THE DOCTOR'S PROHIBITION.
THE storm of that night ceased, as other storms have done; but the
turmoil of the waters was not so easily quelled, and massive breakers
swelled and rolled and broke with thundering crashes on the shore,
through many an hour after. There is always for a while a ground-swell
remaining.
The brief storm in Madge Hardwicke's life was over, and its usual calm
had set in. But the sense of disappointment, and the renewal of the old
blank, and the fluttering of spirits, and the wakened restlessness of
desire, were not to be easily stilled. A heavy ground-swell remained
behind, and Madge had many a battle to fight in the weeks succeeding,
which showed not at all to the outer world.
And little Nannie had passed through her small storm,—only it was not
small to her feeble strength,—and had come through it. She was up and
about again, much sooner than the doctor had expected to see her. A
fragile creature she looked, with her pale face, and her long black
hair, and her pleading eyes and gentle manner. There had grown to be
something about Nannie of late very winning to all the world, except
her own father, for whose love Nannie would have gladly given away all
the rest. But when she went back to his cottage, as she persistently
begged to do from the moment she set foot to the ground, he gave her
nothing of a welcome. And Nannie, in her dread of being taken away,
or of drawing punishment upon him, evaded all inquiries respecting
his treatment of her. Amos Ackman had grown more cautious before
spectators, and Nannie kept steady silence as to kicks and blows behind
the scenes. But Nannie too had her ground-swell, and that no light one.
And Mona had passed through the worst of "her" storm. Through a very
tempest of doubts and questionings, beneath which she had for a while
almost succumbed, while her sky above had been wild and black, and the
angry gale had whistled past with a sound which struck chilly to her
very heart. The autumn and early winter months of that year were dark
days to poor Mona Clyde, bereft at one blow of all joy in this world,
and almost all hope in the next. For a while, it had seemed to her
that all her faith was gone. And though gleams of light had been sent
now and then, through the dense mists which had gathered around, yet
the mists were long in dispersing. So Mona also had her ground-swell
remaining.
January, February, March, and April were made up of a succession of
dismal days. Dull warmth and cloudy cold—damp chilliness and dry
east winds,—rain and snow,—fog and sleet,—hail and mist,—alternated
persistently; and the only thing which seemed not to take a share in
these recurring changes was sunshine. People tried to get up jokes upon
the danger of forgetting the colour of the sun, or even of doubting
the fact of his existence altogether, beyond the low gray mantle which
perpetually enveloped this lower earth. Even Madge Hardwicke's equable
spirits felt the depressing influence of the weather; and no doubt the
sum-total of ill tempers in Alyn much exceeded the average.
Then came the sweet month of May, and upon the very first day a change
took place; and spring, in all its luxuriant beauty, burst upon the
Alyn world. To Mona it was like a repetition of the tunnel's darkness,
and the light beyond, with the same sweet meaning. Never had she known
so sudden and joyous a burst of spring, just because never had she
known so dreary a winter preceding—dreary in more senses than one.
It was upon one of the fairest of warm May evenings that the doctor's
chaise stood before his door, and the doctor himself stood upon his
doorstep, pulling on a pair of gloves, for he had just received an
unexpected summons to a distance, at the close of his daily round.
He accomplished the business deliberately—the call in question not
being especially urgent, though too important to leave till next
morning,—buttoned each glove with unnecessary care, and finally took
his seat. Just as he had gathered up the reins, Mona came along the
path.
"Hallo! My dear, where are you going now?"
"Up the hill to see Madge Hardwicke, uncle."
"Where have you been?"
"Only to look up one of my Sunday scholars who was absent last Sunday;
but he is ill, poor little fellow, so it was not his fault."
"Which?"
"Uncle, you won't know his name—Tommy Talbot."
"Not one of the Talbots in Wall's Alley?"
"Yes, he lives there."
The doctor's hand gave an involuntary jerk to the reins, which made the
horse start forward. He pulled in again.
"If your Sunday-school work takes you to such places as that, you had
better give it up altogether."
"Uncle, I never meet with rudeness. The people are as respectful as
possible."
"I dare say! I dare say!" repeated the doctor impatiently. "You don't
go there again without my leave."
"But, uncle—," and Mona looked rather rebellious.
"You don't," said Mr. Chetwynd decisively.
"Tommy will expect me to-morrow."
"Let him! How often have you been, pray?"
"This is the first time since Sunday. Once last week I went, not
because Tommy was ill, but only he was a new pupil the Sunday before,
and I always go to see them in their homes. He is the first I ever had
from that alley."
"Last week—what day?"
"Friday. Tommy was so pleased when I came in. And he took me into the
next room to see a poor little playfellow of his who was not well."
Another sharp jerk at the reins. Mona looked in perplexity at his
knitted brows.
"You haven't seen 'him' again, then?"
"No, I was with Tommy all the time this morning. It was very stupid of
me, but I was thinking so much of him that I quite forgot even to ask
after the other child."
"It is to be the first and last of your visiting there, if you please,"
said the doctor. "That alley is a perfect nest of—"
"Of what?" asked Mona.
"Wickedness," said Mr. Chetwynd, omitting, for a particular reason, the
word he had intended to use.
"I don't think, really, that you need fear for me, uncle."
"Dare say not," muttered Mr. Chetwynd gruffly. "Mind,—no more going
there, Mona. Ha! Here comes Mr. Prior. I'll give him a hint on the
subject some day—can't have you encouraged in that sort of thing."
"Uncle, indeed it was all my own doing," said Mona eagerly, and then
Mr. Prior came up with a cheerful—
"Just the person I wanted to see. No, not you, doctor; only please give
leave, before you go, for Mona to take a drive to-morrow afternoon."
"Anywhere, except to Wall's Alley," said the doctor.
But he went off with something of a frown, and Mona said in
explanation: "He is rather vexed at my going to see some of my
children—one of them I mean."
"Not in Wall's Alley?"
"Yes, little Tommy Talbot."
"How came you to go there?" he asked, as if involuntarily.
"Why, Mr. Prior, is it such a dreadful place?" inquired Mona, in
surprise. "It looked very much like any other alley."
His smile was in the least degree forced. "About the worst in Alyn I
suppose. Don't visit in it again at present,—I will see after Tommy for
you. Are you going indoors now, and shall you be very busy to-morrow?"
"O no; can I do anything for you, Mr. Prior?" She had felt strangely
weary all day, with a heavy spring-tired sort of feeling, but she
brightened up as she spoke. "I was just going up the hill to see Madge
Hardwicke."
"The very thing. I am on my way to that poor creature dying in the
cottage beyond the cliff, so our road is the same."
"One moment, please," and she ran into the hall, coming out again with
a basket full of small bunches of garden flowers. "I am ready now, Mr.
Prior."
"Those little nosegays look tempting," he said, as they passed into the
road. "Are you disposed for a drive to-morrow, Mona?"
"Who with?" she asked.
"All of us. The truth is—" and he laughed slightly—"my sister Rachel
has taken a warm fancy to Madge Hardwicke."
"I felt sure Miss Prior must like her," said Mona.
"And having discovered a certain plan of the said Madge's, she can't
rest without adding her quota to the general enjoyment."
"What the excursion to Bentley Dingle? Madge told me, but I thought it
was to be quite a secret."
"Rachel found out the secret somehow,—though I confess it is rather a
mystery to me still. I only gather that Madge has a certain treat in
store for certain children, that my sister does not think there will
be buns enough to the fore, that she therefore intends to act carrier
gratis for the occasion, and that I am expected to take my share as
driver. Who are Madge's children, if you can tell me?"
"A dozen or more poor little things, who run up to her cottage on
Saturday afternoons to read the Bible with her. They are as fond of her
as if she were their mother."
"I understand. And she plans an excursion for them to the Dingle?"
"Yes, in a break, and they will make tea there, and eat buns and bread
and butter. The truth is, Madge had a present lately from her old
master, Sir Arthur Bolton, and that I suppose put it into her head."
Mona did not add that she had herself given a liberal contribution
towards expenses, but only said, "I wished so much I could have been
present."
"Just what Rachel feels. Her plan is to drive over to the Dingle,
without a word to Madge—so don't drop a hint of her intentions this
evening—and to appear suddenly on the spot with a supply of provisions,
after the fashion of a fairy godmother, taking them all by surprise."
"That will be very nice," said Mona, warmly. "How delighted Madge will
be! Is Mrs. Prior going?"
"I hope so, and she sends a particular message to say that you are to
have a turn at sitting on the front seat, and taking the reins. My
opinion is not asked about the matter, so I submit, and only hope that
may tempt you, if nothing else does."
"I don't need any tempting," said Mona, with a smile. "I shall enjoy it
of all things. Why, Madge seems holding quite a levée up on the hill."
"Giving a lecture," suggested Mr. Prior. "You ladies usurp everything
in these days."
"Madge would not thank you for calling her a lady. O I remember—Nat
Tyrrell is to drive the break, and Ned Blayney and his mother are going
to help take care of the children. I dare say they are talking over
arrangements—but I don't know who the third man is. Not Amos Ackman at
all events, for I can see him at his own cottage-door."
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