was too clever,’ said Oliver, tempted to laugh.
‘But you will not think ill of me?’ besought ’Liza—sinking again, in
a moment, from the part of the heroine of romance she had formerly
longed to play, which, even this morning, she had found some faint
compensation in trying to support, for Jack was not dead, only very
ill—into the affronted, unhappy, childish young woman. ‘You will not
tell upon me? You see Jack Dadd and I have known each other all our
days, and sometimes—well, he has looked and said things—though he was
not always kind. He was fair angry because I let you talk to me first
when you came back,’ explained ’Liza, with a little hysterical giggle.
‘I am sure, Mr. Oliver, we two said nothing which all the world might
not have heard, and Jack had given himself no right to interfere with
me for speaking to anybody. Now mother says nobody will ever care
to come near us again, after the disgrace ’Mily has brought upon the
family.’ ’Liza began to droop afresh, and to cry without the most
distant admixture of small triumphant laughter. ‘It would be very hard
and cruel, if it were true, for how could we—Ann and I, help it? Mother
was always putting ’Mily before us,’ complained ’Liza resentfully,
‘and Jack and ’Mily would carry on together, just to plague me, I
believe. Oh dear! what am I doing?’—stopping short and wringing her
hands—‘Blaming Jack when he may be dying or dead for aught I know; and
I may never see or speak to him again in my life. But I should not mind
that, if God would only let Jack live and get well and be happy, though
it were all away from me. Oh! Mr. Oliver, will he live? Will Jack live?’
The poor delicate girl was quite spent and shaken. She was forced to
let Oliver—who was not without some apprehension of arousing the blind
fury of Mrs. Polley—give her his arm within sight of her mother’s door.
‘So that was the way of it?’ Oliver said to himself softly, as he
walked away. ‘Poor thing! poor old Jack—who can hardly move a finger at
this moment! And I came between them and made mischief, did I? without
the faintest suspicion, in my stupid bungling? But, let us be thankful,
it may not be too Late to set this right if the beggar will only
recover.’
Oliver was coming in to Jack, not going from him, when the gas-lights
in the streets of Friarton looked white and bright and encouraging
as they look with the night setting in—not yellow and faded and
dispiriting, after a career of unwarrantable dissipation, according to
their faithless discomfiting habit with the first streak of dawn.
There were still many people about, largely the promenaders, shoppers,
and callers belonging to the classes to which day brings work and
evening recreation, with the recreation consisting mainly of what is
best expressed by the old-fashioned word ‘gadding’—going abroad and
foraging for some little excitement in the way of gossip or otherwise.
This was the season when the Polley girls had been wont to disport
themselves among their acquaintances, till the striking of a clock sent
them scampering and scuttling home, like Cinderella minus her glass
slipper.
And sure enough ’Mily Polley came forward in her conspicuous hat and
outrageous skirt, bustling along as if all the business of Friarton
were left for her to do, and meeting Oliver Constable in the face.
At the first glance she appeared perfectly unabashed. The only
difference in her was that to the girlish pertness and boldness there
was added a touch of the hard brazenness which defies such a position
as hers. She was alone—she espied Oliver at once. Her sharp eyes had
never been known to miss man or woman, and now—far from being cast
down, they were roving on all sides, challenging every passer-by.
There was the complete contrast between ’Liza and ’Mily Polley which
is generally to be found between the sinned against and the sinner.
’Mily attempted no foolish disguise. She was not seeking to escape from
Oliver’s recognition. She darted up to him, hailing him loudly—‘Mr.
Oliver Constable, it is a treat to see you now-a-days.’
Oliver stopped and spoke to ’Mily. She made no enquiry for Jack Dadd,
or the most distant allusion to Oliver’s recent loss. On the contrary,
in full view of his mourning, she referred to the changes which had
occurred lately, with boisterous gaiety. ‘And there are more and
greater changes coming, I can tell you, Mr. Oliver,’ said ’Mily, in her
glibest manner. ‘I am turning my back on this dull hole, I’m glad to
say. I am to be married next Thursday; the day is so near that I need
not make a mystery of it. I dare say you have heard, though you have
not wished me joy yet. If you were quicker about it, I might give you
an invitation to my wedding.’
‘Do,’ said Oliver, on the impulse of the moment; ‘and I’ll be happy to
come in the character of an old friend.’
‘Will you?’ asked ’Mily, quickly and doubtfully. ‘Will you, indeed, Mr.
Oliver? Do you mean what you say?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That will be awfully good of you. I’ll be as proud as a peacock;
no’—with a sudden flush—‘not that, but very much obliged and thankful
to show his friends that all the people I ever knew have not turned
their backs upon me.’ She finished with bitterness, still her voice
and face betrayed some shame and regret. ‘Would you mind walking and
talking with me a bit, Mr. Oliver?’ she asked almost gently. ‘We’ll
turn down into Jervis’s yard, where there is nobody working at this
hour. I should like to speak out to you this once. It is not late, and
though it were, there’s nobody to hinder me from stopping out till
after ten, now. But, oh! Mr. Oliver’—breaking out passionately—‘it
was mother herself put the finishing touch to my folly. I had been
wild and flown in her face, and disobeyed her, but I was not bad,
when she turned me from my father’s door, and locked it in my face.
She has herself to thank for what came of it,—no, no, I don’t mean
that’—cried ’Mily, calling herself back with an accent of terror in
her despair—‘What is it the Bible says about them as curses father and
mother? And it is only them as honours father and mother that lives
long; so that any way I’m booked to die young like Jack Dadd and Fan—I
beg your pardon, Mr. Oliver—Mrs. Harry Stanhope. Well, I’ve got an
inkling there are worse fates going. But it was heartless and ill-done
of me,’ confessed poor ’Mily, with something like real contrition in
the tears which welled up into her round eyes,—‘to come forward and
look in your face, and at the band round your hat, and begin with my
idle nonsense—only it’s such sore nonsense now-a-days—you can’t guess,
Mr. Oliver. Did you ever think it would come to this—that my banns
should be put up here, in Friarton, and my marriage day next week, yet
neither mother, nor ’Liza, nor any of them, should care to come near
me? That they should not be able to tell what I’m to wear, or seek to
bid me good-bye before I go?’
‘It will be better when you are gone,’ said Oliver. ‘Forgiveness and
forgetfulness will come in time. You will try to do your best, ’Mily,
God helping you, in the future, and when you come back——’
‘I’ll never come back, never,’ said ’Mily, with strong conviction.
‘I’ll never show my face here again, though I’ve sought to look as if
I did not care that I had met the disgrace, I deserved, I suppose. But
you’ll come to my marriage, Mr. Oliver,’ pleaded ’Mily, ‘and wish me
the best that can happen to me, now? Birt will be pleased, because of
your college breeding and connections, and will think more of me since
a gentleman like you does not hold it beneath him to stand by me. And
you will tell them at home some day, Mr. Oliver, what I wore—you’ll
take a good stare at my bonnet and gown for the purpose—and how I
looked, and that I had taken care, as far as I could, out of the little
bit of money my aunt ’Mily, as was also my godmother, left me, that
everything about the marriage should be as slap-bang as the Cobbes
could manage it? No doubt mother’s daughter, considering what mother
has made of the shop, and what her bank-book comes to, might have been
entitled to a great deal more. I know I used to fancy I might be
married in a white satin and go off in a carriage and pair at least,’
replied ’Mily, half-proudly, half ruefully; ‘still you’ll see there
will be nothing in the way the marriage is gone about, to affront
mother and the rest—though none of them has come to look after my
credit and theirs,’ ended ’Mily, with a considerable flavour of the old
woman lingering about her still.