A NEW FEAR.
I walked home in the most sorrowful of moods. Turk accompanied me part
of the way, but when he began to speak in Mr. Glover's favour, I said
that I would prefer to walk by myself. The good fellow took the hint,
and would not notice my churlishness.
'I know, I know, old fellow,' he said, shaking hands with me; 'but you
might count me as nobody. Never mind, Chris, my boy, you won't find
many better friends than Turk West; and he's not to be shaken off, let
me tell you.'
I reflected with bitterness that I had not one friend who thought as I
thought. Everybody was against me, and I was distrusted and
misunderstood even by those who should have held to me most closely. I
walked for miles out of my way, almost blindly, seeing nothing,
hearing nothing, feeling nothing, but my own despair and grief. The
streets were very still as I approached our house, and I lingered
about the spots where Jessie and I had lingered and talked in the days
that were gone.
Josey West opened the door for me. Her face was very grave.
'Well?' she said.
'I have heard nothing, Josey. She has not come home?'
'No.'
A peculiar accent in her voice struck me.
'How is mother?' I asked.
She closed her lips firmly, and looked at me seriously and
reproachfully. I rebelled against that look; my heart was full almost
to bursting.
'Why don't you and those who were my friends say what you think of
me?' I demanded bitterly. 'Why don't you say at once that I am to
blame for all that has occurred, and that I, and I only, am the cause
of all this misery?'
'I don't say so,' she replied gently, 'because I don't think so.'
'But you look at me as if it were so,' I said loudly; 'you and all the
others. You have fair words and fair excuses for every one but me----'
She placed her fingers on her lips. 'Hush!' she said; 'don't be cruel
as well as unjust.'
Her hand was on my arm, and I shook it off roughly. 'Who is the just
one? Uncle Bryan? I will talk to you no more. How is mother?'
'Go up and see; but tread softly. You are not the only
sufferer--remember that.'
I went upstairs, and into my mother's room, softly. Josey West
followed me.
'Mother,' I said.
She opened her eyes and looked at me vacantly. She did not know me;
even when I took her hand, and fondled it in mine, she showed no sign
of recognition. Then a feeling of desolation, more terrible than any
pain I had yet suffered, entered my heart, and I fell on my knees by
her side. Was I to lose her next? It seemed so. Her white pitiful
face, her parched restless lips, her mournful eyes gazing on vacancy,
her hot skin, were like so many tongues reproaching me for my
selfishness.
'For God's sake tell me, Josey,' I whispered, 'how long has she been
like this?'
'The change came a little while after the doctor left. She bore up
while he was here, and tried to answer him cheerfully; but when he was
gone, she broke down.'
'Did she speak, Josey.'
'A little at first.'
'What about?'
'Only about you, Chris; but I cannot tell you what she said. They were
only broken words of tenderness----' Josey turned from me, and could
not continue for her tears.
'Did you not go for the doctor again, Josey?'
'I could not leave her, Chris.'
'Uncle Bryan might have gone--'
I knocked at his door, and called him again and again; but I got no
answer.'
I went at once to his room, and knocked, but no answer came. I tried
the handle, and found that the door was unlocked. I entered the room,
and struck a light. Uncle Bryan was not there, and his bed had not
been lain upon. I went downstairs into my own bedroom, and searched
the house swiftly; uncle Bryan was not in it.
Did you see him go out, Josey?'
'No; I have not seen him since you left.'
'I must run for the doctor. Will you stop here?'
'I'll stop, Chris, and do all I can to help you.'
I pressed her hand, and within half an hour the doctor was at my
mother's bedside. I waited below until he came down.
'If you will walk back with me,' he said, will give you some medicine
for your mother.'
'Is she very ill, sir?'
'Very.'
My heart sank as I asked, 'Dangerously?'
'I think so, but we shall know more in a day or two.'
'Then there is no immediate danger, sir?'
'I think not--I think not; but we must be prepared for the worst.' He
said something more than this, but I did not hear him. A mist stole
upon my senses, for his quiet tone portended the worst. 'Bear up, Mr.
Carey,' he said; 'you must not give way. We will do our best. A great
deal will depend upon good nursing. That is a sensible little woman
who is with her now.'
This doctor was a man who was deservedly worshipped by the poor in our
neighbourhood; his life was really one of self-sacrifice, for he was a
capable man, was paid badly, worked hard, and did his duty bravely.
'Can you tell me what she is suffering from, sir?'
'I was about to ask you that question Mr. Carey,' was his reply. 'All
that I know at present is that she is in a high state of fever, that
her blood is thin and poor, and that she is as weak as a human being
dare be who requires strength to battle successfully with disease. It
appears to me that she must have been suffering for some time, for a
very long time probably--but I am in the dark as to that--and that she
has at length given way. If you put upon a beam a pressure greater
than it can bear, the beam must break.'
'But I do not think my mother has worked too hard, sir.'
The mind has acted upon the body. Hard physical work itself seldom, if
ever, kills. In the case of this beam----you follow me?'
'Yes sir.'
'In the case of this beam, there have been secret inroads upon its
power of resistance, and the wood has rotted. I have seen stout planks
cut through, and colonies of little insects bared to the light which
have been steadily and surely eating away its strength. I am speaking
plainly, because I think it is the best course in all these cases, and
when I am speaking to a sensible man.'
'Thank you, sir; I should prefer to hear the truth, terrible though it
be.'
'Outwardly, these planks seem capable of bearing any pressure, but
when a great trial comes, they must give way. There are thousands and
thousands of human beings walking about, in seemingly good health, in
precisely the same condition. Has your mother suffered any great
trouble?'
'A great trouble has come upon us within the last few hours.'
'An unexpected trouble?'
'Totally unexpected, sir.'
'For which you were quite unprepared?'
'Quite, sir.'
'That may be the immediate, but is not the direct, cause of your
mother's illness. She has been enduring a long strain, as I have said,
and has at length broken down under it.' By this time we were in his
shop, and he was preparing the medicine. 'You look ill yourself. Let
me feel your pulse.' He looked me steadily in the face. 'You are your
mother's only child, I believe. Miss West led me to infer as much.'
'She was right, sir.'
'Well, then,' he said, giving me a rough and kindly shake, 'your
mother's ultimate recovery may depend--I only say _may_--upon you.
Think of that, and don't be falling ill yourself.'
'I'll try not to,' I murmured, for I felt sick and faint.
'Drink this,' he said, pouring out a draught for me; it will revive
you. You will try not to? Nay, you must make up your mind not to, for
your mother's sake. We never know what we can do. Why, we can conquer
pain, if we are strong-willed enough. I was explaining about your
mother. She is so delicately and exquisitely susceptible, that to have
those about her whom she loves may contribute more to her recovery
than anything all the doctors in London could do. She is in a state of
delirium at present; under the most favourable circumstances, she is
likely to remain in this state for a week or two, probably for longer.
If, when she recovers her senses, the first face she looks upon and
recognises is a face that she loves, it may not only contribute to her
recovery, it may accomplish it. On the other hand, if she misses a
face that is dear to her, and that she has been accustomed to see
about her, it may cause a relapse, and prove fatal. I have tried to
make myself clear, and to give you a good reason why you must keep
well. Don't mope. If you have any private grief of your own, keep it
under until this peril is past.'
I thanked him, and left him. I told Josey West exactly what the doctor
had said, and she returned the compliment he had paid her of calling
her a sensible little woman by saying that he was a sensible man.
'And now, Chris,' she said, 'you must go to bed.'
I said that I would sit up with my mother, and tried to persuade Josey
to lie down; but she refused, saying rest was more necessary to me
than to her.
'In the first place, you have your work to do; that must not be
neglected for all the Jessie Trims in the world. Oh, yes, my dear. You
may shake your head, but I've been remarkably quiet all through, and I
think I'm entitled to say a few words.'
'I'll not stop to hear anything spoken against her,' I said.
'That's right. Fly up. You think you're fonder of her than I am. That
you can't be. But I'm not satisfied with her, and I sha'n't be until I
get all this explained. There's something behind it that neither you
nor I suspect, or my name isn't Josey West.'
'That's what Turk says,' I interposed.
'I expect you've been leading him a fine life to-night. Poor Turk!
Why, he worships the ground she walks upon. I tell you what it is, my
sweet child,' she said sarcastically, there's more lessons than one
you've got to learn. But to come back. There's some mystery behind all
this; but it might be one thing, and it might be another. I'm in a
whirl, that's what I am, my dear.'
I really think Josey administered these words to me as a kind of
medicine. But she could not deceive me as to the feelings she
entertained for Jessie. If any person had dared in her presence to say
a word against her friend, she would have been the first to defend
her.
'Josey,' I said, 'I shall feel much relieved if you will promise me
one thing.'
'That depends. I'm not going to open my mouth and shut my eyes.'
'If Jessie tells you the reason of her going away----'
'Which she's sure to do. Oh, I shall know all about it.'
'And if the knowledge does not come to me in any other way, will you
tell me?'
'Upon my word! Me tell a secret? Not for all the world, master Chris.'
'But if it's not a secret?'
'Then of course you'll hear it.' We spoke in an undertone, so as not
to disturb my mother, who lay unconscious of what was going on around
her. But here you are stopping up,' continued Josey fretfully, when
every minute's rest is precious to you and all of us. I have only told
you one of my reasons why you _must_ be fresh in the morning--and mind
you sleep, master Chris, when you get to bed. I'll tell you another.
There'll be the shop to look after.'
'That's uncle Bryan's business,' I replied, flushing with anger. The
mere mention of his name aroused all my bitterness against him. 'If
mother could be moved from this house to-morrow with safety, I'd take
her out of his sight without a moment's delay.'
'You'll not see your uncle Bryan again in a hurry,' said Josey. 'You
mark my words--he's gone for good.'
I did not stop to discuss the point, but went to the bedside and
kissed my mother. As I leant over her, I could scarcely hear her
breathing, and but for a light convulsive sob which rose to her throat
every now and then, and which she seemed to make an effort to check,
it would have been difficult to detect any sign of life in her. The
doctor's words dwelt in my mind as I gazed at her beloved face, and
for the first time in my life I appreciated at their proper worth the
sacrifices which this dearest of women had made for one so unworthy as
I. I knelt at her bedside, and prayed that her life might be spared to
me--prayed with humble heart--and my tears flowed freely.
Josey was outside on the landing.
'Good-night, my dear,' she said; 'give me a kiss.'
Mine were not the only tears on my face as I walked downstairs.