THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE.
Off one of the cross roads leading from Stoke Newington and Stamford
Hill to Upper Clapton, there stood a few years back, and still stand,
for aught the writer knows to the contrary, a few pairs of semi-detached
houses, undoubtedly respectable as to position and appearance, but
painfully small in their internal arrangement--houses suitable both as
regarded rent and position for a couple of maiden ladies, for a widow
and her son, for a newly married couple, or for any one in fact whose
family chanced to be as circumscribed in number as his income in amount.
All told, these desirable residences contained only seven rooms; but
the windows of those rooms overlooked, both back and front, pleasant
gardens, and the road in which they stood ended in a brick wall covered
with ivy, so that the inmates were crazed with no noise of passing
vehicles. Altogether a quiet out-of-the-world little Grove, for by that
name it was called, which a person might have wandered about Stamford
Hill and Clapton for ever without discovering, had he not chanced upon
it by accident, or happened to know some one resident in it.
But Dolly Mortomley was familiar with that out-of-the-way nook.
A widow with whom she had been well acquainted in the old Dassell days,
coming to London for the sake of being near her only son, had asked Mrs.
Mortomley to look her out a house, _small_, _genteel_, _cheap_, in a
_respectable neighbourhood_, _readily accessible to the City_--all these
requirements being italicised; and after weary searching, Dolly wrote
down triumphantly that she had found and taken the very residence
described, and that if her friend would send up her furniture, and come
and stay for a week at Homewood while the place was put in order,
everything should be made comfortable for her, so that she might walk,
without any fuss or trouble, into her new home.
Mrs. Baker was the name of the new tenant who took possession of number
eight, in which she lived for nearly two years,--to the great
contentment of tradespeople, tax-collectors, and landlord, for she lived
regularly and paid regularly, as only persons possessed of a fixed
income punctually received, can do.
At the end of that time, however, her son fell ill, and the doctors
advised that she should take him abroad for the winter.
Then ensued a difficulty. She had taken the house on a three years'
agreement, and she did not wish to sell her furniture.
Clearly then, as all her friends said, the best thing for her to do was
to let the house furnished until the end of her term, by which time she
would be able to arrange her future plans.
This was in July. October had now come, and the house was still on
view. Keys to be had at Mr. Stilton's, Blank Street, Clapton, while once
a week the rooms were swept, the furniture rubbed and dusted, and fires
lighted, by a former servant, who having married only a few months
previously, resided in the neighbourhood.
The house would not let furnished. The class of people who require
furnished houses are not those desirous of renting one at about a pound
or five-and-twenty shillings a week, and Dolly had already written to
inquire whether the chairs and tables and other effects had not better
be stored, and the residence let unfurnished.
As she sat plucking the wool out of Mr. Werner's mat, the memory of this
house had recurred to her. They would be quiet there. She could pay Mrs.
Baker's rent without saying who were her tenants. Mr. Stilton knew her
well, and would let her have the keys at once if she said the house was
taken. She would have Susan over, and she would tell no one, except
Esther and Mr. Leigh, and perhaps Rupert Halling, where she and her
husband had taken refuge, and she would nurse him back to health in that
quiet house where not a sound would disturb his rest, for she remembered
Mrs. Baker telling her the people next door had neither chick nor
child--nor piano.
It all came back to her like a vision of safety and peace. There Messrs.
Forde and Kleinwort could not intrude; there they might shut their door
and bar out the world, and not even Mr. Swanland could compel them to
shelter a man in possession; there she could go into her kitchen
undeterred by the thought of strangers loafing around the fire; there
they might have their dry morsel in quietness; there she would be free
from the scrutiny of Mr. Meadows, and the eternal bickering of workmen;
there Mr. Bayley would have no right to come at early morn and dewy eve,
and neither would Mr. Swanland's head and confidential clerk, who
appeared perpetually at Homewood to hear Mr. Meadows' report, and to
make sure the Mortomleys were not interfering with the business, or
making away with goods, or inciting the men to rebellion, or, in a
word, misconducting themselves in any way which should authorise Mr.
Swanland in taking active steps to teach them their true position.
As for Mr. Werner and all their former acquaintances, she tried to
forget she had ever called a human being friend.
"What I have to do now I must do for myself," she decided, as she drove
through the night, her husband's head pillowed on her shoulder. "If we
must pass through the valley of humiliation, it shall henceforth be
alone. We have trod it long enough in sight of the public."
Perhaps she underrated the extent of the responsibility she thus
assumed; perhaps in her anger against Mr. Werner, and her remembrance of
all the misery she had endured at Homewood, she omitted to look on the
other side of the canvas, and see the picture of solitude, anxiety,
poverty, and lingering illness ultimately painted there; but spite of
this, though she took her bold step in haste, she never repented it had
been forced upon her--never, not even when she was weary and
downhearted, not even when the burden seemed greater than she could
bear, did Dolly regret she decided not to take her husband back to
Homewood.
And yet, as she stood at the gate struggling with an unknown lock, her
heart did sink within her for a moment.
It was only for a moment, however, for when after another fight with the
key of the hall-door, she entered the house and lighted the gas with
some matches she had been wise enough to purchase on her way, together
with some other articles, a great sense of security and contentment came
over her, and she felt, so far as she was concerned, if there had not
been a bed or table in the house, if she had been compelled to sleep on
the bare boards, she would cheerfully have done so rather than pass
another night under the same roof with Mr. Meadows or any person of his
profession.
Full of this feeling she returned to the cab, and asked the driver to
assist her husband to alight. Fortunately, he was a strong, capable
fellow, or they must have sent for further assistance.
To her utter dismay, Dolly found it impossible to rouse the sick man to
a sense of what was required from him, the moderate exertion of
struggling to a standing position, and almost in despair she strove with
all her strength to lift him from his seat.
"Let me try, ma'am," said Cabby, and he took Mortomley in his arms, and
the moment after was supporting him on the side-path; then the strange
man and she managed between them to lead him up the short walk and the
little flight of steps leading to the hall door.
"Can we get him upstairs?" Dolly asked in despair, for one look at his
face under the gaslight showed her his illness had returned, that he was
as bad as he could well be.
"We can try, ma'am," was the answer.
"You must stay with him while I run up and light the gas," she remarked.
The man looked at the unpromising staircase, and at Mrs. Mortomley,
panting and out of breath, and shook his head.
"I wouldn't try it if I was you," he said.
They placed him in an arm-chair, and then with mattresses brought from
upstairs, made a comfortable enough couch in the back drawing-room.
When these preparations were completed, Dolly motioned the cabman to
follow her into the hall.
"Haven't you got anybody here with you, ma'am?" he asked, with a rough
sympathy in his voice and manner.
"I am all alone for the present," she answered. "Will you do something
for me?"
"Aye, that I will, if so be I can," was the ready answer.
"First, how much do I owe you?" and when that pecuniary matter was
settled to his entire satisfaction, Mrs. Mortomley said,
"I want you to fetch a doctor. Find one and bring him here as soon as
you can. We won't quarrel about your fare."
"I am not afraid of that," he replied, muttering to himself as he
climbed up to his box, "but I am afraid it is an undertaker rather than
a doctor you will be wanting soon."
He was not absent more than half an hour, but in that time Dolly had
arranged matters somewhat to her mind.
She discovered coals in the cellar, and a few pieces of wood in the
kitchen-grate, and so managed to light a fire in the sick-room. She
carried the chairs, upholstered in damask, and other items of
drawing-room furniture into the front room, and substituted in their
place articles from the upper rooms, which proved that Dolly had no
intention of moving her husband to the first floor for some time to
come.
From the contents of a travelling-bag, which having been taken straight
out to Mrs. Werner's carriage, had escaped Mr. Meadows' scrutiny, she
set out the dressing-table with a few toilet necessaries, and thus it
came to pass that when the doctor arrived he found the house inhabited
not merely by human beings, but by that subtle essence of womanhood
which may be felt but never described.
Already the house was a home, and this man who entered so many houses
which were not homes did involuntarily homage to her achievement.
With a quiet tread he walked to the side of his patient, and stooping
down over him felt his pulse, pulled up his eyelids, drew down the
coverings, and laid his hand on his heart, then placed his own cool palm
on the sick man's forehead. Then leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece,
he proceeded to question Dolly.
"How long has he been ill?"
"Several weeks. I cannot now remember how many," she answered, making a
movement as if to leave the room.
"He won't hear us," said the doctor. "You need not trouble yourself
about that. Some one has been attending him, I suppose?"
"Yes," she answered, "but not in this neighbourhood; we have only just
come here."
"So the cabman told me," he replied. "Has he," indicating Mortomley
with a turn of his head, "been living low?"
"He has had everything the doctor told me to give him."
"Beef-tea, wine, and so forth?"
"Yes, all sorts of wine, and everything we could think of or imagine."
"Just as I supposed," remarked the doctor. "And medicine, of course,
draughts and drops, and those sort of things?"
"Yes; all that was ordered."
"And how does it happen a man in his state of health was out at such a
time of night--out, in fact, at all?" asked the doctor suddenly.
"Because where we lived was killing him," Dolly answered; "because a
dear friend wanted to take us to Brighton with her. And--and--well if I
must tell you, other members of her family did not make us welcome when
we got to her house in London, and I was obliged to bring him here."
"That is right," he said, nodding approvingly. "Always tell the truth to
your doctor. In return I will be frank with you. What your husband
wants is not so much wine, or meat, or change, or anything of that sort
usually recommended, but sleep. If he can rest, and I think he can, that
may save him; but I tell you candidly his recovery will be tedious, and
nothing except rest _can_ save him. Good night. I will not send you any
medicine at present, but I will look round early in the morning, and see
what sort of a night he has passed."
And he held out his hand and departed, and Dolly was left alone.
When she paid the cabman for his second journey she gave him a letter,
and put him upon honour to post it at some pillar-box where the
collections were made at three in the morning.
That letter, written hurriedly and directed in pencil, ran as follows:--
"Thursday night.
"Dear Esther,--I have decided _not_ to go with Mrs. Werner to
Brighton. Directly you receive this, please send Susan to Mrs.
Baker's. You know the address. I will try to get over to Homewood
to-morrow, but cannot do so till Susan comes here. Mr. Mortomley is
very ill. Do not mention where we are to any one till I have seen
you.
"Yours,
"D. MORTOMLEY."
The cabman was faithful. Though he might never see Mrs. Mortomley again,
he honestly did her bidding, and accordingly about half-past ten o'clock
the next morning Susan arrived, bringing the following note with her
from Esther:--
"Friday morning.
"Dear Madam,--I have not kept Susan to take any of her clothes, as
I wanted to get her away before Meadows was up. I think you will be
quieter at Mrs. Baker's than any place else.
"Susan will tell you about Mr. Forde and Mr. Kleinwort; but perhaps
you have seen them.
"They were greatly put out at finding you gone. I would not have
told them where, but Meadows he did. No more at present from
"Your humble servant,
"E. HUMMERSON.
"Dear Madam,--I am sorry to hear Mr. Mortomley is so ill again.
Please do not send Susan here, as Meadows might get talking to
her."
After reading and re-reading this epistle, Mrs. Mortomley decided not to
visit Homewood for some time to come.