DARK AND CLOUDY DAYS.
WHEN Mrs. Reardon returned home, she told her husband that a doctor was
coming to see him on the following day.
"How do you know? Did you meet Marshall?" inquired Matthew eagerly.
"It's some one Mrs. Browne knows. She's going to send him."
"How came she to hear of my illness?"
"I told her. I was obliged. The work ought to have been taken back
before, and she wanted to know why I had not got it done as I promised.
When I said you were ill, she asked a great many questions, and would
hardly let me have any more to bring home. She was afraid lest it
should be a fever, or something of that kind, and is going to send a
doctor the first thing to-morrow morning in order to be sure. I don't
think that we need be very grateful to her, and yet I am glad he is
coming. He will give you something, I hope, to relieve and do you good."
"It can't be helped now," said Matthew, "but I would rather have waited
and seen old Marshall's friend—not that I have any faith in doctors."
"It is of no use waiting, Matthew," said his wife, in a low voice,
"you'll never see Marshall again, or his friend either."
"How do you know?"
"I called at the office this evening," answered Mrs. Reardon. "They
were all gone. I knew they would be, but I thought that I might ask the
old housekeeper whether he had been there lately."
"And what did she say?"
"Oh, Matthew," continued his wife, "I hardly like to tell you. You
remember that dark stormy night when he came here? It appears that
the poor old gentleman met with an accident going home, and was much
injured, especially about the head and back. The housekeeper did not
rightly know the particulars, and she did not believe that any one
else did, only that he was taken to the hospital, nothing but a Bible
being found in his pockets. He remained there until his master, who
had become uneasy at his absence, discovered him. Mr. Heighington has
scarcely left him since, but he does not know him or any one else. It
is beautiful, for all that, she says, to hear him talking and praying,
and some of the patients can't help crying. All yesterday he was
sinking fast, and she thought it most probable that by this time all
was over."
Matthew buried his face in his hands, and remained silent.
"Polly," whispered Bessie, "do you think it could be the wolves?"
"I don't know," answered her sister, "it seems like it."
"Poor old gentleman!" continued Mrs. Reardon. "We little thought that
night that we were never to see him any more. It was very good of him
to come. I wish now that I had been kinder to him. I knew you would
be sorry, Matthew," said she, laying her hand gently upon that of her
husband. "It seems as if we had found a friend only to lose him again
directly."
"It was my own fault that he never came before," replied Matthew.
"But somehow, I don't think that we ought to be very sorry for him.
You heard what he said about its being so much better to depart and
be with Christ—and that's where he is now. He told me long ago of the
Lord having gone before to prepare a place, but he did not think of
going so soon then. 'To depart and be with Christ'—yes, it's better
for him. But how will it be for those who die without Christ? Don't be
afraid, wife," added he, "I know what I am saying, and what I have been
thinking of—and I wish that I had thought of it before."
"I'm very sorry for him too," observed Mrs. Reardon, soothingly. "But
it's no use thinking and grieving about it; we can't do any good, and
after all, as you say, the poor gentleman is better off."
"'For ever with the Lord;'"
repeated Matthew. "How his face shone when he said those words. It's in
one of your hymns—isn't it, Bessie?"
"Yes, father; but I can't sing, I've lump in my throat."
"Poor child!" said her mother, observing that she looked ready to cry.
"I don't think we are any of us in a singing humour to-night."
And then, tired as she was, she took them away to their little closet,
and having undressed and tucked them in carefully, bidding them say
their prayers in bed for once, she kissed the trembling children, and
told them to try and go to sleep as fast as they could,—turning back
again to take the shawl from her own shoulders and place it over them.
"I can't think what makes them shiver so to-night," thought she,
"unless it is these bitter winds."
She little dreamt that it could be from fear, and the children never
told her.
Presently Polly spoke in a whisper.
"Are you asleep, Bessie?"
"No," answered her sister, "I can't sleep for thinking."
"I have been thinking, too," continued Polly, "and I don't believe it
was the wolves after all. At any rate, they did not eat him up, or how
could he be in the hospital?"
"I never thought of that," said Bessie. "But don't you remember our
hearing them outside when he went away?"
"It might have been the wind," answered Polly. "It's very high again
to-night. Listen to it—how it shakes the doors and windows."
Bessie said that she did not want to listen. And, feeling somewhat
reassured by her sister's suggestions, she buried her little head
beneath the clothes, and was soon fast asleep.
Dr. Harding called on the following day. He found Matthew worse, and
saw at a glance how it was with him.
"Nothing, catching eh, doctor?" asked the sick man, with a grim smile.
"Nothing of the kind," replied Dr. Harding, shaking his head.
"Perhaps you'll tell Mrs. Browne so?"
"Yes; I'll tell her. You have had medical advice, I suppose?"
"No, what was the use of it?" inquired Matthew.
"Not much, to be sure," replied the doctor. "What you want most is
plenty of nourishing food. 'Kitchen physic,' Mrs. Reardon, and the more
you can persuade him to take the better."
He little thought of the bitter pang which these words inflicted upon
the heart, of the poor suffering wife—some doctors seldom do, and yet
they are a kindly race of men for the most part. Alas! for the poor if
it were not so.
"I think I shall be able to send something to relieve the cough," said
Dr. Harding. "I do not see that anything more can be done at present."
Mrs. Reardon went out with him on to the landing.
"Is he very ill?" asked she, in a faltering voice.
"Yes, very ill. All this must have been going on a long time?"
"It has, sir, a very long time, and he appears to get weaker and
weaker."
"You must endeavour to keep up his strength," replied Dr. Harding.
"Plenty of good beef-tea—anything, in fact, that he fancies. You won't
forget?"
"No," answered Mrs. Reardon, "I won't forget." She looked as if she
should have liked to ask one more question, but had not the courage;
and, while she was still hesitating, Dr. Harding got into his carriage
and was driven away.
Mrs. Reardon held her apron to her eyes as she went upstairs, and never
noticed a young girl with a pale wistful face and golden hair, who
stood aside to let her pass, and looked as if she had been crying also.
When Dr. Harding saw Mrs. Browne, he told her that there was not the
slightest fear of contagion.
"The poor man," said he, "is dying of rapid consumption. I should not
be surprised to hear of his death at any moment."
"Do they appear to be very poor?" asked Mrs. Browne. "She always draws
money for her work before it's quite finished. But many people do that.
The poor are so improvident."
"I should say not, so far as I could judge. The room in which they
were is as large again as this, with panelled walls old and a carved
chimney-piece, quite in the old-fashioned style, although, to be sure,
there was not much furniture in it. But the woman appeared to be neatly
dressed, and everything looked very clean."
"And you really think that her husband is dying?" asked Mrs. Browne.
"He can't last much longer," replied Dr. Harding. "The poor fellow is
wasted away to a shadow."
"I have a great mind not to let his wife have any more work until it
is all over," said Mrs. Browne. "She will find quite enough to do,
poor woman, with a sick husband to look after, and the work might get
spoilt. I'll tell her so the next time she comes."
"I would not mention the reason if I were you," said Dr. Harding. "She
does not seem to be aware of her husband's danger, and it was of no use
telling her. The blow will come soon enough."