AFTER OFFICE HOURS.
Next day our doctor called. He was very kind. He had made mamma many
visits, and attended me through my tedious fever, and would never take a
fee after the first one. I daresay that other great London physicians,
whom the world reputes worldly, often do similar charities by stealth.
My own experience is that affliction like ours does not lower the
sufferer's estimate of human nature. It is a great discriminator of
character, and sifts men like wheat. Those among our friends who are all
chaff it blows away altogether; those who have noble attributes, it
leaves all noble. There is no more petulance, no more hurry or
carelessness; we meet, in after-contact with them, be it much or little,
only the finer attributes, gentleness, tenderness, respect, patience.
I do not remember one of those who had known us in better days, among
the very few who now knew where to find us, who did not show us even
more kindness than they could have had opportunity of showing if we had
been in our former position. Who could be kinder than Mr. Forrester? Who
more thoughtful than Mr. Carmel, to whom at length we had traced the
flowers, and the books, and the piano, that were such a resource to me;
and who had, during my illness, come every day to see mamma?
In his necessarily brief visits, Sir Jacob Lake was energetic and
cheery; there was in his manner that which inspired confidence; but I
fancied this day, as he was taking his leave of mamma, that I observed
something like a shadow on his face, a transitory melancholy, that
alarmed me. I accompanied him downstairs, and he stopped for a moment in
the lobby outside the drawing-room.
"Has there been anything done since about that place--Malory, I think
you call it?" he asked.
"No," I answered; "there is not the least chance. Sir Harry Rokestone is
going to sell it, Mr. Jarlcot says; just through hatred of us, he
thinks. He's an old enemy of ours; he says he hates our very name; and
he won't write; he hasn't answered a single letter of Mr. Forrester's."
"I was only going to say that it wouldn't do; she could not bear so long
a journey just now. I think she had better make no effort; she must not
leave this at present."
"I'm afraid you think her very ill," I said, feeling myself grow pale.
"She is ill; and she will never be much better; but she may be spared to
you for a long time yet. This kind of thing, however, is always
uncertain; and it may end earlier than we think--I don't say it is
likely, only possible. You must send for me whenever you want me; and
I'll look in now and then, and see that all goes on satisfactorily."
I began to thank him earnestly, but he stopped me very good-naturedly.
He could spare me little more than a minute; I walked with him to the
hall-door, and although he said but little, and that little very
cautiously, he left me convinced that I might lose my darling mother any
day or hour. He had implied this very vaguely, but I was sure of it.
People who have suffered great blows like mine, regard the future as an
adversary, and believe its threatenings.
In flurry and terror I returned to the drawing-room, and shut the door;
then, with the instinct that prevails, I went to mamma's room and sat
down beside her.
I suppose every one has felt as I have felt. How magically the society
of the patient, if not actually suffering, reassures us! The mere
contiguity, the voice, the interest she takes in the common topics of
our daily life, the cheerful and easy tone, even the little peevishness
about the details of the sick-room, soon throw death again into
perspective, and the instinct of life prevails against all facts and
logic.
The form of heart-complaint from which my mother suffered had in it
nothing revolting. I think I never remember her so pretty. The tint of
her lips, and the colour of her cheeks, always lovely, were now more
delicately brilliant than ever; and the lustre of her eyes, thus
enhanced, was quite beautiful. The white tints a little paler, and her
face and figure slightly thinner, but not unbecomingly, brought back a
picture so girlish that I wondered while I looked; and when I went away
the pretty face haunted me as the saddest and gentlest I had ever seen.
So many people have said that the approach of death induces a change of
character, that I almost accept it for a general law of nature. I saw
it, I know, in mamma. Not exactly an actual change, perhaps, but,
rather, a subsidence of whatever was less lovely in her nature, and a
proportionate predominance of all its sweetness and gentleness. There
came also a serenity very different from the state of mind in which she
had been from papa's death up to the time of my illness. I do not know
whether she was conscious of her imminent danger. If she suspected it,
she certainly did not speak of it to me or to Rebecca Torkill. But death
is a subject on which some people, I believe, practise as many reserves
as others do in love.
Next day mamma was much better, and sat in our drawing-room, and I read
and talked to her, and amused her with my music. She sat in slippers and
dressing-gown in an easy-chair, and we talked over a hundred plans which
seemed to interest her. The effort to cheer mamma did me good, and I
think we were both happier that day than we had been since ruin had so
tragically overtaken us.
While we were thus employed at home, events connected with us and our
history were not standing still in other places.
Mr. Forrester's business was very large; he had the assistance of two
partners; but all three were hard worked. The offices of the firm
occupied two houses in one of the streets which run down from the Strand
to the river, at no great distance from Temple Bar. I saw these offices
but once in my life; I suppose there was little to distinguish them and
their arrangements from those of other well-frequented chambers; but I
remember being struck with their air of business and regularity, and by
the complicated topography of two houses fused into one.
Mr. Forrester, in his private office, had locked up his desk. He was
thinking of taking his leave of business for the day. It was now past
four, and he had looked into the office where the collective firm did
their business, and where his colleagues were giving audience to a
deputation about a complicated winding-up. This momentary delay cost him
more time than he intended, for a clerk came in and whispered in his
ear:
"A gentleman wants to see you, sir."
"Why, hang it! I've left the office," said Mr. Forrester, tartly--"don't
you see? Here's my hat in my hand! Go and look for me in my office, and
you'll see I'm not there."
Very deferentially, notwithstanding this explosion, the messenger added:
"I thought, sir, before sending him away, you might like to see him; he
seemed to think he was doing us a favour in looking in, and he has been
hearing from you, and would not take the trouble to write; and he won't
call again."
"What's his name?" asked Mr. Forrester, vacillating a little.
"Sir Harry Rokestone," he said.
"Sir Harry Rokestone? Oh! Well, I suppose I must see him. Yes, I'll see
him; bring him up to my private room."
Mr. Forrester had hardly got back, laid aside his hat and umbrella, and
placed himself in his chair of state behind his desk, when his
aide-de-camp returned and introduced "Sir Harry Rokestone."
Mr. Forrester rose, and received him with a bow. He saw a tall man, with
something grand and simple in his gait and erect bearing, with a brown
handsome face, and a lofty forehead, noble and stern as if it had caught
something of the gloomy character of the mountain scenery among which
his home was. He was dressed in the rustic and careless garb of an
old-fashioned country gentleman, with gaiters up to his knees, as if he
were going to stride out upon the heather with his gun on his shoulder
and his dogs at his heel.
Mr. Forrester placed a chair for this gentleman, who, with hardly a nod,
and without a word, sat down. The door closed, and they were alone.