Arthur looked at her in amazement. Was this his gentle sister-in-law?
Her very voice seemed changed, and her frame was shaking with her
unusual emotion.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Surely you have Henry’s welfare at heart
as much as we have.’
‘I think I have, Arthur; but I will not attempt to persuade him to go
to Switzerland, or any other place, unless it should be alone with me.
I have already told you that he cannot bear the noise of children, even
that of his own, neither does he care for company. I was sorry and
surprised that, knowing his state of health, you should have introduced
a stranger at The Old Hall without giving us notice, but now that I
find he was a mad doctor, brought here to examine my husband without
my leave or cognisance, I think it little short of an insult.’
‘An insult? Oh! Hannah! that is too hard a word,’ interposed her
brother-in-law.
‘I don’t say you meant it so, but at the least it was a piece of great
officiousness on your part. How dared you think, or let others think,’
she went on, suddenly flaring up, ‘that my husband--is _mad_? Is that
brotherly solicitude? For shame! For shame! Had I known who your
_friend_ was, I would have turned him from my door.’
‘Then there is no chance, I suppose,’ said Arthur, sorrowfully, ‘of
persuading you to join your forces to ours, and inducing Henry to go
away with us for a change?’
‘Not the slightest. He does not need change. If he does, we will go
away quietly together. Don’t think me unkind, Arthur, but I have
already told you what Henry’s illness arises from. I know he sometimes
takes a little dose of morphia, or smokes a pipe of opium; he does it
to allay the pain of neuralgia, which often unfits him for business;
many other neuralgic patients do the same. The pain he endures unfits
him for society also; it upsets his nerves and makes him irritable. But
to call him mad--to bring a mad doctor to see him, without asking his
consent, or mine-- Oh! it was cruel--cruel!’
She turned her back upon her brother-in-law, and went on with her work,
whilst he sat there, hardly knowing what to do or say.
‘How am I to persuade you, Hannah,’ he resumed at last, ‘that I acted
in all love and kindness towards my brother and you? I believed that,
living always by his side, you could not have noticed what is so very
palpable to me--the extraordinary change in poor Henry--’
‘Not seen it?’ she interrupted him with. ‘Not wept over it, and prayed
over it for months past! Why not say at once that I do not love my
husband, Arthur? I know far more of him than you do, and could have
saved you the trouble of bringing a _mad_ doctor to gloat upon his
infirmities. Henry is unhappy, poor darling! He has been unhappy ever
since his partner’s death, and his nerves have become unstrung. He is
foolish, perhaps, to take so much morphia, but it soothes and relieves
him, and anything is better than that he should suffer. But you will
not cure him--neither you nor your doctors! Only time and affection
will do that, with perfect quiet. I will not, therefore, have him
disturbed, nor worried in any way, either by relations or strangers. I
will not let him go to public amusements again, which only tire him,
but he shall stay at home with me till God, in His own good time, sees
fit to cure him of his complaint.’
‘Forgive me, Hannah,’ said Captain Hindes, after a pause, ‘I daresay I
have been very officious, but I did it for the best. Won’t you believe
that?’
‘Yes, I believe that.’
‘And I will leave Henry for the future to you. But, oh! do try to wean
him from that dreadful habit. And look here, my dear, under these
circumstances, what is the use of my remaining in London? I cannot
afford the expense of an hotel, and came here, as you must know, only
to be near you and Henry. But it can be no pleasure to me to continue
to see him in this condition, especially if I can do him no good. It
unnerves me, Hannah. He is a wreck of his former self. We shall only
quarrel if we continue to meet, so the sooner I take my wife and little
ones into the fresh country, the better. Don’t be surprised, then, if
we start almost immediately, but I shall, of course, run up and say
good-bye to you and Henry before we go.’
He held out his hand to her as he spoke, but, to his surprise, instead
of taking it, Hannah covered her face with her own, and burst into a
flood of tears.
‘Oh! it is so hard--so hard,’ she sobbed, ‘to see him so unlike
himself, and find no remedy on any side. I would--I would,’ she
continued hysterically, ‘give my life to see him as he used to be. But
it is in vain wishing for it--all in vain--in vain!’
Arthur sat down beside her again, and took her hand.
‘My dear Hannah,’ he said, ‘I feel sure that all the dear old man wants
is a complete change. He has been brooding over these sad deaths of the
Cramptons, and that, added to business matters being a great anxiety,
and this confounded neuralgia driving him half crazy, has had a great
effect upon his mind. But, if he went right away, it would work a
miracle for him. Come, dear girl, think over my proposal a second time,
and bring him to Switzerland, with Edie and me.’
‘No, no, no; anything but that,’ said Hannah, shaking her head. ‘I
will pray for him, and strive for him at home, but he must not go into
society. Oh, Arthur, cease worrying me about it! I am so miserable--so
miserable.’
‘My poor sister, I can see you are. Well, as you say, we must trust him
to God. Good-bye for the present. Edie shall give you proper notice of
our next visit. But this isn’t as it used to be--eh, Hannah?’
‘No; nothing is as it used to be,’ she responded, as she wished him
farewell.
As soon as her brother-in-law was out of sight and hearing, poor Hannah
gave vent to her tears in right earnest. How was all this to end, she
thought. What would become of her hapless husband if it went on much
longer? His condition had already attracted public notice. The next
thing would be that he was declared unfit to conduct his business, and
their affairs would have to be handed over to the care of a stranger.
She foresaw nothing in the future but misery for herself and her
children. She saw no prospect of ever having her daughters to live
at home, for every day strengthened her resolve not to bring them in
contact with so depraved and uncertain a father. Nothing remained for
her but a life of servitude and loneliness, while she pandered to
a sin she abhorred for the sake of the children she loved. Even so
innocent a pleasure as the society of her brother and sister-in-law was
denied her. Henry’s conduct had estranged them. Little by little, she
foresaw she would be called upon to relinquish everything that had made
her existence pleasant to her.
When her husband returned home and she communicated the fact of his
brother’s proposed departure to him, he became as angry as if he
had been doing everything in his power to make their stay in town
agreeable. He called Arthur ungrateful, and Edith a fool, and wanted to
know why they had ever returned to England if they intended to spend
their furlough apart from the only relations they had in the world.
‘I think you forget, Henry,’ interposed his wife, ‘that Arthur is not
very rich, and to live in London with five children is rather expensive
work. Their weekly bills must amount to something terrific. I don’t
wonder at his being anxious to get them all off into the country. He
talks of going to Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland! Bosh!’ exclaimed Henry Hindes. ‘Why don’t he bring the
lot of them to The Old Hall? There’s plenty of room for them here!
I should like to see the children running about! The place has been
infernally dull since you sent the girls away. Just write and tell
Arthur that the old place is at his disposal whenever he likes. Why
didn’t they come here from the beginning? What was the obstacle?’
‘_You_ were, Henry!’ said Hannah, looking at him steadily. ‘Have you
forgotten that already?’
The man shivered, and turned away. But, the next moment, he was braving
it out.
‘_You_ were, you mean, confound you!’ he retorted. ‘But if I choose to
have my brother here, I shall do so without asking your leave, and that
I tell you.’
‘I don’t think he would care to accept your invitation now,’ she
said, ‘for you have behaved so rudely to him--once at the theatre and
yesterday, when his friend was present,--that he would, I fancy, be
rather afraid of subjecting himself to the daily risk of renewing such
scenes. Arthur told me this afternoon that--’
‘What?--what?’ cried Hindes, quickly, ‘what did he tell you? He doesn’t
suspect, does he, Hannah--he doesn’t think--you haven’t _told_ him,’ he
continued, grasping her arm as if he held it in a vice. ‘You haven’t
betrayed me--speak, speak, for God’s sake! Don’t keep me in suspense!’
He looked so abject as he put the question with trembling eagerness,
that her heart went out to him with a great burst of pity. He was a
murderer--but she loved him.
‘No, no, darling!’ she replied, with unwonted tenderness, as she bent
down and kissed his haggard face, ‘how can you think so for a moment? I
shall never, never betray you, Harry; not even at the bar of Heaven.
If I am brought up there as witness against you, I will go to hell
sooner than open my mouth. Don’t think it of me! You are not safer with
God Himself than you are with me, my poor Harry!’
‘I know it, I know it!’ he muttered; ‘but why can’t Arthur come here,
then?’
‘Because--oh! there are many reasons; don’t make me reiterate them. But
one is, that I am afraid your conduct would excite his attention and,
perhaps, his suspicions. You are not master of yourself, Henry! That
dreadful morphia makes you just the same as if you were intoxicated. It
is killing you, body and soul. You take far too much of it. You must
give it up. Oh! do promise me, Hal, to try and do without it. Half your
time you are so stupid, you don’t know what you are saying or doing.
Even the servants see the alteration in you. _Do_ give it up, Henry. I
would ask it of you on my bended knees if I thought it would have any
effect. Promise me you will throw the horrid bottle away, and never
take any more of it.’
‘I cannot, I cannot!’ he replied in a despairing whisper. ‘I take it to
keep _her_ away. Directly I leave it off for a night _she_ comes and
reproaches me with--you know what--and I cannot bear her eyes, they
drive me mad.’
‘Dear husband, it is only your fancy. She is far too happy, by this
time, not to have forgotten and forgiven long ago. Only pray for
God’s forgiveness and all will be right. Or come away with me, as you
proposed once before, and let us try to be at peace with our children
again, in a new land.’
‘Not now,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘not while Arthur is in England.
He would suspect--he would come too. Wait!--wait, till he is gone away
again.’
‘Oh! Harry, never mind him. He may not go back to India for years. And
your health is getting worse and worse. New scenes and interests would
drive these feverish fancies out of your head. What is anything worth,
in comparison to that? Leave the business to take care of itself! Sell
it for anything it may fetch; only come away from England, and let me
try to help you to overcome the dreadful habit you have contracted.’
‘It is too late, my dear. I could not do without it now. I should go
mad.’
‘Henry, you _will_ go mad if you do not leave it off! That Doctor
Govan, who came here last evening, detected your fondness for morphia
at once, and he told Arthur--’
But the idea that he was watched, raised the devil in Henry Hindes at
once.
‘How _dare_ Arthur set traps to catch me!’ he exclaimed furiously, ‘and
you are aiding and abetting him. _Who_ told you what the doctor said?
When have you seen my brother since? Are you all in league against me?’
‘No! no! Henry; don’t be so foolish,’ replied his wife. ‘No one says
or thinks anything except for your good. But your brother is anxious
on your account. Anyone would be who had known you in former days. You
cannot know how ill you look. And so he brought his friend to see you,
hoping he might suggest a remedy. But Doctor Govan said nothing will do
you any good until you leave off morphia.’
‘D--n his impudence!’ exclaimed Hindes, angrily; ‘that’s what he was
sneaking round here for, was it? I’ll teach him to lay siege to me in
my own house. The next time he shows his face here, I’ll kick him out,
and Arthur into the bargain. But it’s all your fault,’ he continued,
turning round upon her. ‘If you didn’t go about with that long face of
yours, people wouldn’t be trying to find out what was the matter with
me. Sending the children away from home, too; why, that in itself is
enough to raise any one’s suspicion--you, who always advocated home
education, especially for girls. It is abominable--infamous--that a man
cannot have any dependence even on his wife!’
The injustice of this attack, coming so immediately upon her kindness
to him, stirred all the resentment of which she was capable in Hannah’s
breast.
‘You are unjust to me,’ she cried, ‘most unjust! What other woman
would have done for you what I have done? What other woman would have
stayed by your side, after she knew what _I_ know? I sent the girls
away because I felt it was impossible they should be brought up in the
same house with you, and the sequel has proved I was right. If any
suspicions have been aroused, it is by your own conduct. The fatal
habit you have contracted is as bad as that of drinking. It deprives a
man of all self-respect--all forethought--all control over himself, or
his temper. The scenes which took place in the theatre, and here, last
night, are horrible to me and degrading to yourself. I have offered to
exile myself with you in order to help you fight against the demon that
possesses you, and you have refused. I can do no more. Henceforward,
you must go your own way, without aid from me! I can only wait and
watch for the end.’
She turned from him indignantly as she concluded, and Henry Hindes felt
for the first time as if he were indeed deserted by God and man.
The idea rendered him frantic. He dashed out of the room and stumbled
upstairs. At the top he met little Wally coming to bid papa and mamma
good-night, carefully feeling his way down the broad stairs by holding
on tight to the banisters. Master Wally was, as his nurse said, ‘quite
a man.’ He highly objected to being led, or held by the hand. ‘Let
Wally go, all by his self,’ he would say, and so, clad in his white
frock and blue ribbons, he was laboriously making his way downwards,
whilst his nurse followed, smiling proudly at his independence.
Just as he had commenced to descend the last flight, he encountered
his father, mad with rage and fear and morphia. He did not even seem
to see the little figure he so dearly loved, as he stumbled upstairs,
and half fell, half brushed rudely against it. The baby lost his slight
hold of the railings at once, and fell to the very bottom, where he lay
motionless.
A shriek from the nurse brought Hannah quickly out of the library, when
she found her little son lying on the mat in the hall. As she raised
him, she glanced upwards and saw her husband standing at the head of
the staircase, paralysed with fright. She had only time to ask, ‘Is
this _your_ doing?’ when he threw his arms wildly above his head, and
exclaiming, ‘The cliffs! the cliffs! A judgment! a judgment!’ rushed
away and locked himself into his own room.
Hannah had no care, at that moment, but for her little child. The nurse
was sobbingly informing her how the dear baby was coming downstairs so
beautifully, and how the master fell against him and upset his balance,
and she hoped her mistress wouldn’t fancy it was by any fault of hers,
when Hannah interrupted her by saying,--
‘Go and tell James to fetch Doctor Sewell at once, Annie, and I will
lay Wally on the library sofa.’
She carried her little son away as she spoke, and sat down with him
in her arms. Wally had not yet given any signs of consciousness, but
lay like a bruised lily on his mother’s lap. His face was very white,
and his eyes were closed, but there was no appearance of his having
sustained any injury. But when Dr Sewell arrived, he looked very
serious over the misadventure. He measured the height of the fall, and
examined the child’s head and temples carefully. Then he said, as Wally
stirred and moaned, and gave signs of returning consciousness,--
‘You had better put the little fellow to bed, Mrs Hindes, and let his
nurse sit up with him during the night. I will send a draught for him
to take, and will be here early to-morrow.’
‘But, doctor,’ said Hannah, anxiously, ‘you don’t think this fall will
have any bad effects, do you? He has so often tumbled about before.’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied the doctor, cheerfully, ‘and will do so
again, no doubt, but there is no harm in taking a little precaution. He
is getting a heavy boy now, you know, and a fall is, consequently, more
risky. But, doubtless, he will be all right after a few days’ rest. Get
him to bed, and don’t take him out again till I have seen him in the
morning.’
He left her with this sorry bit of comfort, and she carried her little
boy up to her own bed, and prepared to watch by him for the night
herself. As long as the nurse attended on her and Wally, she was
undisturbed, but when she had dismissed her, and all the house was
quiet, she heard the door between her room and that of her husband
softly unclose, and Henry Hindes’s haggard face appeared in the
opening. Hannah felt so much disgust for him at that moment, that she
could not help showing the feeling in her face and manner.
‘Oh, go away, go away!’ she exclaimed with averted eyes, ‘I can’t bear
to see you or hear your voice. You have done enough mischief, God
knows! Go away and leave me in peace with my child. It is the least
thing you can do.’
‘Is he dead?’ demanded Hindes, in an awed whisper.
‘He is not; but it is not your fault that he still lives. And what
terrible results may follow this unnatural fall, no one knows. I told
you what your habits would lead to. You have the consolation of knowing
that you have injured, and perhaps killed, your favourite child by your
fatal indulgence.’
‘No! not killed--not _killed_--’ he repeated hoarsely, ‘it is
impossible. God cannot have so little mercy.’
‘Mercy!’ cried Hannah, shrilly, for the accident to her baby had dried
up, for the time being, every drop of the milk of human kindness in
her, ‘what mercy have you a right to expect at His hand--_you_, who
showed none? You are not satisfied with making _one_ mother childless.
You must try and take the only joy left in my wretched life from me.
You deprived me of the society of my girls, and now you want to murder
my boy.’
She had used the word inadvertently, but it stabbed the unfortunate
man before her to the heart. He glared wildly at her for a minute, and
then, with a low cry like the protest of a wounded animal, he slammed
the door between them, and locked it on the other side. Hannah had a
bolt on hers, and she rose at once and drew it. She felt she could not
endure his presence again that night. So she sat by Wally’s side, and
watched his feverish slumbers alone till daylight.