DOCTOR HESSELIUS IS SUMMONED TO RICHMOND.
We parted cheerfully, but he was not cheerful, nor was I. There are
certain expressions of that powerful organ of spirit—the human
face—which, although I have seen them often, and possess a doctor’s
nerve, yet disturb me profoundly. One look of Mr. Jennings haunted me.
It had seized my imagination with so dismal a power that I changed my
plans for the evening, and went to the opera, feeling that I wanted a
change of ideas.
I heard nothing of or from him for two or three days, when a note in his
hand reached me. It was cheerful, and full of hope. He said that he had
been for some little time so much better—quite well, in fact—that he
was going to make a little experiment, and run down for a month or so to
his parish, to try whether a little work might not quite set him up.
There was in it a fervent religious expression of gratitude for his
restoration, as he now almost hoped he might call it.
A day or two later I saw Lady Mary, who repeated what his note had
announced, and told me that he was actually in Warwickshire, having
resumed his clerical duties at Kenlis; and she added, “I begin to think
that he is really perfectly well, and that there never was anything the
matter, more than nerves and fancy; we are all nervous, but I fancy
there is nothing like a little hard work for that kind of weakness, and
he has made up his mind to try it. I should not be surprised if he did
not come back for a year.”
Notwithstanding all this confidence, only two days later I had this
note, dated from his house off Piccadilly:
“Dear Sir.—I have returned disappointed. If I should feel at all able
to see you, I shall write to ask you kindly to call. At present I am too
low, and, in fact, simply unable to say all I wish to say. Pray don’t
mention my name to my friends. I can see no one. By-and-by, please God,
you shall hear from me. I mean to take a run into Shropshire, where some
of my people are. God bless you! May we, on my return, meet more happily
than I can now write.”
About a week after this I saw Lady Mary at her own house, the last
person, she said, left in town, and just on the wing for Brighton, for
the London season was quite over. She told me that she had heard from
Mr. Jennings’ niece, Martha, in Shropshire. There was nothing to be
gathered from her letter, more than that he was low and nervous. In
those words, of which healthy people think so lightly, what a world of
suffering is sometimes hidden!
Nearly five weeks passed without any further news of Mr. Jennings. At
the end of that time I received a note from him. He wrote:
“I have been in the country, and have had change of air, change of
scene, change of faces, change of everything and in everything—but
_myself_. I have made up my mind, so far as the most irresolute creature
on earth can do it, to tell my case fully to you. If your engagements
will permit, pray come to me to-day, to-morrow, or the next day; but,
pray defer as little as possible. You know not how much I need help. I
have a quiet house at Richmond, where I now am. Perhaps you can manage
to come to dinner, or to luncheon, or even to tea. You shall have no
trouble in finding me out. The servant at Blank street, who takes this
note, will have a carriage at your door at any hour you please; and I am
always to be found. You will say that I ought not to be alone. I have
tried everything. Come and see.”
I called up the servant, and decided on going out the same evening,
which accordingly I did.
He would have been much better in a lodging-house, or hotel, I thought,
as I drove up through a short double row of sombre elms to a very
old-fashioned brick house, darkened by the foliage of these trees, which
over-topped, and nearly surrounded it. It was a perverse choice, for
nothing could be imagined more triste and silent. The house, I found,
belonged to him. He had stayed for a day or two in town, and, finding
it for some cause insupportable, had come out here, probably because
being furnished and his own, he was relieved of the thought and delay of
selection, by coming here.
The sun had already set, and the red reflected light of the western sky
illuminated the scene with the peculiar effect with which we are all
familiar. The hall seemed very dark, but, getting to the back
drawing-room, whose windows command the west, I was again in the same
dusky light.
I sat down, looking out upon the richly-wooded landscape that glowed in
the grand and melancholy light which was every moment fading. The
corners of the room were already dark; all was growing dim, and the
gloom was insensibly toning my mind, already prepared for what was
sinister. I was waiting alone for his arrival, which soon took place.
The door communicating with the front room opened, and the tall figure
of Mr. Jennings, faintly seen in the ruddy twilight, came, with quiet
stealthy steps, into the room.
We shook hands, and, taking a chair to the window, where there was still
light enough to enable us to see each other’s faces, he sat down beside
me, and, placing his hand upon my arm, with scarcely a word of preface
began his narrative.